AN ELEGY On the DEATH of that REVEREND DIVINE, and Truly Pious, Humble, Charitable Servant of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Mr. JOHN TURNOR, Late of HATTON-GARDEN: Who Departed this Life the 18th. of February, and was Interred the 22th. Day of the same Month, 1692.  
An Orthodox Divine was he  
And Clothed with Humility.  
The Poor that thronged about his Gate  
Methinks doth now look desolate.  

AWAKE my Muse, I think I hear some cry  
Oh! Where is Mr. Turnor's Elegy?  
Is he forgotten that deserved so well?  
Can you forbear the Truth of him to tell?  
Stones could they speak, would echo forth his Praise  
Unto the World, and how he spent his Days:  
He is now a Saint in Glory with the Blessed,  
A Man deserving Praise among the rest;  
A True Ambassador of Christ our King,  
Which now with Angel's Anthems sweetly sing;  
He every day redeemed precious Time,  
And meditated oft on things Sublime.  
The Blessed Jesus he did much adore,  
Admiring him in Saints that was but poor;  
Reproving meekly them, that when astray,  
Humbly directing them the Narrow Way  
That leadeth unto Everlasting Life,  
A Tender Parent, Indulgent to his Wife:  
His Household he did guide with Prudence great,  
A Man that never sat in Scorners Seat;  
Fervent in Prayer, strong in Hope and Faith,  
Most diligent in all, as Good Men saith,  
And Friend without Interest, or hope of Gain,  
A Man afflicted with another's pain:  
His Heart in Heaven was, whilst on the Earth,  
A Man Religious ever from his Birth:  
His Talon he improved very well,  
I know not any that did him excel:  
Two Places he did build at his own Charge,  
All for God's Worship, Zion to enlarge.  
Great Cause have I for to lament his Death,  
Woe Day to me when he resigned his Breath:  
Its self doth speak, because I have the loss,  
His Death doth make me go by Weeping Cross:  
But when I do consider his great Gain,  
It much doth palliate my heavy Pain.  
Expounding Scripture, Catechise and Creed,  
Young Persons he delighted for to feed:  
He's not Dead, but he is gone to sleep  
I'll dry my Eyes, and will forbear to weep.  
Each Mourning Saint hold up your Drooping Head  
Dear Holy Mr. Turnor is not Dead:  
He's done his Work, he's gone to rest,  
And we shall see him raised amongst the Blessed;  
His Life and Conversation might all teach,  
And far exceed Eloquence of Speech;  
For what he Preached he Practised with Delight,  
A Man most Sincere, Humble, and Upright:  
A Saint full fraught with Pious Charity,  
A Self-Denier of World's Vanity;  
A Spirit Meek and Courteous unto all,  
Supporting them that ready was to fall:  
The Sin of Covetousness his Soul did hate,  
And would admit of Passion at no rate;  
Not slack at all in Works of Piety,  
He Holy lived, and Sweetly he did Die:  
His pains were sharp, and hard for Flesh to bear,  
But of repining he took special care:  
He like a Lamb surrendered up his Breath,  
And patiently submitted unto Death:  
His Soul did long for to be fixed above  
For to behold the Lord which he did love.  
On his Deathbed he often did express  
His Love into the Father, yea no less;  
Praising of God for Blessed Jesus,  
Who died on the Cross to ease us:  
He did Adore the Father, Son, and Spirit,  
And now with him a Kingdom doth inherit;  
And to God's Kingdom he hath made increase,  
And is ascended to the Urn of Peace.    

An Epitaph on the Worthy Mr. JOHN TURNOR.  

Honoured Earth that doth enclose  
A Blessed Saint to take Repose;  
For ever him thou canst not keep,  
Therefore we will forbear to weep:  
Grief to his Flock, a Dolesome Day  
When such a Shepherd was taken away:  
So great a Light to be put out,  
May humble Hearts that are full stout.  
When Stars do fall that are so bright,  
O how can we expect but Night:  
He's gone unto the silent Grave,  
And yield Earth what Earth did Crave;  
But time will come when you will see  
That Holy TURNOR raised shall be.  
And one of them that raiseth first  
A Spiritual Body with the Just;  
Though in the Grave his Body sleep,  
His Blessed Lord his Soul doth keep;  
And when the Trumpet soundeth High,  
And at Midnight there is a Cry,  
And Jesus Christ aloud doth call  
Arise to Judgement great and small;  
Then you his Flock his Face shall see,  
And never more shall parted be.    

London, Printed for Richard Baldwin, in Warwick-Lane, 1692. 191.