MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGY To Commemorate, and Lament, The Death of the Worthy, and most Eminent Doctor of Physick, Sr. JOHN MICKLEVVAITE Kt. Who Died on Saturday, JULY 29th. 1682.
⟨8. Aug. 1682⟩
AS when the Sun doth Set, we all put on
A kind of pale, and dark Complection:
Concerned at the Absence of its Light;
Because in it, the whole Creation's right.
So when a great Man, or Learn'd one falls,
We are troubled at this, their Funeralls.
The Feet do linger, and are never Well,
When the Body is Dead, their Centinel.
This Nature teaches, from her Morals high.
A Course, we do it, it's by Sympathy:
Like the pretty Flower, that hangs down its Head,
When the Sun's Absented, and is gone to Bed.
Much more doth Man his fellow Creature high,
When he doth sicken to Mortality.
Th' Loss but of a Trifle we cannot bear,
Much more a Gent. without some kind of Tear.
To think of the great Frayltie of Nature,
In Man, Bird, in Beast, in every Creature:
Subject to Changes, and Alterations, still
As an Empress, Mutation is her Will.
The Rose, the Tulep, and the pretty Bee,
Have but their Season now, for to be Free:
And Man, the Lord of the Creation,
Death cometh, and takes him from his Station.
For we're here to Day, and gone to Morrow,
Into the Grave, where there is no Sorrow.
Where all in Silence do remain, and lie
As ordered from the Heavens on high.
Art, Wit, Riches, nay all they cannot Save
Us, from the cold, Icy Tomb, and Grave.
The Potter having a Power o're his Vessel still,
Whether that it be good, or whether ill.
We are his Handywork, we are his Sheep;
By him we Eat, and Drink, and Rest, and Sleep:
And when going in Sunshine, or in Rain;
Death appears, and bids us Return again.
So that each Step we take, we do draw near,
Unto the King of Terrors, and of Fear.
Like Seamen still, our Ships are under Sail,
Though toss'd with Ill, or with a pleasant Gale:
At last Anchor they must, in some kind Port,
To please themselves, and there to keep their Court.
Men great in Virtue, and Men truly Brave,
They think they can Outface Death, and the Grave:
Like Countryman in Fable, that did say,
O, where's Death, for to haste me now away:
With this my Load, and heavy Burthen high;
I cannot carry it, I desire to Die.
Death Appears; and when to th' Man he came;
'Twas nothing, but to help him with that same
Bundle of Sticks, he was to carry away;
But not to Die, for so doth th' Story say.
The Moral teaches how sweet a thing's Life,
Though troubled here and there with every Strife:
Fain it would Live, and fain be in Renown,
Rather then go to a Country unknown.
Bleed, Purge, Vomit, and so endure all,
Rather than hear most fatal Death, his Call.
So all that a Man has, saies holy Job,
Will a Man give for Life, and Life's fine Robe:
Rather then be Dismantled, and Uncloath'd be
Of his dear Life, and his Vitalitie.
Since we must Die, as Ordered from above,
We must prepare, by living in true Love.
When Nature into tireing Room doth go,
The Scene it changes, and so ends her Woe.
And flies into the golden Place of Rest,
Like Bird when having got into her Nest.
And there sits down with Saints, and with Just Men,
For ever, in the new Jerusalem.
EPITAPH.
HEre lies a Man, in Art so wonderous high,
That like the Sun, once Shin'd in Majesty.
A great Physitian, and a Pious Soul,
Of Honour's Livery, and of Glories Roll.
Was Good, and Ingenious in his Ways;
So that he carried away the Baies
From others, that pretended to cure th' Pthisick:
Not like him, the only Man of Physick.
Religion's a Light to every noble Art,
Guiding us soon to see Man's diseas'd Part.
For other Professors, may some Good do,
Yet where Virtue Reigns, it Commands a Woe.
Since he could Cure the King, when other Men
Fail'd in their Judgments; they went to Learn agen.
Art without Virtue 'tis an empty thing;
And like the Snake, it wears a deadly Sting.
Whereas when joyn'd together, they're true Wealth
To Men, and to Purchase them good Health.
Physick may be good, but 'tis th' Virtuous still,
That rids th' Patient of his Tormenting Ill.
Since the Agents of Heaven have a Power,
To cure the Wounds of Men every Hour.
Esculapius Favourite, the Muses great Son,
When he appear'd, Diseases away run,
Like Mists, and Foggs before the rising Sun.
Apparent from this late Gent. most Just,
A Man of mighty Learning, and of Trust.
Vertuous, most Noble, of very great Fame,
Of Repute, and of an excellent Name.
For which his Life was Precious, and now Dead,
He Liveth unto Fame, tho Buried.
FINIS
LONDON, Printed for William Miller, at the Guilded Acorn in St. Paul's Church-Yard, where you may be furnished with most sorts of Bound or Stitched Books, as Acts of Parliament, Proclamations, Speeches, Declarations, Letters, Orders, Commissions, Articles of War or Peace; As also Books of Divinity, Church-Government, Sermons on most occasions, and most sorts of Histories, Poetry, and such like, &c. 1682.