MEMENTO MORI   outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text  
AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the most Illustrious LORD, THE EARL of St. ALBAN: Who Departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.  

GO stop the swift-winged Moment's in their flight,  
Arrest the Envious Course of Day and Night;  
Alas! it will not be, we strive in vain,  
Not all our Art can one poor Hour regain:  
TIME flies in haste to meet Eternity,  
As Rivers to the Bosom of the Sea,  
There to be lost; nor can we bribe the stay  
Of the least Minute, to prolong the Day,  
Which is by Fate ordained to be our last,  
Without reverse, when once the Doom is past.  
For if there could have been the least Reprieve  
To Mortal Breath, thou hadst been still alive;  
St. ALBAN still, had blest our wondering Eyes,  
Who now the Tyrant Death's pale Captive lies.  
Let us contemplate thee (brave Soul) and tho'  
We cannot tract the way which thou didst go  
In thy Celestial Journey, and our Heart  
Expansion want, to think what now thou art,  
How bright and wide thy Glories, yet we may  
Remember thee as thou wert in thy Clay;  
Great without Title, in thyself alone,  
A mighty Lord, thou stoodst obliged to none  
But Heaven and thyself, for that great worth  
Which the propitious Stars that ruled thy Birth  
Inspired into thy Noble Soul, and Thou  
Not wanting to thyself, didst make it grow  
To such prodigious height, thou wast become  
So truly Glorious, that struck Envy Dumb.  
All Differences did in thy praise conspire,  
And even thy Foes, if such could be, admire  
Thy Noble Life, which like the constant Sun  
Did in the same Ecliptic always run  
Ever most loyal to the Royal Cause,  
Which from the Heaven of Heavens its Tule draws;  
Where now thou liv'st, freed from th'uncertain sport  
Of Time and Fortune, in the Starry Court,  
A Glorious Potentate; while we below,  
But fashion woes to mitigate our woe.  
And now my sorrows follow thee, I tread  
The Milky way, and see the Snowy Head  
Of Atlas far below, while all the high.  
Swollen Buildings seem but Atoms to my eye;  
How small seems greatness here? how! not a span  
His Empire who commands the Ocean,  
Both that which boasts so much its mighty Ore,  
And th' other which with Pearl hath paved its shore.  
Nor can it greater seem, when this great All,  
For which Men quarrel so, is but a Ball  
Cast down into the air, to sport the Star;  
And all our general Ruins, mortal wars,  
Depopulated States, caused by their sway,  
And Man's so reverend wisdom but their play,  
By thee St. Alban living, we did learn  
The art of life, and by thy light discern  
The truth which Men dispute; but by thee Dead  
Were taught upon the world's gay pride to tread,  
And that way sooner Master it, than he  
To whom both Indies tributary be:  
Thus shall we gain by Death, while we Deplore  
His Fate, remembering how great and good  
St. Abans was, and yet but flesh and blood  
As we; how should the brave example move  
On kindled Souls, and lift us up above  
Low-thoughted Care of dull Mortality,  
Since, if as Good, we shall be Great as Herald    

The EPITAPH.  

HAil! Sacred House, in wh●ch his Relics Sleep,  
Blessed Marble, give me leave t' approach and Weep:  
Unto thyself, great Spirit, I will Repeat  
Thy Own brave STORY: tell thyself how Great  
Thou wert in Mind's Empire, and how all  
Who Outlive Thee, see but the FUNERAL  
Of Glory; and if yet some Virtuous be,  
They but the Apparitions are of Thee.    

Printed for I. Deacon, at the Angel in Guilt-spur-street, without Newgate, 1684.