A TRUE PICTURE Of the much Honoured & Reverend Mr. JOHN KING, (Sometimes Minister of Abbots-Langley, Hertfordshine) for the Closets of his Friends.  

WIll he that digs up rugged Stone direct,  
Or the rough Mason venture to erect  
A Royal Tomb? Yet I, unskilful I,  
Am called to strain my Nature in an Elegy  
On a good King. Nothing will please but Verse.  
Sad Verse disgrace a Kingly Prophet's Hearse.  
But yet I'll try, although another mend.  
An ill-drawn Picture of a loved Friend,  
As much esteemed, is hung in chiefest place.  
Love overlooks course Paint; 'tis the dear Face  
It hangs upon; if that be taken right,  
It draws, more than the Frame or Paint, the Sight.  
I will not paint, I'll take my Pen, and write;  
I'll use no Colours, only black and white.  
The one his Death and Innocence present;  
The other that, which mourning I lament.  
Take a full stroke: At one stroke write him Saint,  
That did abhor all Hypocritic Paint.  
Next, in him there was nothing low, but Stature,  
Which was supplied with noble Soul and Feature.  
In him you'd think you saw some Judge, or rather  
Some grave and ancient, learned, holy Father.  
Yea, our King's Face had Majesty and Love.  
He looked as the he sought a Crown above.  
He never mired his Soul in worldly Pelf,  
Nor wanted what was decent for himself.  
Had he moved higher, he had, like the Sun,  
Done good to all, and been by none outdone.  
He spoke his very thoughts, when Hospitals,  
Or Learning, Schools, or Colleges, or Halls,  
Were spoken of; had Wealth been at's Command,  
The Scholar, Poor, and Saint had had good Land.  
Great Souls will talk of what they cannot do,  
And of the Good they do, think meanly too:  
Just so did he.— He early was a Man,  
A manly Christian Course betimes began.   


Dr. Tho. Ta●lor, of Aldermanburic, then of Watford.  Good Doctor Taylor did by Exercise  
In Greek take his just measure, not by size,  
As learned enough to wear a Gown, with those,  
That in Immanuel to Greatness risen:  
What Men they were, I've often heard him tell,  
How dear to Christ, the true Immanuel.  
He lived not there to eat, and drink, and sleep,  
But sucked his Alma Mater, and drunk deep  
Out of her sacred Cups: The learned Arts,  
The Tongues, and sacred Knowledge filled his Parts.  
Well stored, at his good Father's time and will,  
He Cambridg left, but loath to try his Skill,  
Till Grace and Prayers did in time prevail,  
And the good Spirit drew aside the Veil  
Of Modesty, which to his dying day  
Hung o'er his Face, and was not laid away.  
Great Doctor Sibbs did with alluring Smile,  
Train him into his Toil, and by a Wile,  
An honest Wile, got him fast fixed there,  
Where he well spent near three and fifty year.   


