Elegy on John Crofts, D.d

Here let his reverend dust in silence sleep; I could add tears, were't not a sin to weep; Which heathens wont: what else in grief should we, But doubt, or envy his felicity? Death, as in duty, came and snuff'd the light, As who should say to make it shine more bright. As to the shutting-in of nature's day, His evening red was, but his morning grey. The elements disputed Death's control, Nature was loath to part with such a soul.

As to his quality he doubly owes; But which, to birth, or breeding more, who knows? The first has him among the great ones reckon'd; And in the second he to none was second. But some have troubled at his passion been, Why should they so? a fly will have her spleen. He could be angry; and who lives but can? For could he not, he should be less than man. True, he was hasty at some cross event, But was again as hasty to repent. And be his choler at the worst believ'd, Whom his right hand depress'd, his left reliev'd. His strictness at the church's gates did well, No gates stand always ope, but those of hell. And since the lord his vineyard did restore, 'Twas zeal, not choler, to keep out the boar.

Should I forbear a trophy here to raise him, (With reverence to the text) his works would praise him. Impartial eyes, survey what he has done; And you 'll not say church-work went slowly on. Whose elegy each grateful stone presents, From th' humble base, to th' highest battlements. Others themselves wrap up in lasting lead, But he wrapt up the church in his own stead; Whose pinacle he rear'd so high, it even Climbs up the clouds to reach his alms to heaven; Upon whose top, St. Peter may behold His monitor in characters of gold. Not but in this others pretend a share, But the dead challenge what the living spare. Now then for epitaph, this let him take: Here lies the temple's great Jehojada, Who for the sums he, to repair it, spent, Has the whole church to be his monument.