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         W. F.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A85199 of text R211254 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.14[70]). 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
         A85199
         Wing F65
         Thomason 669.f.14[70]
         ESTC R211254
         99869983
         99869983
         163057
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A85199)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 163057)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f14[70])
      
       
         
           
             An elegy, in memory of that famous, learned, reverend and religious Doctor Oldsworth late chaplain to the ever living Majesty of Charles the Martyr, and sometime vice-chancellour to the now dying University of Cambridge, a principall sufferer in stormy-beaten Sion, but a stout maintainer of the purity of the Protestant profession.
             W. F.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [S.l. :
             1649]
          
           
             Signed at end: W.F.
             Imprint date from Wing.
             Verse - "Amongst th' traine of Friends (good Sir) I bring".
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "August. 30".
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Holdsworth, Richard, 1590-1649 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A85199  R211254  (Thomason 669.f.14[70]).  civilwar no An elegy, in memory of that famous, learned, reverend and religious Doctor Oldsworth, late chaplain to the ever living Majesty of Charles th W. F 1649    1491 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
        2007-09 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2007-09 Apex CoVantage
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2007-10 Elspeth Healey
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        2007-10 Elspeth Healey
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2008-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           AN
           ELEGY
           ,
           In
           Memory
           of
           that
           Famous
           ,
           Learned
           ,
           Reverend
           and
           Religious
           Doctor
           OLDSWORTH
           ,
           late
           Chaplain
           to
           the
           ever
           living
           Majesty
           of
           CHARLES
           the
           MARTYR
           ,
           and
           sometime
           
             Vice-Chancellour
          
           to
           the
           now
           dying
           University
           of
           
             Cambridge
             ,
          
           a
           principall
           sufferer
           in
           Stormy-beaten
           
             Sion
             ,
          
           but
           a
           stout
           maintainer
           of
           the
           purity
           of
           the
           
             PROTESTANT
             PROFESSION
             .
          
        
         
           
             AMongst
             th'
             traine
             of
             Friends
             (
             good
             Sir
             )
             I
             bring
          
           
             Religious
             Anthems
             ,
             but
             want
             breath
             to
             sing
             .
          
           
             Infuse
             my
             Muse
             with
             some
             religious
             fire
          
           
             Of
             Thine
             ,
             that
             I
             may
             blaze
             ,
             and
             then
             expire
             .
          
           
             But
             rather
             doth
             it
             seem
             to
             blaze
             in
             wet
             ,
          
           
             Then
             with
             an
             ardent
             heat
             ,
             for
             
               Oldsworth's
            
             set
             .
          
           
             Then
             who
             can
             hope
             to
             build
             for
             him
             a
             shrine
             ,
          
           
             Or
             speak
             him
             dead
             in
             Verse
             ?
             but
             in
             the
             Cristalline
          
           
             Of
             every
             eye
             he
             is
             intomb'd
             ,
             each
             teare
          
           
             Like
             staved
             torches
             wait
             upon
             his
             bier
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             what
             need
             I
             attend
             thy
             Reverend
             hearse
          
           
             With
             
               Elegies
               ,
            
             when
             eyes
             drop
             balme
             and
             verse
             ?
          
           
             But
             least
             the
             heat
             of
             griefe
             be
             drown'd
             in
             wet
             ,
          
           
             Here
             's
             my
             Sun
             dyall
             (
             though
             the
             Sun
             be
             set
             )
             .
          
           
             Then
             busie
             grief
             ,
             let
             's
             passe
             upon
             Parole
          
           
             To
             Register
             his
             worth
             in
             verse
             ;
             Controle
          
           
             No
             more
             my
             senses
             :
             under
             the
             notion
             ,
          
           
             His
             worth
             is
             best
             known
             in
             corruption
             .
          
           
             What
             though
             his
             worth
             hath
             built
             his
             worth
             a
             Shrine
             ?
          
           
             His
             worthinesse
             may
             be
             interr'd
             in
             mine
             .
          
           
             Who
             knows
             not
             ?
             but
             day
             nights
             a
             tapers
             light
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Meridian
             justles
             night
             from
             sight
             .
          
