







 
   
     
       
         An elogie with an accrostick and an epitaph on the death of that laborious servant and minister of Christ, Mr James Janeway; who departed this life and put on imortality; the 16th. day of March 1673/4.
         S. R.
      
       
         
           1674
        
      
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         B05113
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         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[76]
         99885203
         ocm99885203
         182561
         
           
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             An elogie with an accrostick and an epitaph on the death of that laborious servant and minister of Christ, Mr James Janeway; who departed this life and put on imortality; the 16th. day of March 1673/4.
             S. R.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             Printed for Thomas Cockeril,
             London, :
             [1674]
          
           
             Signed: S.R. Aetatis Suae, 15.
             Date of publication suggested by Wing.
             Verse: "Ah! Whither, whither, into what abyss ..."
             Imperfect: stained, affecting imprint and text.
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Janeway, James, 1636?-1674 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           ELOGIE
           WITH
           AN
           ACCROSTICK
           And
           an
           Epitaph
           On
           the
           Death
           of
           that
           Laborious
           Servant
           and
           Minister
           of
           CHRIST
           ;
           
             Mr.
             James
             Janeway
          
           ;
           who
           departed
           this
           Life
           and
           put
           on
           Imortality
           ;
           the
           16th
           Day
           of
           March
           1673
           /
           4.
           
        
         
           
             M●rs
             ommibus
             Commune
             est
             .
          
           
             
               An
               Elogie
            
             .
          
           
             
               AH
               !
               Whither
               ,
               whither
               ,
               into
               what
               Abyss
            
             
               Of
               Sorrow
               ,
               and
               unfatom'd
               Grief
               ,
               is
               this
            
             
               In
               which
               my
               troubled
               Soul
               is
               plung'd
               ?
               what
               Seas
            
             
               Of
               terrour
               causing
               (
               what
               strange
               )
               thoughts
               are
               these
               ?
            
             
               What
               ai●es
               my
               Heart
               ,
               that
               thus
               with
               fear
               it
               quakes
               ?
            
             
               What
               ?
               have
               the
               Furyes
               with
               their
               hissing
               Snakes
               ,
            
             
               And
               flaming
               Torches
               ,
               left
               their
               Dark
               abodes
               ?
            
             
               VVhat
               !
               hath
               Black
               Dis
               ,
               and
               the
               Infernal
               Gods
               ,
            
             
               Let
               loose
               those
               Hellish
               Fiends
               ,
               confin'd
               to
               lye
            
             
               In
               that
               Infernal
               place
               Eternally
               ?
            
             
               Ah?
               No
               :
               great
               JANEWAY'S
               dead
               :
               whose
               name
               ev'n
               struck
            
             
               Such
               fear
               ,
               that
               (
               nam'd
               )
               the
               Throne
               o●
               darkness
               shook
               ?
            
             
               Th'
               Infernal
               Legions
               trembled
               at
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               More
               than
               th'
               Dice
               Charmes
               ,
               
                 Thessalian
                 Witcke●
              
               frame
               .
            
             
               Their
               Great
               Antig'nist
               ,
               who
               so
               oft
               assail'd
            
             
               Their
               Pow'r
               ,
               and
               (
               spite
               of
               all
               their
               spites
               )
               prevail'd
               ,
            
             
               He
               who
               so
               often
               did
               retake
               the
               prey
               ,
            
             
               Which
               else
               those
               Cursed
               Fiends
               had
               born
               away
               ,
            
             
               Now
               's
               Dead
               :
               But
               FAME
               (
               loth
               to
               divulge
               his
               death
               .
               )
            
             
               Refus'd
               to
               give
               her
               Trump
               its
               wonted
               Breath
               :
            
             
               She
               deck'd
               her self
               in
               Sable
               Weeds
               :
               Then
               took
            
             
               A
               ruthful
               Gesture
               ,
               and
               a
               Mounrnful
               look
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               great
               Grief
               (
               Tears
               bursting
               out
               ,
               )
               did
               shew
            
