ON THE MEMORY OF Mr. CALEB SKINNER, and Mr. HEZEKIAH MIDDLETON; Merchants.  
Who were Drowned at BLACK-WALL, Coming from on Board a SHIP the 5 th' of May. 1688.  By a School-fellow of Mr. SKINNERS. 

PAtience a while, unruly Tears! My Pen  
Must Weep, and you shall have your turns again.  
— Come all you Artless Passions, Grief and Love,  
Frustrated Hopes, and Sickly wan Despair;  
Beat all your Throbing Breasts, and rend your Hair;  
Till every thing but Destiny you move:  
Nor need you fear Disturbance from the rest;  
All the white Passions now are flown away,  
Each smiling Motion leaves the frighted Breast  
Of our Unhappy Swains: Joy will not stay,  
Nor Bliss, nor Pleasure sweet, nor calm Delight;  
Deep, deep! They vanish into Endless Night:  
Not one poor Hope we from the Wrack could save,  
All with the Shepherds sunk, beneath the Greedy Wave.   

You Nymphs who roll from far to Father Thames,  
The Eternal Tribute of our Crystal Streams;  
Keep not one Drop behind! Wring out each Urn,  
And our Unhappy Shepherds help to mourn.  
Ask not their Names; In every Eye you'll read  
'Tis Tityrus, and Celadon are dead.  
Ah Tityrus! How oft in Youthful Years,  
As Merry as the Spring that bloomed around,  
Below the Tyranny of Hopes and Fears,  
've worn the happy thoughtless Hours away,  
With Rustic Garlands oft each other Crowned;  
Blithe as the Morn, and Jocund as the Day.  
How often gazed upon the Dimpled Wave?  
And smiled like that which softly stole along,  
As listening to a Shepherds humble Song!  
In vain we boast of Gifts which Phoebus gave,  
Of Foresight deep, and Providence Divine.  
How little dreamt I then the Fates Design,  
That such must be th' Unhappy Shepherd's Grave.   

Thee Celadon, although to me unknown,  
Thee! Partner of my Tityrus' Fate;  
With him I wail, share thou in every Groan,  
Share thou with him in his Immortal State:  
Enter with him the Muse's Golden Gate.  
Thee Celadon! Who though unknown to me;  
Where sunk in th' Crowd myself unknown I lie,  
Piping my Oaten Tunes, didst mount more High;  
And Crowds, and Men, and Towns, and Cities see,  
And all the World's mistaken Gaiety.  
Unmoved thou saw'st 'em all, didst all o'ercome,  
And with thee brought thy Russet Virtue Home.  
Thou darest be still Unfashionably brave;  
No drop of Blood about thee, called the Slave.  
Ah! Was that Virtue made to set so soon,  
Must such a Sun be Clouded e'er 'tis Noon:   


And e'er he half the round of Life gets over,  
Be drenched in that wide Sea that knows no shore;  
Thames was his Sea, and there he sets, to rise no more.   
He was too great for Clajus to commend,  
Just great enough for Tityrus his Friend.  
Close in each others Arms, see where they lie!  
Unminding, or Unfearing Hover Fate;  
Or had they known it, how could they better die?  
How could they be laid out in greater State?  
Both gently leaned upon the others Breast;  
Thus both together Glided soft to Endless Rest:  
Bright Shades! For you who only set to rise,  
To rise again, and shine in brighter Skies:  

To Pity you were almost Blasphemy,  
Than Death, could any greater Blessing be;  
Sure Tityrus it had been bestowed on thee.   
Ourselves let's Pity then, for they're above,  
All but our Imitation and our Love:  
Come then you Shepherds, come you sighing Swains!  
View on yond Oozy Bank, their sad remains;  
Where's now that Honey which so oft has flown  
From their Dear Lips? where all that lively Grace?  
Livid and Black, and all Deformed they're grown,  
And Death and Horror revel in their Face!  
Bloated and swollen their Eyes, and dull and dead,  
Mud in their Hands, and Weeds about their Head.   

Away you common Griefs, here comes a Tide  
That overwhelms the distant Fields, on either side:  
Is any here so large a share can claim,  
As can a Mothers or a Sister's Name:  
See where across the crowded Strand they fly,  
And through the opening Ring of Gazers come?  
But only on his Face can Weep lie,  
Rigid as he, and Cold, and Pale, and Dumb:  
See where old Reverend Father Thames the while  
Sits sad and Pensive, on some Neighbouring Isle.  
His Reedy Garland from his Brows he throws;  
He throws his Meadow-sweet, and Flowers away,  
Dull and unguided, see his Chariot goes;  
And where they please, he lets his Waters stray.  
His cursed guilty Water's now as black  
As Acheron, or Styx's Lazy Lake.  
He does of them, and they of Fate complain,  
And both roll deeply Murmuring in the Main.   

The Silver Medway greets them as they pass,  
And ask why they such dismal Pomp put on;  
But not a Word they Answer, save Alas!  
Alas! Poor Tityrus and Celadon.    

May 25. 1688.  
This may be Printed.  
Robert Midgley.   

LONDON: Printed for J. H. for the Use of the Friends of the Deceased.