MEMENTO MORI.   outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text  
AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the Right Noble PRINCE HENRY HOWARD, Duke of NORFOLK, Who Departed this Life the 13th. day of this Instant January, 1684.  
18. Jan. 1684  

NORFOLK is Dead like Lightning, which no part  
O'th' Body touches, but first strikes the Heart!  
This Sound is Fatal, for there's not in all  
The stock of Sorrow, any Charm can call  
Death sooner up; there's Music in the breath  
Of Thunder, and a sweetness in the Death:  
It brings with it, if we with this compare,  
All the loud Noises that torment the Air.  
They Cure (Physicians say) the Element,  
Sick with dull Vapours, and to Banishment,  
Confine Infections: But this Dismal shriek,  
Without the least Redress, is uttered like  
The last day's Summons, when Earth's Glories lie  
A scattered heap, and Time itself must Die.  
What now hath it to boast of? can we have  
A thought less dark than th' horror of the Grave?  
Now thou dost dwell below; as brave a Soul,  
As humane sighs and tears did ere condole:  
Sprung from those great Progenitors, whose Name  
Shines high and glorious in the Book of Fame:  
Renowned for Martial Deeds, true English born,  
Such as for ever shall our Isle adorn;  
Who in their great Example still do live,  
And to brave Spirits still Instructions give:  
Pointing the way to Honour, by true worth,  
Such as themselves did to the world set forth.  
Howard! a Name which France has forced to shake,  
The very Sound has driven whole Armies back;  
But all their Prowess and Heroick Might,  
No Death the Universal Monarch, fright;  
To Fare their Glorious Heads at length did bow,  
And Godlike Men like Beasts, in Dust lie low;  
Nor was Great Norfolk then his Fathers less,  
But all their Virtues did at large express.  
Of the first Magnitude a fixed Star,  
Never Eccentric in the British Sphere;  
But always Loyal to his Prince, he stood  
In every Shock of State, and stemmed the Flood  
Of Popular Rage, and did himself approve,  
To his own Honour, and the Royal Love;  
Blest with great Titles, Wealth, and ample Power,  
And by his own great Regarded more.  
Valiant and Wise, in Dangers often tossed,  
But yet his Godlike Courage never lost.  
When Fortune frowned, he found himself then most  
Resolved, and with collected strength abides  
Th' impetuous rage of Winds and adverse Tides;  
Always undaunted, and his Noble Mind,  
Not blood est threats could force, nor flatteries blind.  
A Hero so complete, not every day  
Is formed, but Heaven does once an Age display  
Some wondrous work, a while to bless our eyes,  
And then destroys, lest we should Idolise.  
But yet the Memory thereof remains,  
And we're allowed in tears to ease our pains.  
Our loss is Universal, all should weep,  
A Anniversary our eyes should keep,  
To some sad Numbers tuned, some Solemn Verse,  
That may his Glories and our Griefs rehearse;  
Nor should we cease to grieve and to admire,  
Until our wearied Souls, like his Expire.    

The EPITAPH.  

HEre is true Eloquence,  
The Grave alone speaks Sense;  
It says that Mortal Joys,  
Each blast of Time Destroys,  
But he that has Lived Just,  
His Glory keeps in Dust.   
FINIS.   

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