A crovvne garland of goulden roses Gathered out of Englands royall garden. Being the liues and strange fortunes of many great personages of this land. Set forth in many pleasant new songs and sonetts neuer before imprinted. By Richard Iohnson.

A Song of Sir Richard Whittington, who by strange fortunes, came to bee thrice Lord Maior of London, with his bountifull guifts and liberallity giuen to this honorable Citty.

To the tune of dainty come thou to me.

HEre must I tell the praise, of worthy Whittington: Knowne to be in his dayes, thrice Maior of London. But of poore parentage, borne was he as we heare: And in his tender age, bred vp in Lancashire.

Poorely to London than, came vp this simple lad: Where with a Marchant man, soone he a dwelling had. And in a Kitchin plast, a scullion for to be.

Wheras long time he past, in labour drudgingly.

His daily seruice was, turning spitts at the fire: And to scoure pots of brasse, for a poore Scullions hire. Meat and drinke all his pay, of coyne he had no store: Therefore to run away, in secret thought he bore.

So from this marchant man, Whittington secretly: Towards his Contry ran, to purchase liberty. But as he went along, in a faire summer morne, London bells swéetly rung, Whittington back returne.

Euermore sounding so, turne againe Whittington: For thou in time shalt grow, Lord Maior of London. Wherevpon back againe, VVhittington came with spéed:

A prentise to remaine, as the Lord had decréed.

Still blessed be the bells, this was his daily song: They my good fortune tells, most swéetly haue they rung. If God so fauour me, I will not prooue vnkind: London my loue shall sée, and my great bounties find.

But sée his happy chance. this Scullion had a Cat: Which did his state aduance, and by it wealth he gat. His maister ventred sorth, to a land far vnknowne, With Marchandize of worth, as is in stories showne.

VVhittington had no more, but his poore Cat as than: Which to the ship he bore, like a braue Marchant ••••n. Uentring the same (quoth he) I may get store of gold:

And Maior of London be, as the bells haue me told.

Whittingtons Marchandire, carried was to a land: Troubled with Rats and Mice, as they did vnderstand: The King of that Contry there, as he at dinner sat: Daily remain'd in feare, of many a Mouse and Rat.

Meat that on trenchers lay, no way they could keepe safe: But by Rats borne away, fearing no wand nor staffe, Wherevpon soone they brought, Whittingtons nimble Cat: Which by the King was bought, heapes of gold giuen for that.

Home againe came these men, with their ship loaden so: Whittingtons wealth began, by this cat thus to grow. Seullions life he forsooke, to be a Marchant good:

And soone began to looke, how well his credit stood.

After this he was chose, Shriefe of this citty héere: And then full quickly rose, higher as did appeare. For to this Citties praise, Sir Richard Whittington: Came to be in his dayes, thrise Maior of London.

More his fame to aduance, thousands he lent his King: To maintaine warres in France, Glory from thence to bring. And after at a feast, that he the King did make: Burnd the bands all in ieast, and would no money take.

Ten thousand pound he gaue, to his Prince willingly: And would not one penny haue, thus in kind curtesie, God did thus make him great:

So would he daily sée, poore people sed with meat.

Prisoners poore cherisht were, widdowes swéet comfort found: Good déedes both far and néere, of hun do still resound. Whittington Colledge is, one of his charities: Records reporteth this, to lasting memories.

New gate he builded faire, for prisoners to liue in, Christ Church he did repaire, Christian loue for to win: Many more such like déedes, was done by VVittington: Which Ioy and Comfort bréedes, to such as lookes thereon.

Lancashire thou hast bred, this flower of Charity: The••••ah he be g••n and dead, yet liues he lastingly, Those bells that cald him so, turne againe Whittington: Call you bach many mee, to liue so in London.