             
               That
               he
               was
               Dead
               (
               alas
               !
               by
               far
               too
               true
               )
               :
            
             
               VVhich
               when
               those
               Damned
               Spirits
               heard
               ,
               they
               all
            
             
               VVith
               joy
               (
               if
               joy's
               in
               Hell
               ,
               )
               kept
               Festivall
               :
            
             
               They
               joy
               to
               think
               that
               he
               from
               whom
               they
               fled
               ,
            
             
               And
               were
               so
               oft
               o'recome
               by
               ,
               now
               is
               Dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               was
               —
               But
               Oh!
               that
               some
               Celestial
               one
            
             
               VVould
               tell
               me
               what
               !
               'till
               then
               I
               can't
               make
               known
               .
            
             
               CALIOPE
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Learned
               NINE
            
             
               (
               Nay
               though
               with
               Great
               HYPERION
               they
               combine
               ,
               )
            
             
               Cannot
               sufficiently
               Sing
               forth
               his
               praise
               ,
            
             
               Unless
               Divine
               Assistance
               time
               my
               Layes
            
             
               I
               shall
               but
               Blot
               ,
               and
               Blur
               ,
               (
               and
               not
               Indite
               )
            
             
               His
               worth
               :
               then
               Lord
               ,
               inspire
               my
               Pen
               to
               VVrite
               !
            
             
               But
               why
               digress
               I
               thus
               ?
               he
               's
               known
               so
               well
               ,
            
             
               That
               who
               ,
               or
               what
               he
               was
               ,
               I
               need
               not
               tell
               :
            
             
               His
               Learning
               ,
               Labour
               ,
               Gifts
               ,
               and
               Graces
               ,
               shew
            
             
               His
               worth
               (
               which
               in
               his
               want
               we
               dearly
               Rue
               )
               :
            
             
               His
               Life
               confirm'd
               his
               Motto
               still
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               HOLY
               ,
               and
               BLAMELESS
               in
               the
               high'st
               Degree
               :
            
             
               Such
               was
               his
               Death
               :
               he
               could
               Triumph
               ,
               and
               Sing
            
             
               
                 Grave
                 w●ere's
                 thy
                 Victory
                 !
                 Death
                 where
                 's
                 thy
                 Sting
                 ?
              
            
             
               He
               was
               a
               Burning
               and
               a
               shining
               Light
            
             
               (
               In
               this
               so
               wicked
               Age
               )
               to
               judge
               aright
            
             
               Unto
               that
               place
               of
               Bliss
               ,
               t'
               which
               now
               he
               's
               gone
               ,
            
             
               (
               Except
               true
               followers
               )
               now
               he
               'l
               live
               with
               none
               .
            
             
               A
               Star
               a
               
                 Famous
                 star
              
               which
               did
               appear
            
             
               VVith
               such
               great
               Glory
               in
               our
               Hemispheare
            
             
               Is
               fallen
               :
               know
               ye
               not
               ,
               (
               ye
               know
               full
               well
               ,
               )
            
             
               A
               Great
               Man
               's
               fallen
               this
               day
               in
               Israel
               ?
            
             
               I
               would
               ,
               I
               wish
               (
               and
               therein
               I
               'de
               bear
               part
               )
            
             
               That
               JANEWAY
               were
               ingrav'd
               on
               every
               Heart
               :
            
             
               When
               (
               else
               )
               our
               Hearts
               would
               sin
               ,
               they
               would
               forbear
            
             
               For
               shame
               when
               as
               they
               find
               his
               Name
               writ
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ah!
               Cruel
               DEATH
               ,
               could
               thy
               impartial
               Dart
            
             
               Be
               Level'd
               at
               ,
               and
               pierce
               good
               JANEWAYS
               ,
               Heart
               ?
            
             
               Had
               he
               been
               one
               to
               whom
               the
               
                 Glass
                 of
                 LIME
              
            
             
               Had
               run
               
                 Three
                 〈◊〉
              
               't
               were
               less
               ;
               but
               in
               the
               prime
            
             
               And
               Flow'r
               of
               all
               his
               Days
               !
               Ah
               ,
               Cruel
               DEATH
               .
            
