







 
   
     
       
         A rhetorical rapture as composed into a funeral oration at the mournfull moving of His Highnes stately effigies from Somerset-House. / By Mr. Slater.
         Slater, Samuel, d. 1704.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B05880 of text274 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing S3969). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         B05880
         Wing S3969
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[40]
         99885181
         ocm99885181
         182525
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B05880)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182525)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:1[40])
      
       
         
           
             A rhetorical rapture as composed into a funeral oration at the mournfull moving of His Highnes stately effigies from Somerset-House. / By Mr. Slater.
             Slater, Samuel, d. 1704.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1658]
          
           
             Imprint from Wing.
             Verse: "Had not our sins or'e our prayers prevail'd ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Cromwell, Oliver, 1599-1658 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
       B05880 274  (Wing S3969).  civilwar no A rhetorical rapture as composed into a funeral oration at the mournfull moving of His Highnes stately effigies from Somerset-House. By Mr. Slater, Samuel 1658    1570 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
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           A
           RHETORICAL
           RAPTURE
           AS
           COMPOSED
           INTO
           A
           FUNERAL
           ORATION
           At
           the
           Mournfull
           Moving
           of
           His
           HIGHNES
           Stately
           EFFIGIES
           from
           SOMERSET-HOUSE
           .
        
         
           By
           Mr.
           
             Slater
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Si
               mea
               cum
               vestris
               valuissent
               vota
               Britanni
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Non
               essem
               exiguus
               tanti
               ploraminis
               actor
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Túque
               tuis
               Armis
               ,
               nos
               Te
               potiremur
               O
            
             Cromwel
             .
          
        
         
           
             HAd
             not
             our
             
               Sins
            
             or'e
             our
             
               Prayers
            
             prevail'd
             ,
          
           
             We
             might
             have
             now
             for
             
               them
               ,
            
             not
             
               Thee
            
             bewail'd
             :
          
           
             Thou
             thine
             
               owne
               Arms
            
             enjoy'd
             ,
             we
             
               joy'd
            
             in
             
               Thee
               ;
            
          
           
             Nor
             had
             there
             been
             this
             grand
             Disparitie
             ,
          
           
             So
             mean
             a
             
               Muse
            
             mourn
             so
             
               Heroick
            
             Worth
             ,
          
           
             But
             our
             kind
             
               Angel
            
             brings
             
               Fame's
            
             Treasures
             forth
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Fame
            
             sounds
             the
             
               Victories
            
             which
             
               Thou
            
             bequeaths
          
           
             
               Christendome
               ,
            
             crowning
             
               Thee
            
             with
             Laurel
             wreaths
             :
          
           
             Seventh
             
               Henry's
            
             Chappel
             may
             Thy
             
               Corps
            
             entombe
             ,
          
           
             But
             for
             Thy
             
               Monuments
            
             the
             
               World
               's
            
             the
             room
             :
          
           
             Seventh
             
               Henry's
            
             or
             
               Cromwell's
            
             Chappel
             ,
             which
             you
             please
          
           
             Call
             it
             ;
             or
             ,
             to
             Them
             Both
             ,
             
               Chappel
               of
               Ease
               ;
            
          
           
             Or
             ,
             
               Honors
               Cabinet
               ;
            
             or
             ,
             
               Valours
               Tent
            
          
           
             To
             repose
             in
             ,
             after
             the
             Day
             is
             spent
             ,
          
           
             To
             rise
             at
             sound
             of
             Trump
             ,
             clad
             
               cap a pe
               pe
            
          
           
             In
             bright
             Armour
             of
             
               Immortalitie
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             But
             soft
             ,
             Must
             CROMVVELL
             to
             an
             
               Abbey
            
             goe
             ?
          
           
             The
             name
             of
             
               Abbeys
            
             is
             to
             
               Cromwell's
            
             Foe
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             true
             ,
             That
             
               Nobles
            
             zeal
             was
             very
             hot
             ;
          
           
             According
             unto
             Knowledge
             ,
             Was
             it
             not
             ?
          
