Page [unnumbered]
An Elegy, ON THE TIMELY DEATH of John Warner. Late LORD MAIOR of the Citie of LONDON.
The Invitation.
TAke in your Hornes, and make no more adoe,
Shut up your shops, and to's burying goe
Kinde Cozens, pray, since your Bell-weather's dead,
Advance your heads, and see him Buryed:
Your Wives may come; or with their Fore-Men stay;
When th' Catt's abroad, the Mice may better play.
Here is no want of Sugar-plumbes, nor Sack:
Nor need you here to cry, What doe you lack?
Gentlemen, pray sit downe; Listen to mee,
And whilst y'are serv'd, Ile read his Elegy.
His Elegy.
MOst cruell Death! Art thou past shame, or feare,
That durst Arrest the Cities doughty Mayre?
Whose very Horse did carry in his face
A presence able to controul thy Mace.
Hee's dead; hee's dead, that could appease all stir,
Hee's dead! the Cities trusty WARRENER;
He that last Christ-mass day, with might and force,
And Zeal, was hurried on a Hobby-horse
To pull downe Holly and Ivie: 'tis hee
That caus'd a man there basely kill'd to be,
Now kill'd himself; and bloody here doth lie,
The fatall Object of each Teare-less eye.
Dead now he is, whose Wisedome could not rule,
The Citie better then he did his Mule,
Who like a Pamper'd Jade of Asia,
Turn'd head, and ran with Mr. Mayre away.
Stop, stop I pray good People, cryes the Mayre:
Run horse, quoth the Boyes, he hates th' Common-Pray'r;
So back he forceth home his zealous Master,
Who by the way had a most fowl disaster—
But when he lighted (stop your nose I pray)
Foh, quoth the Varlets, what a smell's to day?
Not of Roast-meat, nor bak'd; for at a word,
Their Christmasse-dinner was not worth a T—
Each Segeant staring in his fellows face,
Was faine to Rest his Nose with his owne Mace,
To know from whence the scent came, all did wish,
At last they found hee'd Adkiniz'd his Breech;
They all agreed, drew Lotts, and't fell to Trypes,
Who has him in, and the old Shit-breech wipes.
Not long after, for to shew his Zeal
For the CAUSE, the State, Kirk, and Common-weale,
Into Moore-fields he goes on the Lords-Day
To keep the Children from their harmless play;
When he came there, his Chain he did off pull,
And look'd more fierce then a Colechester-Bull:
The Boyes began to run, my Lord runs after,
(I ready was to crack for very laughter;)
At last they compass'd him within a ring,
Hollow'd, and cry'd, This Knave will have no King:
Lay hold on them, quoth he, away they run,
My Lord returns, and's Sun-dayes work is done.
But when the profane Bells of Bow did ring,
Last Coronation day, for the KING,
His Honor sent in all the haste to know
What made those jangling Tingle-tangles goe?
They sent him word, that he might come and see,
For better men were ringing there then hee;
He bids them cease; they bid him cease his hopes,
Or else they'd hang his Lord in the Bell-roapes:
My Lord went home, full loath to make a fray,
And took a Purge in honor of the Day.
But when he met with Doctor Kings black Gowne,
Brethren, cryes hee, now Humane Learning's downe:
For this same Popish Vestment that you see,
Was lately taken from a boy by mee,
It was to Roode-Church going with intent
To break the Parliaments Commandement:
Come hither one of you, and put it on;
That we may act the Whore of Babylon;
Fetch the foul Shirt I took the last Lords Day,
(Carrying to washing) from a Prentice Boy,
And put it on, that so we may defie
That profane Smock of their Idolatry.
Whilst this was acting, in was brought one Drunk
With Sheriff Bydes Ale; His HONOR said he stunk
Of base Tobacco: Sirrah, quoth he, pay
Five Shillings; toth' Counter with him else; away.
My Lord, (saith he) I'me of the Gentle-Craft,
And scorne to take Tobacco that is naughr.
Away with him, quoth he, Ile heare no more,
So bids a Sergeant tàke him out of doore.
But pray, my LORD, quoth he, heare me but speake,
I am so poore, I cannot chuse but breake,
Take but two payre of Shooes of me for it,
(I make no doubt they they will your Honor fitt)
And here is Six Pence more lies in my hand,
By St. Hughes-Bones I sweare, shall buy no land:
Two pen'oth of your Honors best VARINUS,
And two full pott of Sheriff Bides shall line us.
All Partyes were content: away went hee,
Fetch'd him his shooes, and so they did agree.
By this Black-TOM is comming from th'Tower
To visite him, and tells him, that all Power
Is plac'd in Him; commands him carefull be
In the discharging of his Mayoralty:
The simple Mayor presently falls down,
Worships, and sayes, He well deserves a Crown:
TOM bids him rise, then stroakes him on the head,
And instantly hee's to a Banquet led:
King Nell came too, and did him so much grace,
As for to teach him what belong'd to's Place:
Saith he, The more to make thy foes to quake;
On either side thy Gate Ile place a Drake:
Bids him be carefull to suppress all those
That moov'd for Peace, such were the States worst foes.
Feasted they were with all Luxurious Fare,
And all good things that the Saints Portions are.
Now all departed, and the Banquet done,
The lustfull Major strives to get a Sonne:
Then up he strides on Ruth his Chamber-maide,
The Spirit moov'd her to be underlaide,
Where they did fructifie, and got a Barne,
So turnes her off her Living for to earne,
The Wench thus bigge of a young Citie Heire,
Went to her Friends; that to him soon repaire,
Tells him how 'tis; Who could not it denie,
But said, in Truth Ile make amends, yea, verily:
So the Old Fox sent her a hundred Pound,
To match her to a Brother that was Round,
Which he provided of the Holy Race,
And put him also in a Guild-Hall place.
But now, alas, the Citie-boyes so fright him,
That he was forc'd againe for to be—him:
Unto the Tower then he Runs in haste,
Beshitten up unto his very waste;
But all appeas'd, and quiet; Out comes hee,
And vowes hee'l make the Citie bratts to flie.
The Fast-Day being next, away he goes
Into Cheap-side, not caring what he does:
An Apple-Woman there he seiz'd upon,
And a Cake-Woman did his Zeal much wrong;
He in a fury takes them all away;
Apples and Cakes, quoth he, must Fast and Pray,
Unto the Counter then his HONOR sent'em,
Where they did lie a fortnight to repent'em.
THese are the Acts adde Lusture to his Name,
Fit to be written in the Rowl of Fame:
Or be preserv'd to all Posterity,
And each yeer mention'd in the Pagentry
Of succeeding Mayors, to make sport
For the young Punyes of the Inns of Court.
His Yeer concluded, to a very day,
He left this life, and could no longer stay;
Some say he had a Lease on't, and th'Devill
Could suffer him no longer live in evill.
Others doe say, 'cause he was never good,
Or else because he had shed Innocent Blood,
He spit blood, pist blood, shit blood, so dide hee,
And made an end. So shall his Elegee.
His EPITAPH.
HEre lies my Lord Major under this Stone,
That last Bartholomew-fair, no Puppets would owne,
But next Bartholomew-faire, who liveth to see,
Shall view my Lord Mayor, a Puppet to bee,
Which Sight shall for ever continue his FAME,
That he may dye never, but here have a NAME.
FINIS.
Iohn Warner,
junior.