







 
   
     
       
         Elegies offer'd up to the memory of William Glover, Esquire ... by Thomas Philipot ...
         Philipot, Thomas, d. 1682.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A54669 of text R736 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing P1994). 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
         A54669
         Wing P1994
         ESTC R736
         12367917
         ocm 12367917
         60462
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A54669)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 60462)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 221:5)
      
       
         
           
             Elegies offer'd up to the memory of William Glover, Esquire ... by Thomas Philipot ...
             Philipot, Thomas, d. 1682.
          
           [6], 13 p.
           
             Printed by Tho. and Rich. Cotes,
             London :
             1641.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Glover, William, -- Esquire -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A54669  R736  (Wing P1994).  civilwar no Elegies, offer'd up to the memory of William Glover Esquire, late of Shalston, in Buckinghamshire. By Thomas Philipot, Mr. of Arts of Clare Philipot, Thomas 1641    4147 2 0 0 0 0 0 5 B  The  rate of 5 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the B category of texts with fewer than 10 defects per 10,000 words. 
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           Elegies
           ,
           Offer'd
           up
           to
           the
           memory
           of
           
             William
             Glover
          
           Esquire
           ,
           late
           of
           
             Shalston
             ,
          
           in
           
             Buckinghamshire
             .
          
        
         
           By
           
             Thomas
             Philipot
             ,
          
           Mr.
           of
           Arts
           
             of
             Clare
          
           Hall
           in
           
             Cambridge
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             LONDON
             ,
          
           Printed
           by
           
             Tho.
          
           and
           
             Rich.
             Cotes
             .
          
           1641.
           
        
      
       
       
       
         
           To
           the
           Right
           worthy
           as
           well
           by
           Vertue
           as
           Birth
           ,
           the
           Lady
           
             Anne
             Glover
             .
          
        
         
           
             Madam
             ,
          
        
         
           THough
           it
           bee
           unlawfull
           to
           offer
           up
           sacrifices
           to
           the
           dead
           ,
           yet
           license
           me
           to
           sacrifice
           these
           Elegies
           to
           the
           memory
           of
           your
           Sonne
           ,
           and
           permit
           me
           to
           make
           his
           name
           an
           Altar
           ,
           though
           not
           his
           Tombe
           .
           Those
           reciprocall
           endearments
           which
           at
           first
           fed
           and
           fomented
           our
           friendship
           ,
           have
           made
           such
           an
           impression
           on
           all
           those
           faculties
           that
           officiate
           to
           my
           Soule
           ,
           on
           all
           those
           functions
           that
           hold
           Correspondence
           with
           Invention
           and
           Phansie
           ,
           that
           I
           should
           not
           onely
           seeme
           ungratefull
           ,
           appeare
           unfruitfull
           ,
           but
           also
           supinely
           forgetfull
           ,
           if
           I
           should
           not
           endeavour
           by
           consecrating
           some
           Trophie
           (
           though
           nere
           so
           rude
           and
           inconsiderable
           )
           to
           his
           remembrance
           ,
           to
           redeeme
           and
           rescue
           it
           from
           the
           Vault
           ,
           and
           so
           preserve
           it
           ,
           that
           it
           might
           never
           be
           rak'd
           up
           amongst
           his
           ashes
           .
           And
           though
           peradventure
           those
           benefits
           that
           hee
           shed
           on
           others
           ,
           fell
           but
           upon
           barren
           and
           unthankfull
           ground
           ,
           yet
           those
           he
           powr'd
           upon
           
           me
           ,
           have
           not
           languish'd
           into
           oblivion
           ,
           but
           teem'd
           with
           a
           gratefull
           acknowledgement
           :
           Death
           onely
           by
           usurping
           his
           life
           too
           soone
           excluded
           me
           from
           inlarging
           my
           Gratitude
           to
           himselfe
           ,
           that
           I
           might
           professe
           it
           to
           you
           ,
           who
           shall
           bee
           the
           Delegate
           to
           receive
           the
           payment
           of
           a
           Debt
           I
           ow'd
           to
           your
           Sonne
           ,
           which
           shall
           be
           done
           with
           a
           Devotion
           as
           emphaticall
           as
           that
           which
           excites
           mee
           to
           send
           up
           my
           Orizons
           to
           Heaven
           for
           your
           happinesse
           in
           this
           world
           ,
           and
           before
           inspir'd
           mee
           to
           powre
           forth
           my
           prayers
           for
           your
           Sons
           glory
           in
           the
           other
           .
           Madam
           ,
           if
           you
           thinke
           that
           these
           low
           expressions
           of
           my
           zeale
           and
           Monuments
           of
           my
           Affection
           can
           improve
           your
           Sonnes
           memory
           to
           any
           perpetuity
           ,
           suffer
           them
           I
           beseech
           you
           to
           give
           themselves
           up
           to
           your
           view
           ,
           since
           you
           may
           ascertaine
           your selfe
           that
           they
           issue
           from
           one
           whose
           entire
           study
           is
           ,
           whose
           whole
           practise
           shall
           be
           ,
           how
           hee
           may
           declare
           himselfe
           ,
        
         
           
             The
             humblest
             of
             your
             Servants
             
               Tho.
               Philipot
               .
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           An
           Advertisement
           to
           the
           Reader
           .
        
