MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGY Or, final farewel to Sir JOHN FENWICK, Baronet, Who, for High-Treason, &c. was Beheaded on Tower-Hill, Thursday the 28. of this Instant January, 1697.
Written by a late Converted Jacobite, and Recommended to all Male-content and Disaffected Persons of these Kingdoms.
BEhold, you Grandees, of this Earthly Globe,
How sickle Fortune HEROES dos 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 KINGS Experience dearly bought?
Those Kings, I mean, who, by Despotick Power,
Have sought both Laws, and Charters to devour
The late King James (by some firnam'd the Just)
Is not his Grandeur levell'd with the Dust?
Whilst his Machines, Incendaries of Hell,
Profusely even their own Bloods do spill:
CROVVNS, tho' uncertain, and a Mortal GEM,
Are firmly fix'd upon a Sacred STEM,
Not to be mov'd, but by a Power Sublime,
A Scepter surely is a Staff Divine.
Achitophels a while may Favour Gain,
Yet at the last their Labours are but vain
Their Plots, Intriegues, their Treasons disanull'd
Their Reason Captives, and their Senses lull'd
In Frantick Dreams, which so exasperate
Mistaken Courage, that before too late,
They seldom see the Error of their Way,
Misplac'd Zeal dos in a Trice decay
But, Oh stupendious! Folly dos 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 flye,
His Wings dropt off, and from the lofty Skie,
He fell a Victim to the Raging Sea;
So Haughty FENVVICK threw himself away.
Ungrateful Sir! How couldst thou strive to tare
Thy Mothers Bowels, Queen EUROPA fair
Her choicest Food did she not to thee give,
And didst not thou ith' midst of Goshen live
Thy Stores increas'd, 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 POVVERS: His Wise DECREES reject
KINGS, next JEHOVAH claim profound Respect,
And now thy CEDAR's levell'd to the Ground
Thy Own Device thy self did quite confound;
For Pleasures, Sorrow; Chains for Liberty;
For Fragrant Odours, Noysom Scents annoy;
Thy pleasant Wines, thy most Delicious Fare,
Like Israel's Quails, a loathsomness do bear,
Thy LIFE a Pain, each DAY a heavy Yoke,
Till at the length the Ax's fatal Stroke
Thy Head lopps off; they justly loose their own,
Who dare their King, their Countries Head disown.
FENVVICK 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 SKIE:
Ambitious Phaetons 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 Traytor may such Favour have,
As to be lodg'd within the Grave.
Ʋpon his Tomb, Inscribe this Verse,
Which plainly dos his Fame express:
Here Fenwick lies, whose restless Brain
No Bounds of Reason could contain;
Who Courted Death, persu'd his Fate,
And sought to ruin Church and State:
Destroy'd his Cause, Orethrew 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.