Good Sir W— Knock.  
THE WHORES Lamentation For the Death of Sir W.T.  

'MOngst the wet pious Eyes, shall we poor Harlots  
Be the only unrelenting graceless Varlets?  
What? not one Tributary Tear let fall,  
At the deplored Sir W— M's. Funeral?  
Tho' whitefriars Cub, and Dorset-Garden Matron,  
All quiter forget your good old Back-side Patron!  
A Tear, alas! the least we owe; no more  
Than we have paid him twenty times before.  
How often has he forced, in blubbering Eyes,  
The Briny Floods and swelling Torrents rise?  
And is it now the sullen Fountain's dry!  
No, we have one Pearl to Grace his Elegy:  
A Duty never paid more willing;— well,  
Thou now no longer dreadful, Sir, farewell.  

Death ends at once our terror, and thy State,  
That common Beadle at the proudest Gate,  
The High-commission'd Leveller of Fate.   
Well, let thy Cavalcado of Mourners rally,  
From Cellar, Garret, Brothel, Bulk, and Alley;  
All the whole Sisterhood in Sable Dress,  
From honest Posture-Moll, to Country-Bess.  

A Jolly Troop, and wondrous Tender-hearted,  
All with thy Favours graced, some whipped, some Carted,  
Too sad Remembrances of Friend departed.   
Yes, mount great Soul, to the aetherial Throne,  
And Spur thy Steeds and Fiery Chariot on:  
But when kind heaven a welcome Guest shall find thee,  
I hope thou'lt leave no Mantle dropped behind thee;  
No Jerking Successor, born to Inherit  
A double Portion of thy Flogging Spirit.  
No, let this Praise in thy summ'd-worth be reckoned;  
Thou'rt Non-parel, too Great, to leave a Second.  
And ●s, Knock Good Sir William, was our Tone,  
Now, Knock off Good Sir William's all our Moan.   

But, is Sir William Dead! and may we Crave  
The Honour to attend him to his Grave?  
Around his hearse safe and untrembling stand,  
Whilst Deaths could Numb ties up his Hammer-Hand!  
Great Magistrate, Adieu.— But is this all,  
Our solemn Dirges at thy funeral  
Thy Death too narrow theme to Chant thy Worth,  
We ought to trace such virtue to thy Birth.  
Thy Birth ●ay sure, at that prodigious Hour,  
There reigned no common man 〈…〉 Power:  
What other Stars,( if Stars o'er Mortals Sway)  
At Birth of Great Sir William ruled the Day  
Let little Gadbury, and great partridge tell;  
But this we dare pronounce for Oracle:  
Born that dread Plague and Scourge to Amorous Function,  
Venus and Mars were never in Conjunction.  
No, the Love-Planets then were in eclipse,  
Whilst for a Dread Presage of Thongs and Whips,  
Scorpions and Dragons-Tayls, and dreadful Gang,  
Of Hemp and Flog did Dire Fore-Runners Hang.   

Here let one Tear of Indignation fall,  
Remembrance, how thou swell'st the Woman's gull;  
Remembrance, that a wale'st our hideous Chorus,  
By representing our sad Scenes before us:  
Sad Scenes, which such full vent for Griefs allow,  
Till, Justice, we could turn as blind as Thou.  
Oh Fridewell, what a shane thy Walls Reproaches?  
Poor Whores are whipped, whilst Rich Ones Ride in Coaches.    

London, Printed for the Assigns of Posture Moll; 1693.