             
               Then
               ,
               to
               deprive
               him
               often
               Life
               ,
               and
               Breath
               ;
            
             
               And
               Launch
               him-forth
               in
               to
               Eternity
               !
            
          
           
             
               Virtus
               Post
               ,
               fueri
               vivet
               .
            
          
           
             
               Was
               he
               so
               fair
               and
               tempting
               to
               thine
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               That
               thou
               did'st
               long
               ,
               and
               take
               ?
               or
               was
               't
               that
               he
            
             
               In
               this
               respect
               made
               like
               to
               Christ
               might
               be
               ?
            
             
               Or
               ,
               wer
               't
               solic'ted
               by
               the
               Pow'rs
               below
               ,
            
             
               (
               Who
               fear'd
               Subversion
               ,
               and
               an
               overthrow
               )
               ?
            
             
               No
               ,
               't
               was
               not
               Fate
               ,
               or
               any
               other
               Pow'r
               :
            
             
               But
               Gods
               Decree
               ,
               that
               caus'd
               that
               fatal
               hour
               .
            
             
               And
               wherefore
               Lord
               (
               when
               as
               the
               Harvest
               's
               large
               ,
               )
            
             
               Remov'st
               thou
               those
               ,
               who
               're
               faithful
               in
               their
               charge
               ?
            
             
               VVhen
               faithful
               Labourers
               are
               so
               scarce
               ,
               then
               will
            
             
               Their
               Nunber
               lessen
               ,
               and
               diminish
               still
               ?
            
             
               VVhen
               Canaies
               out
               so
               fast
               ,
               so
               fast
               decay
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               sad
               Omen
               ,
               God
               will
               take
               away
            
             
               His
               Golden
               Candlestick
               from
               us
               ,
               and
               give
            
             
               It
               those
               ,
               who
               will
               more
               answerably
               live
               .
            
             
               And
               art
               thou
               gone
               SWEET
               SOUL
               !
               hast
               thou
               forsook
            
             
               Thy
               Earthly
               House
               of
               Clay
               ?
               he
               could
               not
               brook
            
             
               Those
               daring
               sins
               ,
               which
               ev'ry
               where
               are
               found
            
             
               In
               all
               Relations
               ,
               and
               Degrees
               t'
               abound
               ;
            
             
               For
               when
               he
               saw
               't
               ,
               with
               holy
               Zeal
               he
               hurl'd
            
             
               Contempt
               on
               this
               ,
               and
               fled
               to
               th'
               other
               VVorld
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               could
               he
               dye
               ,
               and
               yet
               no
               blazing
               Star
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Comet
               (
               usually
               portending
               VVar
               ,
               )
            
             
               Presage
               his
               Death
               ?
               Ah!
               no
               :
               alas
               !
               alas
               !
            
             
               The
               great
               decrease
               of
               worthys
               ,
               that
               ,
               that
               was
            
             
               A
               certain
               sign
               :
               which
               seen
               ,
               he
               would
               no
               more
            
             
               Stay
               here
               behind
               's
               (
               Companions
               gone
               before
               )
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               alas
               !
               and
               shall
               he
               now
               depart
            
             
               VVithout
               the
               sighs
               ,
               and
               sobs
               ,
               of
               ev'ry
               heart
               ?
            
             
               Oh!
               that
               mine
               Eyes
               had
               pow'r
               to
               draw
               up
            
             
               All
               ,
               and
               each
               Spring
               ,
               into
               my
               Brain
               !
               and
               sup
            
             
               Th'
               Ocean
               into
               my
               Brest
               ,
               that
               't
               might
               supply
            
             
               Perpetual
               moisture
               to
               my
               weeping
               Eye
               .
            
             
               Come
               ,
               VVidows
               ,
               Orphans
               ,
               all
               who
               're
               in
               distress
               ;
            
             
               Let
               this
               be
               th'
               Object
               ,
               here
               your
               Grief
               express
               .
            
