Epistle LVII. Upon the Death of that Reverend and learned Divine, Mr. Josias Shute

Tush, tush he is not dead; I lately spy'd
One smile at's first-born Sons birth; and a bride
Into her heart did entertain delight
At the approach of her wish'd wedded night:
All which delights (if he were dead) would turn
To grief; yea mirth it self be forc'd to mourn.
Inspired Poets would forget to laugh,
And write at once his and Mirths Epitaph.
Sighs would engross our breath, there would appear
Anthems of joy, lymbeck'd into a tear:
Each face would be his death-bed; in each eye,
'Twere easie then to read his Elegy;
Each soul would be close-mourner, each tongue tell
Stories prick'd out to'th tune o'th Passing bell;
The World re-drown'd in tears, each heart would be
a Marble-stone, each stone a Niobe.

But he alass is gone, nor do we know,
To pay for loss of him deserving wo;
Like Bankrupts in our grief, because we may
Not half we owe him give, we'l nothing pay:
For should our tears like the Ocean issue forth,
They could not swell adaequate to his worth:
So far his worth's above our knowledge, that
We only know we've lost, we know not what.
The mourning Heaven, beholding such a dearth
Of tears, showrs rain to liquifie the earth,
That we may see from its adulterate womb,
If it be possible, a second come:
Till then 'tis our unhappiness, we can't
Know what good dwelt in him, but by the want.

He was no whirlegig Lect'rer of the times,
That from a heel-block to a Pulpit climbs;
And there such stuff among their Audients break,
They seem to have mouth, and words, yet cannot speak:
Nor such as into Pasqnil Pulpits come
With thundering non-sense, but to beat the Drum
To Civil Wars; whose Texts and Doctrines run,
As if they were o'th separation:
And by their spiritual law have marry'd been
Without a ring, because they were no kin:
Knowledge and zeal, in him so sweetly met,
His Pulpit seem'd a second Olivet;
Where from his lips he would deliver things,
As though some Seraphin had clap'd his wings:
His painful Sermons were so neatly dress'd,
As if an Anthem were in prose express'd:
Divinity and Art were so united,
As if in him both were Hermophradited.
Oh what an ex'llent Surgeon has he been,
To Set a conscience (out of joynt by sin;)
He at one blow could wound and heal; we all
Wondred to see a purge, a cordial:
His Manna-reathing Sermous often have
Given all our good thoughts life, our bad a grave.
Satan, and Sin, were never more put to't,
Then when they met with their still-conquering Shute:
His life was the use of's doctrine; so 'twas known
That Shute, and Saint, were convertible grown:
He did live Sermons; the Prophane were vext
To see his actions comments on his Text:
So imitable his vertues did appear
As if each place to him a Pulpit were:
He was himself a Synod, ours had been
Void (had he liv'd) or but an idle dinn:
His Presence so divine, that Heaven might be
(If it were possible) more Heavenly.

And now we well perceive with what intent
Death made his soul become non-resident:
'Twas to make him (such honours to him given)
Regius Professor to the King of Heaven:
By whom he's prelated above the skies,
And the whole World's his See t'Episcopize:
So that (me think) one Star more doth appear
In our Horizon, since his being there;
Death's grown tyrannical by imitation,
'Cause he was learned, by a sequestration
He took his living; butfor 's Benefice
He is rewarded with eternal bliss.
Let'a all prepare to follow him, for hee's
But gone to Glory' School, to take degrees.