         
           
             REader
             thou
             needst
             exhaust
             no
             Time
             to
             looke
          
           
             Within
             the
             Pages
             of
             the
             Heralds
             Booke
             ,
          
           
             And
             sift
             that
             Index
             to
             Times
             past
             ,
             to
             see
          
           
             Whence
             
               Glover
            
             did
             deduce
             his
             Pedigree
          
           
             Or
             search
             t'
             instruct
             thy selfe
             to
             what
             extent
          
           
             His
             noble
             and
             Illustrious
             Descent
          
           
             Spins
             out
             it selfe
             ,
             since
             thou
             mayst
             finde
             him
             here
          
           
             Decipher'd
             in
             a
             fairer
             Character
          
           
             Then
             any
             there
             ,
             and
             his
             Descent
             made
             good
             ,
          
           
             By
             being
             deriv'd
             from
             vertue
             not
             from
             blood
             .
          
           
             Thy
             eye
             needs
             not
             take
             notice
             of
             his
             Crest
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             scan
             those
             Metals
             that
             his
             Armes
             invest
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             see
             if
             cloth'd
             in
             purple
             they
             appeare
             ,
          
           
             Or
             the
             pale
             furre
             of
             speckled
             Ermins
             weare
             ,
          
           
             Since
             these
             sad
             lines
             that
             onely
             can
             display
          
           
             Their
             Heraldry
             in
             Sables
             ,
             will
             array
          
           
             His
             name
             with
             as
             much
             eminence
             and
             note
             ,
          
           
             As
             those
             rich
             colours
             that
             improve
             his
             Coate
             :
          
           
             Nor
             care
             to
             be
             inform'd
             what
             Issue
             He
          
           
             Left
             to
             convey
             and
             waft
             his
             Memory
          
           
             To
             after
             Times
             ,
             and
             make
             himselfe
             survive
          
           
             His
             Ruine
             ;
             and
             be
             still
             preservd
             alive
          
           
             In
             them
             ,
             since
             thou
             mayst
             be
             advertisd
             ,
             he
          
           
             Lives
             in
             no
             Issue
             but
             in
             Elegie
             ,
          
           
             The
             Off-spring
             of
             my
             Braine
             ;
             Where
             thou
             mayst
             view
          
           
             His
             face
             appeare
             more
             genuine
             and
             more
             true
          
           
           
             Than
             if
             exactly
             't
             were
             limn'd
             out
             and
             set
          
           
             By
             Nature
             in
             a
             living
             Counterfeit
             .
          
           
             And
             if
             thou
             passest
             by
             where
             
               Glovers
            
             Dust
          
           
             Lyes
             in
             the
             Casquet
             of
             his
             grave
             in
             trust
             ,
          
           
             And
             seest
             no
             Pile
             or
             Monument
             adorne
          
           
             The
             bleack
             and
             naked
             surface
             of
             his
             Urne
             ,
          
           
             Argue
             not
             any
             guilty
             of
             neglect
          
           
             To
             his
             Remaines
             ,
             nor
             Art
             of
             a
             Defect
          
           
             'Cause
             she
             forgot
             her
             Trophies
             to
             impart
             ,
          
           
             He
             needs
             no
             Tombe
             that
             has
             one
             in
             my
             Heart
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
         
           Elegies
           offered
           up
           to
           the
           memory
           of
           
             William
             Glover
          
           Esquire
           .
        
         
           
             Elegie
             1.
             
          
           
             
               IS
               
                 Glover
              
               dead
               ?
               and
               could
               stern
               Death
               employ
            
             
               No
               Sicknesse
               but
               a
               Surfet
               to
               destroy
            
             
               The
               structure
               of
               his
               Earth
               &
               make
               even
               meat
            
             
               That
               should
               foment
               ,
               stisle
               &
               choak
               that
               heat
               ?
            
             
               Which
               kindled
               in
               the
               Chambers
               of
               the
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Is
               thence
               diffus'd
               to
               aire
               and
               warme
               each
               part
               .
            
             
               We
               need
               not
               now
               I
               see
               the
               fatall
               knife
            
             
               Of
               
                 Atropos
              
               to
               cut
               the
               twist
               of
               life
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               shivering
               Agues
               to
               congeale
               the
               blood
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Feavers
               to
               licke
               up
               that
               purple
               flood
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Rheums
               in
               brinie
               showers
               to
               distill
            
             
               And
               drowne
               the
               lungs
               ,
               when
               meat
               it selfe
               can
               kill
               .
            
             
               Who
               then
               would
               in
               his
               earthly
               Fabrick
               trust
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               brittle
               Wals
               are
               moulded
               out
               of
               dust
               ,
            
             
               Which
               let
               good
               diet
               plaister
               nere
               so
               well
               ,
            
             
               Sicknesse
               may
               yet
               make
               them
               dissoluble
               :
            
             
               For
               we
               're
               compact
               of
               miseries
               and
               feares
               ,
            
             
               Kneaded
               into
               a
               lumpe
               with
               our
               owne
               teares
               .
            
             
               With
               our
               first
               milke
               our
               nurses
               do
               bequeath
               ,
            
             
               Diseases
               to
               us
               ,
               and
               we
               bed
               with
               Death
            
             
             
               Even
               in
               our
               Cradles
               making
               them
               become
               ,
            
             
               Types
               and
               Ideas
               of
               our
               future
               Tombe
               .
            
             
               Those
               eyes
               whose
               glances
               all
               did
               seeme
               t'
               implore
               ,
            
             
               And
               superstitiously
               did
               e'en
               adore
            
             
               
               Th'effusion
               of
               their
               radiant
               beames
               may
               bee
            
             
               Inforc'd
               to
               weepe
               vext
               with
               an
               Opthalmy
               .
            
             
               A
               palsy
               dares
               disturbe
               and
               shake
               that
               hand
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               its
               Scepter
               can
               the
               world
               command
               :
            
             
               Those
               seete
               which
               proudly
               walkt
               on
               Kings
               may
               be
               ,
            
             
               Brought
               by
               the
               Gout
               into
               Captivity
               .
            
