MEMENTO MORI:   outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text  
AN ELEGY On the Death of Sir EDMUND SAUNDERS, Late Lord Chief Justice of ENGLAND; Who Died on the 19th. of this Instant June, 1683.  

How vain are all the hopes on which we build?  
whate'er we sow, 'tis Death still reaps the field:  
'Tis by this Tenure Mortals hold their Breath,  
To give it up when e'er 'tis called by Death.  
Our Life is only lent us upon trust,  
Whether we will or not, we must be just:  
Heaven has to all appointed soon or late,  
To undergo the power of cruel Fate:  
But hark! what sound is't strikes my trembling ear?  
Saunders is Dead! good Heaven! what is't I hear?  
Is Saunders Dead, that Noble Worthy Man?  
His Life is done before it scarce began:  
He was but shown unto the wondering world,  
When lo into the silent Grave he's hurled.  
Lament, lament, a Learned Judge is gone,  
The Laws bright Star, that so Divinely shone,  
To steer the wand'ring Course of those fond Men,  
Who thought all Law and Reason dwelled with them.  
But soon as our Chief Justice was espied,  
Their Shifts and Fallacies all sunk and died,  
Like Mists that rise before the Morning Sun,  
But vanish all e'er half his Race is run:  
Saunders in time, though short, has lived, yet more  
Than thousands Older, that have been before.  
Some Men need try but part of their true strength,  
To lay their Foes before them at their length;  
Whilst others strive with heavy weight in vain,  
And came Ignobly off with blushing shame:  
But Saunders was by Destiny designed,  
To be the Joy and Honour of Mankind:  
A General Good was his Unerring aim,  
'Tis that alone which gives Immortal Fame.  
He did with Prudence first himself advise,  
And then he taught the Nation to be wise.  
When he had gained the Mastery of the Law,  
For Public Good he did his Forces draw:  

To serve his Country was his highest care,  
For which great end he did so Nobly dare,  
His Soul not capable of unjust fear.   
When in a lower Sphere, how did he move,  
And gave clear signs what he would higher prove;  
Great force of Nature in his parts was seen,  
Which yet, Refined by Art, more glorious shine.  
Hard Labour, Industry, and sweeting Toil,  
Went to complete this wonder of our Isle;  
He knew, since the first Man was Cursed, that pain  
And trouble was the only way to gain  
True Honour, therefore did his strength employ,  
In that which always gives the truest Joy.  
Kind Providence Rewards industrous Care,  
But Lazy wishes Heaven will never hear;  
Let thy Example lead our Young Men on,  
None knows to what with Study he may come;  

What soul so stupid, but takes generous Fire,  
When he but thinks on thee, whom all admire,  
He feels warm Glory through his Breast inspire   
His drowsy Faculties, and strait does find,  
Ambition to be like thee, seize his mind.  
We never can the vastness of our Loss express,  
Nor in fit Language our sad sorrows dress.  
All we can say on this great Theme, appears,  
To be but overflowing of our Tears.  
Oh that kind Heaven would show some better way,  
How to his Ashes we might Tribute pay.  
We're all obliged to weep and mourn for him,  
Who for us all laid out his care and time;  
May he that shall succeed make up our grief,  
By his great worth we may receive Relief,  
And Comfort to our woes, which swell so high,  
They seem almost from Earth to reach the Sky.    

His Epitaph.  

HEre lieth Saunders sacred Dust,  
While living, was the Nations Trust;  
Reflect O Reader! on thy state,  
Consider thou must stoop to Fate;  

However Brave Thou art, and Great,  
The silent Grave does for thee wait,  
And nothing can stern Death Entreat.     

Licenced and Entered according to Order:   

Printed for I. Deacon at the Angel, in Guiltspur street. 145.