







 
   
     
       
         A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ...
         Mathews, Lemuel, fl. 1661-1705.
      
       
         
           1667
        
      
       Approx. 12 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 7 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
       
         Text Creation Partnership,
         Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :
         2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).
         A50273
         Wing M1289
         ESTC R32058
         12308557
         ocm 12308557
         59320
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A50273)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 59320)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1015:15)
      
       
         
           
             A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ...
             Mathews, Lemuel, fl. 1661-1705.
          
           [2], 5-14 p.
           
             Printed by John Crook ... and are to be sold by Samuel Dancer ...,
             Dublin :
             1667.
          
           
             In verse.
             Indistinct letter in second word of title.
             Reproduction of original in the Cambridge University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.
         Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors.
      
       
         EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.
         EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).
         The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.
         Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.
         Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.
         Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.
         The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.
         Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).
         
          Keying and markup guidelines are available at the
           Text Creation Partnership web site
          .
        
      
       
         
         
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Taylor, Jeremy, 1613-1667 -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
     
        2000-00 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2001-09 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2002-06 Sara Gothard
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2002-06 Sara Gothard
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2002-07 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
         
         
           A
           P●NDARIQUE
           ELEGIE
           Upon
           the
           death
           of
           the
           R.
           R.
           Father
           in
           God
           JEREMY
           ,
           Late
           Lord
           Bishop
           of
           
             Doune
             ,
             Connor
             ,
             and
             Dromore
             .
          
        
         
           By
           Le.
           Mathews
           A.
           M.
           à
           sacr
           .
           domest
           .
        
         
           Dublin
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             Iohn
             Crook
          
           ,
           Printer
           to
           the
           Kings
           most
           Excellent
           Majesty
           ,
           and
           are
           to
           be
           sold
           by
           
             Samuel
             Dancer
          
           ,
           Bookseller
           in
           Castlestreet
           ,
           1667.
           
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           TO
           THE
           MEMORY
           Of
           the
           most
           Venerable
           Doctor
           JEREMY
           TAYLOR
           ,
           Lord
           Bishop
           of
           DOWNE
           ;
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             Stanza
             .
             I.
             
          
           
             HAppy
             the
             man
             !
             whom
             fate
             permits
             to
             stay
          
           
             In
             the
             abodes
             of
             old
             eternity
             ;
          
           
             Careless
             what
             't
             is
             to
             live
             ,
             and
             what
             to
             dye
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             's
             a
             doing
             in
             mortality
             ;
          
           
             Well
             satisfi'd
             only
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             To
             dwell
             in
             an
             immortal
             ray
             ,
          
           
             Hid
             in
             the
             light
             of
             that
             long
             lasting
             day
             .
          
           
           
             But
             happier
             he
             !
             if'tis
             his
             doom
          
           
             From
             Natures
             silent
             tyring
             room
             ,
          
           
             To
             enter
             on
             our
             busie
             Stage
             ,
             the
             world
             ;
          
           
             Who
             not
             by
             fortune
             hither
             hurl'd
             .
          
           
             An
             empty
             place
             to
             fill
             ,
          
           
             Or
             to
             make
             up
             the
             Cities
             bill
             ,
          
           
             Or
             stand
             a
             mute
             ,
             or
             gaze
             amongst
             the
             crowd
             ,
          
           
             And
             do
             ingloricus
             things
             and
             vile
             ,
          
           
             And
             idly
             laugh
             and
             prate
             a
             while
             ,
          
           
             Till
             out
             of
             breath
             wrapt
             in
             a
             common
             shroud
             ,
          
           
             I●
             laid
             with
             unknown
             bones
             ,
             and
             has
             no
             fame
             allow'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             he
             who
             bravely
             speaks
             and
             bravely
             does
             ,
          
           
             And
             throughout
             all
             the
             various
             Scenes
          
           
             Worthy
             and
             fit
             himself
             demeans
             ;
          
           
             Whether
             his
             part
             the
             Prince
             or
             Peasant
             shows
             ,
          
           
             For
             that
             the
             Drammatist
             and
             not
             he
             chose
             :
          
           
             He
             does
             deserve
             th'
             applause
             of
             all
             ,
          
           
             Thrice
             happy
             him
             !
             may
             the
             spectators
             call
             ,
          
