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An ELEGY On the late Holy Father Pope INNOCENT the Eleventh.

1 STrange power of Piety when Virtue is
2 So strong it can disarm our prejudice:
3 When Luther's Sons Romes prizeless loss bemoan,
4 Less than a Miracle can there be shown;
5 Yet see they mourn, and those our Doctrine bred,
6 Hating the Body, yet adore the Head.
7 This Truth, tho Ages past scarce understood,
8 Ours boldly may affirm, one Pope was good;
9 Not partial, nor to private Interest sold,
10 Nay, what's more strange than all, not fond of Gold;
11 But durst against the stream of Avarice swim,
12 St. Peter's Keys were never gilt by him,
13 Nor did the Churches Biggots, till his sway
14 Ever, so little for Salvation pay.
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15 His mellow'd Wisdom prop'd Romes tottering State,
16 His moderate Judgment stemm'd the Clergies hate,
17 Willing the Churches variance to attone,
18 Rail'd not at ours, nor less'ned not his own.
19 When Heathens did in swarming Numbers list,
20 And War began 'twixt Mahomet and Christ;
21 The imprison'd Treasure which he then set free,
22 Shew'd him refin'd from former Papacy.
23 The Gold which to that Holy War he threw,
24 Declar'd him more than Pope, a Christian too.
25 When France observ'd him scourge the Infidels,
26 Quite different from his Pagan Principles;
27 His Mother Church th' Apostate durst condemn,
28 And slight her power to make his own Supreme,
29 Nor longer own'd Romes Doctrine his Soul's guide,
30 When its Ambition was unsatisfied;
31 This faultless Prelate, if e'er Pope was so,
32 Sounded his Wiles, and Plots did overthrow,
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33 Lent th' golden Mattock to this pious work,
34 And balk'd both Pagan, and the Christian Turk,
35 Who slily did like snarling Blood-hound lurk,
36 To snap the Prey, and gorge himself alone,
37 When th' rest were tir'd with fighting for the bone.
38 Mourn all ye neighb'ring Princes, sigh and mourn,
39 Old Rome will now to her old Sins return;
40 Her Scarlet Robe has for a time been clean,
41 But with new Errors, will new Spots be seen:
42 Now each ambitious Cardinal bribes high,
43 To fill the Conclave for the Prelacy,
44 Which gain'd, the inchanted Purse strait shuts as close,
45 As if the strings were never to unloose.
46 The Fish is caught, farewel Hipocrisie,
47 The Vizor banish'd, and the Net laid by.
48 Religion late was beyond Gold preferr'd,
49 But profit now's the only sound is heard.
50 Vile Sores o'er Romes corrupted Body grow,
51 Her Trunk is filthy, now her Head lies low:
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52 For when as some rich honest Farmer dies,
53 Leaving behind him Lands, and Legacies,
54 His brainless Off-Spring by their Vice allur'd,
55 Destroy the Crop, which he with care manur'd;
56 His Garden's fruitless, and his Vineyard bleeds,
57 Th' one yields no Grapes, the other only weeds:
58 So Rome, her pious Farmer being gone,
59 Is left to her lewd Race to be undone.

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Title (in Source Edition): An ELEGY On the late Holy Father Pope INNOCENT the Eleventh.
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Genres: elegy

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D'Urfey, Thomas, 1653-1723. New poems, consisting of satyrs, elegies, and odes together with a choice collection of the newest court songs set to musick by the best masters of the age / all written by Mr. D'Urfey. London: Printed for J. Bullord ... and A. Roper ..., 1690, pp. 177-180. [16],207,[1]p. (ESTC R17889) (Page images digitized from a copy in the Bodleian Library [Harding C 1197 (1)].)

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