AN ELEGY Upon the Death of that WORTHY GENTLEMAN Colonel Edward Cook  
Who departed this Life the 29th of January. 1683/4.  
29. feb. 1684/3  

'TIS Virtue which alone supports the whole,  
For without that the World's without a Soul,  
Most certain then, as that grows faint and weak,  
Th' eternal Chain decays; at last must break:  
When great Cook fell the Jarring Links did twang,  
And Nature sighed as if she felt the Pang:  
Nor is it strange,— for Virtue was his guide,  
With him it flourished, and with him it died;  
Not all— some Lagging Atoms yet remain,  
To guard Mankind, and prop the sinking Frame.   

In War he was nursed up, Arms his delight;  
Gentle in Peace, and Terrible in Fight:  
Death he had seen in various shapes, but none  
Could move him to be fearful of his own:  
Nor did old Age abate the Martial Flame,  
'Twas always great, and always was the same.   

His Charity did equally extend  
To cherish the distressed and serve his Friend.  

When he did good (and who his Life surveys,  
Will find he did delight in't all his Days.)  
'Twas for the sake of good, and not for Praise.   
Great though he was, yet he was lowly too;  
Meekness gains more repute than Pride can do.  
Restless Ambition ne'er his Thoughts employed;  
Peace and Content he sought, and those enjoyed,  
Virtue he prized, though 'twere in Rags enshrined;  
He looked not on the Person but the Mind.  
His Judgement was unbyast, firm and strong,  
His Conversation pleasant, gay and young;  
But then his Mirth was still from folly free,  
And such as Nuns without a blush might be.  

And, as when Tigers range the Woods for Prey,  
And chance to meet a Lion in their way,  
Strait they forget their rage, and learned t' obey;   
So Atheous men, though they blasphemed before,  
Awed with his presence, blushed and said no more:  
For Piety was still his constant Guest,  
And found its full Perfection in his Breast.   

Such was his Life— and now his Death we'll show,  
His Death, the greater wonder of the two!  
For when the fatal Pangs were drawing on,  
And the last Sands were eager to be gone,  
When all his Friends lay drowned in Tears of Grief,  
Wishing, but yet despairing of Relief;  
Even he alone his Change with Patience bore,  
Like all the Changes of his Life before;  

And with a Cheerfulness too great to tell,  
A Cheerfulness that does all thought excel,  
At his last gasp he cried, I'm well! I'm well!   
Then died, easy as Infants drop asleep;  
Wit, Virtue, Valour, for your Darling weep!   

O Pity, Pity that some abler Quill  
Had not performed his Praise with greater skill;  
And in a happy, high, immortal strain,  
Preserved his Virtue's sacred with his Name;  
That Fame to late Posterity might tell,  
No Hero ever lived and died so well.   
The END.