A POEM To the Right Honourable Sir John Moor, Knight, On His well Administration in the Office of LORD-MAYOR of LONDON.  

HAil, Loyal Sir, whom Providence designed  
To be the Joy and Safety of Mankind;  
Our meaner Muse faintly may shadow forth  
A dull Reflection of thy Glorious Worth.  
Whilst many of their Conscience shipwreck made,  
And Loyalty in Thousands was decayed;  
Thou, the Great Ornament, and Chief Renown,  
Of this so Famous Celebrated Town,  
By Thy good Conduct hast recovered some,  
And many wandring Sheep has brought safe Home:  
Some, who were lead away by giddy Brain,  
By Thy Example are return'd again.  
London, which almost was with Faction Drunk,  
And into Schism and Rebellion Sunk;  
To Thee, Great, Wise and Noble Sir, She owes  
This last Years Peace, free from all Strifes and Blows:  
To Thee, She owes, that yet she is alive.  
Her grand Restorer and Preservative.  
What Gifts sufficient can we ever bring,  
To one that Loves, and is beloved of s King?  
What Presents are there, that can reach so high,  
As a Reward for thy firm Loyalty?  
Whilst Gifts and Presents an't enough to be  
poised in the Balance with thy Honesty.  
We must remain thy Debtors; whilst we live,  
Our thanks in token of our Love we'll give;  
No Nation shall so barbarous be found,  
Wherein thy Worth will not be thrice renowned:  
Thy Deeds thro' the World, with Wonder shall be red;  
Fames loudest Trumpet shall thy Honour spread:  
In this thy Year, thou Justice didst impart,  
And equald that with Merit and Desert.  
In thy heroic Soul we plainly see.  
Such Worth, that suffers no Hyperbole.  
And now our willing Isle may well Resign  
To Thee, her Arthur and her Constantine,  
And half her Nobles of the Norman-Line.  
Thou, a just Judge, for executing Right,  
Art now the Object of the Guilty's Spite:  
'Tis what you know, undauntedly to bear,  
You serve a Cause too good, to let you fear.  
Thou hast quiter quelled the hot-spur'd Whiggish Furies;  
Of Late, we have had no Ignoramus Juries.  
'Gainst Thee, thou let'st them Plot, yea Actions bring,  
Rather than be a traitor to thy King:  
Thou feard'st not all their Threats, what they ●ould do;  
Thou bauk'dst their Counsels, and their Actions too:  
Now will all Factions quit our Flourishing Isle,  
And us no more of our true joys beguile,  
But all united stand in Rank and File.  
Go on, brave Soul, and dare be Loyal still;  
Let not the Whiggish Party have their will:  
That once being gotten, as in Times of yore,  
They'l Plunder and Sequester us; nay more:  
All Loyal Men shall be condemned to die;  
Their Crime shall be, for too much Loyalty:  
Let all from Heaven this one Petition crave,  
That thee for Mayor we many Years may have:  
If this our longed for Wish can't granted be,  
God sends us many more such Moors as thee.  
Then Loyal London shall in Triumph Sing;  
And echo in Huzza's, God Save the King.    

LONDON, Printed for T. P. in the Year 1682.