           
             Knew
             
               Hee
            
             not
             too-too-well
             the
             Tromperies
             ,
          
           
             The
             fond
             Fripperies
             of
             the
             
               Friaries
               ,
            
          
           
             Dull
             
               Abbey-lubbers
            
             glutt'nous
             Luxury
             ?
          
           
             
               Zeal
            
             qualified
             thus
             ,
             though
             hot
             ,
             is
             not
             dry
             ;
          
           
             Not
             so
             dry
             ,
             to
             swallow
             them
             at
             a
             gu'p
             ,
          
           
             The
             Crimes
             of
             
               Abbeys
            
             did
             themselves
             eat
             up
             .
          
        
         
           
             Go
             CROMVVELL
             then
             ,
             down
             to
             the
             
               Abbey
            
             go
             ,
          
           
             Down
             to
             thy
             
               mother
            
             bow
             :
             Thy
             
               Daughter
            
             (
             know
             )
          
           
             Toll'd
             thy
             Great
             Bell
             ;
             the
             
               Prim-rose
            
             fading
             young
             ,
          
           
             The
             old
             
               Stock-Gilly-flower
            
             could
             not
             last
             long
             .
          
        
         
           
             Go
             ,
             Honorably
             down
             ,
             to
             Thy
             long
             Home
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Mother
             
               Earth
            
             hath
             deck'd
             Thee
             up
             a
             room
             :
          
           
             Ah!
             Kind
             
               Mother
               ,
            
             that
             never
             forsaketh
          
           
             In
             life
             time
             
               Man
            
             of
             her
             Fruits
             partaketh
             ,
          
           
             And
             dead
             ,
             into
             her
             Bosome
             is
             receiv'd
             ;
          
           
             Such
             kindness
             ,
             not
             known
             ,
             might
             not
             be
             beleiv'd
             ;
          
           
             Patient
             
               Grizels
            
             Passive
             Great
             Grandmother
          
           
             We
             dare
             not
             in
             be-dull'd
             silence
             smother
          
           
             Top
             of
             our
             Kindreds
             so
             stupendious
             Kindness
             ,
          
           
             Left
             Ingratitude
             blast
             us
             to
             Blindness
             :
          
           
             To
             give
             thy
             children
             Bread
             ,
             Thou
             suffering
          
           
             Long
             furrows
             in
             thy
             Back
             ,
             and
             they
             whistling
          
           
             The
             while
             ;
             and
             when
             that
             we
             
               (
               Clods
               of
               Clay
               )
            
             must
          
           
             At
             length
             come
             to
             our selves
             ,
             Dust
             unto
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             very
             Bowels
             be
             digg'd
             up
             for
             us
             ;
          
           
             Why
             doest
             Thou
             suffer
             ?
             Why
             we
             serve
             Thee
             thus
             ?
          
           
             Like
             
               Agrippina
            
             art
             Thou
             upon
             it
             set
          
           
             To
             cry
             
               Occidar
               modò
               Imperet
               ?
            
          
           
             To
             gain
             thy
             
               Dirt-Bloud
            
             Off-spring
             Heavenly
             Crowns
          
           
             Without
             a
             Tear
             courting
             their
             heavy
             wounds
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Go
             CROMVVELL
             peaceably
             ,
             to
             thy
             long
             Home
             ,
          
           
             There
             needs
             not
             any
             bustling
             to
             make
             room
             :
          
           
             Divine
             
               Eliza's
            
             ,
             and
             Sixth
             
               Edward's
            
             Dust
          
           
             Deposited
             in
             rich
             
               Carcanets
               ,
            
             in
             trust
          
           
             Till
             glorious
             morn
             of
             Resurrection
             ,
          
           
             Will
             (
             in
             a
             Land-skip
             of
             th'
             Ascention
             )
          
           
             To
             congratulate
             thy
             Sereness
             ,
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Flying
             quick
             into
             thy
             Followers
             eyes
             :
          
           
             Whence
             such
             an
             Inundation
             of
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             That
             out-vied
             
               Thamesis
               ,
            
             shrinking
             with
             Fears
             ,
          
           
             Glides
             ghastly
             to
             the
             Main-Guard
             for
             recruit
             :
          
           
             The
             mobled
             Ocean
             (
             as
             its
             Natives
             ,
             mute
          
           
             At
             the
             Starting
             news
             )
             flowes
             to
             th'
             Funerall
          
           
             Of
             his
             Great
             
               Master
               ,
            
             and
             out-weeps
             'um
             all
             :
          
           
             The
             trickling
             Brine
             blazoning
             ,
             All
             Strike-fail
          
           
             To
             
               RICHARD
               ;
               Oliver's
            
             Blazing
             Star
             ,
             the
             
               Whale
               .
            
