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         Mercer, William, 1605?-1676?
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B04341 of text036 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing M1737). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         B04341
         Wing M1737
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[81]
         99885205
         ocm99885205
         182566
         
           
            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
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B04341)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182566)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:1[81])
      
       
         
           
             An elegie in memorie, and at the interring of the body of the most famous and truely noble knight, Sir Henrie Mervyn. Paterne of all true valour; worth, and arts, who departed this life the 30. of May, and lyes interred at Westminster, anno Do: 1646.
             Mercer, William, 1605?-1676?
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             Printed by Jane Coe,
             London, :
             1646.
          
           
             Signed: By W: Mercer.
             Verse: "With wondring raptures, darting at the ayre ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Mervyn, Henry, -- Sir, d. 1646 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
       B04341 036  (Wing M1737).  civilwar no An elegie in memorie, and at the interring of the body of the most famous and truely noble knight, Sir Henrie Mervyn. Paterne of all true va Mercer, William 1646    1254 3 0 0 0 0 0 24 C  The  rate of 24 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
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        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           AN
           ELEGIE
        
         
           In
           Memorie
           ,
           and
           at
           the
           Interring
           of
           the
           Body
           of
           the
           most
           famous
           and
           truely
           Noble
           Knight
           ,
           Sir
           HENRIE
           MERVYN
           .
        
         
           Paterne
           of
           all
           true
           Valour
           ;
           Worth
           ,
           and
           Arts
           ,
           who
           departed
           this
           life
           the
           30.
           of
           May
           ,
           and
           lyes
           Interred
           at
           Westminster
           ,
           Anno
           Do
           :
           1646.
           
        
         
           
             With
             wondring
             
               raptures
               ,
            
             darting
             at
             the
             
               ayre
            
          
           
             Much
             griefe
             and
             anguish
             ,
             sadnesse
             and
             dispaire
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               mournings
               ,
               ●usings
               ,
               madnesse
               ,
            
             and
             a
             mind
          
           
             Cast
             downe
             so
             low
             ,
             
               disconsolate
               ,
               combin'd
               ,
            
          
        
         
           
             With
             cruell
             thoughts
             ,
             to
             teare
             the
             
               Stars
               ,
            
             and
             strive
          
           
             To
             plucke
             the
             
               Planets
               ;
            
             who
             by
             power
             deprive
          
           
             Those
             admir'd
             
               Spirits
               ,
            
             so
             inspir'd
             with
             worth
             .
          
           
             And
             
               rob
            
             those
             rare
             
               Excellencies
            
             of
             earth
             ;
          
        
         
           
             What
             
               fatall
               planet
               ;
            
             placed
             in
             the
             Skye
          
           
             Durst
             thus
             
               tryumph
               ?
            
             What
             cruell
             
               destinie
            
          
           
             Durst
             dare
             to
             
               meddle
               ,
            
             or
             molest
             thy
             
               Spirit
               ,
            
          
           
             Which
             did
             all
             Vertues
             to
             the
             full
             inherit
             ?
          
        
         
           
             The
             rarest
             
               Modell
            
             of
             admired
             Parts
             ,
          
           
             Pure
             quintesence
             ,
             of
             exquisite
             deserts
             ,
          
           
             So
             
               Singular
               ,
            
             no
             
               Second
            
             could
             admit
             ,
          
           
             The
             very
             essence
             of
             all
             
               acute
            
             wit
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               Emphasis
            
             of
             ev'ry
             praise
             we
             read
             ,
          
           
             And
             Source
             from
             whence
             all
             knowledge
             did
             proceed
             ,
          
           
             The
             life
             of
             
               learning
            
             and
             a
             light
             to
             all
          
           
             That
             liv'd
             ,
             or
             had
             their
             being
             on
             this
             
               Ball
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Nature
            
             is
             nothing
             ,
             if
             it
             hath
             not
             
               Art
               ;
            
          
           
