







 
   
     
       
         An elegy on the death of that most laborious and painful minister of the gospel, Mr. John Norcot who fell asleep in the Lord the 24th day of this instant March, 1675/6.
         Keach, Benjamin, 1640-1704.
      
       
         
           1676
        
      
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         59966
         
           
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             An elegy on the death of that most laborious and painful minister of the gospel, Mr. John Norcot who fell asleep in the Lord the 24th day of this instant March, 1675/6.
             Keach, Benjamin, 1640-1704.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             Printed for Ben. Harris ...,
             London :
             1676.
          
           
             Written by B. Keach. Cf. Wing; BM.
             "An epitaph" signed: E.T.
             Imperfect: badly stained.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Norcott, John, d. 1676.
           Elegiac poetry.
           Broadsides -- England -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           ELEGY
           On
           the
           Death
           of
           that
           most
           Laborious
           and
           Painful
           Minister
           of
           the
           Gospel
           Mr.
           JOHN
           NORCOT
           ,
           Who
           fell
           asleep
           in
           the
           Lord
           the
           24th
           of
           this
           instant
           March
           1675
           /
           6.
           
        
         
           HOw
           doth
           my
           troubled
           Soul
           amused
           stand
           ,
        
         
           On
           thoughts
           of
           God's
           most
           sore
           Chastising
           hand
           ;
        
         
           Let
           Heaven
           assist
           my
           Pen
           ,
           and
           help
           indite
        
         
           This
           Mournful
           Elegy
           I
           'm
           mov'd
           to
           write
           .
        
         
           My
           grieved
           heart
           knows
           not
           what
           way
           to
           take
           ,
        
         
           Its
           love
           to
           shew
           and
           lamentation
           make
           .
        
         
           David
           for
           Jonathan
           was
           sore
           distrest
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           like
           sort
           has
           sorrow
           seiz'd
           my
           Brest
           .
        
         
           Beloved
           John
           is
           gone
           ,
           dear
           
           Norcot's
           dead
           ;
        
         
           That
           
             Man
             of
             God
          
           ,
           who
           hath
           so
           often
           fed
        
         
           Our
           precious
           Souls
           with
           Manna
           from
           above
           :
        
         
           Whose
           powerful
           preaching
           did
           ingage
           our
           love
        
         
           To
           
             Jesus
             Christ
          
           .
           O!
           he
           had
           care
           and
           skill
        
         
           To
           feed
           poor
           souls
           and
           do
           his
           Master's
           will.
        
         
           But
           is
           he
           from
           us
           also
           took
           away
           ,
        
         
           What
           ,
           breach
           still
           upon
           breach
           !
           Lord
           Jesus
           stay
        
         
           Thy
           hand
           ,
           such
           strokes
           are
           hardly
           born
           ,
        
         
           Here
           's
           cause
           for
           hundreds
           to
           lament
           and
           mourn
           .
        
         
           The
           loss
           is
           great
           the
           Churches
           do
           sustain
           ,
        
         
           Poor
           sinners
           too
           like
           cause
           have
           to
           complain
           .
        
         
           There
           's
           few
           like
           him
           surviving
           to
           arouse
        
         
           Their
           sluggish
           souls
           out
           of
           their
           sinful
           drouse
           .
        
         
           They
           now
           may
           sleep
           secure
           and
           not
           awake
           .
        
         
           Until
           they
           fall
           into
           the
           
             Stygian
             Lake
          
           .
        
         
           This
           Golden
           Trumpet
           's
           stopt
           ,
           't
           will
           sound
           no
           more
           ,
        
         
           To
           warn
           them
           of
           what
           danger
           's
           at
           their
           door
           .
        
         
           To
           win
           sinners
           to
           Christ
           he
           did
           not
           spare
        
         
           His
           strength
           nor
           time
           ,
           thought
           nothing
           was
           too
           dear
        
         
           To
           part
           with
           all
           ,
           if
           any
           ways
           he
           might
           ,
        
         
           Their
           Souls
           turn
           from
           false
           ways
           unto
           the
           right
           :
        
         
           Like
           as
           a
           Candle
           which
           much
           light
           doth
           give
           ,
        
         
           Doth
           waste
           it self
           ,
           whilst
           from
           it
           we
           receive
        
         
           Much
           benefit
           ;
           so
           did
           he
           clearly
           burn
           ,
        
         
           To
           the
           wasting
           of
           himself
           unto
           the
           urn
           .
        