          
           
             Flaming
             Comets
             
               Divination
            
             hold
             ,
          
           
             But
             
               Whales
               ,
            
             extinct
             ,
             
               Divinity
            
             unfold
             :
          
           
             
               Jonah's
            
             Pulpit
             ,
             (
             dead
             )
             turn'd
             Prophet
             ,
             shew'd
             Thee
          
           
             Thy
             Death
             ,
             
               swallow'd
               up
               into
               victorie
               .
            
          
           
             
               Trees
            
             six-and-sevens
             toss'd
             :
             the
             
               Storm
               's
            
             Deep-witty
             ;
          
           
             While
             Sixty-six
             throws
             out
             the
             Seven-Hill'd
             City
             ,
          
           
             Griev'd
             
               Tyber
               ,
            
             crimson'd
             with
             Companions
             gore
             ,
          
           
             New-sleeks
             in
             her
             own
             wash
             
               Romes
            
             rivell'd
             
               Whore
               :
            
          
           
             How
             's
             
               Babylon
               Babel'd
               !
            
             Her
             Merchants
             cry
             ;
          
           
             Ruining
             
               Storm
               ,
            
             ruin'd
             ,
             ecchoes
             as
             I.
             
          
        
         
           
             Go
             from
             this
             thy
             brave
             House
             of
             
               Somerset
            
          
           
             To
             a
             braver
             ,
             trimm'd
             with
             Thee
             our
             
               Summer
               set
               :
            
          
           
             Sun-like
             ,
             Go
             down
             into
             thy
             
               Western
            
             Vault
             ;
          
           
             
               Our
               Great
               Generals
               Bride-chamber
            
             let
             us
             call
             't
             ;
          
           
             
               CROMWELLS
            
             and
             
               Cromwellines
            
             True-Lovers-Knot
             ,
          
           
             Till
             to
             Glory
             waked
             ,
             Their
             Gloomy
             Grott
          
           
             To
             rest
             in
             ,
             or
             the
             Suns
             cool-silent
             Shade
             ;
          
           
             Where
             ,
             Worms
             do
             drive
             a
             very
             subtle
             Trade
          
           
             I'
             th
             Royal
             '
             
               Change
            
             of
             (
             the
             Moons
             Hieroglyphick
             )
          
           
             The
             Arched
             Vault
             ;
             by
             the
             Mysterious
             trick
          
           
             Of
             Bartering
             growing
             big
             as
             Burgesses
             ,
          
           
             Trucking
             their
             Snips
             of
             Prince-worn
             Taffeties
          
           
             For
             whole
             pure
             Peeces
             of
             God-like
             durance
             :
          
           
             But
             (
             see
             the
             Wit
             of
             Justice
             !
             )
             though
             t'
             advance
          
           
             Themselves
             a-while
             by
             gourmandizing
             gains
             ,
          
           
             They
             neither
             Day
             nor
             Night
             spare
             any
             pains
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             Corpulentize
             ravenous
             Wembs
          
           
             
               Anthropophagize
            
             even
             
               Royal
               Stems
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Vengeance
            
             at
             last
             doth
             
               Covetousness
            
             repay
             ,
          
           
             All
             
               Merchant-worms
            
             quite
             Breaking
             on
             
               Doomsday
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Go
             to
             thy
             Monumental
             Home
             :
             't
             is
             our
             part
          
           
             To
             attend
             Thee
             to
             thy
             Tombe
             ;
             where
             each
             Heart
          
           
             Entombing
             Thee
             our
             entombed
             Center
             ,
          
           
             We
             ,
             New
             Monuments
             ,
             mongst
             the
             Old
             shal
             enter
          
           
             In
             doleful
             March
             ,
             slowly
             to
             solemnize
          
           
             Our
             bounden
             Loyaltie
             in
             free-flowing
             eyes
             .
          