From his Father's House in Watford to Langley.  The first Flight from his Nest ('twas short) he took,  
Was to the House of old Sir Robert Brook:  
Whose Lady, Holy and Elect, behind  
Yet stays and waiteth for a happy Wind.  
I did admire to hear, while since, how still  
She writes Epistles, as with Angel's Quill.  
'Twas She and Sibbs that chief laid the Plot,  
To mount him in that Pulpit; and when got  
Into the Mount, nothing e'er moved or drew  
Him thence, but black and windy Barthol'mew.  
Of Meat, and Drink, and Cloth, he took no thought,  
He cleanly trod the World, nor sold, nor bought:  
But kept his Study, left (as well he might)  
Those Cares unto the prudent oversight  
Of a good Wife, who did discharge them well,  
Whose Care and Industry did most excel.  
On a small Vic'rage he contented sat,  
His Charge came on, and so did his Estate.  
I ne'er knew Man that did so live and thrive,  
And left so much to her that doth survive.  
He sought God's Kingdom, and its Righteousness,  
And by so doing got the more, not less.  
He was content in such a state to be,  
As God had called him to in each degree.  
He was a constant Student night and day;  
It was his Meat to read, to preach, and pray.  
His Home a Court, his Pulpit was his Throne;  
He sought the things of Christ, and not his own.  
Can he have ruled, none had been unbaptised,  
Nor one baptised, had lived uncatechized;  
Nor one past unconfirmed, and unable  
To plead his Title to the Lord's own Table.  
He grieved to think of People's Ignorance,  
And fruitless use of every Ordinance.  
His tender Heart did sigh and groan, to think  
That any Soul should walk so near the brink  
Of Hell, in Error, or foul ways of Sin,  
And end far worse than did their Lives begin.  
He prized dear Souls, and was afraid their Blood  
Should be required, therefore desired their Good.  
But careless cruel Souls know not their Friends,  
Until they come to miserable Ends.  
Mad sinful Souls, despise, obstruct, or hate  
Those Men that seek their Cure, and better state.  
His humble Mind did fear himself in fault,  
When others fell, as if he did but halt  
In his good Course. Of late when any died,  
His Negligence he thought against him cried.  
He was much bend on Personal Converse,  
Lest any Soul should die, except perverse;  
And was for stooping low to them, whose low  
And meaner parts required, that they might know  
Their God, Themselves, their Way, and latter End,  
(To Souls of every size he was a friend)  
And wished that every one would either come  
To learn, or entertain the Word at home.  
He fed the Lambs, and did o'ersee the Sheep,  
From Errors, Pining, Rots them safe to keep.  
He did not pull down what another built;  
He did endeavour to avoid the guilt  
Of sitting silent, or of just Offence;  
And both from a well studied pious sense.  
He preached in Private, and in Public heard;  
The Private with the Public never jarred.   

Langly, lament thy Loss! Tho he with Age  
Was spent, yet such Men's Deaths no good presage:  
No more than if experienced Horsemen fell  
Dead in the Char'ot of God's Israel.  
Had he ne'er spoken, his holy Life did tell,  
The way to Heaven was by living well.   


Pretences and allegations of careless People  His Voice was low; could he not speak aloud?  
Attentive ears will close up in a Crowd.  
So Soldiers will close up, to understand  
What their Commanders give them in command.  
But when we speak (except our Lungs we tear)  
Of Life and Death, they'll say, they cannot hear.  
But if the Preacher's voice reach not thine Ear,  
Then change thy Posture, Place, and press to hear.  
His Doctrine pure, his Method was exact,  
His Reasons strong, his Building was compact,  
His Language proper, and his Heart was warm,  
And yet how few, how few would hear him charm! 
Some will not hear in private, calling it sedious, as truly as that there are armed men hid under the good women's white Aprons.    

But Calumniator saith, They're Schismatics,  
fanatics, Rioters, Traitors, Heretics,  
What not? He swears, he fears, he hears  
Of Horse and Arms, of Pikes and Musquetiers  
Among Dissenters hidden lie. But where?  
Under Lawn Approns. 'Tis like, 'tis likely there.   

Did ever Satan yet disgrace a Play?  
Or Works of Darkness acted in the Day?  
'Tis lawful by his Acts to meet at Dice,  
At Wine, at Swords, at Cards for Avarice:  
But he could ne'er abide the Word of God,  
No more than Sorcerers could Aaron's Rod.  
He never saith there's Treason in a Play,  
No Schism in shuffling Cards all night all day.  
Go see and hear the Plays, and hum the Stage,  
Applaud the players: at Preachers hiss and rage.  
Informer, Satan, hold thy lying Tongue,  
Dare not to say there's any Plots among  
House-preaching Protestants; for they detest  
Plots, Papists, Pope, and Thee, and all the rest.  
Thou grand Ejecter, loadest them with disgrace,  
Thou gav'st some of thy All things for their Place,  
But couldst not buy their Tongues: where e'er thou art,  
Thou plottest Plots and Mischief, that's thy part.  
Though Preachers die, yet God will raise enough,  
That shall thy Plots detect and overthrow.  
Our holy Preacher had no other aim,  
Than Sinners teach and save, and Grace proclaim.  
To his once Auditors, though dead, he saith,  
Fellow my Doctrine, Charity, and Faith.  

