MEMENTO MORI   outline of tombstone, which surrounds text, often including depictions of emblems of Death  
AN ELEGY Upon The Death of Mr. Mason, LATE Minister of Water-Stratford, near Buckingham, Who departed this Life on Monday last, the 21th. of this Instant May, at his House, called, the New Noah's Ark, at Water-Stratford.  
Licenced according to Order.  

THE Buckingham Great Seer, that Non-parel,  
The Moses t' his new wand'ring Israel,  
Fame's mournful Trump brings the said News to Town,  
Has his Mortality in Dust laid down.  
True Moses like indeed, his Life's last Sand  
Too short to reach even his own Promised Land.  
Strange sighted Priest of Fate, to have fore-known  
The World's approaching End, but not thy own:  
What though those loud Attendants on thy Death,  
Wafted in Tempests thy expiring Breath;  
Let Storms, or Fiery Chariots, wait thy Call,  
Only we hope thou'st let no Mantle fall;  
No double-spirited Relic left behind,  
No, in thy own great Self conclude thy Kind:  
In thy Enthusiast mould no second cast,  
Be an Original Prophet, first and last.  
And what, though all thy Oracles mistake,  
Have thy false Optics read in Dooms dark Book:  
Yet as that Heaven has all thy Study been,  
Thou hast truly sought, though falsely hast foreseen;  
Since only erring Zeal has made thee stray,  
Let not that innocent Meteor lose thy way:  
But in Reward of Piety wellmeant,  
May the bad Prophet make not the worse Saint?  
Yes, thou fond Visioner of Heaven, for all  
The Pious Pains thou'st took for Gains so small,  
(For easy 'tis to Dream, but hard to take  
A Dream so sound, as never lives to wake)  
Tho' thy great Pentecost now disappears,  
And greater Empire of a Thousand Years,  
Tho' thou hast looked, and gaped, and hoped in vain,  
A zealous Waiter for a Worldly Reign.  
Thy Earthy Hopes all vanished, may'st thou make  
In Death, at least, this happier mistake,  
Find thyself called by a more kind Remove,  
T' attend a truer, Bright Crowned Head above.  
Such Bliss above may thy good Life bestow,  
But what are the sad Rites thou meetest below,  
Here, Oh, what Funeral Griefs, what blubbered Eyes?  
Even Joy itself, all droops, when Mason dies.  
The once sweet Chorus of thy Spiritual Grove,  
All the whole Brotherhood of Song and Love,  
Their Sanctify'd Hosannas all give o'er,  
The Timbrels sound, and Minstrels play no more.  
Though their new Guide, and their new Canaan Land,  
Both lost, thy poor Disciples must disband,  
The Voyage to their Palestine fair Coast,  
And their Jerusalem whole Cargo lost;  
The Rams and Bullocks, once reserved to blaze  
In flaming Hecatombs, turned out to graze,  
Thy Water-Stratford Camp its Fame shall keep,  
When Hounslows and Black Heath's forgotten sleep.  
And now, for Monuments we'll build thee none:  
Nor carve thee Epitaphs in Brass or Stone;  
No, thy far talking Name has spread so wide,  
As is its self it's own proud Pyramid.    

Printed for A. Milbourn in the Little Old-Baily. 1694. 192.