MEMENTO MORI   
AN ELEGY Upon the DEATH of the Reverend, Pious and Learned Dr. SANDCROFT, Late L d. Archbishop of Canterbury, And Metropolitan of all ENGLAND.  

HERE Reverend Sandcroft's sleeping Relics lie,  
Of that Great Man, All he had left to Die!  
Alas, the Prelate long, long Dead before;  
The Metropolitan was seen no more.  
In Dust the Crosier, and the Mitre, lay;  
An Autumn Blast had swept those Leaves away,  
And only the poor Naked Trunk left stand  
For the keen Winter's last Destroying Hand.  
Death took him in a Melancholy Hour;  
Oh Zeal, how unaccountable's thy Power!  
What tho', when James our Judah's Sceptre bore,  
'Twas all a Moses Snaky Rod before;  
He saw it, in the Gracious William's Hand,  
Converted to an Aaron's Blooming Wand:  
Yet with a Truth too firm, though ill deserved,  
Too faithfully the unkind Master served;  
Too fast to his last broken Fortunes hung;  
Still the Kissed Scorpion he his Darling sung.   

What, though retired from Lambeth's Princely towers!  
An humble Cell held his Recluser Hours:  
Though of the Pageantry of Pomp bereft,  
He had still those fair unravished Glories left:  
His sweet Contentment was itself alone  
A Coronet, and Solituae a Throne.   

Mount then, Blessed Saint, to thy Immortal Seat;  
And claim thy fairer Starry Coronet:  
For if Humility, so highly prized,  
Neglected Worlds, and Popular State Despised;  
If Patience, and a Soul above the Loss  
Of the Stripped Plumes of Fortune's shining Dross,  
Are Scaling Steps to the Eternal Throne,  
The Jacob's Ladder, sure, was all thy own.    

The EPITAPH.  

Retired, from Powers unwieldy Toil,  
Beneath this Alabaster Pile,  
This Pile of Alabaster; nay,  
Beneath this homely Turf, thou'lt say,  
Lies Mighty Sandcroft's humble Clay.  
Here th' Abdicating Prelate Sleeps,  
And his small Six-foot Court he keeps.  
But, wondering Reader, wouldst thou know,  
How that great Head should lie so Low:  
Instead of Stately Marble Chests,  
In this Course Vulgar Vault it rests:  
He saw Great William's Rising Morn,  
And all the Beams his Brows Adorn:  
And gazing at the Imperial Pride,  
His too weak Optics, narrow tied,  
Made him the Dazzling Glory shun;  
And to this poor, poor Covert run,  
Not Eagle-eyed enough to face so Bright a Sun.    

London, Printed by William Downing: And Licenced according to Order.