             
               And
               
                 Glover
              
               in
               whose
               lineaments
               appeard
            
             
               Such
               Harmonie
               ,
               that
               Nature
               seem'd
               t'have
               rear'd
            
             
               An
               Altar
               to
               perfection
               which
               she
               meant
            
             
               It selfe
               should
               farme
               his
               polish'd
               Tenement
               ,
            
             
               We
               see
               was
               but
               an
               Edifice
               of
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Within
               whose
               Heart
               as
               on
               some
               oylie
               Hearth
            
             
               A
               fire
               was
               fed
               ,
               whose
               flame
               was
               blowne
               about
            
             
               Each
               veine
               and
               nerve
               ,
               which
               Death
               has
               now
               put
               out
               .
            
             
               How
               much
               exposd
               toth
               Injuries
               of
               fate
            
             
               Is
               all
               the
               glory
               then
               a
               humane
               state
            
             
               Can
               but
               lye
               claime
               to
               ,
               in
               accessable
            
             
               To
               rest
               is
               swelling
               greatnesse
               ,
               a
               briefe
               Cell
            
             
               Can
               shelter
               and
               include
               more
               solid
               Peace
               ,
            
             
               Than
               the
               extended
               Roofes
               of
               Pallaces
               .
            
             
               For
               those
               that
               pillage
               Nature
               to
               invite
            
             
               And
               egge
               on
               a
               luxurious
               Appetite
               ,
            
             
               Doe
               so
               encumber
               all
               their
               faculties
               ,
            
             
               They
               onely
               hatch
               a
               tribe
               of
               Maladies
               ,
            
             
               Which
               like
               a
               progeny
               of
               Vipers
               will
            
             
               Turne
               Parricides
               and
               their
               owne
               Parents
               kill
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             2.
             
          
           
             
               VVE
               can
               for
               every
               cheape
               and
               triviall
               losse
            
             
               Condole
               so
               much
               we
               even
               se
               me
               t'
               ingrosse
            
             
             
               The
               publike
               stocke
               of
               greife
               and
               at
               our
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Imbezell
               our
               exhausted
               faculties
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               our
               dull
               passions
               pant
               with
               eager
               throes
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               they
               teem'd
               with
               mountaines
               of
               vast
               woes
               .
            
             
               Each
               maime
               by
               fire
               ,
               each
               shipwrack
               can
               induce
            
             
               Our
               soules
               to
               such
               intemp'rate
               and
               profuse
            
             
               Resentment
               ,
               that
               those
               Cataracts
               of
               Raine
            
             
               Our
               eyes
               diffuse
               might
               quench
               the
               flame
               againe
               ,
            
             
               Or
               in
               their
               briny
               Hurrican's
               once
               more
               ,
            
             
               Ingulph
               the
               ruin'd
               Barke
               upon
               the
               shore
               .
            
             
               But
               when
               a
               friend
               shakes
               off
               Mortalitie
            
             
               And
               his
               fraile
               Earth
               drops
               into
               ashes
               ,
               we
            
             
               Should
               from
               
               th'officious
               limbecks
               of
               our
               eyes
            
             
               Distill
               ,
               as
               rites
               due
               to
               his
               obsequies
               ,
            
             
               Such
               floods
               of
               pious
               teares
               that
               if
               dull
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Should
               by
               some
               lame
               neglect
               forget
               t'
               impart
            
             
               Her
               nard
               and
               unctious
               Balsames
               to
               exempt
               ,
            
             
               His
               pretious
               Reliques
               from
               Times
               rude
               contempt
               ,
            
             
               They
               might
               embalme
               his
               fading
               masse
               of
               clay
               ,
            
             
               And
               fortifie
               it
               so
               from
               all
               decay
            
             
               It
               may
               remaine
               till
               time
               shall
               die
               ,
               and
               have
            
             
               Himselfe
               a
               Habitation
               in
               his
               grave
               .
            
             
               Should
               I
               then
               now
               my
               melting
               eyes
               repreive
            
             
               From
               teares
               ,
               or
               be
               too
               thrifty
               in
               my
               griefe
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               (
               to
               whom
               my
               soule
               was
               so
               endeard
               ,
            
             
               So
               twisted
               into
               his
               ,
               that
               we
               e'en
               steerd
            
             
               Two
               bodies
               with
               one
               Heart
               ,
               and
               did
               improve
            
             
               By
               mingling
               of
               each
               others
               thoughts
               that
               love
               )
            
             
               Is
               disinvested
               of
               that
               drosse
               and
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Which
               did
               empeach
               and
               intercept
               his
               birth
            
             
               To
               immortality
               ,
               I
               then
               should
               be
            
             
               Tainted
               with
               scandalous
               Apostasie
            
             
               To
               Friendships
               sacred
               vow
               ,
               and
               should
               enter
            
             
               My
               short-breath'd
               love
               within
               his
               Sepulcher
               .
            
             
               No!
               such
               a
               permanency
               I
               'le
               enstate
            
             
               On
               my
               Affection
               that
               neither
               Fate
            
             
             
               Nor
               Time
               ,
               shall
               blast
               or
               wither
               it
               to
               Death
               .
            
             
               Yet
               I
               'le
               not
               to
               his
               memory
               bequeath
            
             
               Some
               brazen
               Obeliske
               whereon
               shall
               bee
            
             
               Engrafted
               some
               patheticke
               Elegie
               ,
            
             
               Which
               may
               to
               a
               succeeding
               Age
               declare
            
             
               What
               a
               strong
               emphasis
               my
               griefes
               did
               beare
               ,
            
             
               Because
               the
               Cottage
               of
               his
               clay
               so
               soone
            
             
               Languish'd
               into
               a
               Dissolution
               ;
            
             
               For
               't
               would
               be
               triviall
               since
               his
               name
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Will
               prove
               more
               firme
               than
               either
               brasse
               or
               stone
               .
            
