I Overcome & Conquer  
MEMENTO MORI.   outline of tombstone including emblems of Death which surrounds text  
AN ELEGY, On the Death of Sir William Turner, Knight, AND Alderman of the City of LONDON, and Precedent of Bridwell and Bethlem Hospitals, WHO Departed this Life on Thursday, the 9th. of February, about a Eleven of the Clock in the Forenoon, 1692/3  

COme, come, prepare to Weep, our Sorrow's great,  
For we have lost our Worthiest Magistrate,  
Sir William Turner, Father of our Troy,  
The City's Darling and the Orphans Joy.  
Oh! who can Name him and forbear to Weep,  
Since he, Just Soul, does with his Father's sleep.  
For thee, O LONDON, I am sorry too;  
Methinks I hear thee Cry, Ah Joys Adieu,  
Adieu! Adieu! Ah Death! what dost thou mean,  
To take the Pillar on which I did lean?  
I once from Ruins lifted up my Head,  
But now, Alas! Alas! Great TURNER 's Dead.  
So Wise, so Just, and Equal too was He,  
He Punished Guilty, and set Guiltless Free;  
So Charitable, that though he is Dead,  
His Works of Charity Live in his stead.  
An Hospital he lately did Erect,  
The Hungry Christian to Feed and Protect;  
Besides a Chapel, wherein twice a Day  
A Minister is ordered to Bray;  
Wherein full Forty Poor he doth Maintain,  
Oh! that our Sighs could him recall again!  
So well Beloved was he, that he was sent  
Our Grievance to Redress in Parliament,  
Where he behaved himself so Just and Wise,  
His Death, draws Tears from every Readers Eyes.  
He's Dead alas! who strove with all his might  
To restore the Widows and Orphans to their Right.  
Weep, weep, therefore, let outward Sorrows show  
Your inward Griefs, with Tears your Cheeks bedew,  
For him who while he did with us remain,  
Wronged not his Conscience for lucre of Gain;  
From base Deceit and Guile was always free,  
And th' great Asserter o' th' City's Liberty.  
But ah, bold Death, spares neither Great nor Small,  
All fare alike, the Shrubs and Cedars Tall:  
What shall we say, he Mortal was, though Brave,  
And as all Mortals, Subject to the Grave.  
But why should we thus Grieve? when he, I'm sure,  
In Everlasting Mansions is secure;  
And with the Blessed doth hallelujahs sing,  
To our Great Creator and Eternal King.  
But since he's dead and gone, we'll let him Rest,  
Until the Resurrection of the Just.    

EPITAPH.  

HERE Lies Interred, under this Stone,  
A Worthy Magistrate, well known,  
Lord-Mayor of LONDON, in Sixty Nine,  
And one who led a Life Divine;  
Sir William Turner was his Name,  
Whom no one Living I hear blame;  
A True Son of the English Church,  
Whose Name to Harlot's smells like Birch;  
Whom while he lived on this Stage,  
Made Bridewell their chiefest Cage.  
Then rest, dear Ashes, in thy Urn,  
Until the Earth Consume and Burn.    

London, Printed for George Croom, at the Blew-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's-Castle.