A CONGRATULATORY POEM on the Right Honourable Sir PATIENCE WARD, Knight and Baronet, LORD MAYOR of the City of LONDON.  

AS when Ambassadors from Princes come,  
We all by custom from our Houses run  
To see the Strange, Great, the Noble High,  
The Representive of a Deity.  
Scripture and Reason style them so by Birth,  
Great Men, like Kings, are still like Gods on Earth:  
The truth of which, no Just Man can deny,  
Being ordained by heavenly destiny.  
But why it should be thus, I cannot say,  
Then what shall happen the succeeding Day,  
Being a Secret kept in Heavens own hand,  
As Rain descends on good and barren Land.  
Yet in a worldly sense it may be taken  
For Natural Reason, and not be forsaken,  
Because business of that important nature  
It very nearly doth concern each creature,  
As Natives of their own fine Country dear,  
To whom, of all things, still they should be near:  
Much more at a Magistrate of our own,  
Because his Power extends throughout the Town,  
Being an Office 'twixt Country and City,  
That all therein does share, both fools and witty.  
Since next the King, to him we owe all things,  
Peace, Plenty, Trade, and Money-offrings:  
For by his wife Conduct, and Prudence high,  
He'll make our Fame reach to the starry Sky,  
Being a man by Nature, and by Name,  
To be a Soul wrapped in immortal Fame.  
Patience by Name, a Virtue great and high,  
Burning and shining like the Sun in th' Sky;  
Endowed with Learning, and such famous Arts,  
That by his force he soon will gain our hearts;  
Adorning of him in this his humane Race,  
More than his Indian Pearl, or his Gold Lace.  
Since Virtue's a colour of that deep hue,  
That 'tis as Rich as the gay Rainbow's blue.  
The Merchant traffics where he please to go;  
So Virtue trades with Heaven and Earth below.  
Philosophers say, she's th' Glory of each one,  
As the pretty Flowers guilded by the Sun.  
Logicians say, as well to each degree,  
You're happy still in your Humanity;  
For Bodies shaped, and so proportioned well,  
Are ab Origine, from Heaven, not Hell.  
Seraphic Love always prefers its own,  
As the kind Father strongly loves his Son.  
The Speech you made, it doth so plainly tell  
How many Virtues in your Mind doth dwell;  
As the Tree is, alike is still the Fruit,  
Or the gay Summer with dull Winter suit.  
When the Sun shines, 'tis then a pleasant day,  
And when not seen, 'tis a foul After-play  
So as we look and speak, such men we are,  
A Maxim of the Learned Philosopher,  
Telling how face and hearts do go together,  
Making men so enjoy the best weather;  
While other platforms of a lower of die,  
Are but mere Strangers to humanity;  
Like the dull Carrier's Horse, that still moves on  
In the same road, until he cometh home;  
Then doth grim death approach, and tell them all,  
His never failing dart will make them fall.  
But that for ever they must pass and go  
To Heaven's glory, or to Hell's Sorrow.  
Seamen and Pilots rule their manners still,  
According to their Captain, good or ill;  
Who from him no other Religion take,  
Nay Navigation itself forsake;  
As he instructed is in every Art,  
The Legislator to his better heart:  
Even so as a great man or Ruler's given,  
Each Man's prone, to make him still his Heaven.  
As he smiles; then we look brisk and gay,  
As all things flourish in the Month of May:  
But if he looks but angry, and he frowns  
So then do we, and all our mirth is gone.  
Showing th' inconstancy of joy in all,  
Of Lunaries and Terrestrial:  
So that Europe will be known and seen  
Like a bright Duchess or an Indian Queen.  
'Tis plain both from experience and from Reason,  
Things that are always certain and in season:  
For Nature shows all things are fed by sense,  
And their superior body's influence  
All their kind heats, by which they still are fed,  
Flow from those streams, and so are nourished.  
Since Heavens superior as we plainly see,  
As Man excels Beasts in Felicity:  
For he that makes doth top the Object gay,  
As Night is but the Curtain of the day.  
In short, welcome great Sir, unto your Seat,  
A place of Honour and of high Retreat:  
To all you're welcome, and to all most near,  
To all Prince, Virtue still does make you dear.  
Since blood with the ginger portends  
Things that are great, and you for greater ends:  
For Virtue rises from the Plants most rare,  
As trees in Summer still most fruitful are.  
Great Sir all happiness attend you still,  
That you may pass the great Gunshot of ill,  
And when Death summons you, that you appear,  
You shall with Angels gay, look bright and clear.  
I leave you as a Precedent for Sages,  
To future times, and to succeeding Ages.   
W. W.   

LONDON, Printed for Rich. Janaway. 1680.