







 
   
     
       
         Svffolks tears, or, Elegies on the renowned knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston a gentleman eminent for piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his country, and therefore highly honored by them all : he was five times chosen Knight of the Shire, for the county of Suffolk, and once burgess of Sudbury, in the discharge of which trust, he always approved himself faithful, as by his great sufferings for the freedoms and liberties of his countrey, abundantly appear : a zealous promoter of the preaching of the Gospel, manifested by his great care, in presenting men, able, learned, and pious, to the places whereof he had the patronage, and also by his large and extraordinary bounty towards the advancing of religion and learning, both at home, and in forreign plantations among the heathen.
         Faireclough, Samuel, 1625?-1691.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A61970 of text R21324 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing S6164). 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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         2017
         A61970
         Wing S6164
         Wing F109A_CANCELLED
         ESTC R21324
         12054640
         ocm 12054640
         53139
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A61970)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 53139)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 581:9 or 867:24)
      
       
         
           
             Svffolks tears, or, Elegies on the renowned knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston a gentleman eminent for piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his country, and therefore highly honored by them all : he was five times chosen Knight of the Shire, for the county of Suffolk, and once burgess of Sudbury, in the discharge of which trust, he always approved himself faithful, as by his great sufferings for the freedoms and liberties of his countrey, abundantly appear : a zealous promoter of the preaching of the Gospel, manifested by his great care, in presenting men, able, learned, and pious, to the places whereof he had the patronage, and also by his large and extraordinary bounty towards the advancing of religion and learning, both at home, and in forreign plantations among the heathen.
             Faireclough, Samuel, 1625?-1691.
             Faireclough, Samuel, 1625?-1691.
          
           [4], 66 p. : port.
           
             Printed by R.I. for Tho. Newberry ...,
             London :
             1653.
          
           
             Attributed to Samuel Faireclough. Cf. BM.
             The dedication in verse is by Samuel Faireclough.
             Some verses in Latin.
             This work appears at reel 581:9 as Wing S6164, and at reel 867:24 as Wing F109A (number cancelled in Wing 2nd ed.).
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Barnardiston, Nathaniel, -- Sir, 1588-1653.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A61970  R21324  (Wing S6164).  civilwar no Suffolks tears: or Elegies on that renowned knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston. A gentleman eminent for piety to God, love to the Church, and [no entry] 1653    17982 38 50 0 0 0 0 49 D  The  rate of 49 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the D category of texts with between 35 and 100 defects per 10,000 words. 
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               Sr
               Nathaniel
               Barnardiston
               of
               Ketton
               in
               Suff.
               
               Kt
               Obiit
               A.
               D.
               1653
               ●t
               66.
               
               F.
               H.
               van
               .
               Houe
               Sculp
               .
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           
             SVFFOLKS
          
           Tears
           :
           OR
           ELEGIES
           On
           that
           Renowned
           Knight
           Sir
           
             Nathaniel
             Barnardiston
             .
          
           A
           Gentleman
           eminent
           for
           Piety
           to
           God
           ,
           love
           to
           the
           Church
           ,
           and
           fidelity
           to
           his
           Country
           ;
           and
           therefore
           Highly
           honored
           by
           them
           all
           .
           He
           was
           Five
           times
           chosen
           Knight
           of
           the
           Shire
           ,
           for
           the
           County
           of
           
             Suffolk
             ,
          
           and
           once
           Burgess
           for
           
             Sudbury
             .
          
           In
           the
           discharge
           of
           which
           Trust
           ,
           he
           always
           approved
           Himself
           Faithful
           ;
           as
           by
           his
           great
           sufferings
           for
           the
           Freedoms
           and
           Liberties
           of
           his
           Countrey
           ,
           abundantly
           appear
           .
           A
           Zealous
           Promoter
           of
           the
           Preaching
           of
           the
           Gospel
           ,
           manifested
           by
           his
           great
           care
           ,
           in
           presenting
           Men
           ,
           Able
           ,
           Learned
           ,
           and
           Pious
           ,
           to
           the
           places
           whereof
           he
           had
           the
           Patronage
           ;
           and
           also
           by
           his
           large
           and
           extraordinary
           bounty
           towards
           the
           advancing
           of
           Religion
           and
           Learning
           ,
           both
           at
           home
           ,
           and
           in
           Forreign
           Plantations
           among
           the
           Heathen
           .
        
         
           Dignum
           laude
           virum
           Musa
           vetat
           Mori
           .
        
         
           London
           ,
           
             Printed
             by
          
           R.
           I.
           
             for
          
           Tho.
           Newberry
           
             at
             the
             Three
             Lions
             in
          
           Cornhil
           ,
           
             near
             the
          
           Royal
           Exchange
           .
           1653.
           
        
      
       
       
       
         
           To
           the
           VVorshipful
           and
           highly
           honoured
           Lady
           ,
           the
           Lady
           Jane
           Barnardiston
           .
           An
           Offertory
           .
        
         
           
             THrice
             Noble
             Lady
             ,
          
           spare
           that
           melting
           Bead
           ,
        
         
           Our
           sorrows
           want
           no
           jewel
           from
           your
           head
           ;
        
         
           Still
           let
           those
           silver
           drops
           ,
           that
           lightly
           lye
        
         
           Like
           little
           delug'd
           worlds
           
             within
             your
             eye
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Fixed
             abide
          
           in
           their
           own
           brightest
           sphear
           ,
        
         
           
             His
             fame
          
           wants
           not
           those
           
             pendents
          
           for
           her
           ear
           ;
        
         
           Those
           falling
           stars
           rob
           heaven
           ,
           
             we
             need
             not
             thence
          
        
         
           
             Borrow
             our
             griefs
             ,
             or
          
           taxe
           you
           with
           expence
           :
        
         
           
             Behold
          
           how
           every
           Mourner
           brings
           his
           sheet
        
         
           To
           wipe
           your
           eyes
           ,
           and
           weep
           himself
           ;
           
             't
             is
             meet
          
        
         
           That
           this
           so
           publick
           loss
           by
           th'
           Countries
           charge
        
         
           Should
           mourned
           be
           :
           
             Spare
             ,
             Madam
             ,
          
           then
           :
           this
           large
        
         
           And
           thicker
           Volume
           that
           is
           here
           annext
           ,
        
         
           Is
           but
           our
           Comment
           on
           that
           publick
           text
           :
        
         
           Come
           
             Argus
             ,
             Hieraclicus
             ,
          
           lend
           your
           eyes
        
         
           To
           pay
           on
           's
           tomb
           a
           liquid
           sacrifice
           ;
        
         
           Lo
           all
           the
           grasse
           that
           round
           about
           him
           lye
           ,
        
         
           
             Hangs
          
           full
           of
           tears
           
             shed
             from
          
           Dame
           Natures
           
             eye
             ,
          
        
         
           See
           how
           sad
           
             Philomele
          
           (
           that
           yonder
           sits
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           the
           dancing
           twig
           her
           musick
           fits
           )
        
         
         
           
             Now
             mourns
             for
             him
             ,
          
           the
           silver
           brook
           runs
           on
           ,
        
         
           Grumbling
           to
           leave
           
             those
             loved
             banks
             ,
          
           whereon
        
         
           A
           
             Mansion
          
           once
           he
           had
           ;
           that
           's
           now
           set
           round
        
         
           With
           
             Cypress
             trees
             ,
          
           and
           with
           their
           branches
           crown'd
           ;
        
         
           So
           dark
           ,
           it
           seems
           
             Nights
             mantle
          
           for
           to
           borrow
           ,
        
         
           
             And
             may
             be
             cal'd
             ,
          
           the
           gloomy
           den
           of
           sorrow
           .
        
         
           E're
           
             since
          
           he
           di'd
           ;
           the
           
             Heavens
          
           their
           griefs
           to
           tell
           ,
        
         
           Daily
           in
           tears
           to
           earth's
           wet
           bosome
           fell
           ;
        
         
           Not
           in
           an
           
             April
          
           storm
           ,
           or
           those
           in
           
             June
             ,
          
        
         
           Whose
           trembling
           Cadents
           
             makes
             it
             rain
             in
             tune
             ;
          
        
         
           But
           like
           a
           grave
           
             Decembers
          
           day
           ,
           or
           those
        
         
           Who
           mourn
           in
           
             Cicero's
          
           stile
           ,
           and
           weep
           in
           prose
           .
        
         
           
             Madam
             ,
          
           you
           see
           all
           Natures
           wat'ry
           store
        
         
           Attends
           this
           sable
           day
           ,
           
             weep
             you
             no
             more
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Angels
             ,
          
           that
           on
           
             your
             eyes
          
           with
           bottles
           wait
        
         
           To
           catch
           your
           
             falling
             tears
             ,
          
           do
           now
           retreat
        
         
           With
           vessels
           full
           ;
           anon
           again
           they
           'l
           stoop
           ,
        
         
           And
           lightly
           hover
           round
           the
           
             mourning
             troop
             ,
          
        
         
           Whilst
           I
           in
           silence
           do
           his
           
             Shrine
          
           adore
           ;
        
         
           If
           worship
           doth
           offend
           ,
           I
           
             then
             implore
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           crave
           a
           favour
           ,
           
             Madam
             ,
          
           't
           is
           this
           one
           ,
        
         
           Adde
           to
           his
           memory
           no
           pictur'd
           stone
           ;
        
         
           Lest
           whilst
           within
           the
           Church
           my
           vows
           I
           pay
           ,
        
         
           I
           to
           the
           Image
           of
           this
           Saint
           should
           pray
           .
        
         
           
             Madam
             ,
          
           
             your
             most
             humble
             and
             faithful
             servitor
             :
             Samuel
             Faireclough
             .
             
               Jun.
               
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
         ELEGIES
         ON
         That
         renowned
         Knight
         SIR
         Nathaniel
         Barnardiston
         .
      
       
         
           AN
           Acrosticke
           Elegie
           on
           my
           ever
           Honoured
           Friend
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           ,
           who
           faithfully
           in
           all
           imployments
           served
           his
           Country
           ,
           was
           renowned
           for
           Piety
           ,
           and
           exemplary
           in
           Religion
           ,
           dyed
           the
           25.
           of
           July
           ,
           1653.
           
        
         
           
             SHal
             
               such
            
             Friends
             dye
             ,
             and
             my
             Muse
             
               idle
            
             bee
             ?
          
           
             Is
             't
             possible
             ?
             can
             
               such
            
             stupidity
          
           
             Remaine
             in
             
               me
               ,
            
             and
             I
             not
             
               dead
            
             with
             thee
             ?
          
           
           
             Nature
             don't
             give
             ,
             but
             
               lend
            
             its
             
               life
            
             to
             men
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             its
             
               pleasure
            
             cals
             it
             
               back
            
             agen
             .
          
           
             The
             
               image
            
             grav'd
             on
             man
             ,
             
               Gods
            
             right
             doth
             shew
             ,
          
           
             
               His
            
             image
             't
             is
             ;
             let
             
               Caesar
            
             have
             his
             
               due
               .
            
          
           
             And
             in
             this
             
               Microcosme
            
             we
             plainly
             see
          
           
             No
             lesse
             then
             part
             of
             
               Gods
               Divinity
               ,
            
          
           
             In
             smaller
             letters
             ;
             
               for
               the
               Soul
               's
               a
            
             sparke
          
           
             Even
             of
             his
             
               kindling
               ,
            
             and
             (
             though
             in
             the
             dark
          
           
             Lodg'd
             in
             the
             
               grave
               ,
            
             the
             
               body
            
             seems
             to
             be
             )
          
           
             Let
             's
             hope
             ,
             
               and
               we
               shal
               find
            
             re-unity
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Body
            
             and
             
               Soul
            
             shal
             joyn
             by
             heaven's
             great
             power
          
           
             As
             
               once
            
             they
             were
             ,
             
               before
            
             the
             parting
             
               hour
               :
            
          
           
             Rally
             the
             
               Atomes
            
             shal
             ,
             and
             
               then
            
             each
             part
          
           
             Not
             loosing
             
               ought
               ,
            
             by
             
               Gods
            
             Almighty
             Art
          
           
             Attaine
             shal
             to
             its
             
               just
            
             and
             
               proper
            
             due
             ,
          
           
             Returning
             to
             each
             
               corps
            
             its
             former
             
               hue
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Descend
            
             then
             shal
             the
             
               Soul
               ,
            
             and
             with
             a
             kisse
          
           
             
               Its
            
             ancient
             friend
             
               awake
               to
               perfect
            
             bliss
             :
          
           
             
               So
               these
            
             new
             married
             couple
             
               joyfully
            
          
           
             
               To
               heaven
            
             ascend
             ,
             
               and
            
             match
             eternity
             .
          
           
             Oheavenly
             
               Musick
               !
            
             endlesse
             
               harmony
               !
            
          
           
             None
             can
             
               desire
            
             to
             live
             ,
             that
             's
             
               fit
            
             to
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
             So
             slept
             our
             former
             Patriots
             (
             when
             they
          
           
             Had
             serv'd
             their
             country
             )
             in
             a
             bed
             of
             clay
             ;
          
           
             Flesh
             may
             incinerate
             ,
             
               when
            
             Man
             
               doth
            
             dye
             ,
          
           
             The
             body
             in
             the
             grave
             may
             sleeping
             lye
             ;
          
           
             But
             there
             's
             a
             spark
             remaines
             ,
             which
             shal
             return
             ,
          
           
             And
             re-inform
             those
             ashes
             in
             their
             urn
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             when
             the
             last
             days
             morning
             shal
             draw
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             Shal
             raise
             its
             flame
             by
             heav'nly
             Chymistry
             :
          
           
             So
             
               springs
            
             the
             Phoenix
             ,
             from
             which
             Rise
          
           
             She
             's
             ever
             cal'd
             the
             Bird
             of
             Paradise
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Si
             quis
             ;
             qui
             bonus
             ,
             &
             pius
             est
             ?
             inquirit
             ;
             
               Iësus
            
          
           
             Respondet
             ,
             verus
             Nomine
             
               Nathaniel
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Inquire
             whose
             good
             ?
             Christ
             wil
             thee
             tel
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             a
             true
             
               Nathaniel
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             WILLIAM
             SPRING
             
               Barronet
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           containing
           a
           Dialogue
           between
           the
           Author
           and
           his
           Muse
           ,
           and
           between
           Death
           and
           an
           Angel
           .
        
         
           
             MAke
             hast
             my
             Muse
             ,
             
             lay
             off
             thy
             brighter
             plume
             ,
          
           
             The
             sable
             wings
             of
             darkest
             Night
             assume
             ,
          
           
             Cover
             thy
             head
             with
             blackness
             ,
             do
             not
             faile
          
           
             Thy
             brow
             with
             mournful
             shadow
             now
             to
             vaile
             ;
          
           
             Thine
             eyes
             now
             cloud
             ,
             which
             may
             pour
             down
             apace
             ,
          
           
             A
             showre
             of
             brinish
             tears
             upon
             thy
             face
             .
          
        
         
           
             Fill
             up
             thy
             breast
             with
             sighs
             ,
             and
             saddest
             grief
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               Rachels
            
             sorrows
             ,
             that
             refu'd
             relief
             ;
          
           
             Now
             let
             a
             living
             Spring
             thy
             sorrow
             feed
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             supply
             ,
             with
             running
             streams
             ,
             thy
             need
             :
          
           
             The
             depth
             in
             silence
             pass
             ,
             noyse
             not
             the
             same
          
           
             Lest
             Nature
             hear
             ,
             and
             do
             dissolve
             her
             frame
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Attire
             thy self
             in
             saddest
             mourning
             weed
             ,
          
           
             Put
             on
             thy
             tragick
             Buskins
             ,
             haste
             with
             speed
          
           
             Unto
             the
             place
             where
             griesly
             Death
             doth
             dwel
             ,
             
          
           
             Within
             the
             ground
             in
             lowest
             darkest
             cel
             ;
          
           
             Pale
             kercher'd
             sickness
             lyeth
             at
             the
             door
             ,
          
           
             To
             him
             the
             Porter
             openeth
             every
             hour
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             About
             ,
             above
             ,
             the
             Monuments
             remaine
             ,
          
           
             Of
             old
             and
             young
             whom
             direfull
             death
             hath
             slaine
             :
          
           
             There
             the
             worlds
             Victor
             vanquished
             doth
             lye
             ,
          
           
             There
             
               Caesar
               ,
               Croesus
               ,
            
             and
             grave
             
               Cato
            
             by
             ;
          
           
             
               There
            
             David
             ,
             Jedidiah
             ,
             Daniel
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             with
             these
             our
             true
             
               Nathaniel
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Of
             doleful
             Ebony
             the
             Portal's
             made
             ,
          
           
             The
             roof
             of
             fatal
             dismal
             Ewe
             is
             laid
             ,
          
           
             The
             pillars
             of
             black
             pollisht
             Marble
             be
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             endure
             til
             time
             you
             ended
             see
             ;
          
           
             The
             wals
             intire
             of
             Adamantine
             rock
             ,
          
           
             The
             two-leav'd
             gates
             of
             Steel
             ,
             so
             key
             and
             lock
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             chambers
             there
             with
             Coffins
             plancherd
             sure
             ,
          
           
             Corruptions
             sap
             wil
             not
             let
             long
             indure
             ;
          
           
             These
             worn
             and
             torn
             ,
             in
             time
             renew'd
             again
             ,
          
           
             The
             cost
             of
             future
             Funerals
             maintain
             :
          
           
             The
             lower
             floor
             's
             of
             earth
             ,
             most
             rooms
             be
             ful
             ,
          
           
             Loe
             here
             the
             dead
             mens
             bones
             ,
             and
             there
             the
             skul
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             trophies
             of
             
               triumphant
               Death
            
             are
             there
             ,
          
           
             The
             rooms
             all
             hung
             with
             whited
             linnen
             are
             ;
          
           
             The
             corps
             intomb'd
             with
             juyce
             of
             Poppy
             smear'd
             ,
          
           
             There
             rest
             and
             sleep
             in
             dust
             ,
             no
             danger
             fear'd
             ,
          
           
             Till
             that
             these
             bodies
             ,
             putrifactions
             prey
             ,
          
           
             Be
             raised
             up
             to
             life
             at
             the
             
               last
               Day
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             way
             is
             beaten
             to
             this
             house
             of
             
               Death
               ,
            
             
          
           
             The
             fatal
             enemie
             of
             Mortals
             breath
             .
          
           
             A
             raw-bon'd
             carcase
             ,
             of
             his
             
               Head
            
             the
             
               haire
            
          
           
             And
             
               flesh
            
             is
             falne
             ,
             and
             left
             the
             
               skul
            
             all
             bare
             ;
          
           
             His
             
               eyes
            
             no
             
               eyes
               ,
            
             cannot
             be
             seen
             not
             see
             ,
          
           
             Worm-eaten
             
               nose
               ,
            
             one
             
               jaw
               ,
            
             no
             
               teeth
            
             hath
             he
             :
          
        
         
         
           
             Yet
             heaps
             of
             men
             he
             daily
             doth
             devour
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               hundreds
            
             fall
             before
             him
             in
             an
             
               hour
               .
            
          
           
             Within
             his
             cruel
             
               breast
            
             he
             hath
             no
             
               heart
               ,
            
          
           
             Yet
             full
             of
             courage
             ,
             and
             with
             deadly
             dart
          
           
             He
             
               kils
               ,
            
             yet
             neither
             
               arm
            
             he
             hath
             ,
             nor
             
               hand
               ,
            
          
           
             He
             hath
             no
             
               feet
               ,
            
             yet
             walks
             o're
             
               sea
            
             and
             
               land
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Nor
             
               arteries
               ,
            
             flesh
             ,
             nor
             
               sinews
            
             (
             wonder
             )
          
           
             Hath
             he
             ,
             all
             his
             joynts
             they
             are
             asunder
             ;
          
           
             His
             bones
             ,
             
               there
            
             one
             ,
             and
             
               here
            
             another
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             He
             smites
             ,
             
               there
            
             one
             ,
             and
             
               here
            
             another
             dyes
             ;
          
           
             Haste
             thither
             ,
             knock
             ,
             call
             ,
             know
             the
             cause
             ,
             
               why
            
             thus
          
           
             This
             leane
             starv'd
             
               Heluo
            
             snatcht
             our
             joy
             from
             us
             .
          
        
         
           
             Could
             sacred
             
               Piety
               ,
            
             
             that
             adorn'd
             his
             mind
             ,
          
           
             The
             grace
             of
             heart
             and
             life
             ,
             no
             
               pitty
            
             finde
             ?
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             thus
             wrong
             (
             oh
             death
             )
             the
             
               Publick
               weale
               ?
            
          
           
             And
             justice
             slay
             ,
             extinguish
             fervent
             zeal
             !
          
           
             Pull
             down
             the
             Temples
             
               pillar
               ,
            
             quench
             the
             fire
          
           
             That
             Heaven
             's
             
               sent
               ,
            
             and
             did
             to
             Heaven
             
               aspire
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
             Could
             neither
             
               faith
            
             nor
             
               faithfulness
            
             find
             grace
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             friendly
             love
             keep
             off
             thy
             Serjeants
             Mace
             ?
          
           
             Could
             not
             
               integrity
            
             and
             
               truth
            
             him
             save
          
           
             (
             With
             
               Hezekiah
            
             )
             from
             the
             
               greedy
            
             grave
             ?
          
           
             O
             Sun
             return
             ,
             
               yet
            
             shine
             on
             Sions
             hil
             ,
          
           
             On
             
               Ahaz
            
             Dial
             keep
             the
             shadow
             
               stil
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Why
            
             fel
             he
             not
             upon
             
               Elisha's
            
             herse
             ,
          
           
             That
             
               could
            
             the
             dead
             
               againe
            
             to
             life
             
               reverse
               ?
            
          
           
             Where
             
               is
            
             He
             now
             
               that
            
             Lazarus
             
               did
            
             raise
             ?
          
           
             
               Where
            
             is
             the
             widow
             of
             
               Sarepta's
            
             praise
             ,
          
           
             That
             might
             in
             
               flaming
               Chariot
            
             let
             him
             
               ride
            
          
           
             With
             him
             to
             
               heaven
               ?
               then
            
             he
             had
             not
             dy'd
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Shal
             I
             not
             
               once
            
             within
             this
             
               vale
            
             of
             tears
             ?
          
           
             (
             Or
             shal
             I
             hold
             my
             peace
             ,
             
               not
               speak
            
             my
             fears
             ?
             )
          
           
             Shal
             I
             not
             
               once
               again
            
             on
             earth
             behold
          
           
             
               That
               countenance
            
             so
             grave
             ,
             so
             brave
             ,
             so
             bold
             ,
          
           
             Which
             
               with
               a
               look
            
             could
             daunt
             the
             face
             of
             
               sin
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             
               make
            
             offence
             to
             
               hide
            
             it selfe
             with
             in
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
               Shal
            
             I
             not
             see
             his
             presence
             ?
             
               blesse
            
             the
             wals
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             did
             sound
             his
             frequent
             
               sacred
            
             cals
             ,
          
           
             Of
             wife
             and
             children
             ,
             and
             of
             all
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             
               To
               waite
               on
               God
               ;
            
             who
             is
             for
             ever
             blest
             ,
          
           
             And
             beams
             of
             blessing
             from
             this
             
               Sunt
               '
            
             expect
          
           
             That
             
               blest
            
             these
             
               blessings
               ,
            
             might
             on
             him
             
               reflect
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             And
             as
             the
             
               Rivers
            
             to
             the
             Ocean
             
               pay
            
          
           
             Their
             
               tribute
               streams
               ,
            
             that
             in
             their
             channel
             
               play
               ;
            
          
           
             So
             daily
             
               Prayer
               answerers
            
             re-ascend
          
           
             In
             praises
             might
             to
             God
             ,
             and
             
               never
            
             end
             :
          
           
             O
             never
             end
             your
             prayers
             and
             praises
             due
             ,
          
           
             To
             him
             that
             gave
             such
             
               sweet
               returns
            
             to
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             That
             you
             should
             
               pray
               ,
            
             and
             yet
             stil
             
               praise
            
             his
             name
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               walk
               in
               right
            
             before
             him
             without
             blame
             ;
          
           
             So
             did
             he
             
               walk
               ,
            
             and
             so
             attended
             
               went
            
          
           
             VVith
             all
             his
             traine
             :
             and
             in
             the
             Temple
             
               spent
            
          
           
             Both
             
               hours
            
             and
             
               dayes
               ,
            
             and
             of
             all
             dayes
             
               the
               best
               ,
            
          
           
             VVherein
             both
             
               Christ
            
             did
             
               rise
               ,
            
             and
             
               God
            
             did
             
               rest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               time
            
             though
             
               divers
               ,
            
             yet
             the
             
               precept
               's
               one
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Writ
            
             and
             
               ingrav'd
            
             by
             Gods
             own
             hand
             in
             
               stone
               ,
            
          
           
             In
             
               midst
            
             of
             that
             his
             
               everlasting
            
             Law
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             might
             
               at
               all
               time
            
             keep
             in
             dreadful
             awe
          
           
             All
             hearts
             ,
             and
             all
             induce
             ,
             
               his
               voyce
            
             with
             feare
             ,
          
           
             And
             faithful
             care
             ,
             and
             conscience
             to
             
               heare
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Oh!
             shal
             I
             
               never
               more
            
             observe
             that
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Intently
             
               lifted
               up
            
             unto
             the
             
               skie
               ?
            
          
           
             And
             hands
             stretcht
             out
             unto
             
               the
               throne
               of
               grace
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             bended
             knees
             to
             fall
             before
             the
             place
             ,
          
           
             VVhere
             
               shadowing
               Cherub
            
             cover'd
             with
             his
             wing
             ,
          
           
             
               The
            
             Mercy-seat
             
               of
               heavens
            
             mighty
             King
             ?
          
