A Congratulatory POEM on the wonderful Achievements of Sir John Mandevil, etc.  

GReat, Good, & Just, whose Worth then praises higher,  
Tho' none can comprehend, yet all admire;  
Whom Heaven to our ungrateful City sent  
Both for a Bulwark, and an Ornament.  
Whilst stubborn Faction, and mad Crowds bow down  
To sacred Altar, and to sacred Crown;  
Whilst all the horned Herd submit their Ears,  
Frighted even out of Jealousies and Fears;  
Whilst each kind Pious Slave does mumping go  
To vote for THANKS to him that made them so.  
Among the Crowd of Blessings don't refuse  
The liberal Mite of my Repenting Muse,  
Whose Lies by th' help of North, it may be, can  
Create her Master Common-Council-Man,  
Then make me Drunk, and I'll for Slavery bawl  
As loud as any TORY of 'em all.  
Tho' the Cowed Populace in vain rebel,  
And prate of Liberty, and (grumbling) tell  
Of CHARTERS, RIGHTS, and FREEDOMS, which they draw  
From some Motheaten Grant, or musty Law;  
You bravely stemmed the Tide; You dared engage  
The weak Efforts of all their Feeble Rage;  
The Loyal Interest nobly you relieve,  
By jumbling in a chaste and Generous Shrieve.  
Nor this with little pains did you perform;  
First you sustained a dreadful Counter-storm,  
And then was squeezed till you with Loyal stench,  
Out of exuberent Zeal defiled the Bench.  
For these high Actions may you live to wear  
What Wreaths you can deserve, or Heaven prepare;  
To such a place may your bright Worth aspire,  
That one, and only one can there be higher:  
May you, when to the Grave your Corpse is born,  
Like Scanderbag, be into Relics torn:  
Then, that your Memory may never fall,  
Your Statue shall be placed within Guile-Hall;  
(As Persians line Tribunals with the Skin  
Of that false Judge that last was placed therein)  
But since the Chamber Gold and Silver lacks,  
Must only be composed of Dirt and Wax.  
Then you, whilst one poor Cit a Curse can give,  
In every Mouth eternally shall live,  
Whilst thus they'll tell their starving Brats—  
Here lies the Wretch, who London to enslave,  
Tory- like, lived a Fool, and died a Knave.    

Printed for Fr. Smith sen. 1683.