             
               Yet
               I
               'le
               not
               depraedate
               the
               Phoenixnest
               ,
            
             
               Or
               pillage
               the
               Exchequer
               of
               the
               East
            
             
               To
               gather
               Balmes
               or
               odorous
               spices
               thence
               ,
            
             
               By
               whose
               benigne
               indulgent
               influence
            
             
               The
               ruines
               of
               the
               Earth
               may
               be
               so
               charm'd
               ,
            
             
               They
               may
               'gainst
               all
               
               th'Assaults
               of
               time
               be
               arm'd
               :
            
             
               For
               the
               kind
               Earth
               shall
               from
               her
               wombe
               distill
               ,
            
             
               Drops
               of
               rich
               gumme
               mixt
               with
               a
               fragrant
               drill
            
             
               Of
               balmy
               dew
               ,
               which
               shall
               descend
               upon
            
             
               His
               dust
               ,
               and
               baile
               it
               from
               Corruption
               ,
            
             
               So
               that
               no
               bold
               intruding
               worme
               shall
               dare
            
             
               To
               be
               an
               Inmate
               to
               his
               Sepulcher
               .
            
             
               Nor
               will
               I
               to
               embellish
               and
               adorne
            
             
               The
               gloomy
               Climate
               of
               his
               private
               Urne
               ,
            
             
               Rifle
               the
               
                 Parian
              
               Quarries
               ,
               and
               erect
            
             
               Some
               gaudy
               Pile
               his
               ashes
               to
               protect
               :
            
             
               Since
               that
               like
               these
               will
               weare
               away
               and
               rust
            
             
               And
               mingle
               both
               in
               undistinguish't
               dust
               .
            
             
               No
               ,
               from
               the
               Inlets
               of
               mine
               eyes
               I
               'le
               lave
            
             
               Streames
               of
               unsummond
               teares
               out
               on
               his
               grave
            
             
               Which
               shall
               agen
               concentrate
               and
               collect
            
             
               Themselves
               into
               a
               swelling
               Cataract
               ,
            
             
               Which
               shall
               by
               
               th'coldnesse
               that
               my
               sighs
               shall
               vent
               ,
            
             
               Congeale
               into
               a
               Christiall
               Monument
               ;
            
             
               And
               stand
               a
               trophee
               there
               to
               propagate
               ,
            
             
               His
               memory
               'gainst
               all
               
               th'attempts
               of
               Fate
               .
            
             
             
               But
               when
               the
               world
               and
               her
               gay
               pompe
               expire
               ,
            
             
               And
               both
               lye
               gasping
               in
               the
               generall
               fire
               ,
            
             
               When
               God
               will
               cancell
               Times
               Commission
            
             
               And
               call
               in
               Fates
               strict
               Patent
               ,
               when
               the
               Sun
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               throng
               and
               petty
               stars
               like
               teares
            
             
               Shall
               drop
               in
               flaming
               Gelly
               from
               their
               Sphers
               ,
            
             
               When
               
               th'impenitent
               Earth
               so
               long
               shall
               burne
               ,
            
             
               Till
               it
               into
               repentant
               ashes
               turne
               ;
            
             
               And
               each
               conspicuous
               Ornament
               it
               wearēs
            
             
               Fals
               into
               dust
               ;
               this
               shall
               resolve
               to
               teares
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             3.
             
          
           
             
               PAle
               ruines
               of
               my
               friend
               is
               there
               no
               charme
            
             
               No
               Magicke
               that
               can
               bridle
               or
               disarme
            
             
               Deaths
               eager
               malice
               and
               exauthorize
            
             
               That
               power
               by
               which
               he
               seis'd
               those
               faculties
            
             
               That
               were
               thy
               life's
               Retinue
               'las
               no
               spell
               ,
            
             
               No
               charme
               can
               make
               us
               inexpugnable
            
             
               'Gainst
               his
               assailements
               ;
               for
               when
               h'eel
               employ
            
             
               Some
               feirce
               malignant
               sicknesse
               to
               destroy
               ,
            
             
               And
               raze
               our
               Tenements
               of
               Earth
               we
               must
            
             
               Moulder
               away
               into
               rude
               heapes
               of
               dust
               ▪
            
             
               No!
               since
               those
               sparkes
               of
               life
               which
               first
               did
               burne
            
             
               Within
               thy
               brest
               are
               dropt
               into
               thy
               Urne
               ,
            
             
               Where
               rak'd
               up
               in
               thy
               ashes
               they
               shall
               lie
            
             
               Till
               Times
               calcin'd
               into
               Eternity
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               agen
               a
               purer
               light
               acquire
               ,
            
             
               Reviv'd
               and
               kindled
               by
               the
               generall
               fire
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               not
               invade
               or
               prie
               into
               that
               chest
            
             
               Which
               shrouds
               thy
               ashes
               to
               dissolve
               thy
               rest
               ;
            
             
               But
               may
               a
               soft
               eternall
               slumber
               flow
            
             
               In
               gentle
               silence
               through
               the
               Vault
               below
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               thy
               immortall
               part
               purg'd
               and
               redeem'd
            
             
               From
               its
               dull
               weight
               of
               clay
               which
               onely
               teem'd
            
             
             
               With
               humours
               and
               diseases
               ,
               shall
               descry
            
             
               That
               frame
               and
               well
               compos'd
               Oeconomy
            
