MEMENTO MORI:  AN ELEGY On the Right Honourable Sir JOHN CHAPMAN K nt. 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 Blubbered Cheek doth wear  
The Sad Enamel of a Briny Tear!  
Each Soul turns a close Mourner in its Cell,  
And every Tongue becomes a Passing Bell;  
Even Heaven to lend more moisture to our Eyes  
At his Remove, in Tears did Sympathize  
But Oh! What Mortals Genius can Devise  
A Decent Flood 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 People's Love and Prince's favour.  
Worth, not Advancement, doth beget Esteem;  
The Highest Weathercock the Lest doth seem.  
To the King's hand he Owed 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 Died 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 cared not for  
The Benefactor is God's Creditor.   

He Lived to see the Glory of the Land,  
Our Mighty KING by mighty Love Command  
He Lived to see Our Good and Gracious LORD,  
Our Peace, and Liberty, by him Restored;  
And then with Joy Resigned his Vital Breath,  
And willingly Embraced the arms of Death.   

See how the Pious Marble seems to weep,  
As being Conscious, whatsoever doth sleep?  
The much-loved 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 Cries 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  
Lies the controller 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 subdued.   

Ask you! Why so many a Tear  
Burst's forth! I'll tell you in your Ear,  
'Tis the Great Chapman's Dust lies here.   

That is the mighty cause therefore,  
Thankless Reader, never more  
Urge a, Why thus Tears run o'er.    

London, Printed for Rand●● Tailor near Stationers-Hall, 168●/9 180.