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         Crouch, John, fl. 1660-1681.
      
       
         
           1680
        
      
       Approx. 4 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image.
       
         Text Creation Partnership,
         Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :
         2009-03 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).
         B02516
         14872086
         Wing C7296
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.2[295]
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[36]
         ESTC R34846
         99889963
         ocm99889963
         182521
         
           
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             An elegy upon the Marquess of Dorchester and Earl of Kingston, &c.
             Crouch, John, fl. 1660-1681.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             and are to be sold by Walter Davis.,
             London printed, :
             [1680]
          
           
             Signed: By Jo. Crouch, once his domestick servant.
             Date of publication suggested by Wing.
             Verse: "If to some silent tomb we laid our ear ..."
             Imperfect: A1:1[298] stained with slight loss of text; A4:1[36] stained affecting text.
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Dorchester, Henry Pierrepont, -- Marquis of, 1606-1680 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           ELEGY
           Upon
           the
           MARQUESS
           of
           DORCHESTER
           ,
           And
           EARL
           of
           KINGSTON
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             
               
                 6.
                 
                 May.
                 1681
                 :
              
            
          
        
         
           
             IF
             to
             some
             Silent
             Tomb
             we
             laid
             our
             Ear
             ,
          
           
             Fancy
             might
             such
             Oraculous
             Whispers
             hear
             ;
          
           
             Must
             Souls
             with
             Bodies
             dye
             ?
             must
             Virtue
             rust
             ?
          
           
             And
             Honour
             perish
             in
             a
             bed
             of
             dust
             ?
          
           
             If
             of
             Nine
             Muses
             Eight
             were
             faln
             asleep
             ,
          
           
             One
             might
             stand
             Centry
             ,
             and
             the
             Capitol
             keep
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             I
             that
             One
             ,
             weep
             o're
             a
             Learned
             Herse
             ;
          
           
             Some
             will
             my
             Duty
             praise
             ,
             tho'
             not
             my
             Verse
             .
          
        
         
           
             Farewel
             Great
             DORCHESTER
             born
             to
             Inherit
          
           
             Thy
             Father's
             large
             Estate
             ,
             but
             larger
             Spirit
             :
          
           
             Who
             fatally
             by
             his
             Own
             Party
             slain
             ,
          
           
             Was
             by
             Your
             Loyalty
             reviv'd
             again
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             You
             maintain'd
             his
             dying
             Cause
             and
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             Eluding
             all
             the
             Fallacies
             of
             Death
             :
          
           
             Doubly
             possest
             his
             Merit
             and
             Estate
             ,
          
           
             By
             right
             of
             Primogeniture
             and
             Fate
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             now
             the
             Kingdom
             with
             strange
             Whirlwinds
             tost
             ,
          
           
             And
             fatal
             Naseby
             after
             Triumph
             lost
             ;
          
           
             The
             King
             (
             Saint-like
             )
             into
             Temptation
             led
             ,
          
           
             From
             profest
             Foes
             ,
             to
             Friends
             less
             Faithful
             fled
             .
          
           
             Oxford
             is
             close
             begirt
             ,
             Stout
             hearts
             grow
             tender
             ,
          
           
             And
             Loyal
             Pulses
             beat
             for
             a
             Surrender
             .
          
           
             Then
             did
             our
             Marquess
             ,
             (
             to
             his
             High
             Renown
             )
          
           
             Bravely
             advise
             still
             to
             defend
             the
             Town
             ?
          
           
             If
             Heaven
             pleas'd
             ,
             for
             His
             Majesties
             Future
             good
             ,
          
           
             Worthy
             the
             Ransom
             of
             more
             Lives
             and
             Blood.
          
           
             You
             were
             its
             greatest
             Ornament
             and
             Grace
             ;
          
           
             Lov'd
             best
             ,
             because
             best
             understood
             the
             Place
             .
          
