MEMENTO MORI
LONDON'S SIGHS For her Worthy Patriot. AN ELEGIE Offered to the never-dying Memory of the Honourable Sir RICHARD FORD Kt. Some Years since LORD MAYOR; who died Aug. 31. 1678.
Quocunque aspicies, Luctus Gemitusque sonabant.
Ovid.
LOndon the Worlds Reverted Fate hath found;
'Twas burnt before, and now in Tears is drown'd:
Just Tributary tears, which from all Eyes
Are paid at FORD's lamented Obsequies.
FORD! that great Cities Honour, and whose Name,
Lasting as Hers, shall in the Rolls of Fame
Stand registred: He, whose bright Vertues made
Prejudice blush, and Envy seek a shade:
Whose Prudence did the Broils of Faction calm,
And heal'd our Wounds with Moderation's Balm;
Teaching the World this Lesson, That none can
Prove a true Patriot, but the Loyal man.
Revolve his Counsels, so maturely wise,
They always Conquer'd where they did Advise.
Solid, but not severe; he could unite
Candor with Prudence, Prudence with Delight.
Courteous without Exceptions, or Self-ends;
Kinde to the Stranger, Cordial to his Friends.
Liberal, but not profuse, fit to express
The difference 'twixt true Bounty and Excess.
All-Gentleman, and (though both States he try'd)
Free from Town-Avarice, and Courtiers Pride.
But who can write his Story? 'twas so ample,
As might serve both our Wonder and Example:
So circumspect each Action, and so just
Poiz'd in the Scale of Truth, that scarce one Dust
Or Atome did fall scanty, or surmount
In the Examen of his Life's account.
No worldly Cares could discompose or cross
His thoughts with sense of Lucre, or of Loss:
No shocks of Fate or Fortune once controul,
Or storm the Bull work of his safe-built Soul.
No Threats could fright his loyal temper: He,
When half the Land Apostatiz'd, stood free
In his Resolves, abhorring to divide
Himself, or shift his Tenets with the Tide.
He sought not in those troubled streams to swim,
Nor courted Honour, which so courted Him.
Peace was his Aim and End, who liv'd and dy'd
In a sweet Calm, when most o'th'Earth beside
Reel'd with those storms of War, whose Shocks have hurl'd
Realms from their Centre, and unhing'd the World.
And now, blest Soul, though thou from hence art fled
To Abraham's bosome, and thy Body dead;
Though Time and the devouring Grave may strive
To Riot on thy Flesh, thy Fame's alive.
Good works are Spices, Loyalty, Perfume;
Vertues are Odours, they can ne'r consume.
Devotion smells like Spikenard, and the breath
Of pious Praise 's not subject unto death.
These are fresh Oyntments that shall ever be
A precious Balm to save thy Memorie.
Vertue it self 's a Monument, and will bring
To good mens Honours an Eternal Spring;
When Arms, and Brass, and Lead, and Marble must
Waste to a Chaos of confused Dust.
The EPITAPH.
HEre lies a Just and Pious Magistrate,
Snatcht hence by the Impartial Law of Fate:
For whom, by Turns, both Court and City strove,
And each his prudent Conduct did approve,
And grac'd his Merits with Esteem and Love:
Till Heaven, desirous of so fair a Gem,
Recall'd his Soul to th'new Jerusalem;
Where an Enfranchiz'd Citizen he sings
Praise, with the Courtiers of the King of Kings.
With Allowance.
LONDON: Printed for L. C. 1678.