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         T. B.
      
       
         
           1680
        
      
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         B01561
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         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[111]
         99882652
         ocm99882652
         182595
         
           
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             Minerva's check to the author, attempting to write an elegy upon the Right Honourable and much to be lamented Roger first Earl of Orrery, who departed this life at Castle-Marter in the county of Cork in Ireland, 16 Octobris anno 1679.
             T. B.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.) : coat of arms (woodcut).
           
             Printed for Rowland Reynolds, at the Middle-Exchange in the Strand.,
             London: :
             1680.
          
           
             Signed: T.B.
             Verse: "That news hath wings, we ev'ry day do find ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Orrery, Roger Boyle, -- Earl of, 1621-1679 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           MINERVA's
           Check
           to
           the
           Author
           ,
           Attempting
           to
           write
           an
           
             
               VIVIT
               POST-FVNERA
               VIRTVS
            
             blazon or coat of arms
          
           ELEGY
           Upon
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           and
           much
           to
           be
           Lamented
           ROGER
           First
           Earl
           of
           ORRERY
           ,
           Who
           departed
           this
           Life
           at
           CASTLE-MARTER
           in
           the
           County
           of
           CORK
           in
           IRELAND
           ,
           
             16
             
               Octobris
               Anno
            
             1679.
             
          
        
         
           THat
           News
           hath
           Wings
           ,
           we
           ev'ry
           day
           do
           find
           ,
        
         
           And
           Ill
           doth
           ever
           leave
           the
           best
           behind
           :
        
         
           
             Admire
             not
             then
             the
             death
             of
             ORRERY
             ,
          
           
             Renown'd
             all
             's
             days
             ,
             should
             in
             a
             moment
             flie
             ,
          
           
             Both
             far
             and
             near
             the
             World
             to
             terrifie
             .
          
        
         
           
             At
             Cork
             ,
             at
             
               Dublin
               ,
               London
            
             ,
             and
             at
             Paris
          
           
             Too
             soon't
             arrives
             ,
             and
             ROME
             ,
             but
             there
             ne'er
             tarries
             ,
          
           
             Till
             at
             both
             Indies
             ,
             or
             where
             e'er
             more
             far
             is
             .
          
        
         
           '
           Mongst
           the
           Worlds
           Treasuries
           ,
           it
           there
           declare
           ,
        
         
           Than
           any
           theirs
           ,
           a
           Pearl
           more
           rich
           ,
           more
           rare
        
         
           W'
           have
           lost
           ;
           thus
           ranging
           all
           the
           World
           about
           ,
        
         
           Finds
           many
           zealous
           mournful
           Poets
           out
           :
        
         
           But
           still
           I
           thought
           the
           Muses
           triple
           Trine
           ,
        
         
           And
           Learned
           Crew
           concern'd
           ,
           must
           have
           design
        
         
           Some
           Eagles
           Quill
           should
           make
           the
           worthy
           Pen
           ,
        
         
           To
           write
           their
           Dictates
           on
           the
           best
           of
           Men
           ;
        
         
           But
           chanc'd
           to
           view
           a
           mournful
           Elegy
        
         
           Upon
           his
           Death
           ,
           enough
           to
           stupifie
        
         
           The
           Reader
           ,
           whilst
           the
           Poet
           did
           invite
        
         
           Each
           Poetaster
           on
           him
           Distichs
           t'
           write
           .
        
         
           This
           Author
           took
           I
           for
           good
           warrant
           to
           it
           ,
        
         
           To
           be
           as
           bold
           as
           any
           Errant
           Poet
           :
        
         
           But
           quick
           as
           Thought
           Minerva
           said
           in
           haste
           ,
        
         
           Hold
           ,
           hold
           ,
           poor
           man
           !
           don
           't
           Time
           and
           Paper
           waste
           ;
        
         
           He
           was
           my
           Foster
           Child
           ,
           't
           was
           my
           good
           hap
        
         
           The
           Babe
           to
           dandle
           first
           upon
           my
           Lap
           ,
        
         
           Who
           kindly
           took
           my
           Breasts
           ,
           and
           throve
           so
           well
           ,
        
         
           That
           in
           the
           Liberal
           Arts
           he
           did
           excell
           .
        
         
           Thy
           grov'ling
           Fancy
           ,
           and
           too
           low
           pitch'd
           Eye
           ,
        
         
           Cannot
           reach
           up
           unto
           the
           Poets
           Skie
           :
        
         
           Be
           not
           like
           those
           that
           to
           shoot
           up
           are-bold
           ,
        
         
           At
           what
           their
           dazled
           sense
           cannot
           behold
           :
        
         
           Thine
           hand
           to
           th'
           Stars
           thou
           may'st
           extend
           as
           well
           ,
        
         
           As
           
           ORRERY's
           due
           praise
           conceive
           ,
           or
           tell
           :
        
         
           His
           Noble
           Birth
           ,
           Life
           ,
           Death
           ,
           is
           a
           fit
           Story
           ,
        
         
           Reserv'd
           to
           Crown
           some
           Poet
           Laureat's
           Glory
           :
        
         
           His
           Dust
           is
           Sacred
           ,
           therefore
           do
           not
           dare
        
         
           The
           Muses
           Darling
           ,
           and
           the
           Graces
           Dear
           ,
        
         
           With
           thy
           rude
           Rhimes
           ,
           devoid
           of
           Time
           and
           Measure
           ,
        
         
           Once
           to
           prophane
           ,
           (
           a
           Sacred
           Poet's
           Treasure
           .
           )
        
         
           I
           bless'd
           him
           young
           thus
           'bove
           thy
           reach
           ,
           and
           stature
           ,
        
         
           Besides
           what
           Mars
           bestow'd
           on
           's
           Noble
           Nature
           .
        