           
             When
             th'
             worlds
             almighty
             Poet
             bids
             the
             curtain
             fall
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             man
             whom
             all
             admir'd
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             ●ame
             ,
             and
             Heaven's
             sweet
             breath
             inspir'd
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             funeral
             voice
             made
             others
             live
             ,
          
           
             And
             Immortality
             did
             often
             give
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             though
             such
             he
             were
             ;
          
           
             Though
             thus
             the
             mighty
             man
             has
             done
          
           
             The
             mighty
             man
             (
             alas
             !
             )
             is
             gone
             :
          
           
             He
             ,
             he
             is
             gone
             and
             left
             us
             here
          
           
           
             To
             doubt
             if
             heaven
             can
             such
             another
             send
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             for
             us
             it
             does
             intend
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             our
             joyes
             and
             hopes
             are
             frighted
             flown
          
           
             Ere
             since
             the
             whole
             Church
             heard
             by
             a
             catholick
             groan
          
           
             The
             Doctors
             gone
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Open
             great
             volumn
             of
             Fame
             ,
             open
             wide
             ,
          
           
             Written
             fair
             and
             full
             on
             every
             side
             ;
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             world
             his
             story
             show
             ,
          
           
             Though
             all
             the
             learned
             world
             already
             know
          
           
             But
             Fame
             ,
             be
             elegant
             like
             him
             ;
          
           
             Be
             quaint
             ,
             be
             copious
             ,
             and
             not
             obscure
             ;
          
           
             And
             Book
             unsullied
             be
             and
             trim
             ;
          
           
             Have
             a
             large
             character
             ;
             but
             specially
             be
             sure
             without
             ,
             within
          
           
             No
             blot
             ,
             no
             stain
             be
             seen
             ,
          
           
             For
             this
             to
             latest
             ages
             must
             endure
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             He
             was
             the
             man
             ,
             so
             pure
             ,
             so
             innocent
             ,
          
           
             So
             careless
             of
             forbidden
             fruit
             ,
          
           
             Richly
             supply'd
             with
             Natures
             own
             recruit
             ;
          
           
             So
             masculine
             his
             soul
             ,
             and
             so
             content
          
           
             To
             be
             but
             man
             ;
             so
             little
             bent
          
           
             To
             vice
             ,
             that
             you
             might
             call
          
           
             Him
             one
             not
             bruis'd
             by
             Adams
             fall
             .
          
           
             Iv'e
             never
             but
             with
             admiration
             seen
          
           
           
             His
             generous
             looks
             ,
             his
             glorious
             meen
             ,
          
           
             They
             made
             me
             think
             of
             heaven
             ,
             and
             of
             the
             Saints
             above
             .
          
           
             So
             Angels
             live
             ,
             and
             smile
             ,
             and
             love
             ;
          
           
             And
             one
             might
             guess
             as
             soon
             ,
             that
             they
          
           
             Had
             ancient
             scores
             to
             pay
             ,
          
           
             And
             smelt
             our
             Grandsires
             mouldy
             clay
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             So
             vast
             his
             knowledge
             ,
             he
          
           
             Had
             tasted
             oft
             of
             each
             allowed
             tree
             ,
          
           
             On
             all
             their
             sweets
             had
             daily
             fed
          
           
             The
             Bird
             of
             Paradise
             ,
             he
             kindly
             bred
          
           
             A
             gaulless
             Dove
             within
             the
             Serpents
             head
             :
          
           
             The
             Cherubs
             bow'd
             ,
             and
             sheath'd
             their
             swords
             ;
          
           
             For
             's
             tongue
             had
             all
             the
             charms
             of
             words
             ,
          
           
             All
             that
             language
             and
             wit
             affords
             ,
          
           
             And
             new
             and
             fitter
             names
             did
             wear
             ;
          
           
             And
             's
             lucky
             pen
             (
             as
             if
             a
             pencil
             't
             were
             )
          
           
             Made
             gold
             ,
             by
             guilding
             it
             ,
             more
             golden
             to
             appear
             .
          