        
         
           
             From
             
               Golden
               Altar
            
             did
             the
             incense
             fly
          
           
             In
             clouds
             of
             smoke
             ,
             and
             
               mounted
            
             up
             on
             high
             :
          
           
             God
             smelt
             
               the
               savour
               ,
            
             in
             his
             heart
             he
             said
             ,
          
           
             
               Behold
               ,
            
             it
             's
             
               done
            
             according
             as
             thou
             pray'd
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             
               O
               death
               ,
            
             can
             
               thee
            
             no
             prayer
             
               melt
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Wherein
            
             the
             highest
             God
             
               such
               sweetness
            
             smelt
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
               Release
            
             thy
             Prisoner
             ,
             
               and
               set
               o'pe
            
             thy
             gate
             ,
          
           
             Breake
             off
             those
             
               fetters
               ,
               free
            
             thy selfe
             
               from
               hate
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             let
             him
             
               rise
            
             from
             off
             that
             
               fatall
            
             bed
          
           
             VVhereon
             
               thou
               forc'd
               him
            
             to
             lay
             down
             his
             head
             :
          
           
             Vnto
             the
             votes
             of
             
               high
            
             and
             low
             
               restore
            
          
           
             Their
             
               joy
               ,
            
             to
             be
             
               enjoyed
            
             as
             before
             .
          
        
         
           
             VVhat
             aylest
             thou
             ,
             
             
               O
               Muse
               ,
            
             bereft
             of
             mind
             ?
          
           
             VVhat
             mean
             
               these
               words
               ,
            
             these
             
               empty
               puffes
            
             of
             wind
             ?
          
           
             VVil
             't
             change
             
               the
               Fates
               ,
            
             and
             burn
             the
             
               sacred
               rowl
            
          
           
             Of
             
               Gods
               Decree
               ,
            
             and
             make
             thy selfe
             a
             
               scroul
               ;
            
          
           
             There
             to
             
               designe
            
             each
             one
             
               to
               death
            
             or
             life
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               heaven
            
             and
             
               earth
            
             to
             set
             at
             
               dismal
            
             strife
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Shal
             
               brazen
               mountains
            
             with
             a
             
               blast
            
             remove
             ?
          
           
             Or
             shal
             the
             
               Sun
            
             run
             
               retrograde
            
             above
             ?
          
           
             Shal
             
               morning
            
             o'pe
             her
             
               purple
               door
            
             i'
             th
             VVest
             ?
          
           
             And
             
               Moon
            
             and
             
               Stars
            
             to
             rule
             the
             day
             
               be
               prest
               ?
            
          
           
             And
             
               night
            
             shine
             forth
             with
             
               Phoebus
            
             orient
             beams
             ?
          
           
             And
             at
             
               thy
               will
            
             all
             rivers
             
               change
            
             their
             streams
             ?
          
        
         
         
           
             Then
             my
             
               Commission
            
             I
             to
             
               thee
            
             Wil
             give
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               living
            
             shal
             not
             
               dye
               ,
            
             the
             
               dead
            
             shal
             
               live
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             
               mortals
            
             all
             ,
             
               immortal
            
             shal
             become
             ,
          
           
             And
             wither'd
             
               branch
               ,
            
             with
             winter
             blast
             shal
             
               bloome
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             
               Adam
            
             shal
             with
             
               Eve
            
             to
             
               Eden
            
             go
             ,
          
           
             No
             fruit
             shal
             kil
             ,
             no
             
               friend
            
             shal
             be
             a
             
               foe
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             But
             if
             that
             
               Adam
            
             must
             no
             more
             
               return
               ,
            
          
           
             Why
             should
             I
             break
             up
             
               Barnardistons
            
             urn
             ?
          
           
             
               His
               faith
               ?
            
             so
             
               Abraham
            
             dy'd
             ,
             yet
             did
             beleeve
             ;
          
           
             But
             
               Truth
            
             did
             
               Hezekiah
            
             once
             reprive
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Lazarus
            
             did
             life
             againe
             
               inspire
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             to
             his
             body
             did
             the
             soul
             
               retire
               :
            
          
        
         
           
             But
             
               know'st
            
             thou
             not
             how
             
               these
            
             of
             death
             did
             taste
             ?
          
           
             And
             
               back
               again
            
             unto
             
               my
               Palace
            
             haste
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             
               Abrams
            
             faith
             ,
             nor
             
               Isaacks
               ,
               Jacobs
            
             feare
          
           
             Could
             
               sheild
            
             them
             from
             
               deaths
            
             deadly
             piercing
             
               speare
               ;
            
          
           
             
               So
            
             Joseph
             ,
             Joshua
             ,
             
               and
            
             Josiah
             
               all
               ,
            
          
           
             By
             sooner
             ,
             later
             
               stroakes
            
             of
             death
             
               did
               fall
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             And
             
               Job
            
             was
             patient
             under
             death's
             sad
             blow
             ,
          
           
             And
             mighty
             
               Sampson
            
             unto
             death
             did
             bow
             ;
          
           
             And
             
               David
            
             with
             his
             
               Worthies
            
             all
             did
             yeeld
          
           
             To
             death
             ,
             against
             his
             stroke
             
               they
               found
            
             no
             shield
             ;
          
           
             
               And
            
             John
             ,
             Christs
             bosome
             friend
             ,
             
               did
               hither
               hye
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             
               Christ
               himselfe
               ,
            
             the
             Son
             of
             God
             ,
             
               did
               dye
               ;
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Eliah
            
             left
             his
             
               Mantle
            
             him
             behind
             ,
          
           
             They
             sought
             him
             ,
             
               but
            
             in
             no
             place
             could
             
               him
               find
               ,
            
          
           
             His
             change
             like
             death
             ;
             and
             
               Enoch
            
             he
             is
             not
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             
               Rachels
            
             children
             ,
             Death
             became
             their
             Lot
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             (
             O
             Muse
             )
             shal
             be
             as
             
               one
               of
               these
               ,
            
          
           
             When
             
               Atropos
            
             thy
             thread
             to
             cut
             
               shal
               please
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             
               O
               cruel
               Death
               !
            
             
             can
             nothing
             then
             asswage
          
           
             Thy
             savage
             
               fury
               ,
            
             and
             thy
             direful
             
               rage
               ?
            
          
           
             Must
             all
             (
             O
             
               Charon
            
             )
             thee
             thy
             ferriage
             pay
             ?
          
           
             And
             all
             take
             Boat
             ,
             and
             all
             have
             
               over-lay
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Then
            
             come
             ,
             and
             to
             our
             
               Lazarus
            
             let
             us
             go
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             he
             dy'd
             ,
             
               with
               him
               ,
            
             let
             us
             do
             so
             .
          
        
         
           
             As
             
               Joseph
            
             went
             unto
             old
             
               Jacobs
            
             grave
             ,
          
           
             So
             shal
             this
             Saint
             ,
             of
             us
             attendance
             have
             .
          
           
             What
             mean'st
             (
             
               O
               Muse
            
             )
             and
             
               whither
            
             dost
             thou
             wend
             ?
             
          
           
             
               When
            
             of
             thy
             
               passion
            
             wilt
             thou
             make
             an
             end
             ?
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             presume
             on
             
               Sion
               Mount
            
             to
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Heavens
               scepter
            
             sway
             in
             
               thy
            
             right
             hand
             ?
          
        
         
           
             The
             Lord
             by
             
               power
            
             and
             
               providence
            
             divine
             ,
          
           
             Did
             all
             unto
             their
             
               place
            
             and
             
               end
            
             assigne
             :
          
           
             The
             
               Earth
            
             to
             
               Plants
               ,
            
             in
             
               Seas
            
             the
             
               Fishes
            
             swim
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Birds
            
             in
             th'
             
               air
            
             do
             
               wave
               their
            
             feathers
             trim
             ;
          
           
             Shal
             not
             the
             
               fixed
               Stars
            
             in
             
               heaven
            
             shine
             ?
          
           
             What
             
               God
            
             doth
             own
             ,
             wilt
             thou
             
               detain
            
             as
             thine
             ?
          
        
         
           
             And
             
               why
            
             among
             the
             dead
             dost
             
               thou
            
             enquire
          
           
             For
             these
             that
             live
             ?
             
             lift
             up
             thy
             eye
             ,
             
               look
               higher
               ,
            
          
           
             There
             is
             a
             place
             beyond
             that
             mount
             
               most
               bright
               ,
            
          
           
             Whence
             
               Phoebus
            
             chariot
             shines
             with
             
               flaming
               light
               ;
            
          
           
             
               The
            
             stately
             City
             
               new
            
             Jerusalem
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             doth
             dwel
             
               Jehovah
               ,
            
             God
             of
             
               Shem.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Her
             
               glory
            
             doth
             as
             
               Jasper
               stone
            
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Her
             
               light
            
             like
             to
             transparent
             
               Chrystal
            
             clear
             ;
          
           
             Her
             
               battlements
            
             are
             high
             ,
             her
             streets
             are
             
               gold
               ,
            
          
           
             Her
             
               gates
               twelve
            
             glittering
             
               Pearls
               ,
            
             their
             price
             untold
             ,
          
           
             
               Twelve
            
             holy
             Angels
             at
             the
             gate
             
               attend
               ,
            
          
           
             Whereon
             
               twelve
            
             names
             of
             
               Israels
               tribes
            
             are
             pend
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             gates
             ,
             all
             
               nightless
               day
               ,
            
             stand
             open
             wide
             ,
          
           
             That
             
               Saints
            
             in
             golden
             charriots
             in
             may
             ride
             .
          
           
             
               Three
            
             where
             the
             
               Sun
            
             doth
             shed
             his
             
               orient
            
             beam
             ,
          
           
             
               Three
            
             ope
             where
             he
             doth
             
               loose
            
             his
             fiery
             team
             ,
          
           
             
               Three
            
             from
             the
             
               North
            
             receive
             
               Christs
            
             holy
             train
             ,
          
           
             
               Three
            
             from
             the
             
               South
            
             that
             
               Saints
            
             do
             entertain
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               twelve
            
             foundations
             ,
             each
             a
             precious
             stone
             ,
          
           
             
               The
            
             Jasper
             ,
             Saphir
             ,
             
               and
               the
            
             Chalcedon
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Sardonix
            
             of
             colour
             red
             and
             white
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Sardius
            
             next
             ,
             and
             golden
             
               Chrysolite
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             sea-green
             
               Beril
               ,
            
             and
             the
             
               Topaz
            
             rare
             ,
          
           
             
               Chrysoprasus
            
             as
             gold
             with
             green
             most
             faire
             ;
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               Jacynth
            
             then
             ,
             and
             next
             to
             that
             is
             set
          
           
             The
             
               Amethyst
            
             like
             purple
             violet
             ,
          
           
             In
             those
             the
             names
             of
             
               Christs
               ,
               Apostles
            
             are
             ,
          
           
             That
             through
             the
             world
             the
             
               Gospel
            
             spread
             so
             farre
             .
          
           
             
               On
               those
               an
            
             hundred
             fourty
             cubits
             height
             ▪
          
           
             And
             four
             ,
             the
             wal
             so
             broad
             ,
             of
             
               Jasper
            
             bright
             .
          
        
         
           
             Four
             square
             the
             City
             ,
             and
             the
             
               measur'd
            
             ground
          
           
             
               With
            
             golden
             read
             
               a
            
             thousand
             furlongs
             found
             ;
          
           
             The
             Angel
             so
             the
             
               length
            
             and
             
               breadth
            
             did
             take
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               height
            
             the
             same
             no
             Cannon
             great
             can
             shake
          
           
             The
             wall
             ,
             that
             doth
             
               this
               City
            
             compasse
             in
             ,
          
           
             VVhere
             
               none
            
             can
             enter
             ,
             nor
             abide
             
               with
               sin
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             No
             need
             of
             Temple
             ,
             
               Sun
               ,
            
             
             or
             
               Moon
            
             there
             is
             ,
          
           
             VVhere
             dwels
             that
             
               Trine
            
             in
             
               one
               ,
            
             in
             endless
             bliss
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Lamb
            
             his
             everlasting
             
               light
            
             doth
             give
          
           
             Unto
             it
             ,
             there
             the
             
               Saints
            
             in
             glory
             lives
          
           
             Upon
             their
             heads
             ,
             they
             
               Crowns
            
             of
             glory
             wear
             ,
          
           
             Their
             
               faces
            
             like
             the
             radiant
             
               Sun
            
             appear
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             They
             cloathed
             are
             in
             Linnen
             
               sins
            
             and
             
               pure
               ,
            
          
           
             No
             Fuller
             ever
             made
             the
             like
             ,
             't
             is
             sure
             :
          
           
             And
             
               Palms
            
             of
             
               victory
            
             in
             their
             hands
             they
             have
             ,
          
           
             
               Triumphant
               Trophies
               ,
            
             on
             the
             wal
             most
             brave
          
           
             Do
             hang
             the
             
               Monuments
            
             of
             
               conquer'd
               Hel
               ,
            
          
           
             VVith
             all
             the
             
               Fiends
            
             and
             
               Furies
               ,
            
             there
             that
             dwel
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Their
             
               Crowns
            
             and
             
               Palms
            
             before
             the
             
               Lamb
            
             they
             cast
             ,
          
           
             By
             whom
             the
             
               danger
            
             of
             the
             
               war
            
             they
             past
             ;
          
           
             They
             all
             bedight
             with
             
               glory
               ,
            
             round
             about
          
           
             The
             Lambe
             
               doe
               follow
               ,
            
             going
             in
             and
             out
             ,
          
           
             Unto
             the
             
               tree
            
             of
             lasting
             
               life
            
             they
             haste
             ,
          
           
             
               In
               midst
            
             of
             
               Eden
               ,
            
             and
             the
             fruit
             they
             taste
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thence
             to
             the
             
               Wel
            
             of
             
               Life
            
             they
             take
             their
             way
             ,
          
           
             VVhence
             
               living
               streams
            
             do
             never
             cease
             to
             play
             ;
          
           
             VVith
             
               Mannah
            
             eke
             ,
             and
             sweetest
             
               Nectar
            
             fed
             ,
          
           
             They
             ,
             by
             the
             
               Lamb
               ,
            
             into
             the
             
               Palace
            
             led
             ;
          
           
             The
             Song
             of
             
               Moses
            
             and
             the
             
               Lamb
            
             doe
             sing
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             sweetest
             
               harmony
            
             to
             heavens
             
               King
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             In
             close
             hereof
             came
             
               Barnardiston
            
             in
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             late
             
               the
               field
            
             from
             vertues
             foe
             did
             
               win
               :
            
          
           
             A
             troop
             of
             
               Angels
            
             blest
             had
             been
             his
             guard
             ,
          
           
             Into
             the
             
               Palace
               ,
            
             to
             
               a
               place
               prepar'd
               :
            
          
        
         
           
             VVherein
             the
             
               Emerauld
            
             of
             virld
             hue
             ,
          
           
             For
             beauties
             honour
             strives
             with
             
               Saphir
            
             blew
             :
          
           
             And
             
               Topaz
            
             seeks
             to
             have
             away
             the
             fame
          
           
             From
             
               Carbuncle
               ,
            
             that
             shines
             with
             fiery
             flame
             .
          
        
         
           
             There
             he
             
               arrayed
            
             in
             the
             
               robes
            
             of
             
               glory
               ,
            
          
           
             Had
             to
             the
             
               presence
               Chamber
               ,
            
             tels
             the
             story
             ,
          
           
             How
             he
             in
             fight
             with
             
               Sin
            
             and
             
               Death
            
             had
             stood
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             overcame
             them
             by
             the
             
               Lamb
               ,
               Christ's
               blood
               :
            
          
           
             The
             
               Lamb
            
             my
             
               Captain
            
             was
             ,
             I
             won
             the
             field
             ,
          
           
             Lo
             there
             
               his
               Word
            
             my
             
               Sword
               ,
            
             his
             
               faith
            
             my
             
               shield
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               Angels
            
             then
             did
             all
             their
             
               Trumpets
            
             blow
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Victor's
            
             blessed
             
               welcome
            
             there
             to
             show
             ;
          
           
             The
             Lord
             commands
             a
             
               crown
            
             of
             
               golden
            
             Bayes
             ,
          
           
             Vpon
             his
             
               head
            
             are
             set
             the
             
               Victors
            
             praise
             .
          
           
             The
             Saints
             afresh
             
               renew
            
             their
             happy
             joy
             ,
          
           
             Them
             neither
             
               sin
            
             nor
             
               sorrow
            
             doth
             annoy
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Moses
            
             and
             
               Aaron
               ,
            
             sang
             the
             same
             that
             was
          
           
             By
             
               Israel
            
             sung
             ,
             when
             they
             the
             
               Sea
            
             did
             passe
             ;
          
           
             And
             
               Miriam
            
             did
             on
             
               sounding
            
             Timbrel
             play
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               David
            
             tuned
             to
             his
             
               Harp
            
             a
             Lay
             :
          
           
             The
             rest
             took
             hands
             ,
             and
             danc'd
             a
             
               sacred
            
             round
             ,
          
           
             The
             vaults
             of
             
               glory
            
             echoing
             did
             sound
             ,
          
        
         
           
             
               There
            
             did
             I
             leave
             him
             ,
             
               there
            
             in
             bliss
             he
             lives
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             him
             ,
             to
             
               Saints
            
             that
             
               grace
            
             and
             
               glory
            
             gives
             .
          
           
             Go
             
               haste
               ,
            
             and
             
               tell
            
             all
             those
             that
             did
             him
             
               love
               ,
            
          
           
             How
             he
             sits
             on
             a
             
               golden
               Throne
            
             above
             ;
          
           
             On
             
               earth
            
             he
             in
             his
             hand
             a
             
               sword
            
             did
             bear
             ,
          
           
             His
             hand
             in
             
               heaven
            
             doth
             a
             
               scepter
            
             rear
             :
          
        
         
           
             There
             shal
             he
             always
             
               live
               ,
            
             and
             never
             
               dye
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             
               there
            
             shal
             waite
             on
             
               highest
            
             Majesty
             ;
          
           
             And
             waite
             to
             see
             his
             
               Wife
            
             and
             
               Children
            
             dear
          
           
             Increase
             his
             
               joy
               ,
            
             in
             this
             his
             
               glories
            
             sphear
             .
          
           
             The
             Lord
             we
             pray
             ,
             
               there
            
             grant
             to
             
               them
            
             a
             place
             ,
          
           
             VVith
             
               their
            
             allyes
             ,
             and
             to
             their
             
               budding
            
             race
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             In
             eundem
             carmen
             funebre
             ,
             comprehensum
          
           
             In
             Dialogo
             inter
             Musam
             &
             Vitam
             .
          
        
         
           
             Tene
             quid
             abripiet
             nobis
             ?
             
             (
             mors
             improba
             !
             )
             mortem
          
           
             Tuque
             premes
             ,
             victam
             tu
             perimesque
             necem
             .
          
           
             Vita
             fugis
             mortem
             ?
             meditaris
             morte
             fugamne
             ?
          
           
             Vivas
             ,
             ut
             mortem
             morte
             fugare
             queas
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dum
             vixi
             ,
             
             vitam
             viveham
             ,
             ut
             perdere
             possem
             :
          
           
             Dum
             morior
             mihimet
             ,
             reddita
             vita
             mihi
             .
          
        
         
           
             Christopher
             .
             Burrell
             .
             
               Rec.
            
             Wratten
             Mag.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           upon
           the
           death
           of
           that
           truly
           noble
           Gentleman
           ,
           famous
           for
           Piety
           and
           Religion
           ,
           the
           right
           Worshipfull
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           ,
           
             Aug.
             25.
             1653.
             
          
        
         
           THou
           stately
           
             Top-bough
          
           of
           a
           noble
           
             Stem
             ,
          
        
         
           One
           of
           Gods
           
             Jewels
             ,
          
           and
           thy
           Country's
           
             Gem
             ,
          
        
         
           That
           help'd
           to
           
             bless
          
           the
           
             Land
          
           wherein
           thou
           wast
        
         
           Lately
           a
           
             Saint
             :
          
           but
           now
           those
           joyes
           are
           past
           ;
        
         
           And
           
             we
          
           in
           sorrows
           
             left
             ,
          
           with
           hearts
           most
           sad
           ,
        
         
           To
           think
           we'ave
           lost
           
             that
             blisse
          
           we
           lately
           had
        
         
           In
           
             thee
          
           (
           Great
           Sir
           :
           )
           alas
           ,
           we
           're
           now
           without
        
         
           A
           thousand
           comforts
           ,
           that
           from
           thee
           dealt
           out
        
         
           But
           lately
           were
           ,
           to
           us
           ,
           and
           to
           all
           men
           ,
        
         
           VVith
           whom
           thou
           had'st
           to
           do
           ;
           
             how
          
           shal
           my
           Pen
        
         
           Be
           
             able
          
           to
           set
           out
           to
           th'
           
             world
          
           that
           
             worth
             ,
          
        
         
           That
           was
           in
           
             thee
             ?
          
           or
           who
           can
           warble
           forth
        
         
           Thy
           praises
           due
           ?
           
             or
             to
             the
          
           life
           ,
           
             let
             's
             see
             ,
          
        
         
         
           What
           by
           thy
           
             death
          
           we
           'ave
           lost
           ,
           in
           
             loosing
             thee
             ?
          
        
         
           What
           rarest
           
             Oratour
             ,
          
           or
           
             Poet
          
           can
        
         
           Set
           forth
           the
           
             use
             ,
          
           or
           
             losse
          
           of
           such
           a
           man
           ?
        
         
           Thou
           blessed
           Soul
           ;
           the
           
             Model
             of
             perfection
             ,
          
        
         
           Guilelesse
           
             Nathaniel
             ,
          
           winner
           of
           affection
           :
        
         
           Belov'd
           of
           God
           and
           Man
           ;
           
             why
             didst
             thou
             dye
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           leave
           thy
           friends
           nought
           but
           
             an
             Elegie
             ▪
          
        
         
           
             Could'st
             thou
          
           but
           
             hear
          
           our
           plaints
           ,
           but
           
             hear
          
           our
           groans
           ,
        
         
           But
           
             see
          
           our
           mournful
           tears
           ,
           and
           
             know
          
           what
           moans
        
         
           Are
           
             utter'd
          
           here
           ,
           
             sigh'd
             ,
             shed
             ,
          
           and
           
             made
          
           for
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           ould'st
           
             pity's
          
           all
           ,
           if
           thy
           
             felicity
          
        
         
           Could
           give
           thee
           leave
           ,
           but
           in
           
             that
             place
          
           thou
           art
           ,
        
         
           
             Where
          
           sorrow's
           shadow
           
             cannot
          
           reach
           thy
           heart
           ;
        
         
           VVhere
           thou
           hast
           good
           of
           all
           sorts
           ,
           plenteous
           store
           ,
        
         
           And
           joy
           at
           Gods
           right
           hand
           for
           evermore
           .
        
         
           There
           rest
           (
           
             blest
             Saint
          
           )
           thy
           soul
           in
           heavens
           high
           story
           ,
        
         
           Until
           the
           
             dust
          
           
           th'ast
           
             left
          
           shal
           
             rise
          
           to
           
             glory
             .
          
        
         
           But
           shall
           I
           thus
           have
           done
           ?
           
             how
             can
             it
             be
             ?
          
        
         
           To
           leave
           already
           such
           a
           Saint
           as
           
             he
             ;
          
        
         
           To
           say
           no
           more
           of
           such
           a
           Son
           of
           Grace
        
         
           Then
           hath
           been
           said
           of
           
             him
             ,
          
           were
           
             to
             dispraise
          
        
         
           Him
           ;
           
             so
          
           shal
           
             I
             ,
          
           when
           I
           have
           
             spent
          
           my
           store
           ,
        
         
           
             VVhat
             I
          
           can
           
             say
             ,
             wil
             be
          
           too
           ●●at
           ,
           too
           poore
           :
        
         
           Could
           I
           but
           chant
           out
           now
           ,
           
             such
             notes
          
           as
           he
        
         
           Doth
           in
           
             Heavens
          
           Quite
           ,
           before
           the
           
             blessed
             three
             ;
          
        
         
           I
           'de
           tel
           his
           
             praises
             ,
          
           I
           'de
           declare
           his
           
             fame
          
        
         
           To
           after
           Ages
           ,
           I
           'de
           make
           known
           his
           
             name
             ;
          
        
         
           An
           
             uncorrupted
             Patron
          
           that
           did
           hate
        
         
           Out
           of
           the
           Churches
           means
           ,
           t'
           augment
           his
           state
        
         
           He
           look'd
           upon
           it
           as
           
             abhorred
             thrift
             ,
          
        
         
           To
           gaine
           t'
           himselfe
           
             a
             farthing
          
           by
           the
           gift
        
         
           Of
           any
           Benefice
           ,
           though
           he
           had
           
             those
             ,
          
        
         
           VVhich
           if
           that
           others
           had
           such
           to
           dispose
           ,
        
         
           They
           would
           have
           
             worm'd
          
           and
           
             scru'd
          
           out
           two
           or
           three
        
         
         
           Hundreds
           of
           pounds
           ,
           and
           
             yet
             have
             faeid
             how
             free
          
        
         
           Have
           I
           been
           to
           
             my
             Clerk
             ?
          
           I
           did
           present
        
         
           Him
           to
           some
           hundred
           pounds
           :
           but
           yet
           
             in
             Cent
             '
          
        
         
           Gat
           
             fifty
          
           to
           himselfe
           ;
           God
           never
           mean
        
         
           It
           should
           be
           so
           ,
           which
           thing
           this
           Saint
           knew
           wel
           ,
        
         
           And
           
             loath'd
          
           such
           
             baseness
          
           as
           he
           loathed
           hel
           .
        
         
           He
           was
           a
           
             Benefactor
          
           to
           our
           Tribe
           ,
        
         
           VVe
           
             freely
          
           had
           his
           boones
           ,
           he
           
             scorn'd
          
           our
           bribe
           .
        
