







 
   
     
       
         On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after.
         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         
           1667
        
      
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         15087718
         ocm 15087718
         171567
         
           
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             On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             [s.n.],
             London, :
             printed in the year 1667.
          
           
             In verse.
             Attributed to Wild by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.
             Item at reel position 2575:19 incorrectly identified as Wing (2nd ed.) P2691.
             Item at reel position 1581:24 is a reproduction of the original in the Harvard University Library.
             Item at reel position 2575:19 is a reproduction of the original in the Society of Antiquaries.
             Item at reel position 2124.1:29 is a reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Calamy, Edmund, 1600-1666 -- Poetry.
           Broadsides -- England -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           ON
           THE
           Death
           of
           Mr
           Calamy
           ,
           Not
           known
           to
           the
           Author
           of
           a
           long
           time
           after
           .
        
         
           
             ANd
             must
             our
             Deaths
             be
             silenc'd
             too
             !
             I
             guess
          
           
             'T
             is
             some
             dumb
             Devil
             hath
             possest
             the
             Press
             ;
          
           
             Calamy
             dead
             without
             a
             Publication
             !
          
           
             'T
             is
             great
             injustice
             to
             our
             English
             Nation
             :
          
           
             For
             had
             this
             Prophet's
             Funeral
             been
             known
             ,
          
           
             It
             must
             have
             had
             an
             Universal
             Groan
             ;
          
           
             Afflicted
             London
             would
             then
             have
             been
             found
          
           
             In
             the
             same
             year
             to
             be
             both
             burn'd
             and
             drown'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             those
             who
             found
             no
             Tears
             their
             flames
             to
             quench
             ,
          
           
             Would
             yet
             have
             wept
             a
             Showre
             ,
             his
             Herse
             to
             drench
             .
          
        
         
           
             Methinks
             the
             Man
             who
             stuffs
             the
             Weekly
             Sheet
             ,
          
           
             With
             fine
             New-Nothings
             ,
             what
             hard
             Names
             did
             meet
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Emp'ress
             ,
             how
             her
             Petticoat
             was
             lac'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             how
             her
             Lacquyes
             Liveries
             were
             fac'd
             ;
          
           
             What
             's
             her
             chief
             Woman's
             Name
             ;
             what
             Dons
             do
             bring
          
           
             Almonds
             and
             Figs
             to
             Spain's
             great
             little
             King
             :
          
           
             Is
             much
             concern'd
             if
             the
             Pope's
             Toe
             but
             akes
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             breaks
             Wind
             ,
             and
             when
             a
             Purge
             he
             takes
             ;
          
           
             He
             who
             can
             gravely
             advertise
             ,
             and
             tell
          
           
             Where
             Lockier
             and
             
               Rowland
               Pippin
            
             dwell
             ;
          
           
             Where
             a
             Black-Box
             or
             Green-Bag
             was
             lost
             ;
          
           
             And
             who
             was
             Knighted
             ,
             though
             not
             what
             it
             cost
             :
          
           
             Methinks
             he
             might
             have
             thought
             it
             worth
             the
             while
             ,
          
           
             Though
             not
             to
             tell
             us
             who
             the
             State
             beguile
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             new
             Conquest
             England
             hath
             acquired
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             that
             poor
             Trifle
             who
             the
             City
             fired
             ;
          
           
             Though
             not
             how
             Popery
             exalts
             its
             head
             ,
          
           
             And
             Priests
             and
             Jesuits
             their
             poyson
             spread
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             in
             swoln
             Characters
             he
             might
             let
             fly
             ,
          
           
             
               The
               Presbyterians
               have
               lost
               an
               Eye
               .
            
          
           
             Had
             Crack
             —
             's
             Fiddle
             been
             in
             tune
             ,
             (
             but
             he
          
           
             Is
             now
             a
             Silenc'd
             Man
             as
             well
             as
             We
             )
          
           
             He
             had
             struck
             up
             loud
             Musick
             ,
             and
             had
             play'd
          
           
             A
             Jig
             for
             joy
             that
             Calamy
             was
             laid
             ;
          
           
             He
             would
             have
             told
             how
             many
             Coaches
             went
             ;
          
           
             How
             many
             Lords
             and
             Ladies
             did
             lament
             ;
          
           
             What
             Handkerchiefs
             were
             sent
             ,
             and
             in
             them
             Gold
          
           
             To
             wipe
             the
             Widows
             eyes
             ,
             he
             would
             have
             told
             ;
          
           
             All
             had
             come
             out
             ,
             and
             we
             beholden
             all
          
           
             To
             him
             ,
             for
             the
             o'reflowing
             of
             his
             gall
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             why
             do
             I
             thus
             Rant
             without
             a
             cause
             ?
          