             
               That
               Heavens
               digested
               in
               ,
               and
               fully
               be
            
             
               Acquainted
               with
               that
               moderne
               Colony
               ,
            
             
               Phansie
               has
               planted
               in
               the
               Moone
               ,
               and
               know
            
             
               Whether
               each
               starre
               be
               peopled
               yet
               or
               no
               ,
            
             
               And
               shall
               unvaile
               those
               misteries
               which
               we
            
             
               (
               Eclips'd
               by
               mists
               of
               ignorance
               )
               can
               see
            
             
               (
               Knowledge
               being
               in
               her
               Solstice
               )
               with
               an
               eye
               ,
            
             
               But
               blear'd
               and
               hoodwink'd
               though
               we
               should
               apply
            
             
               Nature's
               faint
               glimpse
               to
               't
               ,
               which
               imparts
               a
               light
            
             
               Like
               that
               that
               's
               shed
               by
               glowormes
               in
               the
               night
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               it
               has
               with
               strict
               survey
               ore-run
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Province
               of
               the
               starry
               Region
               ,
            
             
               T
               will
               with
               its
               charming
               Musicke
               ,
               both
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               And
               mingle
               notes
               with
               the
               Seraphicke
               Quire
               ;
            
             
               And
               its
               soft
               aires
               in
               sacred
               Anthems
               reare
               ,
            
             
               Set
               toth'
               harmonious
               chiming
               ,
               some
               spheare
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               they
               there
               in
               tunefull
               accents
               flow
               ,
            
             
               My
               sighes
               shall
               be
               their
               Eccho's
               here
               below
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             4.
             
          
           
             
               LEt
               some
               loose
               Widdow
               seeke
               to
               personate
            
             
               And
               forge
               laments
               ,
               and
               more
               to
               palliate
            
             
               The
               scene
               of
               her
               imposture
               ,
               bribe
               her
               eyes
            
             
               To
               weepe
               her
               dead
               Husbands
               Obsequies
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               those
               Magazins
               of
               moisture
               ,
               dreyne
            
             
               Such
               numerous
               streames
               of
               teares
               ,
               they
               may
               againe
            
             
               Swell
               to
               a
               Torrent
               ,
               that
               may
               equall
               
                 Nile
                 ,
              
            
             
               Wherein
               her selfe
               shall
               be
               the
               Crocodile
               .
            
             
               Let
               the
               wild
               unthrift
               ,
               who
               can
               scarse
               allow
            
             
               From
               his
               large
               acres
               ,
               earth
               enough
               t'
               endow
            
             
               His
               Fathers
               ashes
               with
               a
               grave
               ,
               put
               on
            
             
               The
               crabbed
               discompos'd
               complexion
            
             
             
               Of
               wrinkled
               sorrow
               ,
               when
               he
               does
               transferre
            
             
               His
               Sires
               pale
               Reliques
               to
               his
               Sepulcher
               ,
            
             
               And
               ore
               his
               Tombe-stone
               so
               profusely
               mourne
               ,
            
             
               He
               would
               e'ne
               seeme
               to
               drowne
               him
               in
               his
               Vrne
               ,
            
             
               And
               ore
               his
               hearse
               raise
               a
               transparent
               shrine
               ,
            
             
               Made
               up
               out
               of
               his
               humour
               Christalline
               .
            
             
               So
               have
               I
               seene
               your
               Marble
               to
               distill
            
             
               Through
               the
               close
               limbeckes
               of
               its
               pores
               ,
               a
               Rill
            
             
               Of
               unctious
               moisture
               ,
               and
               yet
               still
               withstand
               ,
            
             
               All
               the
               impressions
               of
               the
               Carvers
               hand
               .
            
             
               No
               ,
               I
               le
               not
               now
               my
               friend
               ,
               by
               Deaths
               rude
               touch
            
             
               Is
               scatter'd
               into
               dust
               ,
               to
               shew
               how
               much
            
             
               His
               ruinous
               dispersion
               I
               bemoane
               ,
            
             
               Make
               my
               eyes
               fountaines
               ,
               when
               my
               heart
               is
               stone
               ,
            
             
               For
               those
               sad
               teares
               my
               sorrow
               shall
               dispence
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               with
               that
               part
               maintaine
               intelligence
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               with
               such
               immoderate
               waste
               will
               strēw
            
             
               Upon
               his
               Monument
               ,
               that
               to
               renew
            
             
               That
               bankrupt
               and
               impoverisht
               stocke
               ,
               my
               heart
            
             
               Shall
               from
               her
               private
               Treasury
               ,
               impart
            
             
               New
               moisture
               ,
               to
               foment
               and
               feed
               my
               griefe
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               I
               have
               imbereld
               that
               reliefe
               ,
            
             
               And
               my
               too
               lavish
               and
               unthrifty
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Have
               melted
               into
               teares
               all
               their
               supplies
               ,
            
             
               I
               feare
               ,
               I
               shall
               turne
               Marble
               and
               become
               ,
            
             
               My selfe
               at
               once
               ,
               his
               Mourner
               and
               his
               Tombe
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             5.
             
          
           
             
               I
               Can
               (
               deare
               Friend
               )
               no
               swelling
               Trophees
               raise
               ,
            
             
               To
               cloathe
               thy
               Urne
               ,
               yet
               I
               le
               erect
               thy
               praise
               .
            
             
               Nor
               can
               no
               smooth
               
                 Egyptian
              
               stone
               impart
               ,
            
             
               To
               frame
               a
               Tombe
               for
               thee
               ,
               yet
               in
               my
               heart
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               one
               built
               ,
               I
               can
               collect
               no
               Jet
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Porphyrie
               to
               forme
               thy
               counterfeit
               .
            