         
           If
           he
           were
           now
           ,
           
             whence
          
           once
           he
           was
           
             ejected
             ,
          
        
         
           (
           To
           heare
           
             Petitions
          
           from
           the
           ill-affected
           ,
        
         
           
             Begging
          
           of
           men
           in
           power
           to
           haste
           ,
           and
           ply
        
         
           The
           
             begg'ring
          
           of
           the
           godly
           Ministry
           ,
        
         
           By
           stripping
           them
           of
           
             means
             ,
          
           and
           
             maintenance
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           '
           th
           other
           honour
           due
           ;
           
             good
             countenance
             ,
          
        
         
           That
           God
           allows
           them
           ,
           and
           hath
           given
           command
           ,
        
         
           That
           no
           man
           
             openly
             ,
          
           or
           
             under-hand
          
        
         
           Should
           rob
           them
           of
           it
           ,
           or
           with-hold
           their
           due
           )
        
         
           He
           would
           have
           
             hated
          
           to
           have
           prov'd
           
             untrue
          
        
         
           
             To
             truth
             ,
          
           or
           them
           ;
           loathing
           
             ill-gotten
          
           pelfe
           ,
        
         
           And
           would
           have
           
             kept
             them
             up
             ;
          
           or
           
             faln
          
           himself
           .
        
         
           And
           not
           by
           seeking
           theirs
           have
           ruin'd
           those
           ,
        
         
           Gods
           
             faithful
          
           servants
           ,
           which
           
             himself
          
           hath
           
             chose
             ,
          
        
         
           Gifted
           ,
           and
           sent
           
             dispencers
          
           of
           his
           minde
        
         
           To
           them
           that
           sat
           i'
           th
           
             dark
          
           with
           eyes-ful
           blind
           ;
        
         
           And
           God
           hath
           bless'd
           their
           
             pains
             ;
          
           maugre
           her
           's
           
             spight
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           brought
           them
           out
           of
           darkness
           
             into
             light
             ;
          
        
         
           Yea
           to
           their
           
             calling
          
           God
           hath
           set
           his
           
             seal
             ,
          
        
         
           Their
           people
           their
           
             Epistle
          
           are
           ,
           and
           weale
        
         
           Of
           many
           
             Souls
             ,
          
           through
           grace
           ,
           effected
           by
        
         
           
             Their
          
           faithful
           Labours
           
             in
             their
          
           Ministry
           .
        
         
           I
           trust
           our
           
             Worthies
          
           now
           in
           
             power
          
           wil
           stand
        
         
           Strong
           for
           the
           
             Truth
             ,
          
           and
           
             Gospel
          
           in
           the
           Land
           ,
        
         
           
             Preach'd
          
           and
           
             profess'd
             ,
          
           and
           maugre
           all
           our
           scorners
           ,
        
         
           Preserve
           us
           ,
           that
           we
           fly
           not
           into
           corners
           ,
        
         
         
           VVhere
           
             pining
             souls
          
           their
           
             Teachers
          
           cann●●
           see
           ,
        
         
           So
           starve
           and
           dye
           through
           
             Romish
          
           policy
           .
        
         
           Those
           that
           have
           gotten
           any
           
             Gospel
             good
          
        
         
           From
           Preachers
           lips
           ,
           must
           love
           them
           ;
           
             though
             none
             stood
          
        
         
           For
           them
           ,
           and
           their
           
             incouragement
             ,
          
           but
           they
        
         
           Wil
           chuse
           to
           dye
           before
           they
           'l
           e're
           give
           way
        
         
           To
           throw
           them
           down
           ,
           and
           
             Heachenize
          
           the
           Nation
           ,
        
         
           Knowing
           't
           wil
           prove
           
             Religions
             extirpation
             .
          
        
         
           They
           'l
           lend
           no
           eare
           in
           this
           corrupted
           time
           ,
        
         
           To
           them
           wh'ould
           make
           the
           
             Word
          
           a
           cover-crime
           .
        
         
           But
           whither
           runs
           my
           pen
           ?
           
             my
             Muse
          
           return
           ,
        
         
           And
           fall
           again
           to
           
             mourning
          
           o're
           the
           
             urn
          
        
         
           Of
           this
           
             desceased
          
           Saint
           ,
           whose
           
             losse
          
           is
           such
           ,
        
         
           
             Thousands
          
           we
           might
           have
           lost
           ,
           yet
           not
           so
           much
        
         
           As
           we
           have
           lost
           in
           thee
           ,
           
             blest
             soul
             ,
          
           on
           ground
        
         
           Say
           ,
           where
           is
           such
           another
           to
           be
           found
           ?
        
         
           Where
           's
           such
           an
           
             Husband
             ?
             Father
             ?
             Friend
             ?
          
           or
           
             Brother
             ?
          
        
         
           A
           word
           of
           comfort
           ;
           say
           ,
           where
           's
           such
           another
        
         
           Patron
           ?
           a
           Saint
           so
           good
           ?
           just
           ?
           meek
           ?
           so
           kinde
           ?
        
         
           So
           self-denying
           ?
           such
           an
           heavenly
           minde
           ?
        
         
           His
           husbanding
           his
           time
           ,
           so
           godly
           spent
           ,
        
         
           Told
           me
           h'
           was
           bound
           
             for
             heav'n
          
           before
           
             he
             went
             .
          
        
         
           Since
           he
           's
           
             commenc'd
          
           above
           ,
           and
           got
           
             his
             grace
             ,
          
        
         
           VVe
           cannot
           leave
           him
           in
           a
           better
           place
           .
        
         
           Yet
           one
           word
           more
           give
           leave
           for
           ,
           e're
           I
           'ave
           done
           ,
        
         
           Much
           honour'd
           Lady
           ,
           you
           his
           
             eldest
             Sonne
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Yee
             children
             all
             ,
          
           who
           put
           to
           't
           ,
           would
           much
           rather
           ,
        
         
           Have
           chose
           the
           losse
           of
           all
           ,
           then
           of
           your
           
             Father
             .
          
        
         
           Let
           
             sorrows
          
           surges
           sink
           ,
           let
           
             comfort
          
           come
           ,
        
         
           And
           joy
           your
           sad
           and
           heavie
           hearts
           ;
           
             make
             roome
          
        
         
           For
           
             gladness
             ,
          
           know
           ye
           'ave
           mourn'd
           your
           shares
           ,
        
         
           Your
           deare
           is
           gone
           to
           
             glory
             ,
          
           stay
           your
           tears
           .
        
         
           Yee
           see
           what
           God
           hath
           done
           ,
           and
           who
           may
           have
        
         
           Like
           liberty
           to
           
             take
             ,
          
           as
           he
           that
           
             gave
             ?
          
        
         
         
           Submit
           to
           God
           ,
           
             bear
          
           Christianly
           this
           
             Crosse
             ,
          
        
         
           
             He
          
           can
           restore
           you
           manifold
           your
           losse
           .
        
         
           Madam
           ,
           
             take
             comfort
             ,
          
           and
           trust
           God
           to
           be
        
         
           A
           better
           
             Husband
          
           to
           you
           farre
           ,
           then
           
             He
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           to
           
             your
             vertuous
             Daughters
             ,
             widows
             left
             ,
          
        
         
           Both
           ,
           
             like
             your selfe
             ,
          
           of
           Husbands
           late
           bereft
           ;
        
         
           Not
           only
           
             Husband
             ,
          
           but
           of
           
             Father
          
           too
           ,
        
         
           To
           
             you
          
           and
           
             yours
             ,
          
           thus
           doth
           the
           Promise
           
             go
             .
          
        
         
           Worthy
           Sir
           
             Thomas
             ,
          
           now
           ,
           great
           God
           expects
        
         
           In
           
             you
          
           such
           
             graces
             ,
          
           from
           
             you
          
           such
           
             effects
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           
             in
             ,
          
           and
           
             from
          
           your
           
             blessed
          
           Father
           
             were
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Take
          
           care
           ,
           herein
           you
           
             truly
          
           prove
           his
           
             heir
             ;
          
        
         
           My
           prayers
           for
           yee
           all
           shal
           be
           
             this
          
           rather
           ,
        
         
           God
           make
           ye
           
             better
             ,
          
           then
           your
           
             Gracious
             Father
             .
          
        
         
           
             Loquitur
             post
             funera
             virtus
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ro.
             Cooke
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           on
           that
           eminently
           religious
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           STay
           (
           Reader
           )
           stay
           ,
           
             stand
             ,
          
           but
           a
           
             while
             ,
          
           and
           
             see
          
        
         
           The
           
             dismal
          
           face
           of
           this
           
             sad
             obsequie
          
        
         
           Where
           
             all
             are
             Mourners
             ,
          
           where
           you
           'd
           think
           you
           spy
        
         
           A
           
             Son
          
           or
           
             Daughters
          
           tear
           in
           every
           
             eye
             .
          
        
         
           Hark
           ,
           
             Reader
             ,
          
           hast
           thou
           ever
           seen
           what
           
             Grace
             ,
          
        
         
           What
           
             Majesty
          
           was
           
             seated
          
           in
           his
           
             face
             ?
          
        
         
           Then
           
             bow
          
           before
           his
           
             shrouded
             head
             ,
          
           and
           know
        
         
           What
           
             honour's
             due
             ,
          
           where
           age
           white
           hairs
           did
           
             snow
             ;
          
        
         
           Where
           
             vertue
             ,
          
           where
           a
           
             noble
             minde
          
           did
           dwel
           ,
        
         
           Which
           nothing
           can
           (
           
             beside
             its
             self
          
           )
           excel
           .
        
         
         
           
             Democritus
          
           himselfe
           ,
           should
           he
           but
           know
        
         
           What
           caus'd
           these
           
             tides
          
           of
           tears
           to
           
             over●flow
             ,
          
        
         
           The
           
             watrish
             humour
          
           in
           his
           eye
           (
           I
           feare
           )
        
         
           Would
           melt
           the
           
             Chrystaline
          
           into
           a
           tear
           .
        
         
           
             Reader
             ,
          
           first
           pay
           a
           
             tear
             ,
          
           and
           then
           passe
           on
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           no
           
             dry
          
           subject
           we
           are
           now
           upon
           :
        
         
           
             But
             hold
             ,
          
           God
           too
           wil
           have
           
             his
          
           harvest
           free
        
         
           From
           
             rainy
             showres
          
           of
           tears
           ,
           as
           wel
           as
           
             we
             :
          
        
         
           This
           
             full-ear'd
             Wheat
          
           of
           his
           ,
           first
           
             bow'd
          
           its
           head
           ,
        
         
           So
           gather'd
           was
           to
           's
           
             Garner
          
           with
           the
           
             dead
             .
          
        
         
           
             Apostrophe
             ad
             defunctum
             :
          
           
             Blest
             Shade
             ,
             
               your
               pardon
               ,
            
             that
             thus
             late
             my
             verse
             ,
          
           
             In
             
               black
            
             and
             
               white
            
             attends
             your
             
               sacred
            
             herse
             ;
          
           
             My
             
               Muse
            
             was
             fondly
             loath
             ,
             I
             must
             
               confess
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             mixe
             with
             
               sables
            
             in
             an
             
               English
            
             dresse
             ;
          
           
             Thought
             that
             too
             
               homely
               ,
               wanton
               ;
            
             did
             desire
          
           
             
               A
            
             persick
             ,
             Syriak
             ,
             Arabick
             
               attire
               ,
            
          
           
             Or
             any
             more
             exotick
             ;
             
               Parrots
            
             seek
          
           
             A
             
               Caesars
            
             favour
             in
             no
             lesse
             then
             Greek
             :
          
           
             Pardon
             her
             
               soft-pac'd
               measures
               ,
            
             her
             delayes
             ,
          
           
             She
             in
             sad
             broken
             Accents
             
               sighing
            
             sayes
             :
          
           
             Should
             
               sundry
            
             Tongues
             ,
             each
             with
             a
             diverse
             tone
          
           
             Lament
             our
             loss
             ,
             all
             must
             consent
             in
             one
             .
          
        
         
           
             Write
             on
             the
             weeping
             Marble
             ,
             here
             doth
             lye
             ,
          
           
             
               Mecaenas
               ,
            
             and
             the
             Muses
             Deity
             .
          
        
         
           
             Sic
             flevit
             ,
             Gulielm
             .
             Stephenson
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           ,
           his
           Hallelujah
           ,
        
         
           
             Saint
             .
          
           
             
               THrice
               holy
               
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               at
               thy
               
                 right
                 hand
              
               I
               see
            
             
               The
               
                 Incense
                 pillars
              
               up
               ascending
               be
            
             
               From
               thy
               most
               
                 precious
                 bloud
                 ,
              
               on
               
                 which
              
               doth
               lye
            
             
               The
               
                 Roose
                 ,
              
               and
               hang
               the
               
                 Pavement
              
               of
               this
               high
            
             
               And
               
                 glorious
                 Court
                 ,
              
               by
               them
               brought
               up
               I
               stand
            
             
               Before
               thy
               
                 face
                 ,
              
               expecting
               thy
               
                 command
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             Almighty
             .
          
           
             
               Drop
               of
               my selfe
               ,
               
                 eternally
                 my
              
               Dear
               ,
            
             
               (
               Distance
               away
               )
               draw
               to
               this
               bosome
               
                 near
                 ;
              
            
             
               Lo
               here
               ,
               thy
               
                 elder
                 Brother
                 ,
              
               did'st
               not
               long
            
             
               To
               see
               thy
               
                 Jesus
                 ?
              
               seest
               thou
               not
               the
               
                 throng
              
            
             
               Of
               
                 crowned
                 Saints
              
               about
               thee
               ,
               that
               
                 rejoyce
              
            
             
               To
               joyn
               thee
               to
               their
               
                 Chore
                 ,
              
               who
               with
               their
               
                 voyce
                 ,
              
            
             
               My
               
                 everlasting
              
               praise
               do
               sing
               ?
               this
               
                 sphear
              
            
             
               Of
               
                 Ravishment
                 ,
              
               that
               doth
               thee
               circle
               here
               ▪
            
             
               The
               native
               heat
               is
               of
               thy
               
                 Fathers
                 brest
                 ,
              
            
             
               From
               
                 whence
              
               when
               first
               thou
               
                 sparkled'st
              
               I
               thee
               
                 blest
                 ,
              
            
             
               VVith
               my
               unknown
               
                 delight
                 ,
              
               and
               love
               ;
               to
               
                 me
                 ,
              
            
             
               Thou
               art
               not
               
                 strange
                 ,
              
               but
               from
               
                 eternity
              
            
             
               Thou
               always
               
                 present
              
               wert
               ▪
               behold
               thy
               
                 name
              
            
             
               Deeply
               in-laid
               upon
               the
               
                 Covenant
                 frame
              
            
             
               Of
               my
               
                 Free
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               that
               Archive
               
                 Archy-type
                 ▪
              
            
             
               And
               
                 Index
              
               of
               this
               
                 Court
                 ,
              
               the
               first
               grand
               Pipe
               ,
            
             
               Conveighing
               down
               my
               
                 love
              
               unto
               my
               
                 Son
                 ,
              
            
             
               Through
               him
               ,
               and
               all
               his
               
                 Gospel
                 veins
                 ,
              
               to
               run
            
             
               Into
               th'
               
                 elect
                 ,
              
               those
               
                 Gulphs
              
               of
               
                 love
                 ;
              
               find'st
               not
            
             
               My
               half
               beleeved
               
                 Gospel
              
               true
               ?
               thy
               Lot
               ▪
            
             
               Does
               it
               not
               fill
               thy
               heart
               ,
               
                 fulfill
              
               my
               Oath
               ?
            
             
               Doe
               I
               
                 delude
              
               the
               sons
               of
               men
               ,
               when
               
                 loath
              
            
             
             
               To
               
                 mind
              
               or
               
                 love
              
               me
               ,
               I
               them
               
                 wooe
                 ,
              
               and
               
                 pray
              
            
             
               To
               daine
               
                 acceptance
              
               of
               me
               ,
               that
               they
               may
            
             
               Be
               
                 wel
                 ,
              
               and
               
                 pleased
              
               here
               ?
               doe
               I
               
                 deserve
              
            
             
               That
               
                 slight
              
               and
               
                 scorn
                 ,
              
               that
               
                 dust
              
               and
               
                 ashes
              
               serve
            
             
               Me
               daily
               with
               ?
               the
               Leprous
               
                 scales
              
               of
               sin
               ,
            
             
               Have
               they
               more
               
                 weight
              
               of
               
                 joy
              
               then
               what
               's
               within
            
             
               The
               
                 spangles
              
               of
               thy
               
                 Crown
                 ?
              
               which
               of
               the
               two
               ,
            
             
               The
               lower
               
                 wilderness
              
               of
               thorns
               and
               woe
               ,
            
             
               Or
               this
               eternal
               
                 gallery
              
               of
               love
            
             
               VVould'st
               chuse
               thy
               
                 walk
                 ?
              
               these
               prospects
               here
               above
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               
                 Lusts
              
               snakie
               Groves
               
                 true
              
               pleasure
               yeelds
               :
            
             
               Earths
               
                 sence-inspiring
              
               glances
               in
               
                 May-fields
              
            
             
               Cause
               but
               an
               
                 ulcerous
                 Ich
                 ;
              
               those
               leaps
               of
               
                 sprite
              
            
             
               Men
               
                 think
              
               they
               feel
               in
               
                 earthly
                 loves
              
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Are
               
                 here
              
               indeed
               the
               souls
               
                 eternal
                 dance
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Rais'd
              
               by
               the
               
                 dartings
              
               of
               my
               countenance
               ;
            
             
               
                 Look
              
               and
               be
               
                 ravish'd
                 ,
              
               spring
               ,
               and
               sing
               my
               
                 Dove
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Tuning
              
               thy
               measures
               to
               my
               
                 eye
              
               of
               
                 love
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             Saint
             .
          
           
             
               How
               
                 low
                 's
              
               this
               Chore
               ?
               how
               
                 Faint's
              
               this
               eccho
               here
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               th'
               
                 Almighties
              
               praise
               that
               now
               I
               heare
               ?
            
             
               Can
               the
               
                 thousand
                 thousands
              
               raise
               no
               higher
               ?
            
             
               
                 Jehovah
                 ,
              
               thy
               acceptance
               I
               
                 admire
                 :
              
            
             
               Is
               all
               the
               powers
               of
               
                 Saints
              
               and
               
                 Angels
              
               joyn'd
            
             
               Beneath
               thy
               
                 love
                 ,
              
               and
               
                 glory
              
               thus
               confin'd
               ?
            
             
               (
               O
               
                 love
              
               thy selfe
               ,
               my
               
                 God
              
               )
               were
               
                 this
              
               a
               place
               ,
            
             
               
                 Tears
              
               should
               
                 reflect
              
               thy
               
                 beams
              
               upon
               my
               face
               :
            
             
               Canst
               thou
               not
               make
               a
               
                 Temple
              
               higher
               roof'd
               ,
            
             
               wherein
               on
               
                 louder
              
               Organs
               may
               be
               
                 prov'd
              
            
             
               The
               Art
               of
               
                 treble-voiced
              
               Seraphims
               ,
            
             
               Joyn'd
               with
               
                 deep
                 Accent
              
               of
               wing'd
               Cherubims
               ?
            
             
               But
               neither
               
                 I
                 ,
              
               nor
               
                 these
                 ,
              
               alas
               can
               raise
            
             
               Ought
               else
               but
               
                 love
                 ;
              
               Lord
               
                 reckon
              
               that
               thy
               
                 praise
                 .
              
            
             
               And
               I
               am
               
                 glad
              
               
               th'art
               
                 great
              
               beyond
               our
               
                 songs
                 ,
              
            
             
             
               Because
               we
               feel
               thee
               
                 good
                 ,
              
               beyond
               our
               
                 Tongues
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               
                 since
              
               thou
               smil'st
               to
               hear
               thy
               
                 Nurc'ry
              
               sing
               ,
            
             
               In
               
                 broken
              
               Notes
               ,
               their
               
                 Fathers
              
               name
               ,
               I
               'll
               bring
            
             
               My
               
                 Jews-Trump
              
               to
               thy
               set
               :
               
                 Chore
              
               let
               us
               joyn
               :
            
          
        
         
           
             Saint
             
               and
            
             Chore
             .
          
           
             
               All
               
                 might
              
               and
               
                 power
                 ,
              
               transcendant
               
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               is
               thine
               ,
            
             
               Above
               thy
               
                 Creatures
              
               thoughts
               ,
               thy
               
                 glory
              
               is
               :
            
             
               Their
               
                 utmost
              
               stretch
               ,
               can
               give
               to
               
                 thee
              
               no
               bliss
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               't
               is
               their
               
                 joy
                 ,
              
               and
               everlasting
               
                 gain
                 ,
              
            
             
               That
               they
               to
               sing
               thy
               praise
               ,
               their
               
                 spirits
              
               strain
               .
            
             
               Thou
               canst
               have
               but
               their
               
                 all
                 ,
              
               their
               
                 all
              
               they
               spend
            
             
               Upon
               thy
               
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               yet
               neither
               waste
               or
               end
               .
            
             
               O
               
                 blest
              
               be
               
                 thou
                 ,
              
               thou
               
                 self-arisen
              
               Sun
            
             
               Of
               
                 Light
              
               and
               
                 Love
                 ;
              
               from
               whence
               hath
               ever
               run
            
             
               Beams
               both
               of
               
                 Life
              
               and
               
                 good
                 ,
              
               thickning
               to
               
                 Globes
              
            
             
               And
               
                 Worlds
                 :
              
               This
               Heaven
               of
               
                 Saints
              
               is
               but
               the
               
                 Robes
              
            
             
               Of
               
                 Rayes
              
               about
               thee
               ;
               thou
               
                 Eternal
                 Spring
              
            
             
               (
               In
               which
               
               th'rising
               
                 streams
                 ,
              
               most
               sweetly
               
                 sing
              
               )
            
             
               Of
               
                 Life
              
               and
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
               and
               
                 Joy
                 ,
              
               of
               
                 Good
              
               and
               
                 Right
                 ;
              
            
             
               From
               
                 whence
              
               we
               flow
               ,
               and
               
                 whither
              
               thou
               invite
            
             
               Thy
               
                 Channels
              
               to
               return
               ;
               there
               are
               we
               
                 well
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               not
               to
               be
               in
               
                 thee
                 ,
              
               is
               
                 lowest
                 Hell
                 .
              
            
             
               All
               might
               of
               
                 love
              
               be
               to
               thy
               Spirit
               given
               ,
            
             
               Who
               
                 least
              
               we
               should
               by
               
                 Hellish
                 winds
              
               be
               driven
            
             
               Into
               the
               
                 gulf
              
               of
               woe
               ,
               didst
               with
               us
               
                 mix
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               
                 ran
                 along
              
               our
               
                 wavering
              
               course
               ,
               to
               
                 fix
              
            
             
               On
               thee
               
                 Life's
                 Ocean
                 .
              
               Fruits
               of
               that
               love
            
             
               Now
               in
               our
               Center
               we
               do
               
                 taste
              
               and
               prove
               .
            
             
               Our
               life
               is
               
                 thine
                 ,
              
               O
               lovely
               
                 God
              
               and
               
                 Man
                 ,
              
            
             
               The
               
                 wonder
              
               of
               thy
               
                 death
                 ,
              
               who
               of
               us
               can
            
             
               Half
               
                 comprehend
                 ,
              
               much
               less
               
                 repay
                 .
              
               But
               see
            
             
               The
               goodly
               
                 Off-spring
              
               of
               thy
               
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               and
               be
            
             
               
                 Self-satisfi'd
                 ,
              
               while
               we
               behold
               thy
               
                 Face
              
            
             
               Fill'd
               with
               
                 delight
                 ,
              
               rejoyce
               
                 thou
              
               in
               the
               
                 Grace
              
            
             
             
               Thy
               Blood
               hath
               
                 sprinkled
              
               round
               about
               thy
               
                 Throne
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Hallelujah
                 ,
                 Hallelujah
                 ,
              
               Three
               in
               One
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             His
             Character
             .
          
           
             Most
             perfect
             
               Image
            
             of
             the
             
               God
            
             above
             ,
          
           
             Without
             
               was
            
             Majesty
             ,
             within
             
               was
            
             love
             :
          
           
             One
             drawn
             with
             
               sweetness
            
             by
             an
             
               Infants
            
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Ne'r
             
               driv'n
            
             by
             
               violence
               ,
            
             or
             
               Base
            
             command
             :
          
           
             Religion's
             Patron
             ,
             Crown
             
               of
            
             Piety
          
           
             Upon
             his
             Houses
             
               Ancient
               Chevalry
               .
            
          
           
             To
             
               Lawful
               Senates
               ,
            
             was
             his
             
               Countrys
            
             choice
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               last
               dissolv'd
               ,
            
             above
             he
             gives
             his
             voice
             .
          
           
             To
             a
             
               wise
            
             and
             
               beauteous
               Lady
            
             joyn'd
             ,
          
           
             Into
             a
             gen'rous
             
               Off-spring
            
             Both
             are
             twin'd
             .
          
           
             He
             went
             not
             hence
             ,
             till
             he
             might
             
               clearly
            
             see
          
           
             Himself
             in
             's
             Heir
             ,
             should
             much
             
               exalted
            
             be
             .
          
        
         
           
             His
             Votaries
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             O
             let
             no
             
               Curse
               ,
            
             no
             
               Sin
               ,
            
             no
             
               Fate
               ,
            
             no
             
               War
               ,
            
          
           
             His
             long-lin'd
             house
             ,
             e'er
             
               blot
               ,
               defame
               ,
            
             or
             
               scar
               .
            
          
           
             But
             let
             its
             
               numerous
               seed
               ,
            
             still
             run
             along
             ,
          
           
             Till
             it
             receive
             
               Christ's
            
             coming
             ,
             with
             a
             Song
             .
          
           
             The
             Gentries
             
               Vertues
               ,
               Glories
            
             let
             it
             wear
             ;
          
           
             But
             all
             its
             Vices
             ,
             let
             it
             
               scorn
            
             to
             bear
             .
          
           
             His
             House
             a
             
               School
               of
               worth
               ,
            
             let
             ages
             see
             ;
          
           
             And
             Lord
             ,
             a
             
               Church
            
             of
             
               Graces
               ,
            
             let
             it
             be
             .
          