           
             Ye
             ,
             wisdoms
             Sons
             with
             him
             there
             's
             lost
          
           
             A
             Vatican
             of
             learned
             things
             ,
             which
             cost
          
           
             A
             Treasury
             of
             precious
             time
             ;
             but
             grieve
             ye
             most
          
           
             For
             undiscover'd
             Arts
             and
             Sciences
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             is
             excellent
             in
             those
             or
             these
             ;
          
           
             What
             never
             was
             ,
             what
             never
             shall
             be
             found
             ,
          
           
             With
             him
             lye
             buried
             under
             ground
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             Had
             he
             been
             where
             the
             Lycaonian
             throng
          
           
             Thought
             those
             two
             Prelats
             Gods
             in
             humane
             shape
             ;
          
           
           
             He
             scarcely
             could
             escape
          
           
             Their
             worship
             ,
             and
             a
             canonizing
             Song
             ;
          
           
             Iove
             for
             his
             presence
             ,
             Mercury
             for
             his
             tongue
             .
          
           
             Had
             he
             been
             thine
             ,
             fond
             Rome
             ,
             th'
             hadst
             gloried
             more
          
           
             In
             him
             then
             all
             thy
             wondrous
             Saints
             before
             ;
          
           
             His
             birth
             had
             famous
             been
             and
             great
             ,
          
           
             His
             life
             a
             golden
             legend
             should
             repeat
             ;
          
           
             The
             Hero
             dead
             had
             sainted
             bin
             ;
             and
             soon
          
           
             His
             Reliques
             miracles
             must
             have
             done
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             his
             the
             Rubrick
             names
             did
             far
             out-shine
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             though
             thy
             native
             ,
             he
             had
             not
             been
             thine
             ;
          
           
             Strong
             prejudice
             his
             free-born
             soul
          
           
             Custom
             and
             interest
             were
             never
             able
             to
             controule
             :
          
           
             Could
             my
             weak
             voice
             make
             Fames
             trump
             louder
             sound
             ,
          
           
             I
             'de
             speak
             thy
             praise
             the
             Universe
             around
             ;
          
           
             Great
             Saint
             !
             thy
             humblest
             votary
             ;
          
           
             A
             thousand
             hymns
             I
             would
             bestow
             ,
          
           
             Alas
             !
             ten
             thousand
             would
             not
             do
             :
          
           
             Too
             big
             the
             subject
             ,
             and
             too
             strait
             the
             Poetry
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             that
             can
             be
             bravely
             said
             is
             due
             to
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             Oft
             have
             I
             thought
             ,
             and
             still
             admir'd
             ,
          
           
             Religion's
             Sons
             in
             blacks
             ●tti●d
          
           
             Black
             ,
             natures
             mou●ning
             vaile
             ;
             a
             hew
          
           
             More
             d●smal
             far
             than
             cypress
             or
             the
             yew
             !
          
           
             Black
             !
             that
             checks
             the
             ●oying
             beams
             of
             light
             :
          
           
             Black
             !
             the
             mantle
             of
             forsaken
             night
             :
          
           
             Canonick
             habit
             of
             a
             Tragedy
             !
          
           
             Misfortunes
             dress
             !
             Deaths
             livery
             !
          
           
             There
             was
             of
             yore
             (
             and
             ,
             yet
             there
             scarce
             could
             be
             )
          
           
           
             Religion
             's
             darling
             ,
             an
             illustrious
             he
             ,
          
           
             bright
             Saint
             ,
             like
             thee
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             face
             did
             shine
          
           
             When
             thou
             didst
             preach
             God's
             Law
             ,
             like
             thine
             ,
          
           
             Who
             lighted
             the
             bewildred
             host
          
           
             With
             a
             dark
             Lanthorn
             ,
             a
             cloud
             and
             flaming
             post
             ,
          
           
             Till
             in
             Mount
             Neboes
             vale
             their
             guide
             and
             light
             they
             lost
             ;
          
           
             For
             some
             such
             loss
             as
             theirs
             or
             ours
             ,
             I
             guess
          
           
             The
             mystick
             train
             of
             men
             profess
          
           
             An
             art
             of
             death
             ,
             and
             ghostly
             things
             do
             talk
             ,
          
           
             And
             ever
             since
             in
             mourning
             gravely
             walk
             .
          
