AN ELEGY In Commemoration of the Right Worshipful Sir WILLIAM SCROGGS, Late Lord Chief Justice of His MAJESTY'S Court of KINGS-BENCH, who departed this Life, the 25th of this Instant October. 1683.  
29. Octob. 1663.  

Thou pleasing Muse, who late didst gay appear  
Gaudy as Spring, and with thy Songs didst cheer  
My well pleased thoughts, now like to Sable night  
Array thyself, disrobed of all thy light;  
With Cyprus bind thy Brows; this mournful Theme  
Admits no Day, Grief here is too extreme  
To be observed by vulgar prying Eyes,  
Who know not in true Grief to Sympathise.  
This noble Sorrow is unfeigned. True Love  
In Mercenary numbers scorns to move,  
But still keeps Harmony with that above.  
He's gone. The Brave amongst the Great lies low;  
True Tyrant Death, who will no pity show,  
Snatched him from hence: at least his better part  
Which shines above, bright as his great desert.  
In Heaven he Triumphs, whilst on Earth his Name  
Is Breathed aloud by the strong blast of fame;  
The Man who truly Loyal durst to be,  
When Torrent Faction raged to that degree,  
That once again it pushed at Monarchy:  
Who Atlas like, did help sustain the weight  
Of Leaning Empire, when the wheel of fate  
Almost flew from its Axle, and a fear  
Possessed some Men, Heaven did neglect its care;  
Even than his great unbias'd Soul stood firm;  
No fear of Danger, nor no threats could charm  
His moving Orb e'er to run Retrogade,  
His Prince's Interest, his chief care was made;  
He feared no frowns, in vain Temptations were,  
Uprightness still did all his Actions square;  
In public and in private, Justice shined  
In more uprightness ne'er before enshrined:  
In vain aspersions were, like Crystal He  
Cast of the stains of unjust obliquy.  
The banded party, which in Treason set,  
Was by his Prudence countermined; the fret  
Of Monarchy, the rude Anarchial rout,  
Who sought to bring their black designs about,  
Quelled by that awful power derived from him  
Who wears the British Empires Diadem.  
In haughty pride they durst no more appear,  
But in close Corners, hissing loud, they rear  
Their Heads, impolitic, until at last,  
That Venom that would fain three Kindgoms blast  
Was on the ground in vain at Random cast.  
The Laws great Oracle in him is set,  
Centred in him both Law and Reason met.  
Precedents justly poised had still due place,  
And due Proportion ruled in every Case.  
Orphans and Widows tears who were oppressed,  
Never departed from him unredrest.  
The Proud and Rich, who thought 'twas in their Power  
The Scales of Justice, with a Golden shower,  
To turn with ease, found her poised Balance right,  
Not to be altered, nor by Gold or Might.  
Retired from business, still his mind was bend  
T'improve that Talant his Creator lent,  
And make it plain appear, in each degree,  
He was the Pattern of Humility.  
Then let his Memory for ever live;  
Times self to that can ne'er a period give;  
The Gowns chief boast to after times he'll be,  
Ages to come shall read his History;  
And strive to Copy his deserved praise,  
Thinking him worthy of Immortal Bays,    

EPITAPH.  

Beneath this Marble, how can it be said  
Immortal Scroggs, a Man so just is laid?  
'Tis but his dust, Reader, suppose no more,  
The rest's in Heaven, 'tis there laid up in store,  
Till with loud sounds the Trumpet wakes the dead,  
And rising dust is with fresh Beauty clad,  
Then shall he live above the World's renown,  
And wear for ever Virtues shining Crown.   
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed by J. Grantham, in the Year, MDCLXXXIII.