         
           Thou
           fain
           would'st
           tell
           how
           th'
           Graces
           still
           invite
           him
        
         
           Their
           Guest
           ,
           when
           Mars
           doth
           cease
           t'
           excite
           him
        
         
           Brighter
           in
           Arms
           ,
           than
           's
           Arts
           ere-while
           to
           shine
           ,
        
         
           In
           God's
           and
           's
           King
           's
           cause
           still
           defending
           thine
           .
        
         
           His
           care
           to
           breed
           brave
           Horses
           thou
           would'st
           write
           ,
        
         
           In
           Peace
           for
           Pleasure
           ,
           and
           in
           War
           for
           fight
           :
        
         
           Thou
           fain
           would'st
           talk
           on
           '
           s
           Vict'ry
           at
           
             Knockny
             Clarshy
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           give
           him
           (
           next
           to
           God
           )
           the
           God-a-mercy
           ;
        
         
           While
           thousands
           yet
           alive
           would
           with
           thee
           say
           ,
        
         
           His
           Prowess
           (
           under
           God
           )
           obtain'd
           that
           Day
           .
        
         
           But
           what
           is
           this
           to
           all
           that
           he
           hath
           done
           ,
        
         
           To
           th'
           Towns
           and
           Castles
           he
           by
           force
           hath
           won
           ?
        
         
           thou
           'dst
           find
           an
           endless
           Task
           on
           't
           ,
           to
           declare
        
         
           His
           Peaceful
           Virtues
           ,
           or
           's
           exploits
           in
           War.
        
         
           In
           general
           terms
           I
           know
           thou'dst
           praise
           thus
           far
           ,
        
         
           Prudent
           in
           Counsel
           ,
           prosperous
           in
           War
           :
        
         
           But
           home
           to
           speak
           his
           praise
           ,
           and
           to
           descend
        
         
           Unto
           particulars
           ,
           there
           were
           no
           end
           .
        
         
           Singly
           admire
           his
           prudence
           in
           the
           thing
           ,
        
         
           So
           well
           contriv'd
           that
           did
           restore
           the
           King
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           constant
           Loyalty
           since
           th'
           Restoration
        
         
           'S
           a
           worthy
           pattern
           to
           th'
           unstable
           Nation
           .
        
         
           Thou
           kenst
           not
           of
           the
           Knots
           ,
           or
           the
           Meanders
        
         
           Of
           State-Intrigues
           ,
           display'd
           '
           mongst
           bold
           Commanders
           .
        
         
           Then
           lay
           thy
           Pen
           by
           ,
           don't
           i'
           th'
           least
           Eclipse
        
         
           A
           General
           's
           Glory
           by
           thy
           Pen
           ,
           or
           Lips.
           
        
         
           
             Let
             
               England
               ,
               Scotland
               ,
               Ireland
            
             ,
             mourning
             say
             ,
          
           
             For
             threescore
             years
             and
             more
             enjoy'd
             have
             they
             ,
          
           
             In
             ORRERY
             an
             Atlas
             ,
             lost
             this
             day
             .
          
        
         
           His
           death
           's
           a
           loss
           unparallel'd
           ,
           the
           King
        
         
           A
           grave
           wise
           Counsellor
           ,
           and
           most
           loving
        
         
           Subject
           hath
           lost
           ,
           the
           Church
           a
           Gracious
           Son
           ,
        
         
           The
           Realm
           a
           Peer
           ,
           yea
           ,
           and
           a
           Peerless
           one
           ;
        
         
           The
           Court
           a
           Pillar
           ,
           th'
           Army
           a
           Commander
        
         
           Of
           high
           Conduct
           ,
           as
           was
           great
           Alexander
           ;
        
         
           The
           Countreys
           loss
           as
           great
           yea
           greater
           rather
           ,
        
         
           In
           ORRERY
           is
           lost
           a
           most
           dear
           Father
           .
        
         
           Th'
           hast
           company
           enough
           ,
           who
           ,
           than
           to
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           Can't
           other
           glory
           add
           unto
           his
           Urn.
        
         
           I
           tell
           thee
           still
           thou
           need'st
           not
           ,
           can'st
           not
           write
        
         
           Great
           
           ORRERY's
           due
           praise
           ,
           who
           Shines
           too
           bright
        
         
           His
           Sacred
           Poems
           now
           but
           in
           the
           Press
           ,
        
         
           Will
           speak
           his
           noble
           praise
           in
           fairer
           dress
           :
        
         
           His
           Wit
           and
           Worth
           were
           'bove
           thy
           Ken
           or
           Story
           ,
        
         
           Who
           therefore
           's
           wrapt
           into
           immortal
           Glory
           .
        
         
           But
           '
           cause
           thou
           had'st
           a
           mind
           to
           do
           thy
           best
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           ,
           with
           his
           Coat
           of
           Arms
           ,
           a
           Mourner
           rest
           .
        
         
           Thou
           art
           forewarn'd
           (
           she
           said
           .
           )
           Now
           farewell
           Friend
           .
        
         
           So
           ere
           I
           had
           begun
           ,
           I
           made
           an
           END
           .
        
         
           
             T.
             B.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           LONDON
           :
           Printed
           for
           
             Rowland
             Reynolds
          
           ,
           at
           the
           Middle-Exchange
           in
           the
           Strand
           .
           1680.
           
        
      
    
  