        
         
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             mitred
             man
          
           
             Our
             great
             Diocesan
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Crosier
             aw'd
             our
             murmuring
             land
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             those
             tribes
             with
             a
             miraculous
             Wand
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             eye
             not
             dim
             ,
             but
             natures
             heat
             intire
             ;
          
           
             The
             sacrifice
             on
             th'
             altar
             did
             expire
             :
          
           
             His
             sacred
             feaver
             ,
             his
             ardent
             love
          
           
             Heav'd
             him
             to
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             to
             those
             flames
             above
             ;
          
           
             Iehovah
             suck't
             ,
             and
             kiss'd
             his
             soul
             away
             ,
          
           
             As
             Rabbins
             of
             Israels
             Prophet
             say
             :
          
           
             Or
             as
             the
             Tishbite
             in
             his
             fiery
             coach
          
           
             Rode
             up
             toth'
             Gate
             ,
             and
             Heavens
             bright
             palace
             did
             approach
             :
          
           
             Strange
             was
             his
             death
             ,
             and
             strange
             his
             grave
             !
          
           
             And
             our
             great
             Prophet
             too
             ascended
             so
             ;
          
           
             O
             had
             he
             left
             his
             mantle
             here
             below
             !
          
           
             A
             harder
             thing
             then
             Shaphats
             Son
             we
             crave
             ,
          
           
             A
             double
             portion
             of
             thy
             spirit
             may
             thy
             Successors
             have
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             IX
             .
          
           
             How
             poor
             ,
             how
             short
             a
             thing
             is
             all
          
           
             The
             time
             which
             here
             we
             living
             call
             !
          
           
             Scarce
             ,
             is
             our
             race
             begun
             ,
          
           
             Ere
             half
             our
             race
             is
             run
             ;
          
           
             The
             noble
             prize
             how
             very
             few
             have
             won
             ?
          
           
             With
             Tim's
             quick
             wings
             to
             death
             we
             fly
          
           
             As
             swiftly
             as
             the
             hours
             ;
             and
             you
             and
             I
             ,
          
           
             Reader
             and
             all
             must
             dye
             .
          
           
             Stay
             serious
             thought
             ,
             prethee
             stay
             ;
          
           
             See
             how
             apt
             't
             is
             to
             flee
             away
             !
          
           
             When
             th'
             undiscerned
             hand
             does
             snatch
             us
             hence
             ,
          
           
             For
             what
             goood
             deed
             expect
             we
             recompence
             ?
          
           
             When
             we
             are
             tumbled
             into
             dust
             ,
          
           
             What
             can
             Fame
             say
             ,
             if
             it
             be
             true
             and
             just
             ?
          
           
             We
             must
             like
             common
             people
             die
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             vulgar
             in
             our
             Elegie
             ;
          
           
             There
             's
             nothing
             of
             our
             own
          
           
             To
             be
             by
             future
             ages
             known
             ;
          
           
             Our
             memories
             'mongst
             undistinguisht
             beasts
             are
             thrown
             .
          
        
         
           
             X.
             
          
           
             Thy
             fate
             ,
             blest
             soul
             ,
             cannot
             be
             such
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             none
             could
             prize
             ,
             whom
             none
             could
             praise
             too
             much
             :
          
           
             My
             Beads
             I
             le
             bid
             before
             thy
             venerable
             shrine
             ,
          
           
             Who
             like
             the
             Stars
             ,
             to
             which
             th'
             art
             gone
             ,
             didst
             shine
             :
          
           
             I
             fear
             my
             rhimes
             ,
             my
             love
          
           
             So
             ill
             exprest
             ,
             may
             libels
             prove
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             what
             is
             set
             too
             high
             ,
             no
             man
             can
             reach
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             thy
             stile
             ,
             none
             ought
             of
             thee
             to
             preach
             ;
          
           
             To
             read
             the
             Text
             again
             is
             the
             best
             gloss
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             glorious
             Works
             can
             praise
             thee
             most
             ;
             thy
             name
          
           
             Shall
             be
             preserv'd
             by
             th'
             spicy
             breath
             of
             Fame
             !
          
           
             Support
             and
             ornament
             o
             th'
             Christian
             Cross
             !
          
