N01142:137
Corderius americanus. An essay upon the good education of children. And what may hopefully…
Corderius americanus. An essay upon the good education of children. And what may hopefully be attempted, for the hope of the flock. In a funeral sermon upon Mr. Ezekiel Cheever. The ancient and Honourable master of the Free-School in Boston. Who left off, but when mortality took him off, in August, 1708. the ninety fourth year of his age. : With an elegy and an epitaph upon him. / By one that was once a scholar to him. ; [One line epigram in Latin]
Boston: printed by John Allen for Nicholas Boone, 1708
Title page typeset from the transcription.
Modern spelling is a reading aid: the words are the author’s, only the spelling is modernized. Original shows the page as printed, with the transcription marks.
Nay, Sirs, our CHEEVER shall confute you all, On whom there did none of these Mischiefs fall. He Lived, and to vast Age no Illness knew; Till Time, Scythe waiting for him Rusty grew. He Lived and Wrought; His Labours were Immense▪ But ne'er Declined to Praeter-perfect Tense. A Blooming Youth in him at Ninety Four▪ We saw; But, Oh! when such a sight before! At Wondrous Age he did his Youth resume, As when the Eagle mew's his Aged plume. With Faculties of Reason still so ••ight, And at Good Services so Exquisited; Sure our sound Chiliast, we wondering thought, To the First Resurrection is not brought! No, He for That was waiting at the Gate In the Pure Things that fit a Candidate. He in Good Actions did his Life Employ, And to make others Good, he made his Joy. Thus well-apprised now of the Life to Come, To Live here was to him a Martyrdom: Our brave Macrobius Longed to see the Day Which others dread, of being Called away. So, Ripe with Age, he does invite the Hook, Which watchful does for its large Harvest look▪ ⟨p. 32⟩Death gently out the Stalk, and kindly laid Him, where our God His Granary has made.
Nay, Syrs, our CHEEVER shall confute you all, On whom there did none of these Mischefs fall. He Liv'd, and to vast Age no Illness knew; Till Time, Scythe waiting for him Rusty grew. He Liv'd and Wrought; His Labours were Immense▪ But ne'r Declin'd to Praeter-perfect Tense. A Blooming Youth in him at Ninety Four▪ We saw; But, Oh! when such a sight before! At Wondrous Age he did his Youth resume, As when the Eagle mew's his Aged plume. With Faculties of Reason still so ••ight, And at Good Services so Exquisited; Sure our sound Chiliast, we wondring thought, To the First Resurrection is not brought! No, He for That was waiting at the Gate In the Pure Things that fit a Candidate. He in Good Actions did his Life Employ, And to make others Good, he made his Joy. Thus well-appris'd now of the Life to Come, To Live here was to him a Martyrdom: Our brave Macrobius Long'd to see the Day Which others dread, of being Call'd away. So, Ripe with Age, he does invite the Hook, Which watchful does for its large Harvest look