        
         
           
             Richard
             Fairclough
             Rector
             of
             
               Mells
            
             in
             
               Sommersetshire
               .
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           the
           Memory
           of
           that
           Highly
           Noble
           ,
           and
           Religious
           Knight
           Sir
           NATH.
           BARNARDISTON
           .
        
         
           PArdon
           
             great
             Sir
             ,
          
           though
           others
           to
           your
           Tomb
           ,
        
         
           Bring
           
             Volumes
          
           of
           your
           praise
           ,
           and
           I
           be
           dumb
           .
        
         
           A
           Verse
           or
           two
           is
           all
           I
           can
           ;
           not
           want
        
         
           Of
           sorrow
           ,
           but
           the
           
             greatness
          
           makes
           me
           scant
           .
        
         
           I
           
             cannot
          
           write
           ,
           
             Tears
          
           make
           my
           
             Paper
             sink
             ;
          
        
         
           My
           
             Pen
          
           weeps
           too
           ,
           its
           
             proper
          
           tears
           of
           
             Ink
             .
          
        
         
           These
           ,
           whil'st
           I
           strive
           to
           
             Checker
          
           my
           white
           sheet
           ,
        
         
           Correct
           my
           
             Error
             ,
          
           and
           tell
           me
           't
           is
           meet
        
         
           That
           all
           be
           
             black
             ,
          
           that
           every
           
             part
          
           should
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           my
           
             sheet
          
           into
           a
           
             pall
          
           they
           turn
           .
        
         
           How
           can
           I
           make
           a
           Verse
           ,
           who
           want
           my
           
             Feet
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Rooted
          
           I
           stand
           ,
           amazed
           at
           the
           great
           ,
        
         
           And
           strangness
           of
           our
           
             loss
             ,
          
           sad
           
             Niobs
          
           fate
        
         
           Transform'd
           to
           stone
           ,
           is
           
             mine
             ,
             incorporate
          
        
         
           I
           to
           a
           
             quarry
          
           am
           ;
           Then
           take
           from
           me
        
         
           His
           
             Monument
             ,
          
           his
           
             Grave-stone
          
           I
           will
           be
           ;
        
         
           And
           so
           for
           ever
           ,
           I
           upon
           my
           Brest
        
         
           Shal
           wear
           this
           
             Epitaph
             ,
          
           and
           weep
           the
           rest
           .
        
         
           
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             Here
             lies
             those
             Sacred
             Ashes
             ,
             once
             the
             seat
          
           
             Of
             Heav'n-born-fires
             ,
             and
             Loves
             diviner
             heat
             .
          
           
             No
             Basket-Justice
             ,
             or
             Brib'd
             Committee
             ,
          
           
             No
             purged
             Senator
             ,
             but
             all
             Purity
             .
          
           
             In
             's
             Consort
             happy
             ,
             both
             in
             Off-spring
             Crown'd
             :
          
           
             Birth
             made
             him
             noble
             ,
             Piety
             renown'd
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Anagram
             .
             Nathaniell
             Barnardiston
             .
             Born
             in
             an
             All-sainted
             Hart.
             
          
           
             
               How
               well
               All
               Saints
               ,
               give
               honor
               to
               his
               Urn
               ,
            
             
               
                 Whose
                 Faith
                 was
                 in
              
               An
               Hart
               All-sainted
               Born
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               World
               's
               unworthy
               of
               him
               ,
               whose
               best
               part
               ,
            
             
               
                 Liv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 was
              
               Born
               in
               an
               All-Sainted
               Hart.
               
            
          
           
             
               Nathaniell
               Fairclough
               Rector
               of
               
                 Stalbridge
              
               in
               
                 Dorcetshire
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           PARENTALE
           ,
           or
           an
           ELEGIE
           on
           the
           Highly
           Honorable
           and
           Right
           Worshipful
           Sir
           Nath.
           Barnardiston
           ,
           Kt.
           
        
         
           BY
           
             Euphrat's
          
           Floud
           ,
           when
           Captive
           
             Israel
          
           sate
           ,
        
         
           
             Increasing
          
           it
           ;
           their
           Harps
           
             inanimate
          
        
         
           Hung
           
             speechless
          
           by
           :
           All
           
             sorrows
          
           want
           their
           
             Tongues
             ,
          
        
         
           These
           
             Organs
          
           speak
           not
           ,
           
             fill'd
          
           from
           
             sighing
             Lungs
             .
          
        
         
           Great
           
             anger
          
           makes
           a
           
             Poet
             ;
          
           but
           the
           sense
        
         
           Of
           greatest
           
             grief
             ,
          
           stops
           flowing
           eloquence
           :
        
         
           Who
           groans
           in
           
             tune
             ,
          
           hath
           learn't
           the
           
             Hebrew
          
           art
        
         
           To
           
             weep
          
           with
           th'
           
             eye
             ;
          
           but
           
             bleed
          
           not
           at
           the
           
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           My
           
             Theam
             's
          
           too
           great
           ,
           that
           
             Pegasus
          
           should
           wear
        
         
           Such
           
             straitning
             Fetters
             ;
          
           he
           can't
           mount
           the
           air
           ,
        
         
           Or
           
             soar
             aloft
             ,
          
           whil'st
           
             pinion'd
          
           is
           his
           Wing
           .
        
         
           
             England
          
           lies
           here
           ;
           your
           
             boundless
             tears
          
           then
           bring
           ,
        
         
         
           And
           
             Mote
          
           it
           round
           ;
           let
           every
           
             weeping
             eye
          
        
         
           Now
           pay
           its
           
             River
             ,
          
           till
           the
           Springs
           be
           dry
           ;
        
         
           Then
           offer
           
             them
             :
             Galatian
          
           tribute
           here
        
         
           Is
           due
           ,
           he
           payes
           an
           
             eye
             ,
          
           that
           hath
           no
           
             tear
             .
          
        
         
           The
           
             Academy
             ,
             Country
             ,
             Church
             ,
          
           at
           once
           ,
        
         
           Have
           lost
           their
           cheifest
           
             Patron
             ,
          
           and
           thus
           groans
           .
        
         
           
             Erst
             while
          
           I
           saw
           a
           Spring
           (
           't
           was
           
             Hippocrene
          
           )
        
         
           Brim'd
           round
           about
           with
           
             Sable
             Jet
             ,
          
           within
        
         
           The
           
             waters
          
           swell'd
           ;
           and
           past
           their
           
             common
             bounds
             :
          
        
         
           Strait
           I
           drew
           near
           ,
           t'
           observe
           ,
           and
           search
           the
           
             grounds
          
        
         
           Of
           this
           
             late
             Floud
             ;
          
           and
           silently
           I
           spy'd
        
         
           The
           
             Orphan
             Muses
          
           by
           ;
           all
           sadly
           cry'd
           :
        
         
           And
           as
           they
           
             wept
             ,
          
           the
           
             dewy
             tears
          
           that
           fell
           ,
        
         
           Slid
           to
           that
           
             watry
             lodge
             ,
          
           which
           made
           it
           swell
           ;
        
         
           Their
           
             Patrons
             death
             (
             Apollo
          
           )
           caus'd
           this
           
             wo
             ,
          
        
         
           Which
           
             falling
             beads
          
           now
           tell
           ;
           a
           wrinkled
           
             O
          
        
         
           From
           
             every
          
           fall
           ,
           their
           
             griefs
          
           in
           water
           
             wrote
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           spake
           the
           
             sadness
          
           of
           their
           
             sighing
             note
             .
          
        
         
           The
           
             common
             people
          
           next
           ,
           dismaid
           with
           
             fears
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Dewing
          
           their
           
             Bosoms
             ;
          
           thus
           fills
           all
           our
           
             ears
             .
          
        
         
           Swift
           
             Time
             (
             Heavens
             Pursevant
          
           )
           straitly
           
             summons
          
        
         
           To
           th'
           
             Lords
             House
             ,
          
           this
           
             Member
          
           of
           the
           
             Commons
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Thrice
          
           chosen
           
             Senator
             ,
          
           let
           
             Ipswich
          
           fame
        
         
           How
           oft
           her
           streets
           have
           eccho'd
           with
           his
           
             Name
             ;
          
        
         
           But
           cruel
           dint
           of
           
             death's
          
           severer
           Dart
        
         
           
             Suffolks
          
           great
           Soul
           ,
           from
           
             Suffolk
          
           now
           doth
           part
           .
        
         
           Nor
           
             mourns
          
           the
           State
           alone
           ;
           the
           
             Churches
          
           chime
           ;
        
         
           
             Religion
          
           sighs
           ;
           her
           trickling
           
             tears
          
           keeps
           time
        
         
           Whil'st
           
             sobbing
          
           thus
           ,
           she
           sings
           ,
           Here
           lies
           the
           
             Knight
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Lifeless
             ,
          
           that
           did
           maintain
           the
           
             Gospels
             Light
             .
          
        
         
           Let
           
             Ketton
          
           boast
           ;
           how
           from
           her
           sacred
           
             Hill
             ,
          
        
         
           Her
           
             Sun
          
           with
           
             brightest
             Rayes
             ,
          
           the
           World
           doth
           fill
           ;
        
         
           Here
           
             fix'd
          
           by
           him
           :
           O
           joyful
           ,
           Heavenly
           meet
        
         
           Of
           
             thousands
             ,
          
           Sainted
           by
           
             his
          
           means
           ;
           that
           greet
        
         
         
           His
           crowned
           head
           ,
           whose
           
             Crown
          
           they
           are
           ,
           then
           haste
        
         
           We
           too
           ,
           to
           add
           more
           
             gems
             ,
          
           and
           
             be
             so
             plac'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               SA.
               FAIRECLOVGH
               .
            
             Fel.
             of
             Gon.
             and
             Caius
             Coll.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           on
           that
           ever
           honoured
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           NOt
           for
           to
           
             scrape
             acquaintance
          
           with
           the
           great
           ,
        
         
           Much
           lesse
           ,
           like
           some
           ,
           to
           get
           
             a
             good
             meals
             meat
             ;
          
        
         
           Not
           that
           my
           
             stranger
             Muse
          
           strives
           to
           be
           
             known
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           if
           she
           thought
           sh
           '
           were
           else
           
             as
             good
          
           be
           none
           :
        
         
           
             A
          
           mourning
           Ribband
           ,
           
             or
             a
          
           parie
           of
           Gloves
           ,
        
         
           Can
           nothing
           tempt
           her
           from
           that
           
             rest
          
           she
           loves
           ?
        
         
           
             My
             Muse
          
           is
           no
           such
           
             hackney
             ,
          
           none
           of
           these
        
         
           Can
           
             draw
          
           her
           from
           her
           
             now
             accustom'd
          
           ease
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           doth
           she
           now
           (
           as
           earst
           )
           
             catch
          
           after
           
             wit
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           
             hap'ly
          
           sometimes
           had
           the
           
             praise
          
           of
           it
           .
        
         
           In
           part
           ,
           
             She
             mindes
             her selfe
             ,
          
           now
           cal'd
           away
           ,
        
         
           From
           
             lighter
          
           studies
           ,
           to
           a
           
             graver
          
           way
           ;
        
         
           In
           part
           ,
           she
           thinks
           'mongst
           
             Country
             Clowns
          
           to
           rise
        
         
           In
           
             straines
          
           of
           
             wit
             ,
          
           were
           but
           to
           
             solaecise
             .
          
        
         
           Partly
           
             her
             wil's
             in
             fault
             ,
          
           and
           may
           be
           too
           ,
        
         
           Though
           she
           were
           ne're
           so
           willing
           ,
           
             't
             would
             not
             doe
             .
          
        
         
           Chiefly
           ,
           my
           Muse
           puts
           on
           
             so
             grave
          
           a
           dresse
           ,
        
         
           Because
           th'
           
             occasion
          
           cals
           for
           
             seriousnesse
             .
          
        
         
           And
           now
           she
           speaks
           ,
           she
           doth
           not
           
             meane
          
           to
           raise
        
         
           A
           
             Trophie
          
           to
           his
           
             name
          
           from
           's
           
             father's
          
           praise
           :
        
         
           
             Though
             here
          
           (
           if
           Ancestry
           must
           have
           a
           place
           )
        
         
           She
           knows
           no
           
             ancienter
             ,
          
           no
           
             nobler
          
           race
           .
        
         
           Those
           who
           have
           
             nought
          
           to
           brag
           of
           ,
           
             but
          
           the
           glory
        
         
           Of
           their
           
             fore-fathers
             ,
          
           blot
           their
           
             fathers
             story
             .
          
        
         
         
           I
           'de
           put
           the
           
             Ape
             ,
          
           and
           such
           men
           both
           together
           ,
        
         
           That
           could
           be
           proud
           of
           borrow'd
           
             Peacocks
             feather
             .
          
        
         
           But
           here
           
             no
             sluggishnesse
          
           did
           make
           a
           seat
        
         
           Of
           
             Grandsires
             glory
             ,
          
           there
           to
           sit
           compleat
           ;
        
         
           But
           he
           made
           what
           he
           found
           
             left
             by
          
           his
           Sire
        
         
           But
           as
           his
           
             foot-stool
             ,
          
           that
           should
           raise
           him
           
             higher
             .
          
        
         
           And
           as
           the
           
             circled
             glasse
          
           contracts
           the
           flames
           ,
        
         
           That
           
             noon-tide
             Sun
          
           did
           scatter
           with
           his
           beams
           ,
        
         
           And
           makes
           them
           like
           
             meridian
             lines
             ,
          
           at
           last
        
         
           To
           
             meet
          
           in
           
             one
          
           point
           ,
           as
           from
           
             one
          
           they
           
             past
             :
          
        
         
           So
           here
           those
           nobler
           flames
           
             that
          
           were
           comprest
           ,
        
         
           
             Some
          
           here
           in
           one
           ,
           
             some
          
           in
           anothers
           brest
           ,
        
         
           Of
           all
           those
           famous
           
             Barm'stons
             ,
          
           once
           alive
        
         
           
             Met
             here
             ,
             in
             this
          
           conjunction
           cop
           '
           lative
           .
        
         
           So
           that
           to
           raise
           a
           
             Trophie
          
           to
           his
           fame
           ,
        
         
           From
           those
           same
           
             vertues
          
           that
           have
           run
           i
           th'
           
             name
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           
             hence
          
           to
           fetch
           one
           stone
           ,
           and
           
             thence
          
           another
           ,
        
         
           To
           catch
           at
           
             this
          
           in
           that
           man
           ,
           
             that
          
           in
           t'other
           ;
        
         
           This
           were
           to
           
             goe
             about
             ,
          
           as
           he
           should
           stray
        
         
           From
           hence
           to
           
             London
             ,
          
           should
           take
           
             York
          
           in
           's
           way
           .
        
         
           VVe
           'l
           make
           a
           
             shorter
             cut
          
           of
           it
           by
           farre
           ,
        
         
           VVhile
           he
           
             alone
          
           both
           
             compasse
          
           is
           ,
           and
           
             star
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           though
           our
           
             Logick-mongers
          
           teach
           for
           truth
           ,
        
         
           That
           
             accidents
          
           must
           never
           dare
           (
           
             forsooth
          
           )
        
         
           To
           change
           their
           
             soyl
          
           (
           but
           like
           some
           
             fetter'd
             Asse
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Inclos'd
             in
             wals
             ,
          
           must
           alwayes
           feed
           on
           grasse
           ;
        
         
           Or
           as
           we
           read
           it
           was
           with
           
             Shimei
          
           )
        
         
           But
           stir
           from
           
             subjects
          
           once
           ,
           they
           
             needs
             must
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           Yet
           here
           we
           finde
           those
           
             vertues
             all
             doe
             dwel
             ,
          
        
         
           In
           which
           each
           Sire
           of
           
             his
          
           did
           most
           
             excel
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           having
           
             lest
          
           their
           former
           soyl
           ,
           yet
           
             more
          
        
         
           Did
           
             thrive
          
           in
           him
           ,
           then
           e're
           they
           did
           before
           .
        
         
           So
           
             wel
             ,
          
           (
           though
           
             Logick
          
           scoffe
           )
           without
           correction
           ,
        
         
           Divinity
           maintaines
           her
           resurrection
           ,
        
         
         
           In
           short
           ,
           his
           
             Father
          
           gave
           him
           
             life
          
           and
           
             breath
             ,
          
        
         
           But
           he
           (
           
             O
             Miracle
          
           )
           even
           after
           
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           Revives
           his
           
             Fathers
             Fathers
             ,
          
           makes
           them
           be
        
         
           (
           Being
           
             long
             since
          
           dead
           )
           fresh
           in
           our
           
             memory
             .
          
        
         
           Yea
           ,
           he
           
             survives
             himself
             ,
          
           and
           cannot
           die
           ,
        
         
           Until
           the
           
             ending
          
           of
           eternity
           .
        
         
           But
           minde
           thy self
           ,
           my
           
             Muse
             ,
          
           remember
           how
        
         
           Thy
           
             calling
          
           makes
           
             all
          
           other
           things
           to
           
             bow
          
        
         
           
             To
             one
             ,
             (
             Religion
          
           )
           leave
           all
           other
           then
           ,
        
         
           And
           make
           this
           
             one
             ,
          
           the
           
             subject
          
           of
           thy
           Pen
           .
        
         
           Nor
           need'st
           thou
           here
           put
           on
           
             Creative
             power
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           
             Poets
          
           sometimes
           do
           ;
           who
           in
           one
           hour
        
         
           Create
           him
           
             Saint
             ,
          
           being
           dead
           ,
           who
           all
           men
           know
        
         
           A
           
             walking
             devil
          
           was
           ,
           when
           here
           below
           :
        
         
           None
           need
           to
           stretch
           his
           
             conscience
             ,
          
           here
           to
           tell
        
         
           
             Officious
             lies
          
           for
           one
           ,
           that
           
             burns
          
           in
           hell
           ;
        
         
           To
           draw
           belief
           to
           't
           ,
           by
           his
           forged
           story
           ,
        
         
           That
           ,
           that
           damn'd
           
             caitiff
             ,
          
           is
           a
           Saint
           in
           glory
           ;
        
         
           And
           thereby
           make
           even
           
             Boyes
          
           and
           
             Girls
          
           to
           point
           ,
        
         
           
             And
             say
             ,
          
           The
           Preachers
           conscience
           's
           out
           of
           joynt
           .
        
         
           No
           ,
           speak
           he
           most
           ▪
           then
           can
           ;
           there
           is
           no
           fear
           ▪
        
         
           
             It
             should
          
           offend
           
             the
          
           tend'redst
           conscienc'd
           
             ear
             .
          
        
         
           No
           
             new
             truths
          
           can
           be
           preach'd
           ,
           but
           what
           are
           known
           ,
        
         
           No
           better
           by
           the
           
             Preacher
             ,
          
           then
           the
           
             Town
             .
          
        
         
           All
           men
           that
           knew
           him
           ,
           by
           
             his
             life
          
           might
           know
           ,
        
         
           He
           was
           not
           onely
           
             great
             ,
          
           but
           
             godly
          
           too
           :
        
         
           
             Nor
             was
             his
          
           saintship
           
             of
             that
          
           new
           Edition
           ,
        
         
           
             Which
          
           Sequestrations
           
             make
             ,
             or
             a
          
           Commission
           :
        
         
           
             Gain
          
           brought
           him
           not
           to
           
             Piety
             .
          
           To
           rise
        
         
           From
           
             sin
          
           to
           
             grace
             ,
          
           he
           ne'er
           learn'd
           by
           th'
           
             Excise
             .
          
        
         
           Nor
           did
           he
           (
           
             Proteus
          
           like
           )
           to
           all
           mens
           view
           ,
        
         
           Change
           his
           
             religions
             face
             ,
          
           still
           for
           a
           
             new
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           th'
           
             old
          
           grew
           out
           of
           credit
           ;
           he
           ne'er
           made
           ▪
        
         
           Religions
           change
           
             to
             be
             his
          
           gainful
           
             trade
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             'T
             was
          
           Conscience
           
             made
             him
          
           Pious
           ,
           
             no
          
           design
        
         
           
             To
             rob
          
           thee
           (
           gasping
           Church
           )
           
             of
             what
             was
          
           thine
           .
        
         
           He
           deem'd
           that
           which
           the
           
             new
             Saints
          
           of
           our
           Age
           ,
        
         
           Count
           a
           main
           peece
           of
           
             Piety
             ,
             Sacriledge
             .
          
        
         
           But
           peace
           my
           
             Muse
             ;
          
           thou
           'dst
           
             fame
          
           to
           
           th'later
           times
           ,
        
         
           And
           cloath
           this
           
             Heroes
             actions
          
           in
           thy
           rhimes
           ;
        
         
           Thou
           long'st
           to
           bring
           
             partic'lars
          
           on
           the
           stage
           ,
        
         
           And
           would'st
           ;
           but
           that
           the
           
             growing
             Peers
          
           o'
           th'
           age
        
         
           Being
           set
           o'
           th'
           
             counter
             part
             ,
          
           would
           surely
           raise
        
         
           Thine
           
             Elegiake
          
           strains
           ,
           to
           
             Satyr
          
           layes
           ,
        
         
           And
           make
           them
           speak
           
             so
             loud
             ,
          
           that
           without
           doubt
           ,
        
         
           They
           'd
           doom
           thee
           to
           't
           ,
           to
           have
           thy
           
             tongue
          
           cut
           out
           .
        
         
           I
           think
           it
           therefore
           ,
           far
           the
           
             safer
             way
             ,
          
        
         
           Thou
           
             prate
          
           no
           more
           ,
           but
           that
           thou
           rather
           
             pray
             ,
          
        
         
           Many
           such
           
             Barnardistons
          
           God
           would
           send
           ,
        
         
           
           Th'unhappiness
           of
           
             Church
          
           and
           
             State
          
           to
           'mend
           .
        
         
           
             Samuel
             Reyner
             ,
             Thirloe
             Mag.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegy
           at
           the
           Funeral
           of
           that
           truly
           Honorrable
           ,
           and
           most
           Religious
           Knight
           ,
           the
           Right
           Worshipful
           Sir
           NATH.
           BARNARDISTON
           .
        
         
           
             WHat
             
               Marble
            
             now
             is
             dry
             ?
             then
             shall
             not
             we
          
           
             Our
             
               tears
            
             pour
             forth
             ,
             at
             this
             
               solemnity
               ?
            
          
           
             In
             ancient
             time
             the
             men
             of
             
               Carthage
            
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             
               Masistius
            
             death
             ,
             their
             
               Towers
            
             brake
             down
             ;
          
           
             Their
             
               Walls
            
             they
             hung
             with
             
               blacks
               ,
            
             and
             
               Towers
            
             torn
             ,
          
           
             That
             so
             not
             onely
             men
             ,
             but
             
               stones
            
             might
             mourn
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             
               Rock
            
             it self
             ,
             when
             
               Moses
            
             smote
             did
             spring
             ;
          
           
             Streams
             
               Crystalline
            
             the
             fiery
             Flint
             did
             bring
             .
          
           
             
               Much
               more
               should
               we
               ,
            
             now
             God
             himself
             doth
             smite
             ,
          
           
             Send
             forth
             our
             
               streaming
               tears
               ;
            
             for
             these
             of
             right
          
           
             Are
             due
             ;
             if
             we
             deny
             this
             tribute
             ,
             then
          
           
             The
             stones
             that
             now
             shed
             
               tears
               ,
            
             will
             shame
             us
             men
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               When
            
             Pompey
             
               by
            
             Septimius
             
               was
               slain
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             valiant
             
               Julius
               Caesar
            
             did
             disdain
          
           
             To
             view
             his
             head
             ;
             when
             to
             him
             it
             was
             sent
             ,
          
           
             His
             Kingly
             heart
             ,
             with
             pity
             did
             relent
             ;
          
           
             His
             Cheeks
             
               bedew'd
               with
               tears
               ,
            
             his
             clemency
          
           
             Did
             manifest
             ev'n
             to
             his
             enemy
             .
          
        
         
           
             If
             
               Julius
               Caesar
            
             wept
             thus
             for
             a
             fo
             ,
          
           
             Then
             for
             a
             
               friend
               ,
            
             much
             more
             should
             we
             do
             so
             .
          
           
             For
             such
             a
             
               friend
               ,
            
             whom
             all
             men
             may
             of
             right
             ,
          
           
             
               Most
               truly
               term
               ,
            
             The
             High
             Gods
             favorite
             .
          
           
             
               His
            
             dearest
             darling
             ,
             
               and
               all
            
             mens
             delight
             .
          
           
             Who
             whil'st
             he
             liv'd
             with
             us
             ,
             
               out-shin'd
            
             in
             
               grace
            
          
           
             
               The
               rest
               of
               men
               ,
            
             now
             sees
             God
             face
             to
             face
             :
          
           
             When
             that
             the
             Emp'ror
             
               Titus
            
             did
             depart
             :
          
           
             
               What
            
             cloudy
             looks
             ,
             moyst
             cheeks
             ,
             
               and
            
             heavy
             heart
             ,
          
           
             Might
             be
             beheld
             all
             o'r
             the
             
               Roman
            
             State
             ,
          
           
             Each
             single
             man
             
               bemoaning
            
             his
             sad
             fate
             :
          
           
             And
             thus
             concerning
             him
             ,
             they
             did
             complain
             ,
          
           
             
               Titus
            
             is
             gone
             ,
             t'
             our
             loss
             ,
             though
             to
             his
             gain
             .
          
           
             The
             same
             may
             we
             take
             up
             ;
             
               Gods
               darling
               's
               gone
               .
            
          
           
             'T
             is
             for
             his
             good
             ,
             though
             our
             affliction
             .
          
           
             Well
             
               mourn
            
             we
             may
             ,
             as
             in
             some
             silent
             
               grove
               ,
            
          
           
             Whil'st
             he
             in
             
               heavenly
               joyes
               ,
            
             triumphs
             above
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Nathaniel
            
             he
             was
             ,
             Gods
             gift
             to
             us
             ;
          
           
             A
             Gem
             ,
             a
             precious
             Pearl
             esteem'd
             ,
             and
             thus
          
           
           
             The
             greater
             was
             our
             joy
             ;
             but
             now
             deceas'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             our
             grief
             ,
             and
             sorrows
             are
             increas'd
             .
          
