AN ELEGY On the Famous THOMAS THIN Esq Who was Barbarously Murdered.  
WHat Arrogance dost Thou, Malicious Fate,  
On Us in this Brave 'Squire impetrate?  
Or does the Upper Orb his Patience hold,  
To suffer Dross to intermingle Gold  
No longer? Snatching up the Soul of THIN's,  
From our Light Dross, and from all Weighty Sins,  
Sublimity extols Him with her Wing,  
Contemning Knighthood here, there to be King:  
Then what can we condole us of a Fate,  
That gives Him Joy in her extreme of hate?  
His Six-days Labour, in the last of Seven,  
GOD's Providence called Him to rest in Heaven.  
Can all the Muses of the three times three,  
Give a due Merit in His Elegy?  
Fame sorely weeps, to lose a Favourite;  
And Honour mourns, to be eclipsed in Night:  
Obscure must all things be, and Light has done  
On Earth, when Earth cannot obtain its Sun.  
Me thinks I see as have my thoughts espied,  
The Grains of Mustard seed (sown in His Side)  
Growing beyond th'extent of Envies Pride.  
Me thoughts I heard the Pistols in their stunning,  
Give a report in Heaven, Brave THIN ' s a coming.  
Me thoughts I saw the heavens make Preparation  
To Welcome Him with Joy, post Castigation:  
Me thoughts I saw Him Crowned, and placed on high,  
This World His Footstool, bidding Fate Good-by.  
But why do I consist in thoughts, (remaining  
In such dim sights?) He's really obtaining  
All Meritorious Glory can be found  
Above this World in the Celestial Round.  
Death bitter in His Mouth, b'ing swallowed up,  
His Belly found the sweetness of the Cup:  
Death coming in such Gall, and bittered Over,  
He swallowed it, to taste it never more.  
Who has the Loss? Not Him by this Confuser?  
'Tis we in Him, and all the World's a Loser.  
Brave THIN h's lost nothing save a heap of Nought;  
We have lost all, in losing Him we sought.  
What can THIN lose in this Terrestrial Life?  
He loses Sorrow, we Joy, and he all Strife.  
Did we not see at that Outrageous Blow,  
The Powdry-Smoke into thick Vapours grow,  
Mixed with the Clouds, their obscure Shadows hurled  
Their Mourning-Mantle, muffled up the World;  
Every Ear filled with Clamours, and the Sky  
Seemed to lament this Bloody Tragedy?  
The middle Element was filled with Groans,  
And Mother-Earth quaked at her People's Moans:  
All Women wept, all Mankind grieved sore,  
Salt Tears ran trickling like the Common-Shore,  
And Children with their Infant-Voices roar.  
The Heavens rejoiced at this Murders Birth;  
Joy was in Heaven, Sorrow here on Earth:  
The dull thick Clouds (as Mourning Scenes of Troy)  
Did part this sorrowful World, and Heavens new Joy;  
Joy in the Heavens receiving such a Soul,  
Losing his Person here we all condole.  
Heaven that has Prescience over all,  
And knowing how THIN's accident would fall,  
Called Him in haste to take His Heavenly Lot;  
We find THIN's answer thus, 
* The Anagram on his Name.  Th'n I am Shot.  
But in this Life what was this famous 'Squire,  
Servant to GOD in low things, now of higher:  
He had a courteous Mansuet Behaviour,  
And never out of Fickle Fortune's Favour;  
Lovely in Looks, Gracious in all his Ways,  
Whilst he was living we had happy Days:  
Riches dwelled with him, and in such a store,  
That Liberality smiled on the Poor:  
So Wise, so Literate, so Valiant He,  
That now the World has nothing of those three:  
Beloved of KING and Court for Worthy Fame,  
And all the Vulgars' did adore his Name:  
He was a Faithful Subject to the KING,  
Till Death came in this Woeful Suffering.  
So are we lost of all; MONMOUTH and GREY,  
Held up the Shadows of a Dying Day.  
Thus is the World extinguished of a Light;  
They that see Day must also look for Night.   

An Epitaph Acrostic.  

Tread gently (Reader) on this Ground, for hark!  
Here's Immortality's Divine Landmark.  
Open the Scripture, and you'll find it read,  
Man's subject unto Death till all are dead:  
And here is One has passed that Thorny-Gate,  
So blesses You, and blest his Timely Fate.   

'T'Tis here his Ashes lie, his part Divine,  
Heaven receives above in pure refine.  
Immortal Life he ever shall inherit,  
Nothing unquiet to his Holy Spirit.    

By Geo. Gittos. London, Printed in the Year 1681/2.