             But
             it
             in
             
               thee
               ,
            
             perfection
             did
             impart
          
           
             In
             such
             
               abundance
               ,
            
             that
             I
             doe
             believe
          
           
             
               Art
               ,
            
             here
             ,
             by
             
               nature
               ,
            
             was
             superlative
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Thy
             thoughts
             were
             such
             :
             they
             
               soar'd
            
             on
             
               sacred
            
             wing●
          
           
             
               Vnlimited
               ,
            
             to
             
               Sublunary
            
             things
             ,
          
           
             Were
             all
             subleame
             ,
             or
             at
             the
             least
             too
             high
             ,
          
           
             for
             usuall
             
               Spirits
               ,
            
             Mens
             Capacity
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Throughout
             all
             
               Nations
               ,
               Notable
            
             for
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             worth
             ,
             all
             after
             ages
             shall
             procleame
             ,
          
           
             Who
             scorn'd
             the
             honors
             of
             this
             present
             age
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             found
             it
             fit
             ,
             thy
             vertues
             to
             ,
             ingage
          
        
         
           
             With
             such
             as
             strove
             ,
             in
             State
             to
             be
             extol'd
             ,
          
           
             Or
             wrapt
             by
             
               favour
               ,
            
             in
             a
             new
             fram'd
             
               Mould
               ,
            
          
           
             Let
             all
             the
             
               Muses
               ,
               mourne
            
             in
             
               sable
               Coats
               ,
            
          
           
             Heav'ns
             
               Quiristers
               ,
            
             sing
             
               Melancholyk
            
             notes
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Let
             all
             the
             
               Arts
               ,
            
             both
             
               Morall
               ,
            
             and
             
               Divine
               ,
            
          
           
             All
             
               Curious
               Poets
               ,
            
             add
             one
             mournfull
             line
          
           
             To
             shew
             their
             
               love
               ,
            
             our
             losse
             ,
             and
             let
             them
             
               pen
            
          
           
             The
             
               highest
               praise
               ,
               appropriate
            
             to
             men
             ,
          
        
         
           
             And
             yeeld
             them
             all
             ;
             as
             
               attributes
            
             most
             
               due
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             doe
             him
             
               honour
               ,
            
             and
             againe
             
               renue
            
          
           
             Their
             
               Verse
            
             once
             more
             ;
             and
             write
             upon
             his
             
               Chest
               .
            
          
           
             The
             quickest
             
               Wit
               ,
            
             the
             
               rarest
               mind
               ,
            
             the
             
               best
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Dame
               Natur
               's
               darling
               ,
            
             singular
             in
             skill
             ,
          
           
             Of
             all
             the
             
               arts
               ,
            
             and
             
               sciences
               ,
            
             no
             quill
          
           
             Can
             
               Comprehend
               ,
               Contrive
               ,
            
             or
             Calculate
             ,
          
           
             His
             true
             
               de-merits
               ;
            
             nor
             can
             
               Elevate
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             His
             Worth
             ;
             nor
             yet
             
               Apelles
               Coloured
               art
               ,
            
          
           
             Nor
             
               Zeuxes
               pencill
               ,
            
             if
             alive
             ,
             impart
          
           
             His
             
               prudence
               ,
            
             and
             his
             pregn●nt
             
               Eloquence
               ,
            
          
           
             His
             
               practice
               ,
               rare
               performance
               ,
            
             Eminence
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Nor
             yet
             his
             outwards
             ,
             objects
             of
             our
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             None
             could
             at
             all
             ,
             draw
             to
             the
             life
             ;
             but
             lye
          
           
             And
             let
             them
             be
             ,
             but
             as
             they
             are
             the
             ayme
             ,
          
           
             To
             figure
             forth
             ,
             things
             signity'd
             by
             them
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             hath
             he
             left
             ,
             behind
             ,
             one
             so
             expert
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             
               Stage
               ;
            
             equall
             to
             play
             his
             part
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             all
             these
             could
             not
             ,
             add
             one
             houres
             increase
          
           
             Vnto
             his
             time
             ,
             you
             see
             all
             flesh
             is
             graffe
             .
          
