MEMENTO MORI:
AN ELEGY On the Right Honourable Sir JOHN CHAPMAN Knt. Lord Mayor of the City of London; Who departed this Life on Sunday the Seventeenth of March, 1688/9 at his Mansion-House at Grocers-Hall.
ROom for our Tears, for here are Thousands come,
To Vent our Grief at his Commanding Tomb.
See how each Honest Blubber'd Cheek doth wear
The Sad Enamel of a Briny Tear!
Each Soul turns a close Mourner in its Cell,
And ev'ry Tongue becomes a Passing Bell;
Ev'n Heaven to lend more moisture to our Eyes
At his Remove, in Tears did Sympathise
But Oh! What Mortals Genius can Devise
A Decent Floud for such a Sacrifice?
His Mighty worth must in our hearts be writ,
For 'tis above the reach of Head or Wit.
Such was his Just and Generous Behaviour,
Got him the Peoples Love and Princes favour.
Worth, not Advancement, doth beget Esteem;
The Highest Weathercock the Least doth seem.
To the Kings hand he Ow'd his Great Renown,
But still the Merit of it to his Own.
Though like the Orbs commanding from afar;
He that Our Pilot was, is now our Star:
Yet though by many Spheres Divided hence,
Governs this City still by Influence.
To Charity the way he Nobly led,
And Dy'd to let us see She was not dead;
But (what his Bounty with the Highest Ranks)
It was not Known till it could know no Thanks;
That Empty Puff of Praise he car'd not for
The Benefactor is Gods Creditor.
He Liv'd to see the Glory of the Land,
Our Mighty KING by mighty Love Command
He Liv'd to see Our Good and Gracious LORD,
Our Peace, and Liberty, by him Restor'd;
And then with Joy Resign'd his Vital Breath,
And willingly Embrac'd the arms of Death.
See how the Pious Marble seems to weep,
As being Conscious, whatsoe're doth sleep?
The much-lov'd Ashes of a Mayor so Good,
Should be of Better worth, than Stone, or Wood:
And Boasting, seems to say, His Name will be
An Everlasting Monument to me.
Angels now sing to thee their Cryes Divine
And Joy in an applause so great as Thine.
Here Every Mourner cause has to be Chief,
And need Gradation to so great a grief
Whilst thy Great memory Lives with us, and shall
With the World only, have a Funeral.
What can I Further add? Here in a word
Lyes the Comptroller of the Gown and Sword.
EPITAPH.
COmpel me not to speak aloud,
Death would then Grow too too proud,
At the Great Soul he has subdu'd.
Ask you! Why so many a Tear
Burst's forth! I'le tell you in your Ear,
'Tis the Great Chapmans Dust lies here.
That is the mighty cause therefore,
Thankless Reader, never more
Ʋrge a, Why thus Tears run o're.
London, Printed for Rand [...] Taylor near Stationers-Hall, 168 [...]/9 180.