             
             
               For
               I
               'me
               confirm'd
               tis
               vaine
               ,
               since
               each
               may
               finde
            
             
               Thy
               figures
               lodg'd
               already
               in
               my
               mind
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               will
               I
               gather
               up
               that
               balmy
               sweat
               ,
            
             
               Which
               gums
               lave
               out
               when
               they
               're
               assaild
               by
               heat
               ,
            
             
               With
               its
               rich
               odors
               to
               perfume
               thy
               Herse
               ,
            
             
               Since
               I
               le
               embalme
               thy
               memory
               in
               Verse
               :
            
             
               Which
               being
               thus
               preserv'd
               ,
               Fames
               tainted
               breath
            
             
               Shall
               not
               with
               poyson
               blast
               thee
               after
               death
               .
            
             
               And
               though
               I
               cannot
               from
               mine
               eyes
               disburse
               ,
            
             
               For
               thy
               untimely
               losse
               ,
               so
               large
               a
               sourse
            
             
               And
               stocke
               of
               teares
               ,
               as
               griefe
               exacts
               ,
               yet
               they
            
             
               Which
               shall
               their
               homage
               to
               thy
               Reliques
               pay
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               have
               no
               double
               ▪
               fac'd
               Hypocrisie
               ,
            
             
               Lye
               bathing
               there
               to
               mocke
               credulity
               ,
            
             
               But
               shall
               be
               so
               unfeigned
               ,
               that
               Truth
               shall
               hide
            
             
               Her selfe
               in
               them
               ,
               as
               o're
               each
               cheeke
               they
               glide
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               'le
               prove
               so
               transparent
               that
               I
               feare
               ,
            
             
               Each
               vulgar
               eye
               will
               see
               her
               naked
               there
               :
            
             
               Whilst
               Heaven
               it selfe
               in
               constant
               dewes
               shall
               weepe
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               my
               griefe
               true
               correspondence
               keepe
               :
            
             
               And
               my
               teares
               be
               by
               the
               enamor'd
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Courted
               into
               an
               exhalation
               .
            
             
               Which
               being
               glard
               on
               by
               his
               searching
               beames
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               be
               againe
               thaw'd
               ,
               and
               dissolve
               in
               streames
               :
            
             
               To
               shew
               ,
               the
               worlds
               bright
               eye
               it selfe
               ,
               let
               fall
            
             
               Those
               showers
               ,
               as
               teares
               shed
               for
               thy
               Funerall
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             6.
             
          
           
             
               ALl
               other
               mourners
               can
               some
               method
               keepe
               ,
            
             
               (
               Wherin
               their
               griefe
               's
               digested
               )
               when
               they
               weepe
            
             
               They
               can
               seduc'd
               credulity
               assaile
               ,
            
             
               By
               masquing
               sorrow
               with
               the
               Christall
               veile
            
             
               Of
               their
               adult'rate
               teares
               ,
               their
               soules
               can
               weare
            
             
               A
               griefe
               array'd
               with
               blacke
               ,
               like
               that
               they
               beare
            
             
             
               i
               th'
               outward
               habit
               ,
               which
               are
               both
               put
               on
               ,
            
             
               Onely
               untill
               the
               Obsequies
               be
               done
               :
            
             
               But
               for
               my
               
                 Glovers
              
               sad
               departure
               ,
               I
            
             
               Will
               plucke
               the
               sluces
               up
               in
               either
               eye
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               those
               storehouses
               of
               griefe
               ,
               discharge
            
             
               Such
               floods
               of
               teares
               ,
               they
               shall
               themselves
               inlarge
            
             
               Into
               an
               Inundation
               ,
               and
               make
            
             
               With
               their
               collected
               streames
               ,
               a
               briny
               lake
               ,
            
             
               Which
               being
               diffus'd
               into
               a
               Rill
               ,
               shall
               keepe
            
             
               A
               constant
               correspondence
               with
               the
               Deepe
               ,
            
             
               So
               that
               some
               Syren
               ,
               stragling
               from
               the
               Maine
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               to
               the
               Confines
               of
               this
               Lake
               attaine
               ,
            
             
               And
               hearing
               how
               with
               my
               laments
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Forgot
               and
               undistinguish'd
               melts
               away
               .
            
             
               Shee
               shall
               some
               sad
               and
               solemne
               Dirge
               devise
               ,
            
             
               To
               warble
               forth
               at
               
                 Glovers
              
               Obsequies
               :
            
             
               And
               raise
               her
               Elegiacke
               notes
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               She
               shall
               her selfe
               with
               reall
               sorrow
               dye
               .
            
             
               But
               least
               she
               should
               remaine
               forgotten
               there
               ,
            
             
               Wholly
               devested
               of
               a
               Sepulcher
               ,
            
             
               And
               want
               some
               stable
               Trophy
               to
               dilate
               ,
            
             
               And
               amplifie
               the
               memory
               of
               her
               fate
            
             
               To
               after
               Times
               ,
               the
               North-wind
               shall
               dispence
               ,
            
             
               Such
               keene
               and
               gelid
               blasts
               ,
               they
               shall
               condence
            
             
               This
               Lake
               into
               a
               Christall
               heape
               ,
               whereon
            
             
               Shall
               be
               divulg'd
               this
               sad
               Inscription
               .
            
          
           
             
               Heere
               lyes
               a
               Syren
               who
               exhal'd
               her
               breath
               ,
            
             
               In
               too
               profusely
               mourning
               
                 Glovers
              
               Death
               ,
            
             
               And
               whilst
               in
               tunefull
               ayres
               ,
               she
               straind
               her
               tongue
               ,
            
             
               To
               chaunt
               his
               Dirge
               she
               her
               owne
               Requiem
               sung
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Elegie
             7.
             