           
             Th'
             enameld
             floor
             in
             which
             the
             gold
             doth
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Is
             rather
             waste
             ,
             then
             grace
             to
             it's
             purity
             .
          
           
             What
             need
             a
             Diamond
             lustre
             have
             a
             foil
             ?
          
           
             Or
             
               Oldsworth
            
             lines
             ,
             to
             shew
             he
             was
             divine
             ,
          
           
             Let
             a
             skill'd
             Lapidary
             ope
             the
             tombe
          
           
             Of
             a
             rich
             Diamond
             ,
             and
             a
             wombe
          
           
             Of
             rare
             production
             summons
             every
             sense
          
           
             To
             aid
             its
             lustre
             in
             a
             rich
             defence
             .
          
           
             Then
             grac'd
             ,
             not
             wast
             ,
             when
             divers
             stones
             are
             plac'd
          
           
             In
             golden
             quarryes
             ,
             as
             if
             from
             thence
             rac'd
             .
          
           
             How
             can
             the
             world
             truly
             pen
             thee
             divine
             ,
          
           
             When
             thy
             bright
             beames
             to
             us
             through
             crannies
             shine
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             thy
             graces
             could
             comprised
             bee
             ,
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             roome
             ,
             where
             thou
             art
             layd
             to
             be
             ?
          
        
         
           
             I
             love
             the
             Limner
             which
             can
             draw
             the
             man
             ,
          
           
             With
             each
             proportion
             ,
             in
             a
             ten-inch
             span
             :
          
           
             But
             I
             dislike
             the
             lyar
             ,
             when
             his
             talk
          
           
             Unshapes
             the
             shape
             by
             saying
             it
             can
             walk
             .
          
           
             Some
             of
             thy
             worth
             ,
             sweet
             Soul
             ,
             let
             me
             impart
             ,
          
           
             For
             soul
             dumb
             sense
             ,
             to
             shew
             more
             what
             thou
             art
             .
          
           
             Selected
             Gemms
             all
             thy
             set
             graces
             were
             ,
          
           
             Of
             grace
             and
             goodnesse
             .
             O
             forbear
             ,
             forbear
             .
          
           
             To
             promulgate
             !
             impiety
             't
             would
             be
             :
          
           
             That
             thou
             shouldst
             dye
             ,
             and
             none
             ask
             what
             was
             he
             ?
          
           
             What
             tongue
             can
             answer
             give
             for
             such
             a
             losse
             ?
          
           
             But
             words
             would
             lose
             themselves
             in
             their
             own
             choyce
             .
          
           
             Wert
             thou
             a
             man
             morally
             good
             ,
             or
             so
             ,
          
           
             No
             other
             Elegy
             ,
             but
             thy
             dust
             should
             show
             :
          
           
             But
             every
             soul
             that
             knew
             thy
             gifts
             can
             tell
             ,
          
           
             Channells
             must
             change
             ,
             and
             the
             vast
             center
             reele
          
           
             Of
             every
             soul
             ,
             where
             can
             they
             fixed
             be
             ,
          
           
             Since
             doctrine
             and
             the
             Doctour
             both
             agree
          
           
             (
             I
             fear
             )
             to
             leave
             us
             .
             Oh
             may
             you
             here
             be
             found
          
           
             In
             every
             pulpit
             !
             though
             y'
             are
             under
             ground
             .
          
           
             And
             there
             my
             Fancy
             spies
             him
             ,
             while
             I
             see
          
           
             Him
             drawn
             an
             Angel
             to
             Eternitie
             .
          
           
             How
             grave
             ?
             How
             sweet
             ?
             How
             Rose-like
             was
             each
             look
          
           
             Of
             his
             ?
             as
             if
             his
             Saviour
             in
             his
             book
          
           
             
             H'ad
             met
             with
             face
             to
             face
             ,
             and
             not
             by
             faith
             ,
          
           
             The
             promise
             promis'd
             glorified
             he
             hath
             .
          