           
             It
             seems
             God
             
               gives
            
             and
             
               takes
               ,
            
             who
             can
             gainsay
             ?
          
           
             God
             saith
             ,
             
               Give
               me
               my
               gem
               ,
            
             who
             shall
             say
             nay
             ?
          
           
             Who
             shall
             
               resist
            
             his
             will
             ?
             
               Lord
            
             take
             thine
             
               own
               ,
            
          
           
             But
             give
             us
             leave
             ,
             our
             
               loss
            
             for
             to
             bemoan
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             
               custom
            
             't
             was
             of
             old
             ,
             that
             men
             
               renown'd
               ,
            
          
           
             Not
             onely
             
               living
               ,
            
             but
             when
             
               dead
               ,
            
             were
             
               crown'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               Marcellus
            
             once
             this
             honor
             did
             receive
             ,
          
           
             The
             same
             the
             Emperor
             
               Augustus
            
             gave
          
           
             
               To
            
             Alexander's
             
               Tomb
               :
            
             Demetrius
          
           
             His
             
               Urn
            
             (
             when
             he
             was
             dead
             )
             was
             
               crowned
            
             thus
             .
          
        
         
           
             Not
             any
             man
             more
             
               worthy
            
             of
             this
             
               Bay
               ,
            
          
           
             Then
             he
             for
             whom
             we
             
               celebrate
            
             this
             day
             .
          
           
             A
             
               King
            
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             most
             
               worthy
            
             to
             be
             crown'd
             ,
          
           
             In
             whom
             so
             many
             
               graces
            
             did
             abound
             .
          
           
             A
             
               King
            
             he
             di'd
             ,
             
               Deaths
            
             Victor
             now
             sits
             down
          
           
             In
             Heaven
             resplendent
             ,
             with
             a
             
               glorious
               crown
               ,
            
          
           
             When
             Death
             uncas'd
             his
             Soul
             ,
             it
             to
             Heaven
             tended
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             his
             
               declination
            
             he
             ascended
             .
          
        
         
           
             How
             now
             
               grim
               Death
               ,
            
             whence
             cometh
             thus
             thy
             rage
             ?
          
           
             What
             ,
             could'st
             finde
             none
             but
             
             th'Phoenix
             of
             our
             age
             ,
          
           
             To
             exercise
             thy
             cruelty
             upon
             ?
          
           
             No
             twinkling
             
               Star
               ,
            
             none
             serve
             thee
             but
             the
             
               Sun
               ,
            
          
           
             Thus
             to
             
               eclipse
               ?
            
             How
             do'st
             thou
             think
             shall
             we
          
           
             Deport
             our selves
             ,
             when
             we
             no
             
               Sun
            
             can
             see
             ?
          
           
             Whence
             this
             thy
             hate
             to
             break
             our
             
               Rule
            
             and
             
               Line
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             take
             our
             
               Pattern
            
             from
             's
             that
             was
             
               Divine
               ?
            
          
           
             Hadst
             thou
             no
             
               white
               ,
            
             but
             innocencies
             heart
             ,
          
           
             Whereat
             to
             level
             this
             thy
             
               forked
               dart
               ?
            
          
           
             O
             't
             is
             not
             
               he
               ,
            
             but
             
               we
            
             that
             feel
             the
             smart
             .
          
           
           
             Lo
             here
             a
             
               Spectacle
            
             we
             see
             ,
          
           
             To
             teach
             us
             all
             ,
             
               what
               we
               must
               be
               .
            
          
           
             Wouldst
             know
             thy
             
               mettal
               ?
            
             then
             look
             on
          
           
             The
             Mould
             and
             Earth
             ,
             thou
             tread'st
             upon
             .
          
           
             Look
             here
             
               proud
               man
               ,
            
             behold
             thy
             
               Mother
               ,
            
          
           
             For
             at
             the
             
               first
               ,
            
             thou
             hadst
             no
             other
             :
          
           
             She
             brought
             thee
             forth
             ,
             thou
             art
             her
             
               son
               ,
            
          
           
             Flesh
             of
             her
             flesh
             ,
             bone
             of
             her
             bone
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thou
             must
             repay
             again
             ,
             what
             she
             hath
             
               lent
            
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             
               flesh
            
             thy
             
               bone
               ,
            
             and
             what
             e'r
             else
             
               she
            
             sent
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Tho.
             Marriot
             .
             M.
             A.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           On
           the
           Death
           of
           that
           Noble
           Patriot
           of
           his
           Country
           Sir
           Nath.
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           I
           Heard
           that
           many
           
             Poets
          
           went
           of
           late
        
         
           In
           a
           full
           throng
           to
           knock
           at
           
             Heavens
          
           gate
           ,
        
         
           Humbly
           beseeching
           
             Jove
          
           of
           his
           quick
           brain
           ,
        
         
           (
           From
           whence
           
             Minerva
             ,
          
           without
           
             Mothers
          
           pain
           ,
        
         
           Or
           
             Midwifes
          
           help
           ,
           a
           witty
           
             Dame
          
           did
           flow
           )
        
         
           Some
           few
           small
           
             Particles
          
           on
           them
           bestow
           ;
        
         
           And
           highly
           their
           
             immortal
             souls
          
           inspire
           ,
        
         
           With
           a
           
             divine
          
           and
           
             active
          
           nimble
           fire
           ;
        
         
           That
           they
           might
           fancies
           ,
           quick
           ,
           and
           high
           conceive
           ,
        
         
           And
           might
           even
           
             Virgil
          
           of
           his
           
             Bayes
          
           bereave
           .
        
         
           'T
           was
           granted
           ;
           
             then
             in
             haste
             to
          
           Helicon
           ,
        
         
           With
           fury
           rapt
           beyond
           themselves
           they
           run
           ,
        
         
           And
           for
           their
           guide
           ,
           among
           the
           
             nine
          
           they
           
             chuse
             ,
          
        
         
           A
           fullen
           ,
           melancholly
           ,
           pensive
           
             Muse
             ,
          
        
         
         
           To
           shew
           that
           
             bitter
          
           stream
           of
           
             Pegasus
             ,
          
        
         
           That
           prompted
           
             Naso
          
           with
           
             De
             Tristibus
             :
          
        
         
           Of
           this
           they
           largely
           drinking
           
             to
             their
             fill
             ,
          
        
         
           Did
           into
           farre
           more
           
             bitter
             tears
          
           distill
           ,
        
         
           Sounding
           aloud
           ,
           in
           hideous
           lamentation
           ,
        
         
           As
           when
           
             Plague
             ,
             Sword
             ,
          
           and
           
             Famine
          
           fright
           a
           Nation
           .
        
         
           I
           
             wondring
             ,
          
           curiously
           the
           cause
           desir'd
           ,
        
         
           VVhich
           so
           
             much
             wit
             ,
          
           and
           so
           much
           
             grief
             requir'd
             ;
          
        
         
           'T
           was
           answer'd
           in
           a
           
             sad
             ,
          
           and
           
             doleful
          
           voyce
           ,
        
         
           By
           one
           whose
           
             sorrows
          
           did
           surmount
           his
           
             noyse
             .
          
        
         
           Alas
           !
           of
           
             all
             good
             men
          
           (
           of
           such
           though
           blest
           ,
        
         
           The
           
             Catalogue
             's
          
           but
           short
           )
           we
           '
           ave
           lost
           
             the
             best
             ;
          
        
         
           Prince
           in
           his
           Tribe
           ,
           his
           Countries
           Patriot
           ,
        
         
           
             By
          
           election
           
             made
             ,
             not
          
           undiscerning
           Lot
           ;
        
         
           
             A
          
           just
           ,
           wise
           ,
           honest
           ,
           noble
           
             Senator
             ,
          
        
         
           Lover
           
             of
          
           Peace
           ,
           contentions
           Arbiter
           ,
        
         
           Patron
           
             of
          
           Learning
           ,
           Poverties
           releife
           ,
        
         
           The
           Angels
           joy
           ,
           
             and
          
           ease
           
             unto
          
           friends
           grief
           .
        
         
           Farewell
           ,
           
             brave
             Soul
             ,
          
           whom
           now
           the
           
             Saints
          
           do
           greet
           ,
        
         
           In
           all
           things
           high
           ,
           
             but
             in
          
           thine
           own
           conceit
           .
        
         
           These
           great
           
             Elog'ums
          
           did
           me
           little
           move
           ,
        
         
           (
           A
           stranger
           to
           his
           
             person
             ,
          
           and
           his
           
             love
             :
          
           )
        
         
           Beside
           ,
           I
           knew
           that
           
             Poets
             ,
          
           some
           for
           
             gaine
             ,
          
        
         
           Many
           for
           
             feare
             ,
          
           and
           more
           for
           
             hunger
             ,
          
           straine
        
         
           The
           musick
           of
           their
           
             pliant
             ,
             giddy
          
           passion
           ,
        
         
           To
           any
           humour
           of
           
             Mecaenas
          
           fashion
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           some
           impression
           I
           must
           needs
           admit
           ,
        
         
           Seeing
           whole
           
             Families
             ,
          
           and
           
             Hamblets
          
           sit
        
         
           Like
           
             Israel
          
           by
           
             Euphrate
          
           discontent
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           his
           
             absence
          
           were
           their
           
             banishment
             .
          
        
         
           I
           therefore
           did
           unto
           the
           
             Funerall
             show
             ,
          
        
         
           
             If
             not
             a
          
           Party
           ,
           
             yet
          
           Spectator
           
             goe
             ;
          
        
         
           There
           was
           the
           
             much
             lamented
             herse
          
           let
           down
           ,
        
         
           In
           hope
           of
           resurrection
           to
           a
           
             crown
             ;
          
        
         
         
           
             In
          
           silent
           vault
           
             confin'd
             with
          
           worms
           ,
           
             and
          
           dust
           ,
        
         
           
             Where
          
           marble
           
             must
          
           consume
           ,
           
             and
          
           iron
           rust
           ;
        
         
           Whence
           we
           expect
           a
           
             glorious
             release
             ,
          
        
         
           For
           th'
           seeds
           corruption
           tendeth
           to
           
             increase
             .
          
        
         
           But
           when
           I
           saw
           the
           
             mournful
             Dowager
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Like
          
           Mary
           Magdalen
           
             by
             th'
          
           Sepulcher
           ,
        
         
           Fixing
           her
           eyes
           upon
           the
           
             greedy
             grave
             ,
          
        
         
           Which
           humane
           flesh
           
             unsatisfi'd
          
           doth
           crave
           ;
        
         
           As
           if
           in
           that
           
             cold
             bed
          
           she
           'd
           rather
           lye
           ,
        
         
           Then
           part
           with
           her
           old
           loving
           company
           .
        
         
           
             When
          
           Children
           ,
           Nephews
           ,
           Kinsmen
           
             there
             stood
             dumb
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Like
          
           Images
           ,
           
             to
             deck
             the
          
           dead
           Knights
           Tomb
           ;
        
         
           I
           could
           not
           then
           refraine
           ,
           but
           these
           tears
           lent
           ,
        
         
           As
           
             drops
             to
             th'
             Sea
             ,
          
           their
           sorrow
           to
           augment
           .
        
         
           Sure
           he
           was
           very
           good
           ,
           who
           when
           life
           fayl'd
           ,
        
         
           Left
           so
           much
           
             wealth
          
           behind
           ,
           and
           's
           yet
           bewayl'd
           ;
        
         
           Whose
           
             heir
          
           can
           slightly
           look
           
             upon
             his
             gold
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           wish't
           i
           th'
           
             live
             Testators
             hand
          
           untold
           ?
        
         
           But
           grieve
           not
           
             Sirs
             ,
          
           nor
           envie
           him
           ,
           his
           mind
           ,
        
         
           He
           's
           far
           above
           what
           he
           hath
           left
           behind
           ;
        
         
           
             Nathaniel
          
           is
           not
           dead
           ,
           but
           was
           entic'd
           ,
        
         
           To
           leave
           his
           Fig-tree
           ,
           for
           to
           follow
           Christ
           .
        
         
           
             Edmund
             Vnderwood
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           A
           Funerall
           Elegie
           on
           the
           Right
           Worshipfull
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           WHen
           
             Abner
          
           dy'd
           ,
           King
           
             David
          
           then
           could
           say
           ,
        
         
           A
           great
           man
           fell
           in
           Israel
           that
           day
           .
        
         
           But
           how
           may
           
             we
          
           lament
           ,
           to
           see
           
             Gods
             hand
             ,
          
        
         
           Thus
           snatch
           this
           
             great
             and
             good
          
           man
           from
           our
           Land
           ?
        
         
         
           This
           our
           right
           Worthy
           ,
           Sir
           
             Nathaniel
             ▪
          
        
         
           Who
           did
           not
           suffer
           
             guile
             in
             him
             to
             dwel
             ;
          
        
         
           
             But
             when
             our
          
           giddy-headed
           Nation
           
             run
          
        
         
           After
           strange
           
             Meteors
             ,
          
           he
           most
           like
           the
           
             Sun
             ,
          
        
         
           Kept
           on
           his
           course
           in
           
             Justice
             ,
             Truth
             ,
          
           and
           
             Right
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           shin'd
           more
           clearly
           in
           
             this
             sable
             night
             .
          
        
         
           Rend
           now
           your
           hearts
           ,
           and
           be
           confounded
           all
           ,
        
         
           That
           love
           the
           truth
           ,
           at
           
             Barnardistons
          
           fall
           ;
        
         
           
             When
          
           such
           strong
           pillars
           
             from
          
           the
           Church
           are
           ta'ne
        
         
           VVhat
           can
           we
           judge
           
             in
             reason
          
           to
           remaine
           ,
        
         
           But
           desolation
           ?
           yet
           great
           
             Jove
          
           can
           still
        
         
           Extract
           
             much
             good
          
           from
           greatest
           sence
           
             of
             ill
             .
          
        
         
           Near
           
             forty
             years
          
           hath
           he
           most
           glorious
           been
           ,
        
         
           
             In
          
           strengthning
           vertue
           ,
           
             and
          
           suppressing
           sin
           ;
        
         
           Of
           all
           that
           knew
           him
           was
           he
           most
           
             renown'd
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           now
           by
           God
           that
           made
           him
           
             is
             he
             crown'd
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           in
           
             immortal
             glory
          
           shall
           remaine
           ,
        
         
           Until
           that
           day
           that
           
             all
             shal
             rise
             againe
             :
          
        
         
           And
           then
           with
           
             Christ
             his
             Saviour
          
           shal
           appear
           ,
        
         
           To
           judge
           all
           those
           that
           were
           
             Apostates
          
           here
           .
        
         
           
             John
             Soame
             ,
             
               Gent.
               
            
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           on
           the
           much
           lamented
           death
           of
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           VVEre
           I
           indued
           with
           that
           
             learned
             skil
             ,
          
        
         
           
             To
             mourn
          
           thy
           doleful
           
             death
             ,
          
           with
           such
           a
           quil
        
         
           As
           might
           it
           
             grave
             in
             lines
             ,
          
           as
           faire
           ,
           as
           those
        
         
           Thou
           wrot'st
           
             thy
             noble
             life
          
           in
           ;
           and
           compose
        
         
         
           Each
           
             sillable
          
           by
           so
           exact
           a
           square
           ,
        
         
           As
           that
           whereby
           thy
           
             actions
          
           formed
           were
           ;
        
         
           Then
           might
           I
           such
           an
           Elegie
           invent
           ,
        
         
           As
           should
           thy
           death
           unto
           the
           life
           lament
           ;
        
         
           Then
           such
           sad
           accents
           ,
           such
           a
           doleful
           verse
        
         
           I
           might
           breath
           forth
           ,
           as
           might
           become
           
             the
             herse
          
        
         
           Of
           a
           
             Nathaniel
             ,
          
           and
           might
           fully
           tell
           ,
        
         
           How
           sad
           's
           the
           
             death
          
           of
           one
           that
           
             liv'd
          
           so
           well
           :
        
         
           How
           as
           th'
           Inamorato
           of
           
             Sol's
          
           ray
           ,
        
         
           
             The
          
           Heliotrope
           ,
           
             which
             in
             the
          
           lightsome
           day
        
         
           Displayes
           its
           widest
           beauty
           
             to
             his
             light
             ,
          
        
         
           Doth
           
             closed
             mourn
          
           his
           absence
           in
           the
           night
           :
        
         
           So
           doth
           the
           Country
           ,
           which
           
             with
             great
             desire
          
        
         
           VVont
           to
           receive
           th'
           
             influence
          
           of
           that
           fire
        
         
           Of
           prudent
           Piety
           ,
           which
           from
           thy
           brest
        
         
           Sent
           forth
           
             most
             glittering
             rayes
             ,
          
           but
           now
           (
           th'
           art
           blest
        
         
           Else-where
           with
           light
           
             more
             glorious
             ,
          
           and
           dear
           )
        
         
           Lament
           thy
           setting
           
             in
             our
          
           Haemisphear
           .
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           
             an
             Art
          
           my
           ruder
           Pen
           can't
           reach
           ,
        
         
           To
           mourn
           thee
           as
           
             becomes
             ;
          
           and
           so
           to
           teach
        
         
           
             Strangers
          
           to
           know
           thy
           
             pious
             worth
             ,
          
           and
           see
        
         
           How
           great
           a
           joy
           all
           good
           men
           lost
           in
           thee
           .
        
         
           Besides
           ,
           to
           speake
           so
           highly
           
             in
             thy
             praise
             ,
          
        
         
           
             As
             thy
             true
             worth
          
           requires
           ,
           may
           chance
           to
           raise
           ▪
        
         
           In
           some
           mens
           mindes
           
             mistrust
             of
             flattery
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           thy
           
             due
             praise
          
           be
           thought
           
             Hyperboly
             .
          
        
         
           But
           since
           perhaps
           :
           it
           might
           be
           thought
           
             a
             crime
             ,
          
        
         
           Now
           to
           be
           
             wholly
             dumb
             ,
          
           at
           such
           a
           time
           ,
        
         
           When
           so
           renown'd
           a
           
             Heroe
          
           cals
           to
           speake
           ;
        
         
           Somewhat
           I
           'le
           say
           ,
           though
           but
           in
           
             accents
             weak
             ,
          
        
         
           
             And
             yet
          
           but
           little
           wil
           I
           speake
           ,
           
             and
             that
          
        
         
           
             Not
             in
             thy
             praise
             ;
          
           (
           Reader
           ,
           do'st
           start
           hereat
           ?
           )
        
         
           
             The
             reason
             's
             this
             ;
          
           Not
           that
           I
           envie
           thee
           ,
        
         
           That
           ,
           which
           is
           known
           of
           all
           ,
           thy
           
             due
          
           to
           be
           ;
        
         
         
           But
           that
           thy
           worth
           far
           doth
           my
           Pen
           transcend
           .
        
         
           
             And
          
           he
           that
           poorly
           praise
           doth
           discommend
           .
        
         
           Not
           to
           disparage
           then
           
             thy
             worth
          
           in
           Layes
           ,
        
         
           Too
           meane
           by
           far
           for
           
             thy
             deserved
             praise
             :
          
        
         
           All
           that
           I
           le
           say
           is
           only
           this
           ,
           to
           tell
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           worth
           needs
           not
           my
           praise
           ,
           't
           is
           known
           so
           well
           .
        
         
           
             Ralph
             Garnons
             .
             
               M.
               A.
               
            
          
        
      
       
         
           On
           the
           Right
           Worshipful
           and
           ever
           honoured
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           
             A
          
           Grave
           !
           
             a
          
           Funeral
           !
           
             my
             Muse
             ,
          
           no
           toyes
        
         
           
             Become
             this
             Scene
             ,
          
           no
           fancies
           like
           decoyes
           ,
        
         
           
             To
             tangle
             Readers
          
           in
           a
           pleasing
           maze
        
         
           
             Of
          
           lofty
           words
           ,
           
             wrapt
             in
          
           Luxuriant
           phrase
           :
        
         
           These
           are
           not
           
             seasonable
             ,
          
           now
           our
           verse
        
         
           Can
           nought
           else
           speake
           ,
           or
           think
           of
           ,
           
             but
             a
             herse
             .
          
        
         
           That
           
             Macedonian
             Trumpet
             ,
          
           that
           did
           bring
        
         
           
             Memento
             mori
          
           to
           a
           mighty
           King
           ,
        
         
           Instead
           of
           
             Ave
             Phillip
             ,
          
           late
           hath
           brought
        
         
           Vs
           doleful
           newes
           ,
           a
           sad
           disastrous
           thought
           .
        
         
           
             Stand
             off
             ,
          
           come
           not
           too
           near
           ,
           
             give
             aire
             ,
          
           give
           breath
           ,
        
         
           I
           faint
           to
           speake
           of
           late
           
             unweildy
             death
             ,
          
        
         
           Snatcht
           not
           a
           
             Philip
             ,
          
           but
           
             Nathaniel
          
           hence
           ,
        
         
           An
           
             Israelite
             ,
          
           that
           of
           no
           
             guile
          
           had
           sence
           ,
        
         
           One
           whose
           rare
           piety
           that
           's
           much
           admir'd
           ,
        
         
           Speake
           him
           
             an
             earthly
             Angel
             ,
          
           though
           attir'd
        
         
           In
           Robes
           of
           Flesh
           ;
           
             one
             of
             a
          
           higher
           
             mind
             ,
          
        
         
           Then
           could
           to
           
             lower
          
           regions
           be
           confin'd
           ,
        
         
           
             Whose
          
           heaven-born
           soul
           
             did
             still
          
           in
           contemplation
           ,
        
         
           Passe
           o're
           those
           
             heavenly
             joyes
             ,
          
           whose
           adumbration
        
         
         
           He
           fully
           now
           enjoyes
           ;
           those
           pleasing
           shades
           ,
        
         
           In
           sweet
           
             Elysi'um
             ,
          
           where
           joy
           never
           fades
           :
        
         
           Those
           Hills
           of
           
             Solyma
             ,
          
           where
           purest
           streams
        
         
           Make
           
             glad
          
           the
           
             region
          
           of
           that
           
             Sun
             ,
          
           whose
           beams
        
         
           Those
           
             healing
             wings
             ,
          
           continually
           refresh
        
         
           The
           
             Sacred
             Pilgrim
             ,
          
           when
           
             dis-rob'd
          
           of
           flesh
           :
        
         
           There
           rests
           this
           holy
           
             Saint
             ;
          
           what
           heretofore
        
         
           He
           could
           but
           see
           in
           
             part
             ,
          
           and
           wish
           for
           more
           ;
        
         
           
           H'ath
           now
           attain'd
           :
           O
           rare
           
             state
             of
             perfection
             ,
          
        
         
           
             The
             end
             of
          
           hope
           ,
           joyes
           center
           ,
           Saints
           election
           .
        
         
           Nor
           did
           his
           
             strict
             religion
          
           onely
           speak
        
         
           His
           
             Peerless
          
           worth
           ,
           which
           we
           (
           alas
           )
           poor
           ,
           weak
           ,
        
         
           And
           crazy
           mortals
           ,
           knew
           not
           how
           to
           prize
           :
        
         
           But
           he
           had
           
             gifts
          
           more
           obvious
           to
           our
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           
             Love
          
           to
           his
           Country
           ,
           whose
           affairs
           he
           minded
        
         
           With
           so
           
             great
             care
             ,
          
           that
           none
           but
           
             envy-blinded
          
        
         
           Can
           cease
           
             condoling
             him
             ,
          
           whose
           
             name
          
           who
           hears
        
         
           In
           future
           times
           shall
           
             steep
             himself
          
           in
           tears
           :
        
         
           And
           like
           sad
           
             Niob
             '
             ,
          
           standing
           o'er
           his
           Tomb
           ,
        
         
           Shall
           kiss
           the
           
             Earth
             ,
          
           in
           whose
           most
           happy
           Womb
        
         
           He
           lies
           
             inclos'd
             ;
          
           and
           to
           his
           sacred
           
             Urn
             ,
          
        
         
           As
           to
           a
           
             Delphick
             Oracle
          
           shall
           turn
           .
        
         
           But
           stop
           my
           
             Muse
             ,
          
           his
           
             V●rtues
          
           so
           transcend
        
         
           Thy
           weak
           expression
           ,
           that
           perhaps
           i'
           th'
           end
        
         
           Thy
           minde
           may
           be
           
             mis-deem'd
             ,
          
           and
           some
           may
           raise
        
         
           An
           argument
           against
           thee
           from
           thy
           
             praise
             :
          
        
         
           Better
           forbear
           to
           speak
           ,
           then
           speaking
           wrong
        
         
           The
           harmless
           dead
           ,
           to
           whom
           all
           
             praise
             belong
             :
          
        
         
           Condole
           we
           then
           his
           loss
           ,
           his
           Vertues
           pass
           ,
        
         
           Prais'd
           by
           themselves
           ,
           engrav'd
           in
           firmest
           Brass
           ,
        
         
           Which
           time
           shall
           ne'er
           wear
           out
           ,
           nor
           
             malice
             blot
             ,
          
        
         
           But
           
             Fame
          
           shall
           render
           blameless
           
             without
             spot
             .
          
        
         
           Yet
           this
           admit
           ,
           the
           
             more
          
           his
           
             Vertues
          
           shone
           ,
        
         
           Our
           loss
           the
           
             greater
             ,
          
           and
           the
           
             more
          
           our
           moan
           .
        
         
         
           O
           for
           a
           
             Mount
             of
             Tears
          
           to
           sleep
           upon
           ,
        
         
           Acis
           
             or
          
           Biblis
           ,
           
             for
             a
          
           Helicon
           :
        
         
           
             But
             wishes
             boot
             not
             ,
          
           clear
           we
           then
           our
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           He
           's
           singing
           now
           triumphant
           
             Elegies
             .
          
        
         
           Whil'st
           we
           
             poor
             mortals
          
           groveling
           here
           below
           ,
        
         
           Fall
           short
           of
           that
           his
           
             praise
             ,
          
           we
           fain
           would
           show
           .
        
