MENENTO MORI
A
FUNERAL ELEGY, IN COMMEMORATION Of the sadly Deplored and much-Lamented and Unhappy DEATH of that Unfortunate Knight, Sir John Johnston; Who was Executed, at
Tyburn,
the
23th. day of
December, 1690. for Felloniously forcing away the Lady
Wharton, an Infant,
&c.
LICENSED, according to Order.
SIth unto me, Unworthy, you commit
This worthy Task (for better Muses fit)
To Sing (nay rather, sadly to deplore)
This common Loss, that nothing can restore.
You, Sacred Brood, born of Celestial Race,
You Virgin-Youths, that poure down the Grace
Of Arts and Learning on your Servant, dear,
Vouchsafe Assistance to my
Mourning here:
Teach me sad Accents, and a weeping Measure,
To strain forth Pity, not
Revenge and
Pleasure.
And you, my
Private Cares (although the cause
Of your Despairs; does never; never Pause)
Pause you a little, and give ear a-while,
'Midst
publick Griefs, my private to beguile.
Give leave, I pray you; for a
private Case
Unto a
publick, ever must give place.
Alas! how fitly is this Life of ours,
Compar'd to Field Grass, and to fading Flowers?
Fresh, green and gallant, in the Morning-Sun,
Wither'd and Dead, before the Day be done!
Did ever yet the Worlds bright Eye behold
(Since first th' Eternal Earthly Slime enfoul'd)
A Frame of Flesh, so Glorious here beneath,
But hath been ruin'd by the rage of
Death?
Of
Death, dread Victor of all Earthly thing,
Who in a moment equals
Clowns with
Kings.
No
Wealth can wage him, nor no
Wit prevent him;
No lovely Beauty can at all relent him:
Nay, (which is worse) no Virtue can avail;
Ah me! that
Death on
Virtue should prevail!
But 'tis decreed, Death is the Mead for Sin;
This, by
Ambition, did our Grand-Sire win:
And We, the Heirs both of his
work and
wages,
Must all Dye once, throughout all after-Ages.
And Here, for instance, see this Sable
Hearse,
Shrowding the Subject of my Mournful Verse!
What shalt thou see more, far more living here?
This Heaven, this Sun, thou oft before hast seen;
And should'st thou live another
Plato's Year,
This World would be the same that it hath been,
Death's end of Ills, and onely Sanctuary,
Of him that cannot 'scape the
Grudge and
Gall
Of a Potent and Mighty
ADVERSARY:
It is a Point, which Heaven appoints to all.
There's Rest Eternal for thy Labours, rise;
There's for thy
Bondage, boundless
Liberty:
There when Death endeth, she begins thy Life:
And where's no more Time, there is Eternity.
FINIS.
Printed for J. Millet, at the Angel, in Little-Brittain.