           
             Still
             more
             reviving
             life
             sprang
             in
             each
             cheeke
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             nearer
             to
             his
             text
             through
             's
             prayer
             he
             would
             breake
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             concluded
             his
             ,
             he
             would
             rejoyce
             ,
          
           
             And
             sound
             his
             makers
             praise
             with
             cheerfull
             voice
          
           
             In
             Christs
             own
             prayer
             :
             that
             done
             ,
             he
             would
             begin
          
           
             Again
             to
             chime
             his
             lips
             ,
             not
             heard
             but
             seene
             ,
          
           
             Then
             taking
             up
             his
             bible
             by
             the
             strings
             ,
          
           
             Hee
             'd
             turne
             the
             leaves
             as
             if
             hee
             'd
             spread
             Christs
             wings
             :
          
           
             Under
             which
             he
             ,
             and
             those
             that
             did
             beleive
             ,
          
           
             The
             comforts
             there
             contained
             might
             receive
          
           
             A
             
               Paul
               ,
            
             A
             
               Moses
               ,
            
             and
             
               Elias
               ,
            
             three
             ,
          
           
             Zealously
             one
             ,
             and
             so
             divine
             was
             hee
             .
          
           
             Emphatically
             would
             be
             presse
             a
             point
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             his
             senses
             mov'd
             were
             out
             of
             joynt
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             his
             hearers
             such
             impresse
             did
             take
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             all
             senses
             did
             their
             place
             forsake
             ,
          
           
             And
             center
             in
             the
             eye
             .
             There
             every
             eare
          
           
             Was
             turn'd
             into
             the
             sight
             ,
             whilst
             looks
             did
             heare
             .
          
           
             His
             lips
             had
             kiss'd
             the
             God
             of
             Love
             ,
             for
             jarres
          
           
             Were
             sweetly
             reconcil'd
             ,
             though
             with
             his
             tears
             .
          
           
             Oh
             pious
             soule
             !
             melodious
             are
             those
             pleasures
             ,
          
           
             Which
             are
             constrain'd
             with
             unconstrained
             measures
             .
          
           
             His
             birth
             took
             part
             with
             wit
             ,
             each
             age
             grac'd
             hee
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             his
             cradle
             had
             been
             his
             library
             .
          
           
             The
             Church
             (
             when
             present
             hee
             )
             lackt
             not
             a
             head
             ,
          
           
             The
             State
             confest
             that
             he
             in
             Court
             was
             bred
             .
          
           
             A
             Pastor
             ,
             Citizen
             ,
             dwelt
             amongst
             many
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             of
             their
             factions
             favour'd
             he
             not
             any
             .
          
           
             Free
             in
             discourse
             ,
             morall
             ,
             as
             well
             divine
             :
          
           
             Who
             knew
             thy
             worth
             ?
             must
             know
             all
             worth
             was
             thine
             .
          
           
             Not
             like
             sun-dyalls
             ,
             when
             the
             Sun
             is
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Can
             show
             no
             more
             of
             day
             ,
             's
             if
             day
             were
             done
             :
          
           
             But
             like
             the
             Diall
             of
             the
             day
             ,
             the
             Sun
          
           
             That
             posts
             through
             this
             ,
             or
             that
             Meridian
             .
          
           
             Each
             Climate
             to
             his
             
               Genius
            
             was
             as
             fit
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             he
             had
             the
             universall
             wit
             ;
          
           
             That
             call'd
             him
             to
             the
             Court
             ,
             where
             every
             one
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             Court-diall
             cast
             reflection
             ,
          
           
             So
             usefull
             in
             the
             fortunes
             of
             each
             Peer
          
           
             Were
             shadows
             cast
             ,
             hee
             'd
             shape
             a
             substance
             clear
             .
          
           
             In
             all
             the
             solitudes
             of
             the
             deceased
             King
             ,
          
           
             No
             going
             to
             Chappel
             ,
             but
             when
             he
             rung
             in
             .
          
