An ELEGY On the late Holy Father Pope INNOCENT the Eleventh. Thomas D'Urfey Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. R17889 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.

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