           
             Is
             not
             Concealment
             Policy
             ?
             whose
             Laws
          
           
             My
             silly
             peevish
             Muse
             doth
             ill
             t'
             oppose
          
           
             For
             publick
             Losses
             no
             Man
             should
             disclose
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             was
             this
             ,
             a
             greater
             loss
             by
             far
             ,
          
           
             One
             Man
             of
             God
             then
             twenty
             Men
             of
             War
             ;
          
           
             It
             was
             a
             King
             ,
             who
             when
             a
             Prophet
             dy'd
             ,
          
           
             Wept
             over
             him
             ,
             and
             Father
             ,
             Father
             cry'd
             .
          
           
             O
             if
             thy
             Life
             and
             Ministry
             be
             done
          
           
             My
             Chariots
             and
             Horsemen
             ,
             strength
             is
             gone
             .
          
           
             I
             must
             speak
             sober
             words
             ,
             for
             well
             I
             know
          
           
             If
             Saints
             in
             Heaven
             do
             hear
             us
             here
             below
             ,
          
           
             A
             lye
             ,
             though
             in
             his
             Praise
             ,
             would
             make
             him
             frown
             ,
          
           
             And
             chide
             me
             when
             with
             Jesus
             he
             comes
             down
          
           
             To
             judge
             the
             World.
             —
             This
             little
             little
             He
             ,
          
           
             This
             silly
             ,
             sickly
             ,
             silenc'd
             Calamy
             ,
          
           
             Aldermanbury's
             Curate
             ,
             and
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Though
             he
             a
             mighty
             Miter
             might
             have
             wore
             ,
          
           
             Could
             have
             vi'd
             Interest
             in
             God
             or
             Man
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             most
             pompous
             Metropolitan
             :
          
           
             How
             have
             we
             known
             him
             captivate
             a
             throng
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             a
             Sermon
             twenty
             thousand
             strong
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             black-mouths
             his
             Loyalty
             did
             charge
             ,
          
           
             How
             strong
             his
             tug
             was
             at
             the
             Royal
             Barge
             ,
          
           
             To
             hale
             it
             home
             ,
             great
             GEORGE
             can
             well
             attest
             ,
          
           
             Then
             when
             poor
             Prelacy
             lay
             dead
             in
             its
             nest
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             a
             Collect
             could
             not
             fetch
             him
             home
             ,
          
           
             Charles
             must
             stay
             out
             ,
             that
             Interest
             was
             mum
             .
          
           
             Nor
             did
             Ambition
             of
             a
             Miter
             ,
             make
          
           
             Him
             serve
             the
             Crown
             ,
             it
             was
             for
             Conscience
             sake
             .
          
           
             Unbrib'd
             Loyalty
             !
             his
             highest
             reach
          
           
             Was
             so
             be
             Master
             Calamy
             ,
             and
             preach
             .
          
           
             He
             bless'd
             the
             King
             ,
             who
             Bishop
             him
             did
             name
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             bless
             him
             who
             did
             refuse
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             O!
             had
             our
             Reverend
             Clergy
             been
             as
             free
          
           
             To
             serve
             their
             Prince
             without
             Reward
             ,
             as
             he
             ,
          
           
             They
             might
             have
             had
             less
             Wealth
             with
             greater
             love
             :
          
           
             Envy
             ,
             like
             Winds
             ,
             endangers
             things
             above
             ;
          
           
             Worth
             ,
             not
             Advancement
             ,
             doth
             beget
             esteem
             .
          
           
             The
             highest
             Weathercock
             the
             least
             doth
             seem
             .
          
           
             If
             you
             would
             know
             of
             what
             disease
             he
             dy'd
             ,
          
           
             His
             grief
             was
             Chronical
             it
             is
             reply'd
             .
          
           
             For
             had
             he
             opened
             been
             by
             Surgeons
             art
             ,
          
           
             They
             had
             found
             London
             burning
             in
             his
             heart
             ;
          
           
             How
             many
             Messengers
             of
             death
             did
             he
          
           
             Receive
             with
             Christian
             Magnanimity
             !
          