        
         
           
             Stand
             there
             ,
             like
             Cristal
             Cloud-pointing
             Pyramid
          
           
             Carved
             by
             Angels
             for
             Great
             
               Brittains
               David
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Providences
               second
               Sweetheart
               :
            
             There
             ,
             Stand
          
           
             Dictator
             (
             of
             the
             first
             word
             of
             Command
             )
          
           
             To
             
               Englands
            
             Senators
             ;
             who
             ,
             to
             Her
             true
             ,
          
           
             Can
             (
             best
             knowing
             
               Caesars
            
             and
             
               Senates
            
             due
             )
          
           
             Dominion-debates
             make
             like
             
               That
               ;
            
             unite
             ;
          
           
             Arm
             Hands
             abroad
             ,
             not
             Heads
             at
             home
             to
             fight
             .
          
        
         
           
             Stand
             a
             
               Mirrour
            
             to
             
               Christian
            
             Magistrates
             ,
          
           
             A
             
               Terrour
            
             stand
             to
             
               Popish
            
             Potentates
             :
          
           
             Stand
             an
             
               Honour
            
             to
             Seventh
             
               Henry's
            
             Pile
             ,
          
           
             An
             
               Horrour
            
             to
             
               Enemies
            
             of
             This
             
               Isle
               :
            
          
        
         
           
             Stand
             ,
             in
             thy
             fair
             
               Effigies
               ,
            
             erect
             ,
          
           
             Admired
             
               Center
            
             of
             all
             Eyes
             :
             Reflect
          
           
             The
             Royal
             rayes
             of
             thy
             Majestick
             form
          
           
             Calmly
             on
             thy
             Spectators
             ;
             let
             no
             storm
          
           
             Intwist
             thy
             Brow
             at
             an
             approaching
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             But
             seeing
             Thee
             he
             will
             a
             Convert
             goe
             .
          
        
         
           
             Go
             CROMVVELL
             then
             ,
             Down
             to
             the
             
               Abbey
            
             goe
             ,
          
           
             Down
             to
             thy
             Mother
             
               Earth
               :
            
             From
             Heaven
             know
          
           
             Honour
             keeps
             pace
             with
             Thee
             ,
             unto
             thy
             Tombe
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             will
             it
             there
             forsake
             Thee
             (
             as
             with
             some
             )
          
           
             And
             back
             go
             with
             the
             Heralds
             :
             but
             fairly
          
           
             Hovering
             o're
             Thee
             ,
             out
             of
             thy
             memory
          
           
             Brood
             numberless
             
               Protectors
            
             to
             this
             
               Isle
               ,
            
          
           
             Who
             shall
             make
             
               Babylon
            
             frown
             ,
             and
             
               Syon
            
             smile
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               VVorlds
               chief
               General
               ,
            
             march
             to
             thy
             long
             Home
             ,
          
           
             March
             on
             thy
             Brave
             
               Herse
            
             to
             the
             
               worlds
            
             chief
             Tombe
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             
               Elias-Soul
            
             long
             since
             march'd
             away
             ,
          
           
             The
             Mantle
             falling
             on
             our
             
               Elisha
               :
            
          
           
             Thy
             
               Souls
            
             march
             upwards
             was
             ,
             thy
             
               Corps
            
             march
             down
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             
               Soul
            
             hath
             free
             Reward
             ,
             
               Corps
            
             due
             Renown
             ;
          
           
             The
             Angels
             
               Treble-Anthem
            
             That
             singing
             is
             ,
          
           
             
               Adam's
            
             Heavy
             Slumber
             debasing
             This
             ;
          
           
             But
             This
             to
             That
             shall
             rise
             ,
             That
             welcome
             This
             ;
          
           
             Prerogative
             and
             Priviledge
             joyn
             in
             bliss
             :
          
           
             March
             ,
             March
             away
             ;
             March
             down
             to
             thy
             long
             Home
             ,
          
           
             Millions
             of
             Mourners
             sigh
             to
             see
             Thee
             come
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ye
             pretty
             chirping
             
               Choristers
            
             of
             th'
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Warbling
             wilde
             
               Elegies
               ,
            
             nimbly
             repair
          
           
             To
             His
             
               Chariot
               :
            
             there
             ,
             Melody-spent
             ,
             die
             ,
          
           
             Out-doing
             Art
             in
             Natures
             Poetrie
             :
          
           
             But
             yet
             hold
             out
             ,
             'till
             ye
             have
             sung
             Him
             home
             ,
          
           
             To
             pick
             Him
             ,
             out
             your
             Feather-beds
             ,
             one
             of
             Downe
             .
          