          
           
             
               NO
               gaudy
               shroud
               (
               Friend
               )
               shall
               be
               fram'd
               for
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Out
               of
               the
               drudging
               silk-wormes
               Huswifry
               ,
            
             
             
               For
               from
               my
               eyes
               two
               Christall
               streams
               shall
               run
               ,
            
             
               Which
               swelling
               to
               an
               Inundation
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               circumscribe
               thy
               witherd
               Earth
               ,
               and
               there
            
             
               Settle
               ,
               till
               the
               inclement
               North
               shall
               dare
            
             
               T'
               invade
               thy
               Tombe
               ,
               and
               with
               some
               impious
               gust
            
             
               Make
               a
               rude
               Onset
               on
               thy
               hallow'd
               dust
               ,
            
             
               And
               seeking
               to
               dissolve
               that
               pretious
               masse
            
             
               By
               his
               chill
               breath
               transforme
               my
               teares
               to
               glasse
               ,
            
             
               So
               shall
               thy
               Clay
               be
               wrapt
               up
               and
               inclos'd
            
             
               Within
               a
               Christiall
               shroude
               ,
               and
               be
               expos'd
            
             
               Through
               that
               cleere
               Vaile
               ,
               to
               every
               glance
               minē
               eye
            
             
               Shall
               to
               thy
               Tomhe
               employ
               in
               Embassie
            
             
               To
               waft
               thy
               species
               to
               't
               ,
               from
               whēnce
               it
               may
            
             
               Find
               by
               that
               thorough
               fare
               a
               compendious
               way
            
             
               To
               journey
               to
               my
               Heart
               ,
               where
               when
               t
               is
               come
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               vent
               so
               many
               sighs
               to
               make
               it
               roome
               ,
            
             
               They
               shall
               benum
               my
               Heart
               it selfe
               to
               stone
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               'le
               beset
               with
               this
               Inscription
               .
            
          
           
             
               Here
               lyes
               the
               figure
               of
               a
               Friend
               which
               Fate
            
             
               Nor
               Time
               ,
               nor
               Death
               shall
               ever
               extirpate
               ,
            
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Epitaph
           on
           Mr.
           
             William
             Glover
             ,
          
           being
           buried
           in
           one
           grave
           with
           his
           daughter
           before
           deceased
           .
        
         
           
             REader
             ,
             those
             lye
             beneath
             this
             Stone
          
           
             Whom
             life
             made
             two
             first
             out
             of
             one
             ,
          
           
             But
             having
             now
             resign'd
             their
             breath
             ,
          
           
             They
             will
             grow
             one
             againe
             by
             Death
             .
          
           
             For
             as
             before
             this
             pretty
             faire
          
           
             (
             Her
             fathers
             lesser
             Character
             )
          
           
             From
             him
             resulted
             ,
             so
             if
             we
          
           
             After
             some
             mutabilitie
          
           
             Of
             Time
             ,
             should
             on
             his
             grave
             intrude
          
           
             To
             view
             how
             much
             Vicissitude
          
           
           
             Attends
             on
             Nature
             ,
             and
             how
             she
          
           
             Masques
             her selfe
             in
             variety
          
           
             Of
             numerous
             shapes
             and
             after
             dare
             ,
          
           
             To
             paddle
             in
             his
             Sepulcher
             ,
          
           
             Amongst
             his
             dust
             we
             might
             infer
             ,
          
           
             He
             was
             shuffled
             into
             her
             ,
          
           
             For
             Time
             determines
             that
             both
             must
          
           
             Resolve
             into
             one
             heape
             of
             dust
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             the
             world
             it selfe
             expires
             ,
          
           
             Panting
             with
             heate
             ,
             and
             God
             requires
          
           
             Each
             gloomy
             Vault
             ,
             and
             hollow
             Tombe
          
           
             To
             open
             its
             corrupted
             wombe
             ,
          
           
             And
             give
             their
             ashes
             which
             were
             pent
          
           
             And
             cas'd
             up
             there
             ,
             enfranchisement
             ,
          
           
             That
             being
             reedified
             ,
             they
             may
          
           
             No
             more
             be
             obvious
             to
             delay
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Natures
             Tumults
             ,
             this
             last
             birth
          
           
             Will
             dis-unite
             their
             mingled
             Earth
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             their
             first
             life
             did
             divide
             them
             ,
             so
          
           
             This
             second
             life
             again
             shall
             make
             make
             them
             two
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           A
           Collation
           betweene
           Death
           and
           Sleepe
           .
        
         
           
             DEath
             and
             his
             drowsie
             kinsman
             ,
             Sleepe
             ,
             agree
          
           
             In
             all
             the
             Symptomes
             of
             conformity
             .
          
           
             Sleepes
             caus'd
             by
             eating
             ,
             for
             the
             naturall
             heate
             ,
          
           
             Entices
             exhalations
             from
             the
             meate
             .
          
           
             Transfus'd
             to
             
               Chylus
               ,
            
             which
             the
             braine
             possesse
             ,
          
           
             With
             an
             intoxicating
             drousinesse
             .
          
           
             Death
             too
             by
             fatall
             eating
             ,
             first
             came
             in
             ,
          
           
             When
             our
             first
             parents
             wilfully
             did
             sin
             ,
          
           
             And
             violated
             Gods
             renounc'd
             decree
             ,
          
           
             Tasting
             the
             fruite
             of
             the
             forbidden
             tree
             ,
          
           
             When
             from
             that
             Apple
             such
             a
             Dampe
             did
             creepe
          
           
             It
             fild
             their
             soules
             with
             an
             eternall
             sleepe
             .
          