           
             No
             usuall
             
               quill
            
             could
             draw
             so
             rare
             a
             shape
             ,
          
           
             The
             best
             
               Experience
               ,
            
             could
             not
             well
             escape
             ,
          
           
             But
             it
             must
             
               erre
               ,
            
             nor
             none
             can
             draw
             his
             mind
          
           
             No
             more
             then
             they
             ,
             Can
             fathom
             up
             wind
             .
          
        
         
           
             Wherefore
             in
             silence
             ,
             I
             must
             
               cease
               ,
            
             and
             
               wonder
               ,
            
          
           
             So
             thou
             may'st
             stay
             ,
             swift
             passenger
             ,
             and
             
               ponder
               :
            
          
           
             What
             
               Peece
            
             of
             
               Earth
               ,
            
             lyes
             here
             
               Intemb'd
               ,
            
             and
             then
          
           
             Goe
             tell
             that
             
               Mervin
               ,
               was
               the
               praise
               of
               Men
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             SIR
             HENRIE
             MERVIN
             ;
             
               Anagram
               .
            
             My
             hit's
             e'er
             in
             he'ven
             ,
             
               Anagram
               .
            
             Here
             in
             my
             Urne
             :
          
           
             
               My
               hit's
               ever
               in
               he'ven
               ,
               then
               doe
               not
               mourne
               .
            
             
               There
               rests
               my
               soule
               ;
               my
               earth
               ;
               Here
               
                 in
                 my
                 Vrne
                 .
                 Anagram
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Here
                 in
                 my
                 Vrne
                 ,
              
               in
               secret
               where
               J
               lye
               ,
            
             
               Confin'd
               by
               
                 fate
                 ,
              
               or
               humane
               
                 destinie
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fame
              
               passing
               hence
               ;
               strooke
               in
               a
               
                 Maze
                 ,
              
               stood
               
                 dombe
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               writ
               these
               words
               ,
               vpon
               my
               painted
               
                 Tomb
              
            
             
               With
               sighes
               ,
               and
               teares
               ,
               and
               Sacrifized
               Groanes
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               them
               all
               ,
               as
               witnesses
               at
               once
            
             
               For
               to
               be
               view'd
               who
               having
               tribute
               pay'd
               ,
            
             
               Straight
               vanisht
               quite
               ;
               
                 these
                 were
                 the
                 words
                 were
                 said
                 ,
              
            
          
           
             
               Epitaph
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Mervyn
                
                 the
                 
                   Modell
                   morall
                
                 and
                 
                   divine
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 that
                 
                   Natur
                   's
                
                 knowledge
                 could
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 Lyes
                 here
                 ,
                 but
                 yet
                 for
                 all
                 of
                 this
                 Conceive
              
               
                 His
                 
                   boundlesse
                   worth
                   ,
                
                 Could
                 not
                 come
                 to
                 the
                 
                   Grave
                
              
               
                 But
                 
                   lives
                   ;
                
                 and
                 still
                 ,
                 so
                 long
                 as
                 
                   time
                
                 doth
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 
                   fame
                
                 (
                 shall
                 far
                 ,
                 exceed
                 the
                 
                   Worthyest
                   .
                
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 a
                 word
                 ,
                 proves
                 truly
                 such
                 a
                 
                   Theame
                
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 may
                 read
                 
                   Minerva
                
                 in
                 his
                 
                   Name
                   .
                
              
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             Island
             of
             England
             ,
             and
             the
             Vniversall
             Ocean
             .
          