             
               And
               you
               (
               *
               Dear
               Friend
               ,
               )
               who
               had
               so
               large
               a
               share
            
             
               Of
               his
               Affections
               ,
               and
               of
               ev'ry
               Pray'r
               ,
            
             
               'Twixt
               whom
               the
               Name
               of
               Brothti
               past
               :
               alas
            
             
               You
               shall
               no
               more
               behold
               him
               as
               he
               was
               :
            
             
               You
               shall
               no
               more
               on
               Earth
               ,
               behold
               ,
               or
               see
               ,
            
             
               His
               Heav'nly
               face
               :
               and
               therefore
               now
               with
               me
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               this
               Troop
               of
               Mourners
               ,
               bear
               a
               part
               ,
            
             
               To
               weep
               and
               Mourn
               with
               an
               unfeigned
               Heart
               .
            
             
               Let
               's
               weep
               whole
               Flood
               's
               of
               Tears
               ,
               that
               may
               surround
            
             
               His
               Tomb
               ;
               and
               keep
               th'
               impure
               from
               holy
               Ground
               :
            
             
               Then
               Metamorphose
               them
               to
               Chrystal
               pure
               ,
            
             
               And
               grave
               his
               Fame
               for
               ever
               to
               indure
               .
            
             
               And
               you
               his
               Hearers
               weep
               ,
               Oh!
               weep
               full
               fast
               ;
            
             
               Now
               use
               your
               Tears
               ,
               this
               day
               may
               be
               your
               last
               .
            
             
               He
               spent
               his
               Strength
               and
               Life
               for
               you
               :
               Oh!
               then
            
             
               In
               Tears
               ,
               strive
               to
               retaliate
               it
               agen
               .
            
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               be
               liberal
               for
               God
               observes
               :
            
             
               And
               in
               ordained
               Bottles
               ,
               there
               preserves
            
             
               Them
               as
               the
               Tokens
               of
               your
               tender
               Love
            
             
               To
               ,
               and
               esteem
               of
               him
               :
               by
               Grief
               you
               'l
               prove
            
             
               Your
               Love
               was
               real
               :
               Weep
               ,
               and
               do
               not
               grudge
               ,
            
             
               God
               sees
               your
               Grief
               :
               and
               thereby
               will
               you
               judge
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Accrostick
             .
          
           
             
             Jt
             is
             a
             Truth
             ,
             Ripe
             Fruit
             is
             soon'st
             pull'd
             down
             :
          
           
             
             And
             't
             is
             like
             Truth
             ,
             he
             ripe
             ,
             receiv'd
             his
             Crown
             .
          
           
             
             Much
             pains
             ,
             much
             fear●s
             ,
             much
             care
             he
             here
             exprest
             :
          
           
             
             Eternally
             he
             now
             ●njoyeth
             Rest
             ,
          
           
             
             Sorrow
             and
             〈…〉
             doth
             stay
             .
          
           
             
             Jn
             Heav'n
             all
             's
             joy
             :
             no
             Night
             ,
             ensues
             his
             day
             .
          
           
             
             All
             Earthly
             things
             do
             change
             :
             are
             transitory
             :
          
           
             
             No
             change
             is
             incident
             to
             Heav'ns
             Glory
             .
          
           
             
             Ere
             we
             're
             aware
             ,
             our
             Thread
             of
             Life
             (
             being
             spun
             )
          
           
             
             Whilst
             we
             're
             secure
             is
             cut
             ,
             or
             Life
             is
             done
             .
          
           
             
             And
             now
             (
             from
             heav'n
             .
             )
             his
             Voice
             this
             seems
             to
             be
          
           
             
             You
             all
             must
             dye
             :
             prepare
             to
             follow
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             EPITAPH
             .
          
