AN ELEGY On the DEATH of Sir JOSEPH SHELDON, LATE Lord Mayor of LONDON.  

Spite of the most Capricious Critics Rage,  
Spite of myself, my Follies, or my Age;  

Though young in Years, yet by his Bounty blest,  
For my Eternal Quiet and my Rest,  
I must unload the Burden from my Breast:   
This mighty Gratitude that shakes my Soul,  
And must be thus expressed, though ne'er so dull:  
For Oh! who can such matchless Goodness see,  
Snatched from us by an early Destiny!  
Was't not enough, O Heaven! Grave Sheldon fell!  
Must our Grief be without a parallel!  
Must that whole Race be snatched from the Earth!  
And make of Goodness such a Cruel Dearth?  
As with young Infants, we observe, 'tis still  
That others in their early Wit excel;  
Marked with that Heavenly Sign we know must fall,  
And still expect th' Unwelcome Funeral;  
Until at last, pliant to Fate, it bends,  
And ripe for Joys Unspeakable ascends.  
So He who most in Goodness did excel,  
Like to ripe Fruit, too good to last, He fell:  
Sure we could ne'er have bourn His Uncle's Fall,  
Had not He then survived his Funeral:  
As when the Universal Phoenix Dies,  
A young One still does from the Ashes rise:  
So the Twelve Patriarches, when Jacob Died,  
Alone on Joseph all their Hopes relied:  
'Tis he, and only he, must raise their Name,  
And snatch from time their almost sinking Fame;  
'Tis he must mollify th' Egyptians Pride,  
That they may safely in that Court abide:  
'Tis he must save them by his powerful Word  
From the sharp Famine, or the sharper Sword:  
That they did hope; All that our Joseph did,  
But now from ours, he grows the City's Head:  
But now behold him, see his cheerful Eye  
Not Clouded with a surly Gravity,  
But with Majestic Modesty and Grace,  
Promising mighty Goodness in his Face.  
But if such Beauty outwardly we find,  
Who can describe the Beauty of his Mind?  
That innate Virtue which none e'er could Paint,  
Which made him even upon Earth a Saint.  

No Wonder London, once so famous grown,  
Daily decreases from its tossed Renown,  
And to its former Chaos does sink down.   
Did not one mighty Prop uphold its State,  
We soon alas! should see it bend to fate:  
And when the Pillar of a Stately Frame  
Falls, though 'tis Registered i'th' Book of Fame,  
The mighty Edifice must surely fall,  
And Universal Ruin drowned it all;  
But still the Fame survives, and so will His,  
His Deeds have Built a Monument of Praise.  
O to behold such Clusters at his Gate  
Of poor weak Souls, that did his Bounty wait,  
And ne'er in vain; for each had sure his share  
Both of his Charity, his Love and Care:  
Nor did he proudly his large Gifts bestow,  
But with Humility and Distance too.  
In's Country's good his time he did employ,  
How to preserve the Good, or Bade destroy.  
His Noble Justice equal Balance gave,  
Nor could the proud Man's Cause outweigh his slave:  
Not large in promises, as most are now,  
Nor saying aught but what he meant to do.  

In Feast or Pomps, Noble, and yet not proud,  
With a great, not a grovelling, mind endowed,  
To his Equals free, to his Inferiors good.   

A Father to the Orphan, to the Wife  
If robbed of her loved Husband, a Relief,  
A Noble Pattern of a Christians Life.   
But hold Melpomeny, and cease to praise,  
Lest thou turn'st Pagan and an Idol raise.  
But Oh! forgive me now, if I have been  
By my Compassion soothed into a Sin.  
And now to Summon all to the Great End,  
He was a Faithful Subject, Faithful Friend.    

An EPITAPH.  

REader look down and Weep to see  
Death Triumphing in Victory:  
Whose Greedy Maw has here Devoured  
That which Alive we all Adored.  
Not all our Wishes, all our Praise  
Could add One Minute to his Days.  
Then since His Loss so much We Moan,  
Let Us but think the Case our own:  
Follow His Steps, and we shall see  
Our Sheldon Crowned with Immortality.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for T. Haly, in the Year, 1681.