           
             The
             Churches
             Doctor
             !
             the
             Catholick
             loss
             !
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             But
             though
             the
             Doctors
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Though
             from
             the
             Fane
             the
             Oracle
             is
             fled
             ,
          
           
             The
             Temple
             still
             is
             hallowed
             ;
          
           
             His
             sacred
             ashes
             still
             are
             there
             ;
          
           
             I
             le
             humbly
             pay
             a
             figh
             ,
             a
             tear
             :
          
           
             Rest
             holy
             clay
             ,
          
           
             Slumber
             till
             the
             judgement
             day
             ;
          
           
             Devout
             cinders
             !
             contrite
             dust
             !
          
           
             Mild
             heart
             !
             free
             from
             cank'ring
             rust
             !
          
           
             Learned
             brain
             !
             eloquent
             tongue
             !
          
           
             Charmes
             of
             the
             attentive
             throng
             !
          
           
             Bright
             cheerful
             looks
             !
             which
             ne're
          
           
             Envie
             or
             grief
             ,
             anger
             or
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Though
             they
             have
             try'd
             a
             thousand
             times
             and
             mo●e
             ,
          
           
             Could
             make
             you
             pale
             before
             !
          
           
             Pious
             breaths
             !
             you
             'l
             sigh
             no
             more
             ,
             but
             sleep
             :
          
           
             Rest
             closed
             eyes
             !
             no
             more
             you
             'l
             weep
             :
          
           
             Rest
             facred
             clay
             ,
          
           
             Slumber
             till
             the
             judgment
             day
             !
          
           
           
             Thus
             I
             said
             ,
             and
             as
             I
             said
             ,
          
           
             The
             awfull
             Relick
             made
             me
             bow
             my
             head
             ,
          
           
             What
             was
             in
             life
             so
             great
             ,
             is
             something
             great
             when
             dead
             .
          
        
         
           
             XII
             .
          
           
             His
             soul
             from
             golden
             Fetters
             free
             ,
          
           
             Rapt
             to
             its
             own
             dear
             liberty
             ,
          
           
             To
             highest
             Heaven
             knew
             all
             the
             wayes
             ,
          
           
             For
             there't
             had
             been
             ten
             thousand
             times
             in
             pray'r
             and
             praise
             ,
          
           
             Wrapt
             in
             a
             commendatory
             prayer
             ,
          
           
             A
             mouthful
             of
             artic
             late
             Air
             ,
          
           
             —
             Air
             rarifyed
             with
             hearty
             zeal
          
           
             was
             its
             first
             vehicle
             ;
          
           
             A
             nimble
             Cherub
             quickly
             flyes
          
           
             From
             the
             best
             wardrope
             in
             the
             skies
             ;
          
           
             For
             soon
             the
             news
             had
             fill'd
             th●se
             starry
             rooms
             ,
          
           
             The
             Prelat
             comes
             ;
          
           
             The
             welcom
             guest
             is
             quickly
             cloath'd
             upon
          
           
             With
             A
             bes
             of
             pure
             etherial
             lawne
             ;
          
           
             Subtile
             as
             Angels
             joy
             ,
             and
             fine
          
           
             As
             is
             the
             breath
             divine
             :
          
           
             Clad
             in
             that
             Robe
             of
             white
             ,
          
           
             Of
             soft
             and
             never
             with'ring
             light
             ,
          
           
             He
             gently
             passes
             through
          
           
             A
             long
             admiring
             row
          
           
             Of
             sainted
             Ghosts
             to
             martyr
             Charle's
             wa●n
          
           
             Come
             ,
             Tayler
             ,
             come
             ;
          
           
             Here
             's
             Hammond
             ,
             there
             is
             Sanderson
             :
          
           
             The
             lesser
             Angels
             all
             make
             room
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             they
             embrace
             —
             ill
             natured
             men
             !
             in
             vain
          
           
             Ye
             kept
             these
             three
             from
             the
             entreating
             Soveraign
             :
          
           
             Enter
             bright
             Soul
             this
             general
             Convention
             ,
          
           
             This
             Quire
             of
             Priests
             ;
             hither's
             thy
             translation
             ,
          
           
             Bishop
             Elect
             !
             there
             shortly
             will
             be
             given
          
           
             To
             thee
             a
             Diocess
             in
             the
             large
             Hierarchy
             of
             Heaven
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           ,
        
         
      
    
     
  

