MEMENTO MORI  AN ELEGY Or, final farewell to Sir JOHN FENWICK, Baronet, Who, for High-Treason, etc. was Beheaded on Tower-Hill, Thursday the 28. of this Instant January, 1697.  
Written by a late Converted Jacobite, and Recommended to all Malcontent and Disaffected Persons of these Kingdoms.  

BEhold, you Grandees, of this Earthly Globe,  
How sickle Fortune HEROES does disrobe,  
Disrobe, degrade, and utterly cast down;  
No States are free, no not a very Crown.  
Have not late Years Excessive Changes wrought?  
Yea, have not KING'S Experience dearly bought?  
Those Kings, I mean, who, by Despotic Power,  
Have sought both Laws, and Charters to devour  
The late King James (by some firnamed the Just)  
Is not his Grandeur levelled with the Dust?  
Whilst his Machine's, Incendaries of Hell,  
Profusely even their own Bloods do spill:  
CROWNS, tho' uncertain, and a Mortal GEM,  
Are firmly fixed upon a Sacred STEM,  
Not to be moved, but by a Power Sublime,  
A Sceptre surely is a Staff Divine.   

Achitophel's a while may Favour Gain,  
Yet at the last their Labours are but vain  
Their Plots, Intrigues, their Treasons disannulled  
Their Reason Captives, and their Senses lulled  
In Frantic Dreams, which so exasperated  
Mistaken Courage, that before too late,  
They seldom see the Error of their Way,  
Misplaced Zeal does in a Trice decay   

But, Oh stupendious! Folly does so Reign  
That sad Examples cannot Men refrain,  
From Towering Pride: AMBITION Satan's Bait  
Draws Thoughtless Men into a dismal state:  
The soaring Mortal that to SOL would fly,  
His Wings dropped off, and from the lofty Sky,  
He fell a Victim to the Raging Sea;  
So Haughty FENWICK threw himself away.   

Ungrateful Sir! How couldst thou strive to tore  
Thy Mother's Bowels, Queen EUROPA fair  
Her choicest Food did she not to thee give,  
And didst not thou i'th' midst of Goshen live  
Thy Stores increased, thy Blessings did abound  
And nought but Pleasures did thy TENT surround  
Thy VINE thus planted in a Fruitful Place,  
With Joy thou might have run thy Human Race,  
And, full of Days laid down thy Life in PEACE,  
But woe! alas, instead of grateful PRAISE,  
Against thy DONOR thou didst Treason raise,  
Despise His POWERS: His Wise DECREES reject  
KINGS, next JEHOVAH claim profound Respect,  
And now thy CEDAR's levelled to the Ground  
Thy Own Device thyself did quite confound;  
For Pleasures, Sorrow; Chains for Liberty;  
For Fragrant Odours, Noisome Scents annoy;  
Thy pleasant Wines, thy most Delicious Fare,  
Like Israel's Quails, a loathsomeness do bear,  
Thy LIFE a Pain, each DAY a heavy Yoke,  
Till at the length the Ax's fatal Struck  
Thy Head lops off; they justly lose their own,  
Who dare their King, their Country's Head disown.   

FENWICK to Folly thou a Martyr dies;  
Thy feeble MARTLETS must not think to rise  
And soar in Grandeur with the EAGLE High,  
Whose Fleeting Pinions mount unto the SKY:  
Ambitious Phaeton's may pretend to Steer  
Sol's Mighty CHARIOT in a full Career,  
But in a Moment they will surely find  
Their Feet too weak for their Ambitious MIND:  
The Martlet's FEET, are for her Whiffling BRAIN  
Too short and slender, therefore she in vain  
Her Projects frames, when seated on the Ground;  
For Treason Here no Rising Steps are found.    

EPITAPH.  

IF a Traitor may such Favour have,  
As to be lodged within the Grave.  
Upon his Tomb, Inscribe this Verse,  
Which plainly does his Fame express:   

Here Fenwick lies, whose restless Brain  
No Bounds of Reason could contain;  
Who Courted Death, pursued his Fate,  
And sought to ruin Church and State:  
Destroyed his Cause, O'erthrew his Friend,  
And brought himself to a fatal End.    

LONDON, Printed and Sold by J. Bradford, in New-street, without Bishopsgate, near Hand-Alley, 1697.