           
             
               Oldsworth
            
             the
             man
             ,
             
               Oldsworth
            
             the
             mouth
             from
             whence
             ,
          
           
             He
             drew
             the
             comfort
             of
             soul-influence
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             glorious
             Star
             !
             that
             shin'd
             in
             
               Charles
            
             his
             Court
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             the
             wisest
             
               Charles
            
             had
             beames
             of
             comfort
             ,
          
           
             Though
             dipt
             in
             deepest
             depths
             of
             wo
             ,
             yet
             shind
          
           
             His
             teares
             for
             pitty
             ,
             when
             his
             tongue
             declind
             .
          
           
             But
             dimm'd
             in
             shining
             !
             Left
             this
             earthly
             state
             .
          
           
             Whither
             ?
             to
             attend
             the
             Martyr
             to
             inaugurate
             .
          
           
             That
             's
             done
             already
             ,
             no
             sooner
             born
             again
             ,
          
           
             But
             of
             four
             Kingdoms
             was
             he
             crown'd
             a
             King
             .
          
           
             A
             lane
             ,
             yee
             holy
             Guard
             !
             since
             he
             is
             gone
             ,
          
           
             To
             attend
             heavens
             Court
             ,
             glad
             not
             with
             such
             connexion
             ;
          
           
             Since
             thou
             art
             gone
             ,
             who
             moans
             not
             this
             his
             fate
             ?
          
           
             For
             Doctors
             ,
             Dunces
             ;
             so
             unfortunate
          
           
             Each
             University
             !
             they
             suffer
             ,
             by
          
           
             Passion
             each
             member
             ,
             Church
             by
             sympathy
             .
          
           
             Blest
             is
             that
             man
             ,
             who
             when
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             was
             lov'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             mist
             with
             sighs
             ,
             when
             from
             earths
             center
             mov'd
             .
          
           
             Why
             moves
             this
             Bell
             ?
             what
             means
             this
             dolesome
             knell
             ?
          
           
             Tolling
             out
             tones
             ,
             as
             if
             it
             bad
             farewell
          
           
             To
             some
             one
             parting
             hence
             ?
             why
             rings
             it
             out
             ?
          
           
             
               Oldsworth
            
             is
             dead
             ,
             then
             faces
             turn
             about
             .
          
           
             Who
             could
             be
             confident
             of
             this
             ?
             but
             goes
             ,
          
           
             Whil'st
             on
             the
             way
             ,
             the
             pavement
             fresh
             he
             strows
          
           
             With
             pearly
             showers
             of
             tears
             ,
             and
             being
             come
             ,
          
           
             The
             Bel's
             the
             man
             ,
             whilst
             that
             the
             man
             's
             struck
             dumb
             .
          
           
             In
             louder
             stroaks
             it
             tels
             the
             world
             the
             News
          
           
             Whom
             t
             is
             heaven
             gaines
             ,
             and
             whom
             the
             earth
             doth
             lose
             .
          
           
             Departing
             hence
             ,
             each
             party
             rings
             a
             knell
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             domestick
             Steeples
             where
             they
             dwell
             ;
          
           
             The
             difference
             none
             ,
             their
             metals
             melt
             away
          
           
             Like
             mine
             ;
             and
             I
             contemplate
             what
             they
             say
             .
          
           
             Since
             thou
             art
             dead
             (
             oh
             reveverend
             Ghost
             )
             I
             bring
          
           
             A
             Pillow
             stuft
             with
             down
             of
             Angels
             wing
          
           
             To
             rest
             thy
             sleepie
             head
             on
             ;
             for
             its
             fit
             ,
          
           
             Rest
             should
             it
             now
             ,
             which
             could
             not
             rest
             for
             wit
             ,
          
           
             Then
             in
             the
             Mansion
             of
             thy
             dust
             I
             le
             now
          
           
             Here
             take
             my
             leave
             (
             Sir
             )
             :
             But
             Heaven
             allow
          
           
             My
             hearts
             expansion
             to
             contemplate
             ,
             what
          
           
             Thou
             art
             ,
             I
             am
             satisfied
             in
             knowing
             not
             :
          
           
             Or
             what
             't
             is
             where
             thou
             art
             .
             I
             know
             not
             what
          
           
             I
             know
             in
             knowing
             not
             ,
             Thy
             place
             is
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             W.
             F.
             
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
    

