P. M. S. AN ELEGY, On the much Lamented Death, of the Right Honourable Sr. Hugh Windham Kt. ONE OF His MAJESTY'S Justices of the Court of Common-Pleas Westminster, who departed this Life upon his Circuit, at the Assizes in the City of Norwich. July 1684.  
— Nil non Mortale Tenemus—  
Pectoris Exceptis Ingeniique bonis.  
THe Fatal Bell had told its dismal Knell,  
And Tears from every Eye in Rivers fell:  
Sighs filled the Air, and ev'ry generous Breast  
By Sorrows too unwelcome Load was pressed  
When wondering at the Cause, the News was spread,  
The Good, the Just, the Learned WINDHAM's dead,  
Weep then, weep vain Mortality, said I,  
Till every Tear become an Elegy;  
And when your Eye-springs fail for want of Store,  
Then grieve and sigh that you can weep no more.  
Oh Fate, Inexorable Fate! What trust  
To Titles, when they but Entitle Dust?  
To say here lies the Great, here lies the Brave,  
Is all the poor distinction in the Grave;  
And when thy Summons, Summons us to Death,  
The Best and Wisest must resign their breath:  
Else had not WINDHAM died, but lived to see  
The outmost Periods of Mortality.  
When Aged Time the pangs of Death shall bear,  
And Nature's self no humane frailties wear.  
His knowledge like the rays of light had pried  
Through ev'ry Science in Arts bosom hid:  
Which still, as he renewed, he still bestowed  
Not for his own, but for the general good.  
So for Man's profit, the laborious Sun  
Round its Eccliptick Line still trudges on  
In constant pace, and never doth complain  
Of his long Journey, Labour, or his Pain:  
As he in Paths of Justice spent his days,  
Without designs of Honour or of Praise;  
And 'midst the many Hurricanes of State,  
Justly preserved his Ancient well-filled Seat:  
Till with the Reverend Grey his Head was crowned,  
And unsought Glories made his Name Renowned:  
When like Wise Samuel, in a good old Age,  
Like Fruit full ripe, He left his earthly Stage,  
By Israel's Sons lamented to his Tomb,  
The Glory of the past, and Ages yet to come.  
Great Man farewell, thy Country's chief delight,  
Great without Pride, and Wise without Conceit:  
Thou happy art, ah happy, happy thou,  
Who through Lives Sea has reached thy Harbour now:  
And art of thy Jerusalem possessed,  
Amongst th' immortal Miriads of the blessed;  
Whilst we, who sadly tarry yet behind,  
Are made the sport of ev'ry Wave and Wind.  
Oh Life what art thou that we court thee so?  
So loath to lose, so loath to let thee go?  
Fools as we are, like Children pleased with Toys,  
In lieu of which we lose substantial Joys;  
For never can we hope to rest before,  
Like him, we touch the Universal Shore,  
Where we shall never grieve or suffer more.  
There rest with thy Contemporaries rest,  
Blessed Saint to reap the Triumphs of the blessed;  
Where in Immortal Songs great HALES and thee  
May join in Choir, one Voice one Harmony.   

LONDON: Printed for J. Walthoe, at the Black-Lyon in Chancery-Lane, against Lincolns-Inn, 1684.