         
           This
           godly
           Preacher
           in
           a
           little
           space
           ,
        
         
           Much
           work
           did
           do
           ,
           he
           swiftly
           run
           his
           race
           ;
        
         
           With
           's
           might
           perform'd
           what
           e'r
           he
           found
           to
           do
           .
        
         
           God
           graciously
           did
           bless
           his
           work
           also
           ,
        
         
           Yea
           few
           (
           I
           think
           )
           have
           had
           the
           like
           success
           ,
        
         
           In
           turning
           sinners
           unto
           righteousness
           .
        
         
           O
           were
           the
           worth
           of
           this
           good
           man
           but
           known
           ,
        
         
           It
           might
           produce
           an
           universal
           groan
           .
        
         
           Let
           Brethren
           dear
           of
           different
           minds
           lament
           ,
        
         
           For
           he
           for
           you
           in
           prayers
           much
           time
           has
           spent
           ;
        
         
           He
           lov'd
           you
           all
           ,
           though
           I
           have
           cause
           to
           fear
           ,
        
         
           The
           like
           affection
           some
           did
           scarcely
           bear
           .
        
         
           'T
           would
           pierce
           ones
           heart
           to
           think
           in
           such
           a
           time
           ,
        
         
           Obedience
           unto
           Christ
           should
           be
           a
           crime
           ;
        
         
           Or
           that
           offence
           should
           in
           the
           least
           be
           took
           ,
        
         
           '
           Cause
           from
           Gods
           word
           he
           durst
           not
           turn
           nor
           look
           .
        
         
           He
           would
           own
           naught
           but
           what
           
             thus
             saith
             the
             Lord
          
           ,
        
         
           Add
           would
           not
           he
           nor
           minish
           from
           Gods
           Word
           .
        
         
           Come
           let
           us
           live
           in
           love
           ,
           we
           〈…〉
           ,
        
         
           When
           at
           his
           Port
           we
           all
           arived
           〈…〉
        
         
           Let
           sinners
           mourn
           ,
           who
           shall
           their
           loss
           repair
           ,
        
         
           Who
           for
           their
           Souls
           so
           naturally
           did
           care
           .
        
         
           Well
           may
           ye
           fear
           God
           will
           proclaim
           new
           wars
           ,
        
         
           When
           he
           calls
           home
           his
           choice
           Embassadors
           .
        
         
           What
           may
           a
           Sodome
           look
           for
           from
           above
           ,
        
         
           When
           such
           who
           stood
           'i
           th
           gap
           ,
           God
           doth
           remove
           .
        
         
           O
           tremble
           City
           ,
           what
           is
           God
           about
           ,
        
         
           Look
           for
           new
           flames
           ,
           thy
           Lots
           are
           calling
           out
           .
        
         
           And
           now
           chastized
           flock
           a
           word
           or
           two
           ,
        
         
           I
           've
           double
           sorrow
           when
           I
           think
           of
           you
           .
        
         
           When
           that
           the
           Harvest
           doth
           for
           Reapers
           call
           ,
        
         
           To
           lose
           your
           Labourer
           ,
           this
           wound
           's
           not
           small
           .
        
         
           O
           who
           shall
           bear
           the
           burthen
           of
           the
           day
           ,
        
         
           If
           God
           doth
           take
           the
           Labourers
           thus
           away
           .
        
         
           When
           Pylots
           die
           ,
           how
           shall
           the
           Seaman
           stear
           ,
        
         
           '
           Mong'st
           Rocks
           and
           Sands
           ,
           when
           stormes
           also
           appear
           .
        
         
           Have
           we
           not
           cause
           to
           think
           the
           crafty
           Fox
           ,
        
         
           Will
           out
           abroad
           and
           prey
           upon
           the
           flocks
           .
        
         
           And
           Ravening
           Wolves
           also
           will
           grow
           more
           bold
           .
        
