MEMENTO MORI:   outline of tombstone with emblems of Death depicted  
A Second ELEGY On that Incomparable HERO, THOMAS Earl of OSSORY: Who died on Friday the 30th of July 1680.  

HE's dead 'tis true— I question it no more;  
Nay rather feared than doubted it before:  
But Grief for OSSORY is ne'er too late,  
Since future Ages will bewail his Fate.  
Even this late Sorrow, which my Muse puts on,  
Had been less true, had it appeared more soon;  
For nimble sorrow quickly change their show,  
The long-lived Grief is in its Birth most slow.  
When first I heard Great OSSORY'S dismal Knel,  
A stupid horror strait upon me fell,  
Wrapped all my Senses in Astonishment  
Nor did so much as leave for Tears a Vent.  
Like Niobe, I seemed to be in one,  
Both Mourner then and Monumental Stone.  
Nor certainly, had I that Swoon survived;  
But must have died, had not my sorrows lived.  
Yet 'twas no weakness: Charles himself, we hear,  
Withdrew, and shed for Ossory a tear.  
What Heart more great? Yet even that could not hold,  
When to his Ears so sad a Theme was told.  
Were any Heart in all his Kingdoms found,  
Which the sad News with sorrow did not wound?  
A Traitor's Death he justly might receive,  
That with his King and Country would not grieve.  
When on the Sickly Bed Great OSSORY lay,  
And Fear had not quite took all hope away;  
How eagerly the pious people strove,  
To show a fear, which showed so much of Love,  
lives he said they— when, yes, the Doctor said,  
How many Blessings showered they on his Head.  
He lives— the Echo o'er all England flew;  
Even fierce Morocco's King did fear 'twas true.  
As on cold Oeta's Top, the Son of Jove!  
With double Heat of Fire and Poison strove;  
And all the World stood trembling for his sake:  
Only Euristeus hoped the rest would take:  
Such pains our Hero did that time endure,  
Tormented with a direful Calenture.  
While three great Nations trembled for his Head;  
Only the barbarous Moor could with him dead.  
Thy loss brave OSSORY, Tangiere deplores,  
Worse at thy Death dismayed, than at the Moors.  
The English Gallants there dejected stand.  
Wanting to their stout Hearts, thy valiant Hand.  
Trelauny's Ghost walked sadly by the Mole,  
And Shrieked instead of Thee, to meet thy Soul:  
He hoped t'have been Revenged by thy sharp Blade  
And thou, as Pale as He, dost walk— a Shade.  
The English-Church, that had no better Friend,  
(Next Heaven & Charles, who doth her Faith defend)  
 
Since Fates, thus accessary to the Plot.  
He whose Ambition all o'er world Alarms,  
Looks now for more success unto his Arms,  
Since Thou, who didst at Mons such acts of Praise,  
Hast yielded now to Death the Victor's Bays.  
Thy Sire, great Ormond, in thy Life more great,  
(Because by thee preserved, from Envy's hate)  
Like some vast Oak now robbed of's leaves doth stand  
By's Trophies scarce secured from Woodman's hand  

Yet He (though Envy burst) is still secure,  
Not in's own Worth so much, nor Virtues pure,  
(Tho they the strictest Test may well endure;)   
No nor in Charles his great Affection;  
But only, 'cause he had so great a Son.  
Why were the Heavens to England so severe,  
As not to let thee Flourish longer here?  
As thus to cut Thee off in thy full prime,  
And give Thee so much Good for so short time?  
Only to show thy Worth in Field and Court,  
and then to snatch Thee hence, as if in sport?  
Had we not known Thee, we had been content;  
But who could know— and not thy loss lament!  
Yet since thy Death was fixed by rigid Fate,  
And to desire thyself is now too late;  
Thanks mighty Hector of our second Troy,  
Thanks for Astyanax, thy hopeful Boy,  
Young James, who influenced with Charles his Care,  
May shortly prove in Valour too thine Heir,   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed by D. Mallet. 1680.