Enochs Walk and Change, Elegy 7 – Elegy 9
To the Honourable Memory of Mr. Richard Vines.
BUt why ſo ſoon, why make ſuch haſte away?
Could'ſt thou not brook a little more delay,
And give ſome warning of ſo ſad a blow,
No private, but a common overthrow?
As when the Fabrick of ſome ſtately Towre
Comes near the period of its fatal houre;
Here ſhrinks a rafter, there a pillar groanes,
And all the parts breath out their farewel moanes,
That ſo ſome juſt and ſeaſonable feare,
May the indwellers for the ſtroke prepare.
And was it thine intent to verifie
What we thought falſe, that Seraphims may die?
Sure could they die, juſt ſo they'd loſe their breath,
Nor would they pray againſt a ſudden death:
What was the cauſe thou waſt ſo hurried hence,
Nor with a moments ſtay would death diſpence?
Was it becauſe that reſtleſſe helliſh crew
Did with good Angels their diſpute renew
'Bout Moſes body, and th' Archangel choſe
Thee for his Second to confute his foes,
Or did thoſe bleſſed ſpirits, (who uſe to pry
And ſearch into the Goſpel-myſtery)
Come to a riddle, and reſolved thus
To ſend for thee to be their Oedipus?
Were it not heatheniſh to apprehend
Mortals could to a Deity aſcend,
I ſhould expound thy ſudden change to bliſs
A token of thine Apotheoſis:
As Romulus, when to be deifi'd,
He muſt to Heaven in a whirlwinde ride.
Or was't becauſe had a more lingring death
Giv'n timely notice of thy paſſing breath,
Such rivers would have flowen from mortal eyes,
As might the world with a new flood ſurprize.
Or elſe like Niobe: ſuch had been our moan,
That all mankinde had wept into a ſtone.
But now amazement did our tears ſuppreſſe,
And made our grief the more, but danger leſſe.
Forraign Geographers did once ſurmize,
That England had three Univerſities;
London was one: but now they'l change their tone.
'Tis now too true, England hath leſſe by one;
O you Caligula's, whoſe monſtrous rage
Could wiſh that all the Levites of this Age
Had but one neck, that ſo one bloody ſword
Might cut off all the conduits of the Word.
Forbear, 'tis done, and here doth bleeding lie
As in a Map all Englands Miniſtry.
You brood of Munſter, whoſe prodigious ire
Deſtines all Libraries unto the fire.
Surceaſe your barbarous rage, within one ſpan
Here lies the aſhes of the Vatican.
When Lambeth-Sea of Books was to forſake
Its ancient Seat, and a new Chanel take,
Our Senate did eſpouſe thoſe choice remaines,
To Sion-Houſe, Cambridge forbade the banes.
'Twas doubtful where that walking Library
Would fixe: both places were reſolv'd to try
Their titles, but at laſt did thus agree
To ſend it to the Univerſitie
Upon theſe termes; they ſhould with Vines diſpenſe
And ſend him hither for a recompence.
He was tranſplantad; Thus our common mother
Found one vaſt Library, and loſt another.
Or if you pleaſe, you may compound it thus:
They got the ſhadow, th'ſubſtance came to us.
Some blam'd the publike body of the Nation
Becauſe they did not call a Convocation;
They ſent for Vines, and what need further coſt?
In him a whole Aſſembly was ingroſt.
It could not then be ſaid to Englands ſhame
It hath no Synods, for ſuch was thy fame,
That in thy Head as in a Common Hall
They ſaw, they heard a Councel general.
Some ſay that Englands preſent Miniſtry
Is nothing but an Antichriſtian fry,
Then ſure thou was't the Pope, for 'twas confeſt
Thou hadſt all Lawes i'th' Cabinet of thy breaſt.
But peace, my whining Muſe, and ſay no more
Of unknown worth, conceal his hidden ſtore.
Bury the reſt, leſt mortals too much prize
His ſacred reliques, and idolatrize.
Leſt other Students, when his parts they hear,
Grow negligent, and ſink into deſpair.
Do but name Vines, more need not be expreſt,
Tagus and Ganges will report the reſt,
Each echo at the mention of his name
Will be a ſounding Trumpet of his fame.
Sure, that at Ʋxbridge will ſpeak his renown
Oftner then the echo at Pont-charentoon.
Mat. Pool. Min. of M. Quern. Lond.
On the ſudden and unexpected death of that famous and incomparable Preacher of the Goſpel, Mr. Richard Vines.
I'me pleaſ'd much more to ſee a Vine, though weak,
Laden with cluſters, and its branches break
With weight of Grapes, then view a ſturdy tree,
Barren, though ſtanding to eternity.