           
           
             And
             as
             when
             sooty
             Night
             her
             darknesse
             sheds
          
           
             Through
             all
             the
             Confines
             of
             the
             Aire
             ,
             and
             spreads
          
           
             A
             vaile
             ore
             bright
             
               Hyperion
               ,
            
             we
             devest
          
           
             Our
             bodies
             ,
             to
             compose
             our selves
             to
             rest
             .
          
           
             So
             our
             enfranzis'd
             soules
             shall
             likewise
             be
          
           
             Disrob'd
             o'
             th
             weeds
             of
             their
             mortalitie
             ,
          
           
             When
             Death
             shall
             an
             Eternall
             night
             disperse
          
           
             Through
             all
             those
             functions
             that
             with
             life
             commercē
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             when
             the
             great
             eye
             o'
             th
             Day
             displayes
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             illuminated
             ayre
             his
             rayes
          
           
             The
             light
             dispers'd
             in
             glimpses
             ,
             does
             inspire
          
           
             Our
             hands
             againe
             our
             bodies
             to
             attire
             ;
          
           
             So
             when
             the
             Trumpe
             at
             the
             last
             Day
             shall
             all
          
           
             By
             its
             shrill
             summons
             to
             Gods
             Audit
             call
             ,
          
           
             And
             Christ
             the
             Sun
             of
             righteousnesse
             shall
             come
             ,
          
           
             To
             distribute
             to
             
             th'world
             a
             publike
             Doome
             ,
          
           
             Our
             mouldred
             and
             disbanded
             bodies
             must
          
           
             Quit
             the
             close
             confines
             of
             their
             Beds
             of
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             To
             cloath
             againe
             our
             widdow'd
             Soules
             ,
             and
             be
          
           
             Made
             both
             joynt
             Tenants
             of
             Eternitie
             .
          
           
             You
             then
             that
             
               Glovers
            
             dissolution
             mourne
             ,
          
           
             And
             sigh
             'cause
             he
             's
             contracted
             in
             his
             Urne
             ,
          
           
             Appease
             that
             Tempest
             of
             your
             brests
             ,
             and
             weepe
          
           
             In
             gentle
             Showers
             ,
             least
             you
             disturbe
             his
             sleepe
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           On
           the
           thought
           of
           our
           Resurrection
           .
        
         
           
             VVHo
             can
             be
             of
             so
             cow'd
             a
             Soule
             heel'd
             feare
          
           
             To
             be
             regenerated
             i
             th
             Sepulcher
             ,
          
           
             Since
             who
             exactly
             lookes
             into
             the
             Tombe
          
           
             Shall
             finde
             t
             is
             but
             the
             Embleme
             of
             the
             wombe
          
           
             To
             which
             wee
             're
             not
             Coufind
             but
             trusted
             ,
             so
          
           
             As
             if
             we
             lay
             there
             in
             
               Deposito
               ;
            
          
           
             For
             when
             our
             Dust
             is
             gather'd
             into
             
             th'Urne
             ,
          
           
             It
             lyes
             but
             Hostage
             till
             the
             Soules
             returne
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             the
             Phoenix
             when
             she
             gasping
             lyes
          
           
           
             Upon
             her
             tragick
             Pile
             of
             spicēries
          
           
             And
             glowes
             with
             heate
             ,
             her
             fleshy
             Cinders
             must
          
           
             By
             the
             suns
             rayes
             be
             martyr'd
             first
             to
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             Before
             her
             pregnant
             ashes
             can
             redeeme
          
           
             Themselves
             from
             Ruine
             ,
             or
             againe
             can
             teeme
          
           
             With
             a
             new
             Phoenix
             ;
             so
             before
             this
             Earth
          
           
             We
             beare
             about
             us
             ,
             can
             improve
             its
             Birth
          
           
             To
             immortality
             ,
             its
             whole
             compact
          
           
             Must
             first
             be
             so
             disioynted
             and
             so
             slack'd
          
           
             It
             fall
             to
             dust
             ,
             and
             then
             't
             will
             moulded
             be
          
           
             To
             such
             a
             body
             that
             eternitie
          
           
             It selfe
             shall
             farme
             that
             Tenament
             ,
             which
             shall
          
           
             No
             more
             be
             obvious
             to
             a
             Funerall
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             before
             men
             can
             compile
             or
             frame
          
           
             Their
             glasses
             ,
             they
             their
             ashes
             first
             i'
             th
             flame
          
           
             Transfuse
             to
             Christall
             ;
             so
             before
             our
             dust
          
           
             Can
             be
             assoil'd
             from
             Excrements
             and
             rust
          
           
             Ravel'd
             amongst
             it
             by
             our
             Tombs
             ,
             and
             be
          
           
             Jmprov'd
             to
             such
             a
             cleare
             transparency
          
           
             It
             shall
             no
             more
             encumber
             or
             controule
          
           
             The
             eye
             ,
             from
             taking
             a
             survey
             o'
             th
             Soule
          
           
             It
             must
             be
             by
             the
             generall
             fire
             refin'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             to
             a
             translucent
             masse
             calcin'd
             .
          
           
             So
             Shall
             each
             Tombe
             become
             Gods
             Mint
             ,
             where
             he
          
           
             (
             Our
             Earth
             being
             purg'd
             from
             all
             impuritie
             )
          
           
             Will
             on
             it
             coyne
             the
             Image
             of
             his
             face
          
           
             Which
             Time
             no
             more
             ,
             nor
             sit
             ne
             shall
             nere
             deface
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
         
      
    
    

