P. M. S. An Elegiac POEM IN Memory of that truly worthy and Loyal Gentleman William Whitmore Esquire.  
Late of Balms in the County of Middlesex. Who being Wounded by the Casual Discharge of his own Pistol departed this life July the 31th 1684.  

VIVIT POST FUNERA VIRTUS.  
When the loud Trump of Fame the News had spread  
The Young, the Brave, the Generous Whitmor's dead.  
One general groan tuned every gentle Breast  
And flowing Tears from ev'ry Eyelid pressed.  
The Hero that in chase of Fame had trod  
The slaughtered Field, and Forded Streams of Blood  
Flushed in the Arts of Death, yet wept to see  
A Brother fall without a Victory.  
Apollo's Sons forsook their Withering Bays,  
Laid by their Books, forgot their tuneful Lays,  
And Dumb with stupid grief, could only sigh  
Maecenas their loved Patrons Elegy.  
But must he then have none? If learned Verse  
Be suffered only to attend his Hearse,  
Raptures and Figures of the first degree  
Strained to the highest Notes of Ecstasy.  
Such as of old the Mantuan Bard inspired,  
Or Athens in her Pride of Power admired  
I must be silent; yet i've heard it said,  
The meanest duties which to Heaven are paid  
Are kindly taken, if devoutly made.  
What if I then, can't bring as others do?  
With what I have, his Funeral Hearse Isle strew,  
And to the Dust his dear remains Pursue:  
Sad thought, and must he thither go? Ah Death!  
Can nothing bribe thee to recall his Breath?  
If hoards of Virtue saved in earliest Youth  
Exalted Wit, Wealth, Loyalty or Truth  
Are worth thy value, give us back this one  
Of all the numerous Subjects of thy Throne.  
From his own gathered stock he'll pay thee more,  
Ten thousand times then what thou'st got before  
A few dead bones alas are all thy store.  
And where's the Booty, where's thy Treasure then?  
Where thy Proud Conquests o'er the Sons of Men?  
Vain death, and yet inexorable too!  
They happiest are, that in a Camp pursue  
Thy charged Bolts, and snatch a Fate from you.  
Thus would, thus wished, our Hero to have fell  
In a fair Field from Honour's Pinnacle;  
Amidst the ranks of Ranged Warriors crowned,  
With Verdant Bays, in Rolls of Fame renowned,  
Whilst Drums, and Echoing Trumpets through the Skies,  
In doleful Dirges sang his Obsequies.  
But spiteful Death this you denied him too,  
And basely stole his life ere 'twas thy due:  
His Blooming years scarce passed and yet to come  
Ages of Honour ere he reached a Tomb,  
Fate promised him. But Murderer as thou art  
Whilst in Pursuit of these, thy Coward Dart  
Unseen, and unexpected reached his heart.  
Malicious Fact! yet done 'tis past redress  
Thy Shafts are spent, his Glory near the less,  
Beyond the grave thy Power can ne'er extend,  
Thy Triumphs there, meet their Appointed end.  
Whilst Mounted through the Spheres on Angels Wings,  
He's made a Courtier of the King of Kings,  
And 'mongst his Peers the Songs of Glory sings  
We only have the loss, that yet survive  
We only mourn, who yet are doomed to live.  
Life's Burden none on Earth would easily bear  
The Whips of fortune, and the goads of Care,  
Th' Oppressor's Wrongs, the Laws delay, the Taunts  
Of Great men, or the Poor man's starving wants.  
Could they like him Disburdened of the Toil,  
Be made Possessors of an Heavenly Soil,  
Where in Immortal Joys with God above,  
He tastes the Banquets of Immortal love.   by F. N. W.  

London, Printed for L. Curtis. 1684.