A Congratulatory ADDRESS To the Right Honourable Sir William Ashurst, Upon His Election to the Mayoralty of London.  
5. Octob. 1693.  

WHen to Wreathed Heads we hearty Homage pay,  
'Tis only when we Love where we Obey:  
'Tis by that kind Advance, her Heart secured,  
You mount Augusta's dear Commanding Lord.  
Nor can You nobler mount. Loved! did I say!  
So the Great WILLIAM holds th' Imperial Sway.  
As He His Sceptre, You'll Your Fasces bear:  
And Copying from Original so fair,  
What Lustre Your proud Dignity must crown,  
To make the Chair a Copy from the Throne?  
So fair a Trust, lodged in that Worthy Hand,  
A Goodness that shall Led more than Command,  
How high her Head shall cherished Virtue hold,  
And Industry shall spin a Thread of Gold?  

Whilst such True Worth the Praetor's Robe shall wear;  
Betwixt the Joys shall wait You to the Chair,  
And th' universal Prayers shall leave You there;   
In Your High Seat, we will not only Sing  
The Honour that You meet, but That You bring.  
Yes, Sir, the long attesting World has found  
An ample Proof of Virtue so renowned:  
For, in its Height, when Arbitrary Sway  
The Proud Ascendant held, and ruled the Day:  
'Mongst Thousand truckling Necks, each couching Slave,  
Undaunted Ashurst still more nobly Brave  
To th' uplift Idol (Oh! the Sordid Thought)  
Nor Bending Knee, nor Playing Timbrel brought.  
The common Popular Cry, that Noisy Crowd,  
Whose Talent's to think little, and talk loud,  
Can make an Abdicated Foe their Mark;  
(So every little Village Cur can bark:)  
The Bolder Ashurst better knew to dare  
The baying Lion, than the flying Hare.  
Give me that Rooted Truth, Patriots so kind,  
As not to shake at every threatening Wind;  
Whom nor Court-Blasts, nor lowering Frowns control:  
For Constancy is Virtue's Life and Soul.  
So the fair Laurel bears her Head above  
The sapless Trunks of Autumn's naked Grove;  
With Her unblasted Greene's still Verdant grows,  
When Summer smiles, or the bleak Winter blows.  
Change is the Offspring of Degenerate Fear,  
The Servile Badge that Coward Spirits bear:  
That abject Name brave Ashurst ever scorned.   

With Merits so Enriched, and so Adorned,  
Around Your Gates what thronging Crowds must wait,  
To hail You, Sir, to Your Praetorian State.  
Nor, 'mongst Your Worthier Homagers, disdain  
T' admit the humbler Muses in Your Train:  
So Rich a Mark for the whole Nine You stand,  
That Fertile Glebe, all the fair Muses Land.  

Besides, they wait You by all Domestic Claim,  
For Wit's the Herald to a Glorious Name,  
The Tributary Trump of Your Just Fame.   
We find the Notes, but You the Subject bring,  
Honour, that tunes the Music which We sing.  
Thus whilst Our Garlands at Your Feet are thrown,  
The Roses and the Sweets are all Your own.    

London, Printed for R. Hayhurst, in Little-Britain. 1693.