An Arbour in his Garden, where he used to retire for study and devotion.  His Arbour may be called a holy Bower,  
In which he prayed many a silent hour.  
In reeling Times he stood, and walked with God,  
In the pure steps of Hildersham and Dod,  
Of holy Martyrs kept alive by Fox,  
Of Loyal Puritans, and Orthodox:  
He did admire the venerable Usher,  
Who fought with Rome as though he meant to crush her:  
He took the Challenge, 
usher's Answ. to the Challenge of Malone the Irish Jesuit.  and disarmed Malone,  
And gave the Friar's cause to cry, Ahone!  
Majestic Brownrig, and the Reynolds both,  
Fulk, Whitaker, Assertors of the Truth:  
Ames, 
New-England Hooker, Fellow in Eman. Coll. when he was student there. He would often speak of him with admiration.  Brightman, Perkins, Bradshaw, and Paul Bains,  
Who in their several ways took worthy Pains.  
He'd speak of Hooker in Immanuel,  
Of both the Dyke's, the worthy Daniel;  
And Boanerges Jeremy, (so he  
To call him used) Richardson and Estee,  
(Great Men in his esteem) he would scarce yield  
That any better knew, of Wethersfield,  
Daniel the Son of Rogers. Sibbs the sweet,  
Preston the clear, and more of them did meet, 
Mrs. King's Wife was Mr. G. Throckmorton's Sister.   
With this their holy melancholy Brother  
Throckmorton (George) yea and many other  
Good Men, esteemed by Saints of Great Renown,  
That strove to make the Abbots-Ley, God's Town.  
I'll not leave out that pair of Anthony's 
Mr. Anthony Burgess of Sutton Cofield, & Dr. Tuckney.   
Burgess and Tuckney, his Learned Chronies:  
Nor yet his much beloved Doctor Stanton,  
That daily Preacher. And admired Manton,  
Some months before him, got a speedy Wind,  
And left him working for a while behind.  
Baxter takes often leave, and cannot go,  
He stays a Cause to plead, and Reason show,  
Why he and more should have their Liberty,  
To rescue Souls from Hell's Captivity.   


Bishop Morley of Winchester, and Gunning of Ely, to whom he dedicates his last Book.  He puts two Bishops in the Court Christian,  
For breaking Peace, to answer, if they can,  
For foulest Sacrilege, and other Crimes,  
For Outing Labourers in working times.  
If they should stop his mouth, and hinder Love,  
He'll move the Judge to hear the Cause above.  
I fear he'll get his promised Writ of Ease, 
The Title of his Book, the Non-conformists Plea.   
Before he end his Suit in Common-Pleas.  
But our dear Friend from hence is thither gone,  
Where all are Puritans, and all are one.  
No Schism's there, nor Nonconformity;  
No Cross, but crowned Heads in Unity.  
His Heart was with them here, but now his Soul  
Is with them there, where Love and Peace control.  
Were there no more in Heaven than those that I  
Have named, in Light, in Love, in Purity,  
How happy He! But there are Millions more,  
Whose Names and Faces he ne'er knew before,  
And many more to come; for 'tis God's will,  
That more be called, come in, his House to fill.  
Zaccheus having longed our Lord to see,  
Above the Multitude did climb a Tree:  
So this blessed Soul is got 'bove Sycamore,  
To praise and see, and seeing to adore  
His Jesus, Lord, and King, 'bove Multitude,  
'Bove Dust and Wrath, in clear Beatitude,  
Above imperfect Grace, and Faith's dim Light,  
To see the All in All, A blessed Sight!   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1680.