A knife that cuts the ſheath I'le rather chuſe,
Though't wear apace, then that's not fit for uſe.
A brave man's gone, but this ſhall be my ſtrife,
Juſt ſo to live, though ſo I end my life.
My Fancy runs too flat; for every line
Should yield a flavour of the ſprightly Vine;
I would not drop a crabby tear on's Herſe,
Eager devotion martyrs him in verſe.
Yet farewel mirth. Juſt reaſon for complaint,
When Vines are dead, no wonder if we faint:
Nothing but Cypreſſe penſive heads ſhall dreſſe,
The Vineyard is become a wilderneſſe.
Soure grapes there are, I know, in every hedge,
But he who eats them ſets his teeth on edge.
Thy grapes were ripe (pure ſoul) ſo that the Preſſe
Was needleſſe, ſince the ſtreams of happineſſe
Ran from thee freely, and thou didſt diſtill
The bleſſed dictates of thy Makers Will.
For ſoules inflam'd with luſt; Thy Art divine
Afforded water when they long'd for wine,
And where a ſoul lay proſtrate with deſpair
Thy wine prov'd Aqua vitae, cordial, rare:
Milk unto babes, ſtrong meat to manly ſtature,
Thy doctrine ſympathiz'd with every nature.
Thus the Vine flouriſh'd, till a ſoveraign fate
In Paradiſe did it innoculate.
S. Jacombe, Mary Woolnoth Lombardſtreet.
Upon the never enough to be lamented Death of the learned Mr. Richard Vines.
AMongſt the throng of Mourners who do come
To wait upon the learned Vines his tombe;
Make room (I pray) for one, who with lame verſe
Can only crawle to offer at his Herfe.
My muſe (like Croeſus ſon) was faſt tongue-ti'd,
And had ne're ſpoke, had not his father di'd.
Let her but groan to eaſe her heart, and then
She ſhall give over, and be dumb agen.
Oh you his people, let your ſorrow ſwell
To floods of tears, which to'th'world may tell
Your loſſe, and when y'have wept your eyes quite dry,
Let him be wept by your poſterity.
How have we angred Heaven? what ugly ſin
Hath in this wretched City harbour'd been?
What whoredoms, murders, and Heaven-daring crimes
Have broken out in theſe debautched times?
That we ſhould live to ſee the angry hand
Of God ſtretch't out againſt our Church and Land.
Breaking our pillars down with furious haſte,
Laying our well compact foundations waſte.
Powerful Whitaker, whoſe inceſſant cries
Did reach the Heavens, and laid ſiege to th'skies.
Reverend Gataker; whoſe unfathom'd braine
Did all the Arts and Sciences contain.
Laborious Robinſon, whoſe care and pain
Was for immortal ſoules, not wealth or gain.
Stout-hearted Love, who durſt defie the axe,
When others yielded like the melting waxe;
Theſe are no more, and to compleat our wo,
Eloquent Vines ſtoops to deaths fatal blow.
Have patience (Gentlemen) and tithes abhor'd
*The Patron.Will lapſed be unto the preſent Lord.
You need not beat your braines how to lay waſte
Our pious Clergy; See, with ſpeed they haſte
To get into their Ark, before the cloud
(That gathers thick) poure down in ſhowers of blood.
If thus our glorious Lights waſte and expire,
For all our new ones we may ſink i'th' mire
Of damn'd Apoſtacy, that horrid crime
Which threatens ruine to our preſent time.
Oh for an Atlas to uphold the Sphear
Of our reeling Church, which frighted. ſhakes with fear
I could my ſelf turn Seeker, (but 'tis vain)
Another ſturdy reſolute Vines to gain;
He whoſe undaunted courage did contend
With blaſphemies and errours to his end
No armed vice, or wickedneſſe in buffe,
No ſcarlet ſinners gown, or chain, or ruffe,
Could fright him to baſe ſilence, no ſweet bait
With a hook in it, but he ſcorn'd it ſtrait.
Rather then ſwear, that which his ſoul did dread,
He loſt his Headſhip — would have loſt his Head.
When England's Eſſex fell, our Nations glory;
Who but Seraphick Vines muſt tell his ſtory?
The drooping State that did attend his fall,
When Lords and Commons wept his Funeral;
The mourning drum, the Lance and Enſignes trail'd,
The robes of honour all in Sables vail'd
Did but affect the eye, 'twas only he,
Who tun'd our hearts into ſad melody:
His tongue and pen eterniz'd Eſſex more,
Then all the trophies which his tombe then wore;
And this will ſound our learned Vines his praiſe,
Louder then riming, or our crackling bayes.
Thomas Playre. Gent.
FINIS.
End of the text · Thomas Jacombe, Enochs Walk and Change (1656)