         
           This
           onely
           dare
           we
           own
           ,
           that
           for
           his
           Herse
           ,
        
         
           If
           
             fancy
          
           fail
           ,
           yet
           
             grief
          
           hath
           made
           a
           Verse
           .
        
         
           
             Abrah
             .
             Garnons
             ,
             
               M.
               A.
               
            
          
        
      
       
         
           The
           Offering
           of
           an
           Infant-Muse
           to
           the
           Memory
           of
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           YOu
           
             Sager
             Heads
             ,
          
           that
           do
           attend
           this
           Herse
           ,
        
         
           Accept
           the
           
             Homage
          
           of
           a
           
             Yonglings
          
           Verse
           .
        
         
           
             Tears
          
           are
           
             griefs
             rhetorick
             ,
          
           and
           a
           Childe
           though
           weak
           ,
        
         
           Knows
           how
           to
           
             weep
             ,
          
           before
           it
           learns
           to
           speak
           .
        
         
           I
           have
           my
           end
           ,
           although
           my
           stile
           be
           rude
           ;
        
         
           Who
           do
           not
           study
           
             wit
             ,
          
           but
           
             gratitude
             .
          
        
         
           This
           
             Noble
             Gentleman
             ,
          
           when
           first
           I
           came
        
         
           Into
           the
           world
           ,
           bestow'd
           on
           me
           my
           
             Name
             .
          
        
         
           Now
           he
           hath
           lately
           left
           the
           world
           ,
           shall
           I
        
         
           Foolishly
           modest
           ,
           suffer
           his
           to
           die
           ?
        
         
           What
           though
           far
           abler
           
             Pens
          
           applaud
           him
           ,
           yet
        
         
           They
           meant
           to
           pay
           their
           
             own
             ,
          
           and
           not
           my
           
             debt
             .
          
        
         
           His
           
             prayers
          
           for
           ,
           and
           
             favors
          
           to
           me
           shown
           ,
        
         
           No
           other
           
             Muse
          
           proclaims
           besides
           my
           own
           ,
        
         
           Which
           though
           a
           
             new-Born
             spark
             ,
          
           yet
           such
           a
           
             Name
             ,
          
        
         
           May
           quickly
           mount
           it
           up
           into
           a
           
             flame
             :
          
        
         
           A
           
             Name
          
           wherein
           you
           nothing
           
             mean
             ,
          
           can
           spy
        
         
           
             His
          
           Birth
           ,
           Place
           ,
           Person
           ,
           Graces
           ;
           
             all
             were
             high
          
        
         
         
           Whilest
           here
           :
           But
           now
           he
           in
           those
           
             heights
          
           doth
           dwell
           ,
        
         
           That
           nothing
           ,
           but
           an
           
             Angels
          
           tongue
           can
           tell
           .
        
         
           
             My
          
           Infant-Muse
           
             opprest
             with
             such
          
           bright
           glory
           ,
        
         
           
             Leaves
          
           flaming
           Seraphims
           
             to
             write
             his
          
           story
           .
        
         
           
             Nath.
             Owen
             .
             Anno
             Aetat.
             12o
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Obsequies
           to
           the
           Memory
           of
           Sir
           Nath.
           Barnardiston
           ,
           Kt.
           
        
         
           
             GIve
             leave
             (
             my
             
               Friends
            
             )
             unto
             this
             sable
             Herse
             ,
          
           
             
               To
               offer
               up
               a
            
             Tributary
             Verse
             :
          
           
             Even
             such
             ,
             as
             
               love
            
             and
             
               sorrow
            
             shall
             suggest
             :
          
           
             Sorrow
             
               ne'er
               made
               good
            
             Poet
             ,
             Love
             the
             best
             .
          
           
             
               O!
               how
               much
               rather
               ,
            
             if
             th'all
             ordering
             hand
          
           
             Of
             
               Providence
               Divine
            
             (
             which
             none
             withstand
             )
          
           
             Had
             so
             dispos'd
             ,
             I
             would
             have
             brought
             this
             day
          
           
             My
             
               salutary
               vows
               ;
            
             but
             now
             the
             way
          
           
             To
             joy
             's
             shut
             up
             :
             The
             
               scene
            
             which
             
               whylome
            
             we
          
           
             Thought
             
               Comick
               ,
            
             now
             ends
             in
             a
             
               Tragedy
               .
            
          
           
             Where
             were
             yee
             
               Galen
            
             and
             
               Hippocrates
               ?
            
          
           
             Thou
             
               Paracelsus
               ,
            
             who
             didst
             vainly
             please
          
           
             Thy self
             ,
             to
             boast
             with
             thine
             
               Elixar's
            
             art
          
           
             To
             make
             a
             man
             
               immortal
               ?
            
             could'st
             that
             part
          
           
             Have
             acted
             here
             ,
             or
             some
             years
             lusters
             more
             ,
          
           
             Have
             added
             to
             his
             lives
             lease
             ?
             on
             this
             score
             ,
          
           
             Like
             loyal
             
               Romans
            
             for
             
               Augustus
               ,
            
             we
          
           
             
               A
            
             during
             statue
             
               to
               thy
            
             memory
          
           
             Would
             have
             
               erected
               ;
            
             grav'd
             thy
             name
             in
             Brass
             ,
          
           
             Lasting
             to
             ages
             glory
             :
             But
             (
             alas
             !
             )
          
           
           
             
               Nor
            
             Themison
             ,
             
               nor
            
             Aesculapius
             ,
          
           
             Machaon
             
               thou
               ,
               nor
            
             Podalirius
             ,
          
           
             Mongst
             the
             
               Galenick
            
             Nation
             ,
             though
             you
             be
          
           
             Cheif
             
               Doctors
               ,
            
             could
             you
             bring
             a
             remedy
          
           
             To
             supersede
             this
             fate
             :
             That
             hand
             that
             gave
          
           
             This
             wound
             (
             
               Achilles
            
             like
             )
             could
             onely
             save
             :
          
           
             Then
             which
             no
             other
             
               weapon-salve
               ,
            
             I
             know
             ,
          
           
             
               Nor
            
             universal
             medicine
             
               here
               below
               .
            
          
           
             He
             's
             therefore
             gone
             ,
             and
             we
             alive
             to
             see
             ,
          
           
             
               The
            
             Monument
             of
             our
             mortality
             ,
          
           
             His
             sacred
             reliques
             ;
             
               and
               remember
               what
            
          
           
             He
             was
             in
             's
             life
             ,
             and
             study
             to
             be
             that
             .
          
           
             But
             is
             there
             
               any
            
             that
             will
             undertake
             ,
          
           
             To
             write
             his
             copy
             ;
             I
             fear
             his
             hand
             will
             shake
             ,
          
           
             Or
             's
             
               Pensil's
            
             dull
             ,
             or
             some
             fault
             in
             his
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             'l
             indent
             deform'd
             obliquities
             .
          
           
             Yet
             his
             
               clear
               eye
               ,
            
             and
             
               steady
               hand
            
             ne'er
             drew
             ,
          
           
             But
             
               strait
               lines
            
             from
             the
             center
             ,
             for
             he
             knew
          
           
             And
             learn'd
             from
             such
             a
             
               master
               ,
            
             who
             alone
          
           
             Could
             guide
             the
             
               hand
            
             and
             
               hearts
            
             position
             .
          
           
             And
             so
             he
             guided
             was
             ,
             that
             few
             are
             seen
          
           
             On
             this
             worlds
             Theater
             ,
             or
             er'st
             have
             been
          
           
             Equal
             
               proficients
            
             with
             him
             in
             this
             art
             ,
          
           
             This
             
               heavenly
               art
            
             of
             living
             well
             ;
             which
             part
          
           
             He
             much
             adorn'd
             ,
             and
             't
             was
             his
             
               greatest
               grace
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             worth's
             
               embellishment
            
             in
             such
             a
             place
             ,
          
           
             As
             God
             had
             set
             him
             ,
             to
             be
             
               good
            
             as
             
               great
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Goodness
            
             and
             
               greatness
               ,
            
             both
             well
             here
             did
             meet
          
           
             In
             him
             .
             How
             soon
             began
             !
             for
             in
             his
             prime
          
           
             He
             chose
             (
             not
             like
             
               luxurious
               youth
            
             )
             his
             time
          
           
             
               To
               spend
               in
               
               th'ages
            
             wanton
             revellings
             ;
          
           
             But
             sought
             that
             
               merchandize
               ,
            
             which
             onely
             brings
          
           
             That
             great
             
               advantage
            
             (
             after
             all
             his
             care
          
           
             And
             travel
             )
             now
             possess'd
             ,
             without
             all
             fear
          
           
           
             Of
             loosing
             :
             he
             by
             
               firm
               indenture
            
             bound
          
           
             Himself
             to
             God
             ,
             not
             for
             years
             ;
             for
             he
             found
          
           
             They
             might
             
               expire
               ,
            
             and
             's
             Fathers
             legacy
          
           
             Was
             more
             then
             this
             poor
             worlds
             
               annuity
               .
            
          
           
             Therefore
             in
             graces
             tenure
             ,
             humbly
             he
          
           
             
               Cast
            
             anchor
             
               unto
               all
            
             eternity
             .
          
           
             
               And
               now
               his
            
             torn
             ,
             
               and
            
             weather-beaten
             bark
          
           
             
               With
               the
               worlds
            
             storms
             
               and
            
             tempests
             ,
             like
             the
             ark
          
           
             Puts
             int'
             a
             
               quiet
               harbor
               ,
            
             even
             as
             that
          
           
             Rested
             upon
             the
             Mountain
             
               Ararat
               .
            
          
           
             He
             left
             this
             world
             i'
             th'
             storm
             by
             
               Land
            
             and
             
               Sea
               ,
            
          
           
             Yet
             he
             a
             
               calm
            
             and
             
               sweet
               tranquillity
            
          
           
             Found
             in
             himself
             ;
             as
             one
             that
             
               swom
               to
               Land
               ,
            
          
           
             Having
             scap'd
             
               shipwrack
               ,
            
             doth
             i'
             th'
             
               Harbor
            
             stand
          
           
             
               Safe
            
             and
             
               secure
               ;
            
             yet
             viewing
             with
             sad
             eyes
          
           
             
               The
            
             Monuments
             
               of
            
             Neptunes
             
               cruelties
               :
            
          
           
             Or
             he
             whose
             ship
             from
             some
             
               far
               Countrey
            
             bound
             ,
          
           
             Laden
             with
             
               Gold
            
             and
             
               Spice
               ,
            
             at
             length
             hath
             found
          
           
             The
             
               wished
               Port
               ,
            
             prayes
             that
             his
             Friends
             may
             see
             ,
          
           
             The
             like
             returns
             
               advantage
               ;
            
             so
             did
             he
             ,
          
           
             Having
             receiv'd
             his
             lading
             home
             secure
             ,
          
           
             Prayes
             God
             ,
             the
             
               States
            
             and
             
               Churches
            
             to
             ensure
             .
          
           
             But
             whil'st
             we
             minde
             his
             
               gain
               ,
            
             we
             value
             not
          
           
             Our
             
               loss
               ,
            
             nor
             can
             :
             The
             Saints
             indeed
             have
             got
          
           
             One
             that
             will
             bear
             a
             part
             with
             them
             ,
             whil'st
             we
          
           
             Are
             left
             to
             sing
             a
             doleful
             Elegie
             .
          
           
             To
             mourn
             ,
             becomes
             us
             well
             ;
             here
             needs
             no
             art
          
           
             To
             paint
             a
             
               tear
               ,
            
             that
             comes
             not
             from
             the
             heart
             :
          
           
             Or
             that
             we
             hire
             some
             ancient
             
               praefica'es
            
          
           
             
               To
               howl
               their
            
             well-dissembled
             nania's
             .
          
           
             For
             such
             sad
             Sables
             (
             
               Sorrows
               Livery
            
             )
          
           
             Well
             may
             they
             hold
             a
             
               semblance
            
             to
             the
             
               eye
               ,
            
          
           
             Of
             some
             thing
             which
             we
             see
             ;
             but
             for
             the
             rest
          
           
             Behinde
             the
             Curtain
             ,
             
               Cannot
               be
               exprest
               .
            
          
           
           
             So
             did
             that
             
               Artist
            
             when
             he
             came
             to
             draw
          
           
             
               The
            
             Parents
             
               grief
               ,
               for
            
             Iphigenia
             ,
          
           
             Cast
             o'er
             a
             veil
             ,
             (
             the
             rest
             within
             made
             good
          
           
             By
             an
             
               Aposiopesis
            
             understood
             )
          
           
             Then
             draw
             the
             
               Curtain
            
             here
             (
             my
             
               Muse
            
             )
             and
             tell
             ,
          
           
             The
             World
             thou
             can'st
             with
             no
             
               lines
            
             parallel
             ,
          
           
             Their
             grief
             ,
             whose
             
               honor
            
             't
             was
             once
             to
             have
             had
             ,
          
           
             A
             
               Wife
               ,
            
             or
             
               childes
            
             relation
             here
             :
             So
             sad
          
           
             
               Appears
               the
               Scene
               ,
            
             There
             's
             none
             that
             bears
             apart
          
           
             A
             mourning
             robe
             ,
             without
             a
             mourning
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Yet
             once
             again
             (
             thou
             
               Cypress
            
             tree
             )
          
           
             Let
             me
             now
             pluck
             a
             branch
             from
             thee
             ;
          
           
             Bitter
             constraint
             ,
             and
             saddest
             wo
             ,
          
           
             (
             
               Alas
            
             )
             compels
             me
             so
             to
             do
             .
          
           
             Thou
             wont'st
             not
             to
             receive
             a
             call
          
           
             To
             every
             vulgar
             funeral
             .
          
           
             We
             'll
             therefore
             not
             
               impropriate
            
          
           
             Thy
             custom
             ,
             since
             't
             is
             our
             sad
             fate
          
           
             To
             loose
             a
             
               Heroe
            
             of
             that
             worth
             ,
          
           
             As
             nature
             rarely
             bringeth
             forth
             .
          
           
             
               Mourn
               then
               ,
            
             for
             on
             this
             woful
             Beer
          
           
             Lies
             one
             ,
             that
             hath
             not
             left
             his
             
               Peer
               .
            
          
           
             For
             whom
             the
             
               Heavens
            
             (
             as
             if
             too
             long
             ,
          
           
             They
             had
             expected
             him
             among
          
           
             His
             
               Fellow
               Saints
            
             )
             at
             last
             have
             sent
          
           
             Now
             to
             compleat
             their
             Parl'ament
             .
          
        
         
           
             Saxa
             ruunt
             Mausoli
             invisa
             ,
             ruuntque
             Colossi
          
           
             Mole
             sua
             ;
             &
             si
             quae
             porrò
             Monumenta
             vetustas
          
           
             Condidit
             ,
             illa
             abolevit
             edax
             ;
             vel
             quicquid
             Apelles
          
           
             Pinxerit
             ,
             aut
             si
             quid
             Lysippus
             duxerit
             olim
             ,
          
           
           
             Apparent
             nusquàm
             (
             ne
             subsistente
             ruinâ
             .
             )
          
           
             At
             meliora
             tibi
             pietas
             Monumenta
             locavit
             ,
          
           
             Quippe
             fides
             tua
             clara
             (
             aevo
             rarissima
             nostro
             )
          
           
             Te
             petrae
             inseruit
             .
             Titulo
             te
             posse
             carere
          
           
             Ergone
             Marmoreo
             ?
             licet
             aut
             componere
             parvis
          
           
             Maxima
             ?
             Namque
             Choro
             coelesti
             ascriptus
             iniquum
          
           
             Ut
             remeare
             velis
             divisis
             mente
             Britannis
             .
          
           
             Qui
             tamen
             ,
             (
             et
             si
             nos
             tot
             blandimenta
             nepotes
          
           
             Chara
             reliquisti
             )
             superes
             ubi
             nulla
             cupido
          
           
             Invadet
             redeundi
             ,
             non
             si
             populusve
             senatus
          
           
             Antiquum
             ad
             meritumque
             locum
             revocare
             potesset
             .
          
           
             Consociare
             tuis
             ,
             te
             suaviloquentior
             usquàm
          
           
             Nec
             fuerat
             dum
             tu
             fueras
             ,
             nec
             amantior
             ullus
          
           
             Qui
             potuit
             .
             Quoties
             dextram
             (
             Venerande
             )
             benignam
          
           
             Tu
             mihi
             ,
             quàm
             gratos
             amplexus
             saepe
             dedisti
             ,
          
           
             Nulli
             ementitos
             ?
             verus
             monitorque
             fidelis
          
           
             Idque
             frequens
             mihi
             ;
             cultor
             eras
             quia
             tu
             neque
             parens
          
           
             Numinis
             atque
             alios
             mecum
             suadere
             solebas
             .
          
           
             Oh
             quoties
             &
             quae
             nobis
             memoranda
             locutus
          
           
             Digna
             velut
             clavo
             maneant
             infixa
             trabali
             ?
          
           
             Nam
             neque
             tu
             quenquam
             vano
             sermone
             morari
             ,
          
           
             Pejorem
             solitus
             coram
             aut
             demittere
             tristem
             .
          
           
             Quos
             vultus
             ,
             quales
             vidi
             candore
             micantes
             !
          
           
             Atque
             oculos
             ?
             mihi
             quos
             spectare
             (
             heu
             non
             licet
             ultra
             .
             )
          
           
             At
             nunquam
             ?
             Oh
             nunquam
             nostras
             resonabit
             ad
             aures
          
           
             Vox
             antiqua
             sonos
             modulans
             mihi
             quàm
             bene
             notos
             :
          
           
             Nam
             mihi
             nunc
             superas
             heu
             dissociabilis
             ;
             oras
          
           
             Lenta
             nimis
             vela
             impellent
             suspiria
             nostra
          
           
             Hasce
             iterum
             infidas
             ,
             ut
             frustrà
             referre
             conemur
             .
          
           
             Ast
             ego
             quando
             quidem
             nobis
             te
             fata
             tulerunt
             ,
          
           
             O
             quàm
             te
             memorem
             ,
             &
             memorans
             suspiria
             ●undam
             ,
          
           
             Dum
             maestus
             reddam
             solennia
             vota
             Sepulchro
             .
          
        
         
           
             Joh.
             Clopton
             .
             
               Gent
               ▪
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           An
           Epicedium
           upon
           the
           death
           of
           that
           thrice
           worthy
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           ,
           eminent
           for
           Piety
           to
           God
           ,
           love
           to
           the
           Church
           ,
           and
           fidelity
           to
           his
           Country
           .
        
         
           IT
           's
           
             easie
          
           for
           to
           write
           an
           Elegie
        
         
           
             On
             common
             fates
             ,
          
           great
           sorrows
           stupifie
           ;
        
         
           A
           
             toe
          
           or
           
             finger
          
           lost
           ,
           we
           can
           complain
           ,
        
         
           But
           wounds
           receiv'd
           in
           
             liver
             ,
             heart
             ,
          
           or
           
             brain
             ,
          
        
         
           (
           The
           parts
           that
           be
           
             architectonical
          
           )
        
         
           Oppress
           the
           sence
           ,
           we
           should
           
             complain
          
           withall
           .
        
         
           
             A
             cask
             that
             nought
             ,
             but
          
           the
           light
           air
           doth
           hold
           ,
        
         
           Sounds
           far
           more
           shrilly
           ,
           then
           one
           
             fil'd
             with
             gold
             ;
          
        
         
           Fleet
           streams
           are
           clamorous
           ,
           
             the
             deepest
             joyes
          
        
         
           And
           sorrows
           ,
           their
           own
           
             depth
          
           do
           keep
           from
           noyse
           .
        
         
           Our
           losse
           so
           vast
           ,
           as
           would
           
             a
             country
          
           breake
           ,
        
         
           
             We
             want
             both
          
           help
           
             to
          
           bear
           ,
           
             and
          
           strength
           
             to
          
           speak
           .
        
         
           What
           is
           't
           to
           hear
           a
           
             wife
             ,
          
           or
           
             children
          
           cry
           ,
        
         
           Should
           such
           a
           
             father
             ,
          
           such
           a
           
             husband
          
           dye
           ?
        
         
           Or
           a
           few
           
             mournful
             Schollars
          
           make
           this
           moan
           ,
        
         
           Our-dear
           
             Mecaenas
             ,
          
           our
           best
           friend
           is
           gone
           ;
        
         
           Th'
           expences
           of
           a
           sorrow
           that
           's
           
             thus
             large
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Should
             be
             borne
             out
          
           at
           a
           whole
           Nations
           charge
           ;
        
         
           
             A
          
           publick
           taxe
           of
           grief
           ,
           
             whole
             subsidies
          
        
         
           Of
           tears
           ,
           and
           freely
           given
           ,
           wil
           scarce
           suffice
           .
        
         
           Where
           are
           you
           all
           ,
           who
           while
           he
           was
           alive
        
         
           Own'd
           none
           but
           him
           ,
           your
           representative
           ?
        
         
           Resound
           a
           
             Barm'stons
          
           name
           ,
           cannot
           that
           breath
        
         
           Which
           silenc'd
           other
           Rivals
           ,
           silence
           Death
           ?
        
         
           Shal
           
             the
             graves
             prison
          
           your
           free
           choyse
           prevent
           ,
        
         
           
             And
             break
             a
          
           priviledge
           of
           Parliament
           ?
        
         
         
           Tell
           him
           ,
           he
           hath
           your
           suffrages
           ,
           least
           we
        
         
           Judge
           
             you
             have
          
           lost
           your
           voyce
           ,
           
             as
             wel
             as
             he
             ;
          
        
         
           
             But
             since
          
           your
           tongues
           
             avail
             not
             ,
          
           let
           your
           eyes
        
         
           Discharge
           their
           last
           debt
           to
           his
           
             obsequies
             .
          
        
         
           Tears
           have
           a
           strong
           (
           
             though
             silent
          
           )
           eloquence
           ;
        
         
           You
           cannot
           
             speake
             ,
          
           yet
           
             sigh
          
           thus
           out
           your
           sence
           ,
        
         
           Our
           Patriot
           is
           dead
           ,
           who
           oft
           was
           known
           ,
        
         
           Saving
           our
           freedoms
           ,
           to
           have
           lost
           his
           own
           .
        
         
           From
           
             right
          
           who
           would
           
             not
             swerve
             ,
          
           or
           conscious
           wrest
           ,
        
         
           
             To
          
           please
           a
           side
           ,
           
             or
             serve
          
           an
           interest
           ;
        
         
           Who
           liv'd
           by
           rule
           Divine
           ,
           and
           human
           Laws
           ,
        
         
           
             And
             did
          
           not
           dread
           the
           power
           ,
           
             nor
          
           court
           th'
           applause
        
         
           Of
           the
           wilde
           multitude
           ,
           but
           firmly
           stood
        
         
           To
           his
           
             first
             principles
             ,
          
           and
           those
           were
           good
           ;
        
         
           And
           as
           his
           Tenents
           ,
           so
           we
           may
           be
           bold
        
         
           
             To
             say
             ,
          
           his
           honours
           
             and
          
           estate
           
             were
             old
             .
          
        
         
           H'was
           born
           to
           both
           ,
           had
           no
           need
           to
           desire
        
         
           To
           warm
           his
           hands
           ,
           by
           's
           neighbours
           house
           on
           fire
           .
        
         
           His
           plentiful
           revenues
           did
           not
           rise
        
         
           To
           higher
           rates
           ,
           since
           
             taxes
          
           and
           
             excise
             ;
          
        
         
           Fames
           trump
           
             sound
             's
             forth
             his
          
           ancestours
           renown
           ,
        
         
           When
           th'
           
             Henries
             ,
          
           and
           the
           
             Edwards
          
           wore
           the
           
             crown
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Mushrooms
             of
             Gentry
          
           can
           streight
           from
           a
           
             blew
          
        
         
           
             Be
             dipt
             in
             scarlet
             ,
          
           which
           is
           honours
           hue
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           in
           his
           
             birth
          
           and
           
             bloud
          
           he
           found
           a
           staine
           ,
        
         
           Till
           
             't
             was
             innobled
             ,
          
           and
           
             he
          
           born
           again
           .
        
         
           You
           
             reverend
             Divines
          
           go
           on
           to
           tell
        
         
           His
           following
           story
           ,
           whom
           he
           lov'd
           so
           wel
           .
        
         
           You
           are
           
             Gods
             Heraulds
             ,
          
           and
           by
           place
           design'd
           ,
        
         
           T'
           
             emblazon
          
           his
           most
           noble
           
             heav'n-born
          
           mind
           ;
        
         
           His
           faith
           most
           vigorous
           ,
           though
           crost
           by
           sence
           ,
        
         
           Could
           grasp
           a
           promise
           ,
           eye
           
             omnipotence
             ;
          
        
         
           Through
           the
           
             black
             clouds
             ,
          
           that
           'fore
           the
           
             Church
          
           were
           drawn
           ,
        
         
           He
           could
           fore-see
           her
           
             day
             was
             near
             to
             dawn
             .
          
        
         
         
           The
           rage
           of
           enemies
           now
           grown
           so
           stout
           ,
        
         
           He
           judg'd
           a
           
             blaze
             ,
          
           before
           their
           
             light
          
           went
           out
           ;
        
         
           His
           
             zeal
          
           tow'ring
           aloft
           to
           heavenly
           things
           ,
        
         
           
             Yet
             was
          
           discreet
           ,
           had
           eyes
           ,
           as
           wel
           as
           wings
           ;
        
         
           Humble
           in
           height
           of
           place
           ,
           
             troubles
             he
             knew
             ,
          
        
         
           Though
           great
           ,
           yet
           just
           ;
           by
           bearing
           ,
           to
           subdue
           .
        
         
           His
           love
           to
           Christ
           ,
           the
           
             Church
             ,
             shone
          
           bright
           as
           day
           ,
        
         
           
             Ireland
          
           can
           witnesse
           ,
           yea
           
             America
             :
          
        
         
           In
           all
           these
           he
           enjoy'd
           the
           name
           ,
           and
           
             stile
          
        
         
           Of
           a
           true
           Israelite
           ,
           and
           free
           from
           guile
           ,
        
         
           Though
           not
           from
           sin
           ,
           yet
           in
           a
           Gospel
           sence
           ,
        
         
           Sincerity
           is
           counted
           innocence
           .
        
