An Elegie on the Most Reverend Father in God William, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury

Most Reverend Martyr,

Thou, since thy thick Afflictions first begun,

Mak’st Dioclesian’s dayes all Calme, and Sun,

And when thy Tragick Annals are compil’d,

Old Persecution shall be Pity styl’d,

The Stake and Faggot shall be Temp’rate names,

And Mercy wear the Character of Flames:

Men knew not then Thrift in the Martyrs breath,

Nor weav’d their Lives into a four years Death,

Few antient Tyrants do our Stories Taxe,

That slew first by Delayes, then by the Axe,

But these (Tiberius like) alone do cry,

’Tis to be Reconcil’d to let Thee dy.

Observe we then a while into what Maze,

Compasse, and Circle they contrive Delayes,

What Turnes and wilde Perplexities they chuse,

Ere they can forge their Slander, and Accuse:

The Sun hath now brought his warm Chariot back,

And rode his Progress round the Zodiack,

When yet no Crime appears, when none can tell,

Where thy Guilt sleeps, nor when ’twill break the shell.

Why is His Shame defer’d? what’s in’t that brings

Your Justice back, spoyles Vengeance of her Wings?

Hath Mercy seiz’d you? will you rage no more?

Are Windes grown tame? have Seas forgot to roar?

No, a wilde fiercenesse hath your minds possest,

Which time and sins must cherish and digest:

You durst not now let His clear Blood be spilt,

You were not yet grown up to such a guilt;

You try if Age, if Seaventy years can Kill:

Then y’have your Ends, and you are harmlesse still,

But when this fail’d, you do your Paths enlarge,

But would not yet whole Innocence discharge;

You’ll not be Devil All, you fain would prove

Good at a Distance, within some Remove,

“Virtue hath sweets which are good Mens due gaine,

“Which Vice could not Deserve, yet would Retaine.

This was the Cause, why once it was your Care,

That Storms and Tempests in your Sin might share,

You did engage the Waves, and strongly stood

To make the Water guilty of his Blood.

Boats are dispatcht in haste, and ’tis his doome,

Not to his Charge, but to his Shipwrack come;

Fond men, your cruel project cannot doe,

Tempests and storms must learn to kill from you:

When this comes short, he must Walke Pilgrimage,

No Coach nor Mule, that may sustein his Age,

Must trace the City (now a Desert rude)

And combate salvage Beasts the Multitude,

But when his Guardian Innocence can fling,

Awe round about, and save him by that King.

When the Just cause can fright the Beasts away,

And make the Tyger tremble at her prey.

When nether Waves dare seize him, nor the Rout;

The storm with Reason, and the storm without:

Lost in their streights when Plots have vanquisht bin,

And Sin perplext hath no Relief, but Sin.

Agents and Instruments now on you fall,

You must be Judges, People, Waves, and All.

Yet ’cause the Rout will have’t perform’d by you,

And long to see done what they dare not Doe.

You put the Crime to use, it swells your Heape;

Your Sin’s your own, nor are you Guilty cheap,

You Husband All; there’s no Appearance lost,

Nor comes he once to th’ Bar but at your cost;

A constant Rate well Taxt, and Levyed right,

And a Just value set upon each sight.

At last they find the Dayes by their own Purse,

Lesse known from him than what they doe disburse:

But when it now strikes high for him t’appear,

And Chapmen see the Bargain is grown dear;

They Muster hands, and their hot suits enlarge,

Not to persue the Man, but save the Charge;

Then least you loose their Custome, (a just fear)

Selling your Sinnes and others Blood too dear.

You grant their Suits, the Manner, and the Time;

And he must Dye for what no Law calls Crime.

Th’ Afflicted Martyrs, when their pains began,

Their Trajan had, or Dioclesian.

Their Tortures were some Colours, and proceed;

Though from no Guilt, yet ’cause they disagreed:

What league, what friendship’s there? They could not joyn,

And fix the Ark and Dagon in one Shrine.

Faith, combats Faith; and how agree can they,

That still go on, but still a several way?

Zeal, Martyrs Zeal, and Heat ’gainst Heat conspires.

As Theban Brothers fight though in their Fires.

Yet as two diff’rent Stars unite their Beams,

And Rivers mingles Waves and mix their Streams;

And though they challenge each a several Name,

Conspire because their moysture is the same.

So Parties knit, though they be diverse known,

The Men are many, but the Christian, one.

Trajan no Trajan was to his own Heard,

And Tygers are not by the Tygers fear’d.

What strange excesse then? what’s that menstruous Power

When Flames do Flames, and Streams do Streams devour?

Where the same Faith ’gainst the same Faith doth knock,

And Sheep are Wolves to Sheep of the same Flock?

Where Protestant the Protestant defies,

Where both Assent yet one for Dissent dyes?

Let these that doubt this, through his Actions Wade,

Where some must needs Convince, All may perswade.

Was he Apostate, who your Champion stood,

Bath’d in his Inke before, as now in Blood?

He that unwinds the subtle Jesuite,

That Feels the Serpents Teeth, and is not bit?

Unites the Snake finds each Mysterious knot,

And turns the Poyson into Antidot.

Doth Nicety with Nicety undoe?

And makes the Labyrinth the Labyrinth’s clew?

