An Address to my Lord Mayor.  

MY mobbled Muse on such Gay days  
Turns up her hoods to show her face,  
And can no more forbear to write  
Than can the Vulgar keep from sight;  
Although not oft I write in Rhyme  
My Muse must have her Teeming time,  
And no longer might she tarry  
Since this day is her Ann'versary.  
Th' impatient Crowed that thrust and hunch,  
And Nuts must crack, or plumb-cake munch,  
Until long-look'd-for Show pass by  
To cram their ever-greedy eye.   

This way some few may be supplied  
That Pence can spare for this Cheapside.   

'Tis true, it will not stuff their Guts,  
Nor is here Wit to crack like Nuts.  
No: ye as easy on't may nabble,  
As he that reads Poor Robin's rabble;  
'Tis not fit task here to expound,  
Like Jack of All-Trades turning round;  
To point out Pageants one by one,  
Like Puppet show of Whittington,  
To tell which late were Liv'ry Sachellers,  
And which ere new become Budg-Batchellors:  
Nor yet 'bout Streamers to make sport,  
Like Drayton in his Agincourt;  
When I might tell you somewhat stranger,  
Which might prevent you too from danger:  
Of Giants, Satyrs, and Wild men,  
Such as han't been the Lord knows when.   

But if I should by Tale prevent ye,  
What after comes would scarce content ye.  
For if fine things we too much praise,  
When seen they prove to great alleys;  
What means this Rhimer then? faith no harm,  
I have'em prove a powerful charm,  
To keep quiet then until—  
Children of Cheapside sit ye all still,  
And mind the fire works while I  
Myself more soberly apply.    

To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Hanson, Lord Mayor of the City of London.  

IF from the PEN there any praise be due  
Unto men's merits, than how much to You?  
What need I flourish than t'adorn a Name,  
So fairly written in the scrow'l of Fame,  
Whose Noverint universi may suffice  
To set your Virtues forth to all men's eyes;  
While you the honour of the Pen assume  
And I the leave to sing Vive le Plume.   

The Month of your Election to your State  
Bears Libra's badge, best for a Magistrate,  
Whose influence we trust will never slack  
T'attend you through your Twelve month's zodiac.  
Humility and goodness free from pride,  
Like your two Sheriffs attend you on each side,  
Which to your Triumphs adds a greater grace  
Observed by all to whom you turn your Face.   

May you improve the Pittance of your time,  
So as beyond all precedent to climb,  
That when your faithful Sword you back surrender  
You may be styled London's true Rights defender.   

And still our KING, as oft as he shall deign  
To grace the Triumphs of the entering Reign  
Of every years' Lord Mayor, may please his eyes  
To view his Cities growing glory rise,  
To such a pitch of splendour and renown,  
That times to come mayn't mourn its Burning down.    

〈…〉 at the Sun and Bible in the Poultry, 1672.