_Non recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus,_ _Non ubivis, coramve quibuslibet._
ON MR. RICE, THE MANCIPLE OF CHRIST-CHURCH IN OXFORD.
Who can doubt, Rice, but to th’ eternall place Thy soule is fledd, that did but know thy face? Whose body was soe light, it might have gone To heav’ne without a resurrection. Indeed thou wert all type; thy limmes were signes, Thy arteryes but mathematicke lines: As if two soules had made thy compound good, That both should live by faith, and none by blood.
If gentleness could tame the Fates, or wit Deliver man, Bolings had not di’d yet; But One which over us in judgment sits, Doth say our sins are stronger than our wits.
Dawson the butler’s dead: Although I think Poets were ne’re infus’d with single drink, I’ll spend a farthing, muse; a watry verse Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse. If any cannot weep amongst us here, Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear. Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal Than when our beer was good, that John may float To Styx in beer, and lift up Charons boat With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran With claret at the Coronation, So let your channels flow with single tiff, For John, I hope, is crown’d: Take off your whiff, Ye men of rosemary[114], and drink up all, Remembring ’tis a butlers funeral: Had he been master of good double beer, My life for his, John Dawson had been here.
Be dumb, ye infant-chimes, thump not your mettle, That ne’re out-ring a tinker and his kettle; Cease, all you petty larums; for, to-day Is young Tom’s resurrection from the clay: And know, when Tom rings out his knells, The best of you will be but dinner-bells. Old Tom’s grown young again, the fiery cave Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave: He grew up quickly from his mother earth, For, all you see was but an hours birth; Look on him well, my life I dare engage, You ne’re saw prettier baby of his age. Some take his measure by the rule, some by The Jacobs-staff take his profundity, And some his altitude; but some do swear Young Tom’s not like the Old: But, Tom, ne’re fear The critical geometricians line, If thou as loud as e’re thou did ring’st nine. Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground, But straight Saint Maries tenor lost his sound. O how this may-poles heart did swell With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell Choakt with annoy, and ’s admiration, Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation. Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o’re What he ne’re saw in many years before; But when he saw the old foundation, With some like hope of preparation, He burst with grief; and lest he should not have Due pomp, he’s his own bell-man to the grave: And that there might of him be still some mention, He carried to his grave a new invention. They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins, And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins; But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by heaven, He ne’re set such a loaf into the oven. And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker, As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker; Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride, When thou this motto shalt have on thy side: “Great world! one Alexander conquer’d thee, And two as mighty men scarce conquer’d me.” Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn, Though hang’d, drawn, quarter’d, till they did thee burn: Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry, Since thou was martyr’d for the Churches glory; But for thy meritorious suffering, Thou shortly shalt to heaven in a string: And though we griev’d to see thee thump’d and bang’d, We’ll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang’d.