woodcut of skull, bones, shovel, and sickle 
MEMENTO MORI   
A SECOND ELEGY To the Memory of That Worthy Gentleman colonel Thomas Blood Who departed this life on the 26th of August 1680. With a detection of several Aspersions thrown upon him by Popish Malice to blast his Memory.  

STand back Rome's envious scribblers, here's no place,  
No wounding malice can this Tomb deface;  
This everlasting Monument's too great  
For all the Roman Priests or Imps of Fate,  
To level with the dust: These laurels bloom  
Beyond what Time can whither or consume;  
Set by the hands of famed they smile at Death,  
Nor fear the blast of any human breath:  
Brave Bedlo's Second, one whose courage durst  
Dare haughty Rome, in spite of her be just.  
Though black mouthed Envy sullies now those bays,  
Which once from her had power to gain the praise  
Of valiant, wise, and good; things though most true  
In him, yet more than ever Roman knew  
In he who calls himself the Churches head.  
Whose pride aspires on Princes necks to tread.  
But is he gone, and has the Fates been kind,  
Say, Sir, for by these words we know your mind.  
Puny Adorer of the Scarlet Beast,  
Fates Darling, who on Blood canst only feast,  
Thou art mistook, here thou hast mist thy prey,  
This Blood shall not thy burning thirst alloy;  
He's made immortal from thy reach conveyed,  
More Happy now than if he'd longer stayed  
turmoiled in cares on Earth; but stay, lets see  
If Rome owns Merits, death must Sainted be;  
Have Incense blaze before his dreadful shrine,  
Because he was so lucky for to join  
With Traytors in their wish, and us bereave  
Of those who did the Nations undeceive.  
heroic Bedloe first who' f living yet,  
The Priests ne'er durst have peeped abroad t' have writ;  
But like the Frogs before Jove's Stork have fled,  
Whilst his terrifick name had struck such dread  
As would have made them left both Beeds and Cools,  
And yet for fear lain croaking in their holes.  
The next our warrior, the renowned Blood,  
Who only lived to do his Country good:  
In arms grown famous, and in strength complete,  
Yet meek and humble, which pronounced him great.  
The true Idea of a hero just,  
In whom the god of War might safely trust,  
And leave to him the business of the field,  
So often tried yet never known to yield;  
But on the Edge of Battle often seen  
To drive the Squadrons back, and force between  
The Ridges of grim War, whilst with his blade  
Amongst a thousand deaths he passage made,  
So fierce in arms, that nought his Courage stayed:  
Then 'tis no wonder, that the testy Rout  
Of Treason Brooders, joy his Lamp is out;  
For though their game is death they play not fair,  
'tis Massacres they love, but hate a War  
Unless with great advantage they can rise,  
And the unthinking Innocents surprise,  
So glut themselves with human Sacrifice,  
Which shows them base born, Cowards only fit:  
With Martyrs blood to fill Romes cup, and yet  
These are the men that would suppress the Name  
Of him recorded in the Book of famed:  
He whom to after Ages we translate  
The Man that lives in spite of Tyrant Fate.  
In Counsels deep, endued with parts divine,  
That from his sober mean did brighter shine  
Then all the feigned rays of gold made Saints,  
Or Traytors dying Martyrs Crowns they paint:  
His words were serious mixed with wit sublime,  
True to his Friend in this perfidious time,  
Yet envied 'cause his narrow searching eye  
Did into Romes obscurest secrets prie,  
As loathe to see his Country quiter undone  
By those he knew would no dire mischief shun.  
His end was pious, for with his last breath,  
He prayed for's Foes, and fearless met grim Death  
With open arms not dreading his pale power,  
Who one stroke gi'n had force to give no more.  
Then from his breast th' immortal Soul straight flew  
To Heavens bright Regions, bidding Earth adieu.   

The EPITAPH.  

UNder this marble Pile, alas, here lies  
Great Blood whom Death did unawares surprise,  
Mistake not, Reader, though 'tis but his dust,  
For his heroic Soul's among the Just,  
That could not be contained, no Earthly Tomb  
Could bound that boundless, or afford it room,  
But in immortal dwelling that remains,  
Pure intellectual, free from Earthly stains.    
FINIS.   

London Printed for T. Davies, 1680.