MEMENTO MORI  
 LONDON'S SIGHS For her Worthy Patriot. AN ELEGY 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 drowned:  
Just Tributary tears, which from all Eyes  
Are paid at FORD's lamented Obsequies.  
FORD! that great City's Honour, and whose Name,  
Lasting as Hers, shall in the Rolls of Fame  
Stand registered: He, whose bright Virtues made  
Prejudice blush, and Envy seek a shade:  
Whose Prudence did the Broils of Faction calm,  
And healed 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 Conquered where they did Advise.  
Solid, but not severe; he could unite  
Candour with Prudence, Prudence with Delight.  
Courteous without Exceptions, or Self-ends;  
Kind 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 tried)  
Free from Town-Avarice, and Courtier's 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  
Poised in the Scale of Truth, that scarce one Dust  
Or Atom 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 control,  
Or storm the Bull work of his safe-built Soul.  
No Threats could fright his loyal temper: He,  
When half the Land Apostatised, 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 lived and died  
In a sweet Calm, when most o'th'Earth beside  
Reeled with those storms of War, whose Shocks have hurled  
Realms from their Centre, and unhinged the World.  
And now, blessed Soul, though thou from hence art fled  
To Abraham's bosom, 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;  
Virtues are Odours, they can ne'er consume.  
Devotion smells like Spikenard, and the breath  
Of pious Praise 's not subject unto death.  
These are fresh Ointments that shall ever be  
A precious Balm to save thy Memory.  
Virtue itself 's a Monument, and will bring  
To good men's Honours an Eternal Spring;  
When Arms, and Brass, and Led, and Marble must  
Waste to a Chaos of confused Dust.  

The EPITAPH.  

HEre lies a Just and Pious Magistrate,  
Snatched hence by the Impartial Law of Fate:  
For whom, by Turns, both Court and City strove,  
And each his prudent Conduct did approve,  
And graced his Merits with Esteem and Love:  
Till Heaven, desirous of so fair a Gem,  
Recalled his Soul to th'new Jerusalem;  
Where an Enfranchised Citizen he sings  
Praise, with the Courtiers of the King of Kings.   
With Allowance.    

LONDON: Printed for L. C. 1678.