MEMENTO MORI   outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text  
An ELEGY On that Incomparable Example of Hospitality, Charity, and Generosity, The Thrice-Worthy WILLIAM WHITMORE, Esq Who departed this Life on the Fifth of this Instant August, 1678.  

GReat WHITMORE! though I never drank thy Wine,  
Nor crowded at thy Liberal Board to Dine,  
Yet give me leave, with an unbribed Verse,  
To pay just Tribute to thy Honoured Hearse.  
Ungrateful WITS! could you so often steal,  
By Mumping Vistts, a Recruiting Meal  
At his free Table, and yet when he Dies,  
Not Celebrate aloud his Obsequies?  
Now I find how our Poet's Fancies beat;  
They only Write, whilst they know where to Eat.  
The Belly helps the Brain: When WHITMORE's gone,  
Apollo's Bankrupt; farewel, Helicon.  
But I that never yet stooped to a Trencher,  
Flattered a Grandee nor pimped for a Wencher,  
(Those thriving Arts) must, though with weak Essays,  
Here sacrifice an Hecatomb of Praise,  
To let our dull Degenerous Gentry know  
How much they to this Great Example owe.  
Whilst others waste Estates in wild Deboch,  
And cramp the Manor-house to a guilt Coach;  
Turn out of doors their useless Kitchens, and  
Make Servants, Horses-like, at Livery stand;  
Though little Miss, 'tis feared, devours them more  
Than Twelve tall Blue-coats did their Sires before.  
This Generous Soul those Sneaking Arts disdained,  
And Exiled Bounty only with him reigned.  
His Noble Hall kept a continual Feast,  
And all the Thronging Town became its Guest.  

Such vast Provisions in each day were laid,  
Pined Cities, whom ambitious Arms invade,  
One Meal of his Impregnable had made.   
His Charity so Great, the joyful Poor  
Were ne'er sent empty from his well-known Door  
With Miser's Pity, or with Nabals Frown,  
Which now, alas! our General Alms are grown.  
If any do their Bread on Waters cast,  
Repining Judas cries, Why all this waist?  
Or makes them choose (with subtle hopes of Gain)  
Quick Tiding-streams, may bring it back again.  
Our Mountebanks of Zeal cheap Notions nurse,  
And love that Piety that saves the Purse.  
Good Works they count too Chargeable a Theme;  
But He strove with true Goodness to Redeem  
Virtue to Action, that Life-feeding Flame  
That keeps Religion warm; not swell a Name  
Of Faith, A Mountain word, oft made of Air,  
And those dear Spoils that wont to dress the Fair  
And fruitful Charity's full Breasts (of old)  
Turning her out to tremble in the Cold.  
" What can the Poor hope from us, when we be  
" Uncharitable even to Charity?  

Their Wants proclaim his Loss; and now he's gone,  
Let no rude Hand presume his Sacred Stone  
For to profane with Cheap Inscription:   
For we will shed the Tribute of our Tears  
So long, till the relenting Marble wears;  
Which shall such order in their Cadence keep,  
That they a Native Epitaph shall weep,  
Until each Letter spelt distinctly lies  
Cut by the mystic Droppings of our Eyes;  
Till then, for the World's sake, rather than Thine,  
Let these few Lines be Sacred to thy Shrine,    

As, An EPITAPH.  

HEre, Reader, lies a precious Trust  
Of Good and Charitable Dust:  
A Casket Heaven's Choice hath been,  
To treasure its Dispenser in:  
One who its Blessings did convey  
With wide-spread Hands a noble way:  
Whose Board stood free to Entertain  
Guests, though they could not Bid again.  
Here, in a word, Entombed doth lie  
Th' old English Hospitality,  
Now doubly dead, and which we fear  
Will scarce again this Age appear;  
Unless you, Sirs, thus taught to live,  
Him back, in his Example, give.  
Mean time let each Mouth he hath fed  
Join in Applauses of the Dead;  
Till like Himself his Fame shall be  
Vested with Immortality.   
FINIS.   

With Allowance.   

LONDON: Printed for L. C. 1678.