That sleight by sleight subdues, and clearly proves,

Truth hath her Serpents too, as well as Doves,

Now, you that blast his Innocence, Survey,

And view the Triumph of this Glorious day;

Could you (if that might be) if you should come

To seal God’s cause with your own Martyrdom,

(Could all the blood whose Tydes move in their veins,

Which then perhaps were Blood, but now in stains)

(Yield it that Force and strength, which it hath took

Should we except his Bloud) from this his Book,

Your Flame or Axe would lesse evince to Men,

Your Block and Stake would prop lesse than his Pen;

Is he Apostate, whom the Baites of Rome

Cannot seduce, though all her Glories come?

Whom all her specious Honours cannot hold,

Who hates the snare although the Hook be Gold?

Who Prostituted Titles can despise,

And from despised Titles, greater Rise?

Whom Names cannot Amuse, but seats withall

The Protestant above the Cardinall?

Who sure to his own Soul, doth scorn to find

A Crimson cap the Purchase of his Minde?

“Who is not Great, may blame his Fate’s Offence,

“Who would not be, is Great in’s Conscience.

Next these His Sweat and Care how to advance

The Church but to Her Just Inheritance,

How to gain back her Own, yet none Beguile,

And make her Wealth her Purchase, nor her spoyle:

Then, shape Gods worship to a joynt consent;

’Till when the seamlesse Coat must still be Rent;

Then, to repair the Shrines, as Breaches sprung,

Which we should hear, could we lend Pauls a Tongue,

Speak, Speak great Monument! while thou yet art such,

And Rear him ’bove their Scandals and their Touch;

Had he surviv’d thou mightst in Time Declare,

Vast things may comely be, and Greatest Fair.

And though thy Limbs spread high, and Bulk exceed,

Thou’dst prov’d that Gyants are no monstrous breed:

Then ’bove Extent thy Lustre would prevaile,

And ’gainst Dimension Feature turn the Scale;

But now, like Pyrrah’s half adopted Birth,

Where th’ issue part was Woman, Part was Earth,

Where Female some, and some to stone was Bent,

And the one half was t’others Monument,

Thou must imperfect lye, and learn to Groan,

Now for his Ruine, straightway for thine own:

But this and Thousand such Abortives are;

By Bloody Rebels Ravisht from his care;

But yet though some miscarried in their Wombe,

And Deeds Still-born have hastned to the Tombe,

God (that Rewards him now) forbad his store,

Should all lye hid, and he but give ith’ Ore.

Many are Stampt, and shapt, and do still shine,

Approv’d at Mint, a firm, and Perfect Coyne.

Witness that Mart of Books that yonder stands.

Bestow’d by him, though by anothers Hands:

Those Attick Manuscripts, so rare a Piece,

They tell the Turk, he hath not conquer’d Greece.

Next these, a second beautuous Heap is thrown,

Of Eastern Authors, who were all his own.

Who in so Various Languages appear,

Babel, would scarce be their Interpreter.

To These, we may that Fair-Built Colledge bring,

Which proves that Learning’s no such Rustick thing;

Whose structure well contriv’d doth not relate

To Antick fineness, but strong lasting state:

Beauty well mixt with strength, that it complyes

Most with the Gazer’s use, much with his Eyes,

On Marble Columns thus the Arts have stood,

As wise Seth’s Pillars sav’d ’em in the Flood.

But did he leave here Walls, and only Own

A Glorious Heap, and make us rich in Stone?

Then had our Chanc’lour seem’d to fail, and here

Much honour due to the Artificer:

But this our Prudent Patron long fore-saw,

When he Refin’d rude Statutes into Law;

Our Arts and Manners to his Building falls,

And he erects the Men, as well as Walls:

“Thus Solons Laws his Athens did Renown,

“And turn’d that throng of Building to a Town.

Yet neither Law nor Statute can be known

So strickt, as to Himself he made his own,

Which in his Actions Inventory lyes,

Which Hell or ——— can never scandalize:

Where every Act his rigid eye surveyes,

And Night is Barre and Judge to all his Dayes;

Where all his secret Thoughts he doth comprize,

And every Dream summon’d to an Assize;

VVhere he Arraigns each Circumstance of care,

VVhich never parts dismiss’d without a Prayer:

See! how he sifts and searches every part,

And ransacks all the Closets of his heart;

He puts the hours upon the Rack and Wheel,

And all his minutes must confess or feel;

If they reveal one Act which forth did come.

VVhen Humane frailty crept into the Loome,

If one Thread stain, or sully, break, or faint,

So that the Man does Inteerrupt the Saint,

He hunts it to its Death, nor quits his feares,

Till’t be Embalm’d in Prayers, or drown’d in Teares.

The Sun in all his journeys ne’re did see

One more devout, nor one more strict than He.

Since his Religion then’s Vnmixt and Fine,

And Works do warrant Faith, as Ore the Mine:

VVhat can his Crime be then? Now you must lay

The Kingdoms Laws subverted in his way:

See! no such Crime doth o’re his Conscience grow,

(VVithout which Witness ne’re can make it so;)

A clear Transparent White, bedecks his mind,

VVhere nought but Innocence can shelter find,

Witnesse that Breath which did your stain and blot

Wipe freely out, (though Heaven I fear will not)

Witnesse that Calme and Quiet in His Breast,

Prologue and Preface to his Place of Rest;

When with the VVorld He could undaunted part,

And see in Death not meagre Looks; nor Dart:

When to the Fatal Block His Gray Age goes

With the same Ease, as when he took Repose.

“He like old Enoch to His Blisse is gone,

“’Tis not his Death, but his Translation.