           
             The
             Stone
             ,
             Gout
             ,
             Dropsie
             ,
             Ills
             ,
             which
             did
             arise
          
           
             From
             Griefs
             and
             Studies
             ,
             not
             from
             Luxuries
             ;
          
           
             The
             Megrim
             too
             which
             still
             strikes
             at
             the
             Head
             ,
          
           
             These
             He
             stood
             under
             ,
             and
             scarce
             staggered
          
           
             Might
             he
             but
             work
             ,
             though
             loaded
             with
             these
             Chains
             ,
          
           
             He
             Pray'd
             and
             Preach'd
             ,
             and
             sung
             away
             his
             pains
             ;
          
           
             Then
             by
             a
             fatal
             Bill
             he
             was
             struck
             dead
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             that
             blow
             he
             ne're
             recovered
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             he
             remained
             speechless
             to
             his
             close
             )
          
           
             Yet
             did
             he
             breath
             ,
             and
             breath
             out
             Prayers
             for
             those
          
           
             From
             whom
             he
             had
             that
             wound
             :
             he
             liv'd
             to
             hear
          
           
             An
             Hundred
             thousand
             buried
             in
             one
             year
          
           
             In
             his
             Dear
             City
             ,
             over
             which
             he
             wept
             ,
          
           
             And
             many
             Fasts
             to
             keep
             off
             Judgments
             ,
             kept
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             yet
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             stout
             heart
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             to
             be
          
           
             Depriv'd
             ,
             driven
             out
             ,
             kept
             out
             ,
             liv'd
             to
             see
          
           
             Wars
             ,
             Blazing-Stars
             ,
             Torches
             which
             Heaven
             ne're
             burns
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             light
             Kings
             or
             Kingdoms
             to
             their
             Urns.
          
           
             He
             lived
             to
             see
             the
             Glory
             of
             our
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             London
             consumed
             in
             its
             Funeral
             pile
             .
          
           
             He
             liv'd
             to
             see
             that
             lesser
             day
             of
             Doom
             ,
          
           
             London
             ,
             the
             Priests
             Burnt-sacrifice
             to
             Rome
             ;
          
           
             That
             blow
             he
             could
             not
             stand
             ,
             but
             with
             that
             fire
          
           
             As
             with
             a
             Burning
             Fever
             did
             expire
             .
          
           
             This
             dy'd
             this
             Saint
             ,
             of
             whom
             it
             must
             be
             said
             ,
          
           
             He
             dy'd
             a
             Martyr
             ,
             though
             he
             dy'd
             in
             's
             bed
             .
          
           
             So
             Father
             Ely
             in
             the
             Sacred
             page
          
           
             Sat
             quivering
             with
             fear
             as
             much
             as
             age
             ,
          
           
             Longing
             to
             know
             ,
             yet
             loth
             to
             ask
             the
             News
          
           
             How
             it
             far'd
             with
             the
             Army
             of
             the
             Jews
             .
          
           
             Israel
             flies
             ,
             that
             struck
             his
             Palsie-head
             ,
          
           
             The
             next
             blow
             stunned
             him
             ,
             Your
             Sons
             are
             dead
             ;
          
           
             But
             when
             the
             third
             stroke
             came
             ,
             The
             Ark
             is
             lost
             ,
          
           
             His
             heart
             was
             wounded
             ,
             and
             his
             life
             it
             cost
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thus
             fell
             this
             Father
             ,
             and
             we
             well
             do
             know
          
           
             He
             fear'd
             our
             Ark
             was
             going
             long
             ago
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             EPITAPH
             .
          
           
             
               HEre
               a
               poor
               Minister
               of
               Christ
               doth
               lie
               ,
            
             
               Who
               did
               INDEED
               a
               Bishoprick
               deny
               .
            
             
               When
               his
               Lord
               comes
               ,
               then
               ,
               then
               ,
               the
               World
               shall
               see
            
             
               Such
               humble
               Ones
               ,
               the
               rising-Men
               shall
               be
               :
            
             
               How
               many
               Saints
               whom
               he
               had
               sent
               before
               ,
            
             
               Shouted
               to
               see
               him
               enter
               Heavens
               door
               :
            
             
               There
               his
               blest
               Soul
               beholds
               the
               face
               of
               God
               ,
            
             
               While
               we
               below
               groan
               out
               our
               Ichabod
               :
            
             
               Vnder
               his
               burned-Church
               his
               Body
               lies
               ,
            
             
               But
               shall
               it self
               a
               glorious
               Temple
               rise
               ;
            
             
               May
               his
               kind
               flock
               when
               a
               new
               Church
               they
               make
               ,
            
             
               Call
               it
               St.
               Edmundsbury
               for
               his
               sake
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           1667.
           
        
      
    
  