         
           And
           scare
           some
           silly
           Lambs
           out
           of
           the
           fold
           ;
        
         
           If
           God
           proceed
           to
           call
           the
           Shepherds
           home
           ,
        
         
           O
           what
           will
           of
           so
           many
           flocks
           become
           .
        
         
           '
           i
           th'
           midst
           of
           all
           ,
           in
           this
           doth
           comfort
           lie
           ,
        
         
           The
           chiefest
           Shepherd
           lives
           when
           others
           die
           .
        
         
           And
           he
           be
           sure
           who
           for
           the
           Sheep
           did
           bleed
           ,
        
         
           Will
           stick
           to
           them
           in
           times
           of
           greatest
           need
           .
        
         
           Come
           cease
           your
           grief
           ,
           don't
           you
           know
           very
           well
           ,
        
         
           The
           care
           God
           has
           of
           his
           own
           Israell
           .
        
         
           And
           it
           s
           no
           more
           which
           now
           is
           come
           to
           pass
           ,
        
         
           Then
           what
           by
           you
           some
           time
           expected
           was
           ,
        
         
           And
           what
           is
           done
           is
           but
           our
           Fathers
           will
           ,
        
         
           Therefore
           be
           silent
           ,
           every
           one
           be
           still
           :
        
         
           For
           should
           we
           yield
           to
           passion
           I
           have
           fears
           ,
        
         
           We
           should
           grieve
           Christ
           and
           wound
           our
           Souls
           with
           tears
           .
        
         
           The
           narrow
           Sluces
           too
           of
           dribling
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           Would
           be
           too
           streight
           for
           those
           great
           Springs
           that
           rise
           .
        
         
           But
           since
           our
           Vessels
           fills
           up
           to
           the
           top
           ,
        
         
           Le
           ts
           empty
           them
           ,
           for
           every
           sin
           a
           drop
           .
        
         
           For
           it
           le
           ts
           wish
           we
           were
           compos'd
           of
           Snow
           ,
        
         
           Instead
           of
           Flesh
           ,
           yea
           made
           of
           Ice
           ,
           that
           so
        
         
           We
           might
           in
           sense
           of
           sin
           and
           it
           loathing
           ,
        
         
           Melt
           with
           hot
           love
           to
           Christ
           ,
           yea
           thaw
           to
           nothing
           .
        
         
           And
           should
           our
           sins
           deprive
           our
           Souls
           of
           him
           ,
        
         
           Let
           tears
           run
           from
           our
           Eyes
           till
           Couches
           swim
           .
        
         
           Yet
           let
           's
           not
           grudge
           him
           that
           most
           happy
           bliss
           ,
        
         
           Who
           now
           in
           glory
           with
           Christ
           Jesus
           is
           .
        
         
           He
           did
           his
           work
           apace
           ,
           his
           Race
           is
           run
           ,
        
         
           He'as
           touch'd
           the
           Gole
           yea
           and
           the
           prise
           hath
           won
           .
        
         
           
             AN
             EPITAPH
             .
          
           
             A
             Sweet
             and
             godly
             Preacher
             doth
             lie
             here
             ,
          
           
             Who
             did
             his
             Master
             Jesus
             love
             so
             dear
             ,
          
           
             And
             sinners
             Souls
             ,
             that
             he
             his
             strength
             did
             spend
             .
          
           
             And
             did
             thereby
             (
             't
             is
             thought
             )
             hasten
             his
             end
             ,
          
           
             He
             brought
             himself
             by
             preaching
             to
             the
             Grave
             ,
          
           
             The
             precious
             souls
             of
             sinners
             for
             to
             save
             .
          
           
             He
             lies
             but
             here
             asleep
             ,
             he
             is
             not
             dead
             :
          
           
             To
             God
             he
             lives
             ,
             to
             Christ
             his
             soul
             is
             fled
             ,
          
           
             And
             o're
             while
             must
             he
             awake
             again
             ,
          
           
             And
             evermore
             with
             Christ
             in
             glory
             raign
             .
          
           
             By
             B.
             K.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Ben.
             Harris
          
           at
           the
           
             Stationers
             Arms
          
           in
           
             Sweetings
             Rents
          
           near
           the
           
             Royal
             Exchange
          
           ,
           1676.
           
        
         
         
      
    
  

