MENENTO MORI   
A FUNERAL ELEGY, IN COMMEMORATION Of the sadly Deplored and much-Lamented and Unhappy DEATH of that Unfortunate Knight, Sir John Johnston; Who was Executed, at Tyburn, the 23th. day of December, 1690. for Feloniously forcing away the Lady Wharton, an Infant, etc.  

LICENCED, according to Order.   

Sigh unto me, Unworthy, you commit  
This worthy Task (for better Muses fit)  
To Sing (nay rather, sadly to deplore)  
This common Loss, that nothing can restore.  
You, Sacred Brood, born of Celestial Race,  
You Virgin-Youths, that pour down the Grace  
Of Arts and Learning on your Servant, dear,  
Vouchsafe Assistance to my Mourning here:  
Teach me sad Accents, and a weeping Measure,  
To strain forth Pity, not Revenge and Pleasure.   

And you, my Private Cares (although the cause  
Of your Despairs; does never; never Pause)  
Pause you a little, and give ear awhile,  
'Midst public Griefs, my private to beguile.  
Give leave, I pray you; for a private Case  
Unto a public, ever must give place.   

Alas! how fitly is this Life of ours,  
Compared to Field Grass, and to fading Flowers?  
Fresh, green and gallant, in the Morning-Sun,  
Withered and Dead, before the Day be done!  
Did ever yet the World's bright Eye behold  
(Since first th' Eternal Earthly Slime enfouled)  
A Frame of Flesh, so Glorious here beneath,  
But hath been ruined by the rage of Death?  
Of Death, dread Victor of all Earthly thing,  
Who in a moment equals Clowns with Kings.   

No Wealth can wage him, nor no Wit prevent him;  
No lovely Beauty can at all relent him:  
Nay, (which is worse) no Virtue can avail;  
Ah me! that Death on Virtue should prevail!  
But 'tis decreed, Death is the Mead for Sin;  
This, by Ambition, did our Grandsire win:  
And We, the Heirs both of his work and wages,  
Must all Die once, throughout all after-Ages.  
And Here, for instance, see this Sable Hearse,  
Shrouding the Subject of my Mournful Verse!   

What shalt thou see more, far more living here?  
This Heaven, this Sun, thou oft before hast seen;  
And shouldst thou live another Plato's Year,  
This World would be the same that it hath been,  
Death's end of Ills, and only Sanctuary,  
Of him that cannot 'scape the Grudge and Gall  
Of a Potent and Mighty ADVERSARY:  
It is a Point, which Heaven appoints to all.  
There's Rest Eternal for thy Labours, rise;  
There's for thy Bondage, boundless Liberty:  
There when Death endeth, she begins thy Life:  
And where's no more Time, there is Eternity.   
FINIS.   

Printed for J. Millet, at the Angel, in Little-Brittain.