A Congratulatory ADDRESS To the Right Honourable Sir William Ashurst, Ʋpon His Election to the Mayoralty of London.
⟨5. Octob. 1693.⟩
WHen to Wreath'd Heads we hearty Homage pay,
'Tis only when we Love where we Obey:
'Tis by that kind Advance, her Heart secur'd,
You mount Augusta's dear Commanding Lord.
Nor can You nobler mount. Lov'd! did I say!
So the Great WILLIAM holds th' Imperial Sway.
As He His Scepter, You'll Your Fasces bear:
And Copying from Original so fair,
What Lustre Your proud Dignity must crown,
To make the Chair a Copy from the Throne?
So fair a Trust, lodg'd in that Worthy Hand,
A Goodness that shall Lead more than Command,
How high her Head shall cherisht Virtue hold,
And Industry shall spin a Thred of Gold?
Whilst such True Worth the Praetor's Robe shall wear;
Betwixt the Joys shall wait You to the Chair,
And th' universal Prayers shall leave You there;
In Your High Seat, we will not only Sing
The Honour that You meet, but That You bring.
Yes, Sir, the long attesting World has found
An ample Proof of Virtue so renown'd:
For, in its Height, when Arbitrary Sway
The Proud Ascendant held, and rul'd the Day:
'Mongst Thousand truckling Necks, each couching Slave,
Undaunted Ashurst still more nobly Brave
To th' uplift Idol (Oh! the Sordid Thought)
Nor Bending Knee, nor Playing Timbrell brought.
The common Popular Cry, that Noisie Crowd,
Whose Talent's to think little, and talk loud,
Can make an Abdicated Foe their Mark;
(So ev'ry little Village Curr can bark:)
The Bolder Ashurst better knew to dare
The baying Lyon, than the flying Hare.
Give me that Rooted Truth, Patriots so kind,
As not to shake at every threatning Wind;
Whom nor Court-Blasts, nor low'ring Frowns controul:
For Constancy is Virtue's Life and Soul.
So the fair Lawrel bears her Head above
The sapless Trunks of Autumn's naked Grove;
With Her unblasted Greens still Verdant grows,
When Summer smiles, or the bleak Winter blows.
Change is the Off-spring of Degenerate Fear,
The Servile Badge that Coward Spirits bear:
That abject Name brave Ashurst ever scorn'd.
With Merits so Enrich'd, and so Adorn'd,
Around Your Gates what thronging Crowds must wait,
To hail You, Sir, to Your Praetorian State.
Nor, 'mongst Your Worthier Homagers, disdain
T' admit the humbler Muses in Your Train:
So Rich a Mark for the whole Nine You stand,
That Fertile Glebe, all the fair Muses Land.
Besides, they wait You by 'a Domestick Claim,
For Wit's the Herauld to a Glorious Name,
The Tributary Trump of Your Just Fame.
We find the Notes, but You the Subject bring,
Honour, that tunes the Musick which We sing.
Thus whilst Our Garlands at Your Feet are thrown,
The Roses and the Sweets are all Your own.
London, Printed for R. Hayhurst, in Little-Britain. 1693.