         
           This
           ,
           at
           his
           death
           ,
           caus'd
           him
           such
           peace
           within
           ,
        
         
           
             For
          
           death
           
             scares
          
           none
           ,
           
             but
             where
          
           it
           meets
           with
           sin
           .
        
         
           His
           
             Noble
             Lady
          
           now
           disconsolate
           ,
        
         
           Like
           a
           
             true
             Turtle
             ,
          
           which
           hath
           lost
           her
           
             Mate
             ,
          
        
         
           
             And
             sad
             posterity
          
           known
           by
           their
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           We
           do
           not
           here
           invite
           to
           
             simpathize
             ;
          
        
         
           'T
           were
           cruelty
           to
           straine
           a
           
             bleeding
          
           sore
           ,
        
         
           Instead
           of
           stanching
           to
           provoke
           it
           more
           .
        
         
           Oh
           ,
           dry
           your
           tears
           up
           ,
           whilst
           you
           stil
           
             complain
             ;
          
        
         
           You
           only
           mind
           
             your
             loss
             ,
          
           but
           not
           
             his
             gain
             ;
          
        
         
           Were
           't
           not
           more
           love
           for
           to
           rejoyce
           ,
           as
           he
        
         
           Doth
           there
           ,
           then
           to
           wish
           him
           our
           misery
           ?
        
         
           Repine
           not
           at
           his
           
             change
             ,
          
           would
           you
           again
        
         
           
             Hear
             him
          
           complaining
           
             under
          
           sin
           ,
           
             and
          
           pain
           ?
        
         
           We
           in
           retired
           corners
           melt
           our
           
             eyes
          
        
         
           In
           
             tears
             ,
          
           and
           breath
           our
           
             spirits
          
           out
           in
           
             sighs
             ,
          
        
         
           Whilst
           he
           in
           glory
           is
           
             triumphant
             ;
          
           where
        
         
           He
           never
           hears
           a
           
             groan
             ,
          
           nor
           sees
           a
           
             tear
             .
          
        
         
           Our
           
             Muse
          
           sings
           nought
           but
           
             Elegies
             ,
          
           his
           tongue
        
         
           Is
           now
           a chanting
           forth
           
             a
             marriage
             song
             .
          
        
         
           Grieve
           not
           at
           his
           new
           honour
           lately
           sent
           ,
        
         
           
             To
             sit
             i
             th'
          
           upper
           house
           of
           Parliament
           ,
        
         
         
           where
           all
           three
           States
           agree
           ,
           and
           none
           doth
           strive
        
         
           For
           Priviledges
           ,
           
             or
          
           Prerogative
           ;
        
         
           Before
           
             whose
          
           bar
           other
           great
           Courts
           
             shal
             come
             ,
          
        
         
           To
           
             give
             up
          
           their
           accounts
           ,
           and
           hear
           their
           doom
           :
        
         
           In
           this
           the
           worlds
           
             supream
             just
             Council
             ,
          
           none
        
         
           Can
           cause
           ;
           or
           fear
           a
           
             dissolution
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ergo
             triumphatis
             inferni
             finibus
             ,
             ipsâ
          
           
             Morte
             exarmatâ
             ,
             regna
             superna
             petis
             .
          
           
             Quid
             non
             fata
             regunt
             ?
             senio
             monumenta
             fatiscunt
             ;
          
           
             Ipsaque
             cernuntur
             posse
             sepulchra
             mori
             :
          
           
             Sed
             pietas
             &
             rara
             sides
             patriaeque
             cupido
          
           
             Fervida
             vicerunt
             jura
             superba
             necis
             .
          
           
             Dignum
             hunc
             laude
             virum
             ,
             lex
             ,
             plebs
             ,
             ecclesia
             ,
             cleru●
             ,
          
           
             Catera
             si
             taceas
             ,
             vivere
             musa
             jubet
             .
          
           
             Cistula
             diffringi
             potuit
             ,
             sed
             gemma
             superstes
          
           
             Usque
             nitens
             ,
             nullo
             est
             interitura
             die
             .
          
           
             Non
             is
             vana
             fuit
             ingentis
             nominis
             umbra
             ,
          
           
             Praemia
             sed
             meritis
             fama
             minora
             dedit
             .
          
           
             Quem
             non
             prava
             jubens
             irati
             principis
             ardor
             ,
          
           
             Non
             populi
             rabies
             mente
             quatit
             solida
             .
          
           
             Perstitit
             ut
             rupes
             variis
             vexata
             procellis
             ,
          
           
             Fixa
             basi
             firma
             ,
             quae
             tamen
             usque
             stetit
             .
          
           
             Heu
             !
             vereor
             ne
             haec
             magna
             domus
             suffulta
             columnis
             ,
          
           
             Tam
             validis
             ,
             ruptis
             hisce
             ,
             misella
             cadat
             .
          
        
         
           
             Joh.
             Owen
             .
             Rect.
             Wrat
             .
             par
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           the
           Memory
           of
           that
           renowned
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           Nath.
           Barnardiston
           ,
        
         
           
             LOok
             as
             the
             
               Heliotrope
            
             the
             Sun's
             lov'd
             flower
             ,
          
           
             That
             spreads
             
               the
               yellow
               curtain
            
             of
             her
             bower
          
           
             At
             his
             fair
             rising
             ,
             
               closes
               it
               again
            
          
           
             When
             he
             declineth
             westward
             to
             the
             main
             :
          
           
             Ev'n
             so
             should
             we
             ,
             (
             our
             
               Phoebus
            
             gone
             to
             bed
             ,
             )
          
           
             Shut
             in
             our
             joyes
             ,
             and
             hang
             a
             drooping
             head
             :
          
           
             
               Our
               lips
               in
            
             sables
             
               dresse
               ,
            
             close
             mourners
             
               all
               ,
            
          
           
             Our
             tongues
             are
             to
             pronounce
             a
             funerall
             ;
          
           
             A
             
               Barmston's
            
             funerall
             ;
             recall
             that
             name
             ,
          
           
             A
             
               name
               so
               old
               ,
            
             't
             wil
             fit
             the
             
               trump
            
             of
             fame
             ;
          
           
             A
             
               name
               too
               heavie
            
             for
             a
             slender
             quil
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             very
             
               echo
            
             would
             a
             
               Nation
            
             fill
             ;
          
           
             A
             
               name
               so
               good
               ,
            
             posterity
             may
             run
          
           
             Division
             on
             that
             name
             ,
             
               till
               time
               were
               done
               .
            
          
           
             Pardon
             (
             
               great
               Sir
            
             )
             we
             cannot
             speak
             thy
             worth
             ,
          
           
             
               Apollo's
            
             tongue-ty'd
             ,
             and
             must
             
               lisp
            
             it
             forth
             ;
          
           
             To
             score
             each
             vertue
             on
             thy
             
               noble
               tombe
            
          
           
             Would
             strike
             
               invention
               ,
            
             and
             the
             
               Muses
            
             dumbe
             .
          
           
             What
             
               Quire
               of
               wel-breath'd
               Lungs
            
             screw'd
             ne'r
             
               so
               high
               ,
            
          
           
             Can
             reach
             the
             
               Ela
            
             of
             that
             harmony
             ,
          
           
             That
             did
             
               concenter
            
             in
             thy
             pious
             brest
             ,
          
           
             Warb'ling
             forth
             
               Airs
               ,
            
             such
             as
             the
             
               Sphears
            
             might
             feast
             ;
          
           
             
               Sweet
               consort
               !
            
             where
             the
             
               Graces
            
             tune
             their
             throats
             ,
          
           
             And
             vertues
             chant
             their
             
               Polyphonian
            
             notes
             ,
          
           
             
               Striving
               t'
               excel
               in
            
             those
             diviner
             Layes
             ,
          
           
             And
             crown
             their
             Master
             with
             
               coelestial
            
             bayes
             .
          
           
             
               But
               oh
               !
            
             we
             lack
             an
             
               Orpheus
            
             in
             our
             eares
          
           
             
               That
               might
               distinguish
            
             (
             they
             are
             stopt
             with
             tears
             )
          
           
           
           
           
             Each
             lofty
             straine
             ;
             each
             
               Rapsody
            
             resound
             ,
          
           
             And
             take
             each
             
               quaver
            
             at
             the
             first
             rebound
             ;
          
           
             Our
             sence
             is
             dul
             ,
             and
             cannot
             comprehend
          
           
             The
             words
             they
             breath'd
             ,
             unless
             his
             Ghost
             do
             send
          
           
             A
             
               key
            
             t'
             unlock
             the
             
               closet
            
             of
             his
             heart
             ,
          
           
             (
             Which
             may
             their
             language
             to
             our
             eyes
             impart
             )
          
           
             We
             must
             dispair
             to
             read
             those
             
               Heav'n-borne
               tones
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             be
             content
             to
             spel
             their
             
               minde
            
             in
             groans
             .
          
           
             Sure
             't
             was
             his
             
               Musick
               act
               ,
            
             he
             's
             gone
             from
             hence
          
           
             
               To
            
             Heav'ns-Kings
             Chappel
             
               there
               for
               to
            
             commence
          
           
             Doctor
             
               in
            
             glory
             ,
             and
             hath
             left
             us
             here
          
           
             To
             celebrate
             
               his
               feast
               ,
            
             our
             funeral
             chear
             .
          
           
             Oh!
             how
             
               his
            
             consort
             ,
             and
             
               his
            
             mourful
             train
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Cristal
             cisterns
             broach
             ,
             draw
             ,
             tun
             again
             ,
          
           
             Brim
             full
             with
             tears
             ,
             each
             
               tender
               eye
            
             o'
             reflows
             ,
          
           
             And
             proves
             a
             running
             banquet
             in
             the
             close
             .
          
           
             That
             friend
             ,
             who
             brings
             a
             pallate
             in
             
               his
               eyes
               ,
            
          
           
             May
             fill
             his
             stomach
             at
             these
             obsequies
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             our
             dear
             
               Mecaenas
            
             leads
             the
             way
             ,
          
           
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               ;
               enough
               ,
            
             our
             sorrows
             cannot
             stay
             :
          
           
             The
             slow-pac'd
             Mourners
             wait
             upon
             the
             herse
             ,
          
           
             And
             teach
             their
             feet
             to
             tread
             
               elegiac
               verse
               :
            
          
           
             The
             vertues
             which
             were
             
               inmates
            
             in
             his
             brest
             ,
          
           
             Hover
             about
             ,
             now
             they
             have
             lost
             their
             nest
             ;
          
           
             And
             fear
             lest
             they
             who
             had
             a
             cage
             of
             gold
          
           
             Be
             forc'd
             to
             wander
             (
             charity's
             so
             cold
             )
          
           
             
               Nay
               beg
               for
               harbour
               ,
            
             woo
             each
             heart
             they
             meet
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             find
             no
             lodging
             but
             a
             winding-sheet
             .
          
           
             Unhappy
             hand
             of
             fate
             ,
             that
             went
             about
          
           
             To
             make
             the
             
               holes
            
             whereat
             these
             
               Birds
               flew
               out●
            
          
           
             These
             pretty
             
               Phil'meles
            
             hop
             from
             flag
             to
             flag
             ,
          
           
             Filling
             th'
             air
             with
             
               sweetness
               ,
            
             as
             they
             wag
          
           
             Their
             lovely
             wings
             ,
             each
             eare
             with
             
               elogies
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             thus
             extol
             their
             patron
             to
             the
             skies
             .
          
           
           
             VVhat
             
               soaring
               pinion's
            
             able
             to
             expresse
          
           
             That
             wel
             ground
             
               constancy
               ,
            
             the
             sole
             impresse
          
           
             That
             rul'd
             thy
             actions
             ,
             and
             as
             firmly
             stood
          
           
             As
             doth
             the
             
               Oke
            
             the
             Monarch
             of
             the
             wood
             ;
          
           
             VVhose
             stately
             towring
             top
             scorns
             to
             strike
             sayl
             ,
          
           
             (
             Like
             to
             the
             Poplar
             )
             to
             each
             
               whiffling
               gale
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             dance
             a
             
               quaver
            
             with
             a
             trembling
             bough
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             
               Boreas
            
             plays
             a
             
               crochet
            
             on
             his
             brow
             ?
          
           
             Men
             now
             adays
             in
             such
             a
             posture
             stand
             ,
          
           
             That
             's
             ready
             to
             receive
             each
             base
             command
             :
          
           
             
               Blow
               what
               wind
               wil
               ,
            
             like
             the
             wind-serving
             Vane
             ,
          
           
             They
             wil
             comply
             ,
             then
             as
             you
             were
             again
             .
          
           
             
               Mechanick
               spirits
            
             with
             their
             supple
             joynts
          
           
             Can
             ring
             the
             changes
             to
             a
             thousand
             points
             ,
          
           
             And
             please
             their
             ears
             too
             with
             that
             
               Stygian
               sound
               ,
            
          
           
             That
             's
             harsh
             enough
             ev'n
             
               Babel
            
             to
             confound
             .
          
           
             But
             
               Barm'ston
            
             moved
             in
             an
             higher
             sphear
             ,
          
           
             Disdain'd
             to
             crouch
             unto
             degenerous
             fear
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             the
             
               Hinges
            
             turn
             his
             Patron
             knee
             ,
          
           
             To
             dance
             the
             humours
             of
             
               disloyalty
               .
            
          
           
             
               Blush
               ,
               blush
            
             you
             servile
             natures
             ,
             that
             can
             mould
          
           
             Your
             very
             souls
             into
             what
             frame
             you
             would
             ;
          
           
             New
             cast
             your
             moulds
             ,
             and
             work
             your
             brittle
             clay
          
           
             To
             such
             a
             temper
             ,
             as
             with
             honour
             may
          
           
             Heav'ns-broad-backt
             Porter
             
               Atlas
            
             strength
             excel
             ,
          
           
             And
             under-prop
             the
             Churches
             cittadel
             ,
          
           
             And
             tott'ring
             state
             .
             A
             pillar
             we
             have
             lost
          
           
             By
             deaths
             unhappy
             stroke
             (
             our
             glory
             's
             crost
             )
          
           
             An
             ancient
             
               Pillar
               ,
            
             whose
             firm
             
               basis
            
             stood
          
           
             Supporters
             of
             the
             
               truth
               ,
            
             and
             what
             was
             good
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             when
             surrounded
             with
             the
             dangerous
             seas
          
           
             Of
             Errors
             ,
             ●●hisms
             ,
             and
             Metamorphoses
             ;
          
           
             Call
             it
             
               Seths
            
             pillar
             ,
             wonder
             ,
             and
             vouchsafe
          
           
             To
             read
             th'
             inscription
             in
             this
             Epitaph
             ;
          
           
           
             Behold
             
               Nathaniel
               ,
            
             sayes
             sacred
             style
             ,
          
           
             
               An
               Isra'lite
            
             indeed
             ,
             in
             
             
             no
             guile
             ;
          
           
             
               An
               holy
               vessel
            
             tunn'd
             with
             noble
             breath
             ,
          
           
             By
             Surgeons
             broacht
             ,
             to
             be
             drawn
             out
             
               by
               death
               .
            
          
           
             Mirrour
             of
             
               goodness
               ,
            
             and
             of
             
               constancy
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Gods
               gift
               ,
               our
               losse
               ,
            
             within
             this
             vault
             doth
             lye
             .
          
        
         
           
             Quòte
             ,
             maesta
             pedes
             ?
             an
             quò
             via
             ducit
             ,
             in
             aedem
             ?
          
           
             Musa
             ▪
             perantiquum
             quid
             petis
             aegra
             locum
             ?
          
           
             Fortè
             sepulchrales
             mens
             est
             invisere
             sedes
             ,
          
           
             Et
             veterum
             exuvias
             ;
             ossaque
             spectra
             times
             ?
          
           
             Flebilis
             illa
             refert
             ,
             vix
             ora
             in
             verba
             resolvens
             ,
          
           
             Heu
             !
             cineres
             magni
             nominis
             urna
             tenet
             !
          
           
             Et
             dictura
             fuit
             Barmston
             ,
             dolor
             occupat
             ora
             ,
          
           
             Sic
             vox
             ipsa
             haeret
             faucibus
             :
             exit
             Io.
          
           
             Tesequar
             ;
             at
             lentis
             pedibus
             modò
             currite
             versus
             ;
          
           
             Funeris
             ,
             heu
             ,
             maestos
             cogor
             inire
             modos
             !
          
           
             Stella
             serena
             poli
             cecidit
             jam
             gloria
             nostri
             ;
          
           
             O
             decus
             !
             O
             nostri
             stella
             serena
             poli
             !
          
           
             Hac
             signante
             viam
             ,
             non
             qualem
             erraticus
             ignis
          
           
             Nil
             metuit
             populus
             ,
             stagna
             profunda
             ,
             dolos
             .
          
           
             Infaustos
             nusquam
             radios
             diffudit
             in
             orbem
             ,
          
           
             Evomuitve
             iras
             ,
             bella
             nefanda
             ,
             neces
             .
          
           
             Indidit
             huic
             nullas
             vires
             natura
             malignas
             ,
          
           
             Quales
             cancer
             habet
             ,
             scorpius
             ,
             a●que
             canis
             .
          
           
             Quin
             dedit
             aspectus
             aequos
             frontemque
             benignam
             :
          
           
             Luce
             sub
             innocuâ
             non
             latet
             ulla
             lues
             .
          
           
             Scilicet
             innumeri
             fulgent
             hinc
             indè
             planetae
             ,
          
           
             Et
             nova
             dispergunt
             lumina
             :
             quale
             decus
             !
          
           
             Fert
             quasi
             stelliferam
             per
             dorsum
             stellio
             sphaeram
             :
          
           
             Sed
             cave
             ,
             tabificam
             pixida
             pectus
             habet
             .
          
           
             Lucifer
             Angelico
             zeli
             larvatus
             amictu
             ,
          
           
             Decipit
             incautum
             credulitate
             gregem
             .
          
           
           
             Augustam
             Phoebi
             faciem
             mortalibus
             aegris
             .
          
           
             Invida
             opaco
             aufert
             corpore
             Luna
             suo
             .
          
           
             Non
             tulit
             haec
             nostrum
             ,
             magno
             dum
             luxit
             in
             orbe
          
           
             Aequali
             peragens
             tramite
             Sydus
             iter
             .
          
           
             Meeoenas
             ,
             Trabeatus
             ,
             Eques
             ,
             Pascit
             ,
             Colit
             ,
             Ornat
             ,
          
           
             Clerum
             ,
             Jus
             ,
             Patriam
             ,
             Munere
             ,
             Voce
             ,
             Fide.
          
           
             Singula
             quid
             memorem
             ?
             Nil
             non
             laudabile
             Barmston
             ,
          
           
             Stemmata
             nobilitans
             ,
             stemmate
             prisca
             suo
             .
          
           
             Nubibus
             immunis
             translato
             est
             mortis
             Horizon
             ,
          
           
             Occasu
             claro
             ,
             pulchrior
             ortus
             erit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ra.
             Astel
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegy
           on
           the
           Death
           of
           the
           Right
           Worshipful
           Sir
           NATH.
           BARNARDISTON
           .
        
         
           
             IF
             
               Davids
            
             Worthies
             ,
             God
             himself
             recount
          
           
             
               In
            
             Writ
             Divine
             ,
             
               which
               doth
            
             humane
             surmount
             .
          
           
             If
             
               Christ
               ,
            
             the
             anointing
             of
             his
             holy
             Head
          
           
             Deign'd
             ,
             as
             an
             honor
             done
             t'
             his
             
               Funeral
               Bed
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             to
             requite
             this
             pretious
             
               Maries
            
             favor
             ,
          
           
             Embalm'd
             her
             
               name
            
             with
             Everlasting
             savor
             .
          
           
             Then
             do
             we
             not
             amiss
             ,
             this
             
               faithful
               Knight
            
          
           
             To
             praise
             and
             recommend
             ;
             if
             so
             me
             might
          
           
             Hereafter
             move
             to
             
               pious
               emulation
               ,
            
          
           
             Posterity
             
               by
            
             holy
             imitation
             .
          
           
             And
             not
             his
             
               Son
            
             alone
             ,
             to
             bear
             the
             Name
          
           
             And
             Heir
             his
             Grace
             ,
             but
             others
             gain
             the
             fame
          
           
             Of
             being
             like
             this
             er'st
             renowned
             
               Knight
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             equal
             and
             surpass
             him
             ,
             if
             they
             might
             .
          
           
           
             (
             Whil'st
             others
             envy
             )
             
               Ministers
            
             are
             bound
             ,
          
           
             His
             praise
             by
             Word
             ,
             and
             writing
             forth
             to
             sound
             .
          
           
             To
             him
             who
             did
             
               Prophets
            
             on
             Earth
             receive
             ,
          
           
             
               Prophets
            
             reward
             ,
             both
             God
             and
             Man
             shall
             give
             .
          
        
         
           
             Nathaniel
             don
             coruscus
             Barnardiston
          
           
             Vixit
             in
             hac
             terra
             nobilitatu●
             Eques
             .
          
           
             Vixisset
             semper
             ,
             regeret
             si
             stamina
             vita
          
           
             Vox
             populi
             ,
             cujus
             claruit
             auspic●it
             ▪
          
           
             Clarus
             ad
             invidiam
             ,
             quem
             sic
             neque
             dira
             simultas
          
           
             Flexit
             ab
             officio
             carcere
             ,
             sive
             mini●
             .
          
           
             Mista
             priora
             novis
             ,
             nec
             summa
             pericla
             movebant
          
           
             Obstrictum
             Patriae
             cum
             pietate
             Deo.
             
          
           
             Eripit
             hunc
             nobisque
             suit
             mors
             scaeva
             ,
             videmur
          
           
             Orbatam
             patriam
             flere
             ,
             perinde
             domum
             .
          
           
             Quem
             Deus
             indid
             sit
             ,
             rapuit
             mors
             sava
             ,
             queremur
             ,
          
           
             Non
             rapuit
             reddens
             officiosa
             Deo.
             
          
           
             Ossa
             quidem
             nobis
             anima
             ascendente
             reliquit
             ;
          
           
             E●apsam
             ut
             vestem
             quam
             tenet
             arca
             pia
             ,
          
           
             Qua
             ,
             Deus
             expurgans
             simul
             &
             fulgore
             deaurans
             ,
          
           
             Regis
             in
             adventu
             vestiet
             ad
             thalamos
             .
          
           
             Haec
             vates
             sperans
             ,
             ovat
             gestitque
             videre
          
           
             Nunc
             Monumenta
             spei
             ,
             tunc
             documenta
             rel.
             .
          
        
         
           
             Observantiae
             causa
             posuit
             .
             Clemens
             Ray
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           On
           the
           Death
           of
           that
           most
           Illustrious
           and
           worthy
           Knight
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           OFt
           have
           I
           seen
           (
           in
           veiwing
           
             Monuments
          
           )
        
         
           Of
           
             Roral
             Drops
          
           from
           Marble
           strange
           descents
           :
        
         
           Wonder
           not
           why
           this
           Rocky
           Marble
           weeps
           ;
        
         
           For
           lo
           !
           here
           Noble
           
             Barnardiston
          
           sleeps
        
         
           The
           sleep
           of
           death
           ;
           't
           is
           strange
           to
           
             cloudy
             sence
             ,
          
        
         
           That
           in
           the
           Tomb
           there
           seems
           no
           difference
        
         
           'Twixt
           just
           and
           unjust
           ,
           
             Pebble
          
           and
           the
           
             Gem.
             
          
        
         
           Here
           
             vertue
          
           seems
           to
           wear
           no
           
             Diadem
             .
          
        
         
           'T
           is
           strange
           here
           seems
           to
           fall
           such
           
             equal
             lots
          
        
         
           Upon
           the
           
             Traitors
             ,
          
           and
           true
           
             Patriots
             .
          
        
         
           But
           cease
           fond
           
             heart
          
           to
           wonder
           ,
           't
           is
           not
           hard
           ,
        
         
           
             God
          
           is
           to
           such
           
           th'exceeding
           great
           
             reward
             ;
          
        
         
           And
           sure
           to
           him
           ,
           who
           yet
           could
           ne'r
           be
           wone
        
         
           
             To
             act
             a
          
           Proteus
           
             in
          
           Religion
           .
        
         
           Reward
           in
           life
           ,
           he
           met
           with
           great
           renown
           ,
        
         
           God
           did
           his
           
             faithful
             acts
          
           with
           glory
           crown
           .
        
         
           Reward
           in
           death
           ,
           for
           (
           when
           the
           world
           shall
           see
        
         
           Those
           
             Pha●tons
          
           in
           dust
           interred
           be
           ,
        
         
           Both
           names
           and
           bodies
           too
           ;
           and
           them
           shall
           laugh
        
         
           To
           scorn
           ,
           to
           see
           no
           better
           
             Epitaph
          
        
         
           
             Then
             this
             :
          
           Lo
           here
           their
           skeletons
           are
           laid
           ,
        
         
           Who
           once
           their
           Country
           ,
           and
           their
           Church
           betray'd
           :
           )
        
         
           His
           name
           shall
           live
           as
           one
           ,
           that
           
             witness'd
          
           well
        
         
           Himself
           to
           be
           a
           true
           Nathaniel
           .
        
         
           
             ACROSTIC
             .
          
           
             
               Nomen
               in
               aeternum
               ,
               Barnurdistone
               ,
               perenne
            
             
               Augusta
               humanum
               pectus
               dum
               capsula
               condit
               ,
            
             
             
               Tulampas
               terris
               ast
               inter
               sydera
               coeli
               ,
            
             
               Haud
               minimus
               meliore
               tui
               jam
               parte
               manebis
               :
            
             
               Accingens
               radiis
               nitidis
               tua
               tempora
               Phoebus
               ,
            
             
               Noster
               amator
               eras
               ,
               artis
               sophiaeque
               patronus
               :
            
             
               Imminuere
               decus
               gentis
               ,
               virtutis
               honorem
            
             
               Electi
               Heroes
               ;
               fidei
               tu
               semper
               amicus
               ;
            
             
               Lex
               tibi
               grandis
               erat
               virtus
               quae
               nescia
               vinci
               .
            