           
             Great
             Grandmother
             of
             walking
             Worms
             ,
             grave
             
               Earth
               ,
            
          
           
             Our
             Dry
             Eyes
             may
             portend
             deserved
             Dearth
             ;
          
           
             Admit
             our
             Plea
             ,
             Only
             light
             Sorrows
             whine
             ,
          
           
             The
             Grandeur
             of
             our
             Groans
             does
             surmount
             thine
             :
          
           
             But
             
               Dame
               ,
            
             —
             lest
             You
             gravell'd
             with
             groans
             ,
             falter
             ,
          
           
             All-a-row
             ,
             Souldiers
             ,
             row
             Him
             home
             by
             Water
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Phoenix
               of
               Princes
            
             Fame
             doth
             
               OLIVER
            
             own
             ,
          
           
             And
             prophecy'ng
             thus
             ,
             or'e
             the
             World
             's
             now
             flown
             ;
          
           
             An
             
               Angels
            
             Quill
             dipt
             in
             
               Babylons
            
             Blood
          
           
             Shall
             make
             My
             
               CROMVVELL
            
             fully
             understood
             :
          
           
             Till
             then
             (
             
               Muses
               ,
               Rhet'rick
               ,
            
             shortning
             thy
             rate
             )
          
           
             
               OLIVER's
            
             own
             Acts
             
               CROMVVELL
            
             best
             celebrate
             .
          
        
         
           
             THE
             EPITAPH
             .
          
           
             
               STay
               ,
               
                 Pilgrim
                 ,
              
               Stay
               ;
               Tread
               gently
               ;
               Mourn
               a
               while
            
             
               O're
               that
               rests
               under
               ,
               Th'
               Honour
               of
               this
               ,
               Isle
               :
            
             
               
                 Englands
                 PROTECTOR
                 ,
              
               Victorious
               
                 OLIVER
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Europe's
              
               Arbitrator
               :
               The
               World's
               Wonder
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Nine
                 Worthies
              
               grace-chymickt
               Quintessence
               :
            
             
               Diamond
               of
               Saints
               :
               Darling
               of
               Providence
               :
            
             
               
                 Amboyna's
              
               Blood-shed's
               Cure
               :
               A
               Pearl
               i'
               th'
               Eye
            
             
               Of
               
                 Romes
                 ,
                 Spaines
                 ,
              
               Universal
               Monarchie
               :
            
             
               Who
               broke
               the
               
                 Irish-Harp
              
               :
               the
               
                 Welch
              
               new-strung
               :
            
             
               Refin'd
               Parliaments
               :
               did
               old
               
                 Scots
              
               new-dung
               :
            
             
               Was
               wise
               Servant
               :
               a
               religious
               Master
               :
            
             
               Provident
               Parent
               :
               Bounteous
               Lord
               :
               no
               Waster
               :
            
             
               Captives
               Ransomer
               :
               poor
               
                 Pilgrims
              
               Patrone
               :
            
             
               Champion
               'gainst
               Gods
               Foes
               ,
               Chaplain
               to
               his
               owne
               ,
            
             
               Hast
               ,
               
                 Pilgrim
                 ,
              
               Hast
               ;
               Trip
               nimbly
               hence
               ,
               Be
               gone
               :
            
             
               Lest
               free
               in
               Tears
               Thou
               freez
               into
               a
               Stone
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           To
           be
           sold
           by
           
             Isaac
             Pridmore
          
           at
           the
           
             Golden
             Falcon
          
           near
           the
           
             New-Exchange
             .
          
           1658.
           
        
      
      
  