           
             You
             comprehended
             in
             Epitomy
             ,
          
           
             The
             Learning
             of
             that
             great
             Academy
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alstedian
             thoughts
             are
             narrow
             and
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             Compar'd
             to
             the
             Vast
             Circle
             of
             your
             mind
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ,
             like
             that
             First
             Intelligence
             above
             ,
          
           
             Did
             all
             Inferiour
             Orbs
             contain
             and
             move
             .
          
           
             Philosophy
             here
             ,
             (
             both
             Moral
             and
             Divine
             )
          
           
             Did
             with
             the
             Lustre
             of
             all
             Graces
             shine
             ;
          
           
             Here
             Law
             did
             in
             its
             Inner-Temple
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             With
             Mathematicks
             to
             a
             Miracle
             .
          
           
             Here
             Opticks
             shin'd
             ,
             here
             Jacob's
             powerful
             Wand
          
           
             Did
             all
             the
             Armies
             of
             the
             Stars
             Command
             :
          
           
             Survey'd
             both
             Globes
             ,
             and
             wisely
             took
             from
             thence
          
           
             Just
             Measures
             for
             his
             High
             Magnificence
             .
          
           
             Whereas
             some
             ,
             (
             clog'd
             with
             Earth
             and
             Ignorance
             )
          
           
             Can
             ill
             adjust
             their
             own
             Inheritance
             .
          
           
             T'
             improve
             the
             barren
             Theory
             of
             these
             ,
          
           
             In
             steps
             great
             Galen
             and
             Hippocrates
             ,
          
           
             You
             judg'd
             (
             tho'
             Envy
             might
             its
             Poison
             dart
             )
          
           
             There
             cou'd
             be
             no
             disparagement
             in
             Art.
          
           
             Your
             Charitable
             Dodonean
             door
          
           
             Sent
             Echoes
             to
             the
             Prayers
             of
             the
             Poor
             .
          
           
             Your
             well-spread
             Table
             still
             for
             Guests
             did
             call
             ,
          
           
             Was
             Charities
             great
             Burse
             and
             Hospital
             .
          
           
             Those
             Guests
             (
             amidst
             Philosophy
             and
             meat
             )
          
           
             (
             More
             Ear
             than
             Appetite
             )
             forgot
             to
             eat
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             these
             Perfections
             (
             Glorious
             in
             their
             Sphere
             )
          
           
             May
             make
             us
             Famous
             ,
             not
             Immortal
             here
             .
          
           
             Both
             Small
             and
             Great
             ,
             Learn'd
             and
             Unlearned
             must
          
           
             Submit
             their
             Talents
             to
             be
             weigh'd
             in
             dust
             .
          
        
         
           
             Now
             DORCHESTER
             ,
             Great
             DORCHESTER
             is
             dead
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             his
             Parts
             laid
             Level
             with
             his
             Head.
          
           
             But
             though
             his
             Years
             summ'd
             up
             the
             Age
             of
             man
             ,
          
           
             Largely
             extended
             to
             a
             Giant
             's
             Span
             ;
          
           
             It
             might
             some
             Circumstances
             interpose
          
           
             (
             Like
             latter
             Frosts
             )
             and
             kill
             a
             drooping
             Rose
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             Turtle
             miss'd
             his
             dearest
             KATHARINE
             ,
          
           
             As
             Good
             ,
             as
             Great
             ;
             and
             only
             not
             the
             QVEEN
             ;
          
           
             Divorc'd
             by
             Death
             from
             his
             most
             Saint-like
             Wife
             ,
          
           
             His
             Palsy'd
             Soul
             allow'd
             but
             half
             a
             Life
             .
          
        
         
           
             Then
             you
             that
             wonder
             at
             his
             Matchless
             Parts
             ,
          
           
             Acknowledge
             Love
             above
             the
             Power
             of
             Arts.
             
          
        
         
           By
           
             JO.
             CROVCH
          
           ,
           once
           his
           Domestick
           Servant
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
           LONDON
           Printed
           and
           are
           to
           be
           Sold
           by
           
             Walter
             Davis
          
           .
        
      
    
  