          
           
             
               Bruma
               perennis
               adest
               nobis
               te
               sole
               cadente
               ,
            
             
               Astra
               calore
               carent
               nitidi
               sine
               lumine
               Phoebi
               ,
            
             
               Rara
               fides
               genti
               virtus
               procerumque
               propago
               ,
            
             
               Nostrorumque
               decus
               capitis
               tua
               gloria
               magni
               ,
            
             
               Ast
               nihili
               pendens
               ,
               tu
               talia
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               Christi
            
             
               Respectuque
               Dei
               :
               sacrato
               sanguine
               venas
               ,
            
             
               Diluvians
               ,
               causa
               est
               magni
               Theodorè
               triumphi
            
             
               In
               coelo
               solio
               frueris
               semperque
               frueris
               .
            
             
               Siste
               viator
               iter
               :
               vultum
               cortina
               recondit
            
             
               Talem
               quem
               memores
               lacrimarum
               flumine
               deflent
            
             
               Omnes
               ,
               dona
               Dei
               nobis
               cum
               numina
               poscunt
               ,
            
             
               Nos
               decet
               hanc
               deflere
               vicem
               ,
               gemituque
               dolere
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Josephus
             Skinner
             ,
             
               M.
               A.
               
            
          
        
      
       
         
           An
           Elegie
           on
           the
           Right
           Worshipfull
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           HEre
           's
           one
           that
           was
           an
           
             Isra'lite
          
           sincere
           ,
        
         
           In
           whom
           all
           noble
           vertues
           did
           appear
           ;
        
         
           A
           faithfull
           
             Patriot
             ,
          
           one
           that
           ever
           stood
        
         
           Firme
           to
           
             Gods
             Cause
             ,
          
           and
           to
           his
           
             Countries
          
           good
           ;
        
         
           And
           yet
           by
           cruel
           death's
           impartiall
           hand
        
         
           Laid
           level
           with
           the
           dust
           :
           
             Who
             can
             withstand
          
        
         
         
           Death
           's
           all
           commanding
           power
           ?
           
             this
             tyrants
             Law
          
        
         
           Is
           that
           which
           keeps
           the
           universe
           in
           awe
           ;
        
         
           He
           nips
           
             the
             Infant
             blossom
          
           when
           it
           springs
           ,
        
         
           And
           aged
           Snow
           to
           dissolution
           brings
           :
        
         
           And
           though
           the
           
             faded
             Rose
          
           year
           after
           year
           ▪
        
         
           With
           a
           
             fresh
             colour
          
           in
           her
           leaves
           appear
           ,
        
         
           Age
           knows
           no
           spring
           ,
           and
           death
           will
           not
           restore
        
         
           
             His
             stollen
             goods
             ,
          
           till
           time
           shal
           be
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           O
           happy
           those
           that
           doe
           betimes
           begin
        
         
           
             To
             love
             Christ
             Jesus
             ,
          
           and
           to
           leave
           off
           sin
           ;
        
         
           To
           walk
           in
           holy
           wayes
           with
           
             Simeon
          
           old
           ,
        
         
           That
           in
           the
           armes
           of
           
             faith
          
           their
           
             Saviour
          
           hold
           .
        
         
           The
           life
           of
           such
           is
           blest
           ,
           their
           
             death
          
           much
           more
           ,
        
         
           For
           then
           they
           rest
           from
           labour
           ,
           not
           before
           .
        
         
           Thus
           (
           worthy
           
             Barnardiston
          
           )
           thou
           art
           blest
           ,
        
         
           Who
           from
           thy
           labours
           and
           all
           pains
           
             dost
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           Death
           which
           for
           thee
           a
           crown
           of
           gold
           prepares
           ,
        
         
           Gives
           unto
           us
           a
           thorny
           crown
           of
           tears
           ,
        
         
           And
           puts
           us
           in
           a
           mourning
           frame
           ,
           for
           
             we
          
        
         
           Cannot
           but
           have
           
             sad
             hearts
             ,
          
           when
           as
           we
           see
        
         
           The
           Chariots
           and
           the
           Horsmen
           yeeld
           to
           fate
           ,
        
         
           And
           
             few
          
           such
           left
           to
           guide
           the
           affairs
           of
           State
           :
        
         
           But
           yet
           our
           grief
           for
           thee
           shall
           not
           proceed
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           charity
           to
           give
           to
           those
           that
           need
           ,
        
         
           
             That
             's
             to
             our selves
             ;
          
           our
           miseries
           and
           feares
        
         
           Require
           not
           only
           
             floods
             ,
          
           but
           
             seas
          
           of
           tears
           .
        
         
           Therefore
           for
           thee
           we
           'l
           cease
           our
           lamentation
           ,
        
         
           And
           tak
           't
           up
           for
           
             our selves
             ,
          
           and
           for
           the
           Nation
           ;
        
         
           Though
           for
           our
           losse
           
             we
             cannot
             chuse
          
           but
           grieve
           ,
        
         
           This
           comfort
           shal
           our
           passions
           yet
           relieve
           ;
        
         
           
             That
             heav'n
             is
             joyful
             ,
          
           and
           thy
           blessed
           state
        
         
           Shall
           be
           a
           means
           our
           griefs
           
             to
             mitigate
             .
          
        
         
           O
           what
           a
           happy
           state
           it
           were
           ,
           if
           we
        
         
           Had
           no
           more
           cause
           of
           sorrow
           
             but
             for
             thee
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             ACROSTIC
             .
          
           
             
               Non
               audis
               nostras
               ,
               
                 Barnardistone
                 ,
              
               querelas
               ,
            
             
               Aut
               lacrymis
               opus
               esse
               putas
               ;
               sed
               funera
               fletu
            
             
               Tu
               tua
               nos
               ornare
               vetas
               ;
               at
               nos
               tamen
               ipsi
            
             
               Haud
               ita
               sentimus
               ,
               vanum
               licet
               esse
               fatemur
            
             
               Atque
               supervacuum
               pro
               te
               (
               vir
               summe
               )
               dolorem
               ;
            
             
               Non
               ita
               pro
               nobis
               ,
               nam
               mors
               tibi
               maxima
               merces
               ,
            
             
               Ipsa
               tamen
               summi
               nobis
               est
               causa
               doloris
               ,
            
             
               Et
               poscit
               lacrymarum
               imbres
               ,
               luctumque
               perennem
               ,
            
             
               Luminaque
               ut
               lacrymis
               turgescant
               semper
               amaris
               .
            
          
           
             
               Busta
               viri
               tanti
               studeant
               ornare
               Camaenae
               ,
            
             
               Adsit
               Melpomene
               ,
               moestisque
               boatibus
               auras
            
             
               Repleat
               ,
               &
               totus
               resonet
               plangoribus
               aether
               ,
            
             
               Nam
               pietas
               &
               prisca
               fides
               ,
               &
               mascula
               virtus
            
             
               Angligenumque
               decus
               ,
               jam
               nunc
               periisse
               videntur
               .
            
             
               Religionis
               honos
               venerabilis
               ,
               artis
               amicus
            
             
               Defunctus
               jacet
               hic
               ▪
               titulis
               &
               honore
               priori
            
             
               Impositis
               parvo
               turba
               comitante
               Sepulchro
               ,
            
             
               Sed
               lacrymis
               jam
               parce
               ,
               sat
               est
               ,
               non
               prorsus
               ineptus
            
             
               Te
               Theodore
               mori
               ,
               quisquis
               vel
               posse
               putabit
               .
            
             
               Onimium
               Felix
               frueris
               meliore
               senatu
               ,
            
             
               Nil
               ubi
               juris
               habet
               mors
               ,
               mars
               ,
               aut
               Barbarus
               hostis
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             J.
             C.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           On
           the
           much
           lamented
           death
           of
           the
           right
           Worshipful
           Sir
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
        
         
           I
           VVonder
           not
           that
           
             Barnardiston's
          
           dead
           ,
        
         
           But
           rather
           that
           he
           spun
           so
           long
           a
           thread
           ;
        
         
         
           Sure
           't
           is
           a
           
             sound
          
           hath
           eccho'd
           through
           the
           earth
           ,
        
         
           
             Christs
          
           verdict
           on
           
             Nathaniels
          
           second
           birth
           .
        
         
           Behold
           an
           
             Isra'lite
             :
          
           'T
           was
           then
           a
           wonder
           ,
        
         
           But
           now
           the
           
             Gloworm
          
           times
           that
           we
           live
           under
           ,
        
         
           Write
           such
           men
           
             Miracles
             ,
          
           and
           they
           we
           know
        
         
           Are
           ceased
           ,
           dead
           ,
           and
           buried
           long
           ago
           .
        
         
           We
           would
           enjoy'd
           him
           longer
           ,
           but
           we
           knew
        
         
           Who
           was
           
             the
             gift
             of
             God
             ,
          
           was
           Heavens
           due
           .
        
         
           (
           So
           
             Job
             ,
          
           he
           gives
           and
           takes
           )
           cease
           then
           to
           tell
        
         
           His
           worth
           ,
           whose
           
             Epitaph
             's
          
           a
           
             Miracle
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             .
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             ,
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             .
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             .
          
           
             
               
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
                 {non-Roman}
              
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           Memoriae
           Sacrum
           equitis
           Nobilissimi
           ,
           Pientissimique
           Viri
           ,
           Nathan
           .
           Barnardiston
           .
           Equ
           .
           Aur.
           
        
         
           QUote
           corripis
           ,
           viator
           ,
           properans
           ?
        
         
           In
           hunc
           tumulum
           converte
           oculos
           ,
        
         
           Si
           modo
           permiserint
        
         
           Lacrymae
           &
           singultus
           tui
           .
        
         
           Jacet
           hic
        
         
         
           Eques
           auratus
           ,
           &
           vir
           verè
           aureus
           ,
        
         
           Sinè
           fuco
           Israelita
           ,
           &
           absque
           dolo
           :
        
         
           Ipsemet
           enim
           Nathaniel
           :
        
         
           Decus
           Patria
           ,
           &
           familiae
           antiquissimae
           ,
        
         
           Quae
           inter
           trophaea
           sua
           hoc
           jactitat
           ,
        
         
           Quòd
           talem
           peperit
           .
        
         
           Amor
           cleri
           &
           Patrocinium
           :
        
         
           Orthodoxa
           Religionis
           ingens
           exemplar
           &
           columen
           ,
        
         
           Veris
           Evangeliti
           Ministris
           tutela
           &
           praesidium
           ,
        
         
           Apud
           eos
           dum
           vixerit
           ,
        
         
           Hi
           omnes
           ornarunt
           calculo
        
         
           Mortuum
           ,
        
         
           Lugubri
           Epitaphio
           .
        
         
           Quippe
           quòd
           his
           indulsit
           ,
           ut
           parentem
           decuit
           ,
        
         
           Ut
           filium
           ,
           auscult
           avit
           obsequentissime
           ;
        
         
           Sic
           quos
           humi
           calcavit
           aetas
           impia
           ,
        
         
           Hic
           fovebat
           in
           sin●
           .
        
         
           Ipsimet
           enim
           in
           deliciis
           ,
           quos
           mundus
           reputat
        
         
           
             {non-Roman}
             {non-Roman}
             {non-Roman}
             {non-Roman}
             {non-Roman}
          
           .
        
         
           Lumina
           ecclesiae
           radiantia
           ,
        
         
           Quae
           seculi
           rabies
        
         
           Extincta
           vult
           ,
           &
           effossa
           penitus
           .
        
         
           Heu
           !
           quoties
           〈◊〉
           est
           ,
           &
           (
           Constantini
           more
           )
        
         
           Deosculatus
           suaviter
           .
        
         
           Defe
           male
           suisque
           metuit
        
         
           Reformata
           religio
           .
        
         
           Dum
           talem
           〈…〉
        
         
           Fidei
           columnam
           &
           〈◊〉
           naculum
           .
        
         
           Quem
           non
           gementem
           audies
           ?
           Abiit
           ,
           hem
           obiit
        
         
           Noster
           Nathaniel
           ;
        
         
           Tam
           coeli
           quam
           terra
           〈…〉
        
         
           Utrobique
           affulsit
           〈◊〉
           ,
        
         
           Hic
           equestri
           cinctus
           〈◊〉
           ,
        
         
           Illic
           corona
           redimitus
           gloriae
        
         
         
           Improba
           &
           aetate
           degeneri
           .
        
         
           Cum
           ultra
           vivere
           penitus
           displicet
        
         
           Eja
           !
           tunc
           juvat
           mori
           .
        
         
           Ultimi
           in
           occasu
           seculi
        
         
           Occasum
           is
           passus
           est
           ,
        
         
           Ut
           celo
           fulgeat
           fortiori
           jubare
        
         
           Hinc
           disce
           Lector
           ;
        
         
           Tunc
           tunc
           nos
           coelo
           maturi
           sumus
        
         
           Cum
           huic
           sumus
           mundo
           decidui
           .
        
         
           
             Posuit
             honoris
          
        
         
           
             Et
             debitae
             observantiae
             ergô
             .
          
        
         
           
             Johan
             .
             Allot
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Chronogramma
           .
        
         
           SI
           patrlae
           fIDVs
           perIIt
           &
           VerVs
           aMICVs
           ,
           VIr
           pIVs
           atque
           bonVs
           ,
           VIta
           perennIs
           erIt
           .
        
         
           MOrte
           manet
           justis
           sua
           spes
           ,
           post
           fata
           ,
           futura
        
         
           Soecula
           cum
           venient
           ,
           ultima
           cumque
           dies
           .
        
         
           Optima
           sanctorum
           remanebunt
           lucra
           virorum
        
         
           Illorum
           effari
           gaudia
           nemo
           potest
           .
        
         
           Pessima
           pravorum
           remanebunt
           damna
           virorum
        
         
           Illorum
           effari
           tristia
           nemo
           potest
           .
        
         
           
             Epitaphium
             .
          
           
             AN
             justus
             periit
             ?
             dici
             hunc
             periisse
             licebit
             ?
          
           
             Non
             licet
             ;
             in
             Christo
             non
             periturus
             abit
             .
          
           
             Ast
             periit
             justus
             ,
             dici
             hunc
             periisse
             licebit
             ?
          
           
             Heu
             !
             periit
             nobis
             ,
             non
             rediturus
             abit
             .
          
           
           
             Rara
             avis
             in
             terris
             est
             justus
             ,
             puraque
             corda
          
           
             Sunt
             inter
             spinas
             lilia
             nata
             Deo.
          
           
             Est
             constantis
             opus
             durum
             quin
             ampla
             corona
             ,
          
           
             Spes
             perit
             illius
             qui
             recidivus
             erit
             .
          
           
             Temporibus
             duris
             frigent
             pietatis
             amici
          
           
             Vani
             :
             sinceri
             se
             renovare
             solent
             ▪
          
           
             Talis
             erat
             vivus
             Barnardistonus
             ,
             &
             inter
          
           
             Omnes
             emicuit
             vir
             bonitatis
             amans
             ,
          
           
             Nathaniel
             vivus
             fuit
             ,
             expers
             fraude
             doloque
          
           
             Sincerus
             ,
             constans
             in
             pietate
             fuit
             .
          
           
             Funus
             justa
             petit
             ,
             justum
             hunc
             plorare
             decebit
          
           
             Ne
             plorate
             nimis
             ,
             non
             decet
             iste
             dolor
             .
          
           
             Dum
             vixit
             Christi
             valde
             est
             gavisus
             amore
             ,
          
           
             Cum
             Domino
             moriens
             percupit
             esse
             suo
             .
          
           
             Non
             sibi
             sed
             Christo
             vixit
             ,
             nunc
             mortuus
             ipse
             ,
          
           
             Cum
             Christo
             coelis
             gaudia
             summa
             sapit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ad
             Lectorem
             .
          
           
             
               En
               perit
               justus
               ,
               perit
               imbrobusque
            
             
               Sorte
               communi
               perit
               omnis
               ,
               ecce
            
             
               Vanitas
               mundi
               ,
               cito
               transit
               ejus
            
             
               Gloria
               fallax
               .
            
          
           
             
               Dum
               viges
               fac
               ut
               sapas
               superna
               ,
            
             
               Possidens
               mundum
               quasi
               non
               haberes
               ,
            
             
               Est
               pio
               terris
               peregrina
               coelis
            
             
               Vita
               perennis
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Pet.
             St.
             Hill.
             
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Justa
           Nathanieli
           Barnardistono
           Equiti
           Aurato
           .
        
         
           SIccin
           '
           abis
           ?
           Ò
           serve
           Dei
           ter
           maxime
           ,
           splendor
        
         
           Et
           columen
           patriae
           ,
           &
           religionis
           honor
           .
        
         
           Heu
           !
           nos
           cur
           dubio
           rerum
           sub
           turbine
           linquis
           ,
        
         
           Turbatur
           mediis
           ,
           publica
           puppis
           aquis
           .
        
         
           Forsitan
           ingratum
           quod
           sese
           praebuit
           orbis
           ,
        
         
           Praemia
           nec
           meritis
           aequiparanda
           dedit
           ,
        
         
           Vel
           te
           subducis
           dum
           transit
           iniqua
           tyrannis
        
         
           Caelitus
           ereptus
           ,
           quod
           super
           astra
           regas
           ?
        
         
           Irrita
           vota
           forent
           terris
           obstante
           caterva
           ,
        
         
           Sed
           fient
           coelis
           omnia
           quaeque
           velis
           .
        
         
           Te
           te
           prisca
           fides
           ,
           teque
           ipsa
           Ecclesia
           poscit
        
         
           Patronum
           ,
           fer
           opem
           ,
           jam
           celerato
           pedem
           .
        
         
           Quid
           stas
           ?
           at
           cadis
           heu
           !
           Deus
           optime
           fersque
           refersque
        
         
           Gloria
           quòd
           dederis
           sit
           tribuenda
           tibi
           .
        
         
           Subtrahis
           heu
           nobis
           ,
           Deus
           optime
           quodque
           dediste
           ,
        
         
           Quod
           tibi
           cum
           placeat
           ,
           gloria
           summa
           tibi
           .
        
         
           Abstinet
           a
           lacrymis
           quis
           jam
           ?
           turgentia
           guttis
        
         
           Lumina
           quis
           non
           fert
           ?
           nocte
           dieque
           fluunt
           .
        
         
           Ac
           veluti
           fierent
           modò
           lumina
           flumina
           ;
           cordum
        
         
           Hinc
           gemitus
           ,
           dolor
           hinc
           ,
           quòd
           pius
           ille
           jacet
           .
        
         
           Qui
           steteras
           à
           parte
           Dei
           ,
           dum
           vivus
           adesses
           ,
        
         
           Mortuus
           aethereas
           ingrediare
           domos
           .
        
         
           Miles
           ut
           emeritus
           Christi
           splendescis
           honore
           ,
        
         
           Coeptis
           susceptis
           glorificando
           Deum
           .
        
         
           Perditur
           extremus
           tuus
           haud
           orabilis
           hostis
           ,
        
         
           Mors
           Christi
           Domini
           quod
           teneare
           fide
           .
        
         
           Ergo
           praestiteris
           cum
           quod
           Deus
           imperat
           ,
           euge
           !
        
         
           In
           cameram
           Domini
           possis
           inire
           Dei
           .
        
         
         
           Offert
           se
           nobis
           Israelitica
           nubes
           ,
        
         
           Parte
           priore
           nigrens
           ,
           posteriore
           nitens
           .
        
         
           Quod
           sis
           sublatus
           sequitur
           nigredo
           superstes
           ,
        
         
           Quod
           tua
           progenies
           emicat
           ,
           inde
           nitor
           .
        
         
           Ecce
           triumphantem
           jam
           spiritualibus
           armis
           ,
        
         
           Non
           secus
           ac
           Christum
           tu
           ,
           sequar
           ipse
           ducem
           .
        
         
           
             Jo.
             French
             .
             Art.
             Mag.
             
          
        
      
       
         
           Carmen
           funebre
           in
           obitum
           clarissimi
           viri
           D.
           Nathaniel
           Barnardiston
           .
           equitis
           Aur.
           
        
         
           OCcubuit
           clarus
           claro
           de
           stemmate
           natus
        
         
           Barnardistonus
           ,
           gloria
           certa
           suis
           ;
        
         
           Gloria
           certa
           suis
           ,
           magis
           an
           genere
           an
           pietate
        
         
           Emicuit
           quaeras
           :
           clarus
           utroque
           fuit
           .
        
         
           Sanguinis
           en
           quanto
           fuerat
           dignatus
           honore
           ,
        
         
           Mentis
           candores
           pingere
           nemo
           potest
           .
        
         
           Effigiem
           verae
           virtutis
           nobilitatis
        
         
           Candoris
           nivei
           religionis
           babes
           .
        
         
           Flete
           viri
           ,
           lugete
           senes
           ,
           plorate
           puellae
           ,
        
         
           Pulpita
           maesta
           ,
           sacri
           funera
           flete
           viri
           .
        
         
           Nos
           res
           lugemus
           nostras
           ,
           Ecclesia
           luget
           ,
        
         
           Interitum
           deflet
           patria
           maesta
           tuum
           .
        
         
           Te
           nobis
           vitia
           &
           mores
           rapuere
           maligni
           ,
        
         
           In
           coelis
           virtus
           te
           tua
           sancta
           locat
           :
        
         
           Terra
           tegit
           corpus
           ,
           mens
           aureo
           regnat
           Olympo
           ,
        
         
           Fama
           Anglos
           inter
           celsa
           perennis
           erit
           .
        
         
           
             Nath.
             Eyres
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           In
           obitum
           Illustrissimi
           Domini
           ,
           D.
           Nath.
           Barnardiston
           ,
           Equitis
           Aurati
           .
        
         
           PRo
           dolor
           !
           insignis
           succumbit
           gloria
           nostri
           ,
        
         
           Nobilium
           splendor
           ,
           justitiaeque
           decus
           .
        
         
           Spes
           dulcis
           Patriae
           decrescit
           te
           moriente
           ,
        
         
           Te
           vivente
           ,
           tuo
           lumine
           tuta
           fuit
           .
        
         
           Aegrite
           ,
           ●udique
           carent
           ,
           &
           carcere
           clausi
           ;
        
         
           His
           data
           non
           tarda
           sunt
           tua
           dona
           manu
           .
        
         
           Musarum
           Pater
           es
           ,
           qui
           sit
           ,
           post
           funera
           Patris
        
         
           Praeterea
           vereor
           nullus
           adesse
           velit
           .
        
         
           Fulgida
           stella
           cadit
           non
           ultra
           credita
           terrae
        
         
           Immeritae
           ,
           at
           coelis
           jam
           quoque
           fix
           a
           manet
           .
        
         
           Verus
           amor
           ,
           spes
           firma
           ,
           fidesque
           insignia
           Christi
           ,
        
         
           Omnia
           florebant
           pectore
           clausa
           tuo
           .
        
         
           Inquè
           oculis
           charites
           habitant
           &
           grata
           venustas
           ,
        
         
           Nec
           minor
           es
           proavis
           tu
           pietate
           tuis
           .
        
         
           Coelitùs
           haec
           bona
           te
           sanctum
           fecere
           beatum
           ,
        
         
           Et
           nunc
           in
           coelis
           praemia
           digna
           capis
           .
        
         
           Te
           lugeant
           omnes
           ,
           lacrymis
           sint
           undique
           sparsi
           ,
        
         
           Vestitus
           nigros
           induat
           omnis
           amans
           .
        
         
           Qui
           color
           albus
           erat
           ,
           nunc
           est
           contrarius
           albo
           :
        
         
           Jam
           ,
           jam
           ,
           conveniet
           luctibus
           ille
           color
           .
        
         
           Haec
           ego
           ;
           dum
           laudant
           alii
           tua
           facta
           ,
           tuasque
        
         
           Ingenio
           laudes
           uberiore
           canunt
           .
        
         
           
             Rob.
             Hobart
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           An
           EPITAPH
           .
           NATHANIEL
           BARNARDISTON
           .
           Anagram
           .
           And
           Art
           Is
           In
           An
           Noble
           Hart.
           
        
         
           A
           Generous
           Knight
           and
           
             Noble
             Heart
          
           lies
           here
           ▪
        
         
           I'
           th'
           
             Art
          
           of
           
             living
             well
             ,
          
           he
           had
           no
           Peer
           .
        
         
           
             A
             true
          
           Nathaniel
           ,
           
             and
          
           void
           of
           guile
           .
        
         
           Stay
           and
           admire
           (
           
             Reader
          
           )
           but
           a
           while
           ,
        
         
           Here
           
             Barnardiston
          
           lies
           ,
           our
           loss
           bemoan
        
         
           With
           brinish
           Tears
           ,
           as
           doth
           this
           
             weeping
             Stone
             :
          
        
         
           Here
           lies
           his
           
             worst
             ,
          
           in
           Heaven
           's
           his
           better
           
             part
             .
          
        
         
           
             True
             worth
             ,
          
           And
           Art
           Is
           In
           An
           Noble
           Hart.
           
        
         
           
             Sylvanus
             Morgan
             .
          
        
      
       
         FINIS
         .
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A61970e-2110
           
             The
             Author
             to
             his
             Muse
             .
          
           
             The
             house
             of
             death
             .
          
           
             A
             description
             of
             Death
             .
          
           
             The
             Muses
             message
             and
             complaint
             to
             Death
             ,
             lamenting
             the
             death
             of
             this
             worthy
             
          
           
             Deaths
             answer●
             to
             the
             Muse
             .
          
           
             The
             Muses
             reply
             to
             death
             .
          
           
             The
             Angels
             message
             to
             the
             Muse
             .
          
           
             A
             description
             of
             Heaven
             .
          
           
             The
             Saints
             glory
             and
             happiness
             ,
             and
             this
             Saint
             among
             them
             .
          
           
             M.
             
          
           
             V.
             
          
        
      
      
  