           
             WHat
             is
             't
             (
             Spectator
             )
             thou
             would'st
             see
             ,
             or
             know
          
           
             Who
             's
             here
             Inter'd
             ?
             Alas
             !
             I
             dare
             not
             show
          
           
             VVould'st
             know
             his
             Name
             ?
             why
             ,
             no
             unhallow'd
             ea●…
          
           
             Must
             hear
             it
             nam'd
             :
             avaunt
             then
             ,
             come
             not
             near
          
           
             You
             who
             're
             Prophane
             :
             but
             you
             whose
             Gentle
             Eye
          
           
             Can
             weep
             at
             will
             ;
             know
             ,
             JANEWAY
             here
             doth
             lye
             :
          
           
             Here
             Lyes
             his
             Body
             :
             But
             ,
             his
             Soul
             's
             at
             Rest
             ,
          
           
             In
             Glorious
             Glory
             ,
             not
             to
             be
             exprest
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             his
             Late
             Wife
             ,
             but
             now
             sorrowful
             Widow
             .
          
           
             YOur
             Lost
             is
             great
             .
             'T
             is
             true
             :
             but
             't
             is
             much
             le●…
          
           
             That
             (
             though
             a
             Widow
             )
             you
             'r
             not
             husbandless
             ;
          
           
             (
             The
             God
             of
             Heav'n
             ,
             and
             Earth's
             ,
             Espous'd
             to
             you
             )
          
           
             Lessen
             your
             Grief
             :
             for
             why
             ,
             Behold
             ,
             all
             do
          
           
             Lament
             your
             Loss
             in
             theirs
             :
             Look
             how
             their
             Eyes
          
           
             Pay
             back
             Tear-Tribute
             to
             his
             Obsequies
             !
          
           
             Ah!
             cease
             those
             floods
             of
             tears
             :
             though
             Death
             doth
             sever
          
           
             Your self
             ,
             and
             him
             ;
             yet
             know
             ,
             't
             is
             not
             for
             ever
             :
          
           
             For
             when
             ,
             that
             ,
             nought
             shall
             of
             this
             all
             remain
             ,
          
           
             You
             'l
             meet
             in
             Bliss
             ,
             and
             never
             part
             again
             .
          
           
             S.
             R.
             
               Aetatis
               Suae
            
             ,
             45.
             
          
        
         
           
             NOx
             Erat
             et
             nigra
             velaverat
             omnia
             veste
          
           
             Herebam
             Nexis
             tecam
             ego
             brachietis
             ,
          
           
             Membraqque
             lanqui
             duto
             reparabam
             fassa
             sapore
          
           
             Cum
             steti●
             ante
             oculos
             Pallid
             us
             ille
             meos
          
           
             Scire
             velu
             quid
             agam
             ?
             vivo
             modo
             ,
             simodo
             vivit
          
           
             P●nano
             ●ners
             ,
             animae
             Corpus
             inare
             suae
             ,
          
           
             Sed
             〈◊〉
             ingratas
             cev
             vivi
             Ducimus
             auras
          
           
             Er
             〈◊〉
             evan●mem
             languida
             vita
             moram
             ;
          
           
             San●tu●
             sed
             JANEWAY
             castae
             Pietatis
             mago
          
           
             Pramia
             sudorum
             quos
             habet
             ante
             tenet
             .
          
           
             Es
             〈◊〉
             supremae
             te●●get
             consinia
             metae
          
           
             Hic
             Dixis
             Merti
             cur
             mihi
             tarda
             venis
             ?
          
           
             Nunc
             ubi
             seradies
             fatalem
             v●x
             erat
             horam
          
           
             Quae
             solvat
             vin
             c'lis
             te
             quoqque
             corporeis
          
           
             Laetus
             in
             Elysa
             mecum
             spatiabore
             ripa
          
           
             Qua
             Lauri
             vitreas
             lucus
             inu●brat
             aquas
             .
          
           
             FINIS
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Thomas
             Cockeril
          
           .
           〈…〉
        
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div B05113-e10
           
             *
             Mr.
             Nat.
             Vincent
             .
          
        
      
    
  