           
             
               O
               
                 English
                 Island
                 ,
              
               hence
               forbeare
               to
               
                 boast
                 :
              
            
             
               You
               boundlesse
               
                 Oceans
                 ,
              
               which
               surround
               its
               Coast
               ,
            
             
               Disclose
               your
               secrets
               :
               neither
               swell
               with
               pride
               ,
            
             
               Since
               
                 Mervyn
              
               now
               ,
               the
               
                 Marinors
              
               best
               guide
               ,
            
             
               Is
               gone
               ;
               for
               if
               ,
               thy
               stormy
               Waves
               arise
               ,
            
             
               No
               
                 Art
                 ,
              
               nor
               
                 Skill
                 ,
              
               can
               
                 Christendome
              
               devise
            
             
               To
               compasse
               safely
               ;
               he
               ,
               was
               onely
               
                 hee
                 ,
              
            
             
               Who
               could
               
                 tryumph
                 ,
              
               and
               in
               thy
               deepe
               did
               see
            
             
               Those
               hidden
               dangers
               ,
               which
               devour'd
               a
               world
               ,
            
             
               For
               want
               of
               knowledge
               ,
               and
               were
               headlong
               hurld
               ,
            
             
               Beyond
               their
               bounds
               ;
               but
               O!
               What
               
                 Trophees
              
               can
            
             
               Be
               then
               Created
               :
               for
               so
               rare
               a
               Man
               ?
            
             
               No
               ;
               none
               at
               all
               ;
               but
               such
               as
               may
               seeme
               
                 Odd
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               must
               be
               made
               :
               by
               
                 Neptun
              
               who
               's
               a
               
                 God
                 .
              
            
             
               And
               that
               is
               this
               ;
               the
               sky's
               shall
               change
               their
               kind
            
             
               Into
               a
               Curtaine
               ;
               and
               constrain
               the
               Wind
            
             
               To
               stay
               ;
               and
               henceforth
               never
               more
               shall
               blow
               ,
            
             
               But
               be
               a
               substance
               ,
               and
               no
               ayrie
               show
            
             
               Shall
               thence
               proceed
               ;
               but
               shall
               as
               Emblem
               's
               flye
            
             
               Gaiz'd
               on
               ,
               and
               wondred
               at
               ,
               with
               mortals
               eye
               :
            
             
               As
               signes
               of
               honour
               ;
               and
               shall
               so
               remaine
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Mervyn
               be
               ,
               rais'd
               from
               
                 the
                 dust
              
               againe
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               HENRIE
               MERVYN
               .
               
                 Anag
                 .
              
               Renue
               my
               hire
               .
            
             
               HENRIE
               MERVYN
               .
               
                 Anag
                 .
              
               Merry
               in
               he'ven
               .
            
             
               Dystichon
               
                 Renue
                 my
                 hire
                 ;
              
               and
               make
               me
               one
               of
               them
            
             
               That
               's
               Merry
               in
               he'ven
               ,
               't
               is
               all
               whereat
               I
               ayme
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Eccrostick
             .
          
           
             
               
                 Here
              
               ,
               learnings
               Compend
               ,
               
                 Miracolous
              
               in
               
                 Arts
              
            
             
               
                 Estrang'd
              
               doth
               lye
               ;
               (
               
                 Endow'd
              
               with
               divyne
               Parts
               )
            
             
               
                 No
              
               more
               to
               more
               ,
               
                 Removed
              
               from
               our
               Spheare
               ,
            
             
               
                 Remaines
              
               above
               ,
               
                 Vnstaind
              
               ,
               in
               spotlesse
               Ayre
               ,
            
             
               
                 Iust
              
               and
               
                 ingenuous
                 Yet
              
               he
               must
               Submit
               ,
            
             
               
                 Even
              
               unto
               
                 death
                 ,
                 Nothing
              
               can
               Conquer
               it
            
             
               But
               his
               
                 perfection
                 ,
              
               who
               made
               him
               perfit
               ,
            
             
               Where
               
                 Mervyn
              
               liv's
               ,
               with
               
                 Angels
                 ,
                 in
                 Delight
                 .
              
            
          
           
             By
             W
             :
             MERCER
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           by
           Jane
           Coe
           ,
           1646.
           
        
      
      
  

