An Elegy, ON THE TIMELY DEATH of John Warner. Late LORD MAYOR of the City of LONDON.  

The Invitation.  

TAke in your Horns, and make no more ado,  
Shut up your shops, and to's burying go  
Kind Cousins, pray, since your Bell-weather's dead,  
Advance your heads, and see him Buried:  
Your Wives may come; or with their Foremen stay;  
When th' Catts abroad, the Mice may better play.  
Here is no want of Sugar-plumbes, nor Sack:  
Nor need you here to cry, What do you lack?  
Gentlemen, pray sit down; Listen to me,  
And whilst y'are served, I'll read his Elegy.    

His Elegy.  

MOst cruel Death! Art thou past shame, or fear,  
That durst Arrest the City's doughty Mayor?  
Whose very Horse did carry in his face  
A presence able to control thy Mace.  
he's dead; he's dead, that could appease all stir,  
he's dead! the City's trusty WARRENER;  
He that last Christmas day, with might and force,  
And Zeal, was hurried on a Hobby-horse  
To pull down Holly and Ivy: 'tis he  
That caused a man there basely killed to be,  
Now killed himself; and bloody here doth lie,  
The fatal Object of each Teare-less eye.   

Dead now he is, whose Wisdom could not rule,  
The City better than he did his Mule,  
Who like a Pampered Jade of Asia,  
Turned head, and ran with Mr. Mayre away.   

Stop, stop I pray good People, cries the Mayor:  
Run horse, quoth the Boys, he hates th' Common-Pray'r;  
So back he forceth home his zealous Master,  
Who by the way had a most fowl disaster—  
But when he lighted (stop your nose I pray)  
Foh, quoth the Varlets, what a smell's to day?  
Not of Roast-meat, nor baked; for at a word,  
Their Christmasse-dinner was not worth a T—  
Each Sergeant staring in his fellows face,  
Was feign to Rest his Nose with his own Mace,  
To know from whence the scent came, all did wish,  
At last they found he'd Adkinized his Breech;  
They all agreed, drew Lots, an't fell to tripes,  
Who has him in, and the old Shit-breech wipes.   

Not long after, for to show his Zeal  
For the CAUSE, the State, Kirk, and Commonweal,  
Into moorfield's he goes on the Lordsday  
To keep the Children from their harmless play;  
When he came there, his Chain he did off pull,  
And looked more fierce than a Colechester-Bull:  
The Boys began to run, my Lord runs after,  
(I ready was to crack for very laughter;)  
At last they compassed him within a ring,  
Hollowed, and cried, This Knave will have no King:  
Lay hold on them, quoth he, away they run,  
My Lord returns, and's Sundays work is done.   

But when the profane Bells of Bow did ring,  
Last Coronation day, for the KING,  
His Honour sent in all the haste to know  
What made those jangling Tingle-tangles go?  
They sent him word, that he might come and see,  
For better men were ringing there then he;  
He bids them cease; they bid him cease his hopes,  
Or else they'd hang his Lord in the Bell-roapes:  
My Lord went home, full loath to make a fray,  
And took a Purge in honour of the Day.   

But when he met with Doctor Kings black Gown,  
Brethren, cries he, now Humane Learning's down:  
For this same Popish Vestment that you see,  
Was lately taken from a boy by me,  
It was to Roode-Church going with intent  
To break the Parliaments Commandment:  
Come hither one of you, and put it on;  
That we may act the Whore of Babylon;  
Fetch the foul Shirt I took the last Lord's Day,  
(Carrying to washing) from a Apprentice Boy,  
And put it on, that so we may defy  
That profane Smock of their Idolatry.   

Whilst this was acting, in was brought one Drunk  
With Sheriff Bides Ale; His HONOUR said he stunk  
Of base Tobacco: Sirrah, quoth he, pay  
Five Shillings; tothth' Counter with him else; away.   

My Lord, (saith he) I'm of the Gentle-Craft,  
And scorn to take Tobacco that is naughr.   

Away with him, quoth he, I'll hear no more,  
So bids a Sergeant tàke him out of door.   

But pray, my LORD, quoth he, hear me but speak,  
I am so poor, I cannot choose but break,  
Take but two pair of Shoes of me for it,  
(I make no doubt they they will your Honour fit)  
And here is Six Pence more lies in my hand,  
By St. Hughes-Bones I swear, shall buy no land:  
Two pen'oth of your Honour's best VARINUS,  
And two full pot of Sheriff Bides shall line us.  
All Parties were content: away went he,  
Fetched him his shoes, and so they did agree.   

By this Black-TOM is coming from th'Tower  
To visit him, and tells him, that all Power  
Is placed in Him; commands him careful be  
In the discharging of his Mayoralty:   

The simple Mayor presently falls down,  
Worships, and says, He well deserves a Crown: 
3Corn.   
TOM bids him rise, than strokes him on the head,  
And instantly he's to a Banquet led:  
King Nell came too, and did him so much grace,  
As for to teach him what belonged to's Place:  
Saith he, The more to make thy foes to quake;  
On either side thy Gate I'll place a Drake:  
Bids him be careful to suppress all those  
That moved for Peace, such were the State's worst foes.  
Feasted they were with all Luxurious Fare,  
And all good things that the Saints Portions are.   

Now all departed, and the Banquet done,  
The lustful Major strives to get a Son:  
Then up he strides on Ruth his Chambermaid,  
The Spirit moved her to be underlaide,  
Where they did fructify, and got a Barn,  
So turns her off her Living for to earn,  
The Wench thus big of a young City Heir,  
Went to her Friends; that to him soon repair,  
Tells him how 'tis; Who could not it deny,  
But said, in Truth I'll make amends, yea, verily:  
So the Old Fox sent her a hundred Pound,  
To match her to a Brother that was Round,  
Which he provided of the Holy Race,  
And put him also in a Guild-Hall place.   

But now, alas, the Citie-boyes so fright him,  
That he was forced again for to be— him:  
Unto the Tower than he Runs in haste,  
Beshitten up unto his very waste;  
But all appeased, and quiet; Out comes he,  
And vows he'll make the City bats to fly.   

The Fastday being next, away he goes  
Into Cheapside, not caring what he does:  
An Applewoman there he seized upon,  
And a Cake-Woman did his Zeal much wrong;  
He in a fury takes them all away;  
Apples and Cakes, quoth he, must Fast and Pray,  
Unto the Counter then his HONOUR sent'em,  
Where they did lie a fortnight to repent'em.   

THese are the Acts add Lustre to his Name,  
Fit to be written in the Rowl of Fame:  
Or be preserved to all Posterity,  
And each year mentioned in the Pageantry  
Of succeeding Mayors, to make sport  
For the young Punies of the Inns of Court.   

His Year concluded, to a very day,  
He left this life, and could no longer stay;  
Some say he had a Lease on't, and th'devil  
Can suffer him no longer live in evil.   

Others do say, 'cause he was never good,  
Or else because he had shed Innocent Blood,   

He spit blood, pist blood, shit blood, so died he,  
And made an end. So shall his Elegee.    

His EPITAPH.  

HEre lies my Lord Major under this Stone,  
That last Bartholomew-fair, no Puppets would own,  
But next Bartholomew-faire, who liveth to see,  
Shall view my Lord Mayor, a Puppet to be,  
Which Sight shall for ever continue his FAME,  
That he may die never, but here have a NAME.   
FINIS.  
john Warner, junior.    

Printed in the Year. 1648.