Londons Glory, and Whittingtons Renown OR, A Looking-Glass for Citizens of LONDON.  
Being a Remarkable Story, how Sir Richard Whittington( a poor Boy bread up in Lancashire) came to be three times Lord Mayor of London in three several Kings Reigns, and how his rise was by a Cat, which he sent for a Venture beyond Sea. Together with his Bountiful Gifts and Liberality given to this Honourable City: And the vast Sums of Money he lent the King to maintain the Wars in France. And how at a great Feast to which he invited the King, the Queen, and the Nobility, He Generously Burnt the Writings, and freely forgave his Majesty the whole Debt.  
Tune of, Dainty come thou to me.  
 man on a horse marching in procession  

BRave London Prentices,  
come listen to my Song,  
Tis for your glory all,  
and to you doth belong,  
And you poor Country Lads,  
though born of low degree  
see by gods providence,  
what you in time may be,   

Hear must I tell the praise,  
of worthy whittington,  
Known to be in his dayes,  
thrice Lord Mayor of London,  
But of poor parentage,  
born was he as we hear,  
And in his tender age,  
bread up in Lancashire.   

Prooly to London, then,  
came up this simplo lad,  
Where with a Marchant-man,  
soon he a dwelling had,  
And in a Kitchen placed  
a Scullion for to be,  
Where a long time he past,  
in drudging slavery,   
 a ship with an S on the sail  portrait of a woman wearing a crown, and of a smaller figure, also wearing a crown  

His daily service was,  
turning Spitts at the fire,  
And to scour pots of Brass,  
for a poor Scullions hire,  
A sharp Cook Maid there was,  
that ●eat him day by day,  
Which made him in his mind.  
think for to run away.   

So from the Marchant-man,  
Whittington secretly,  
Towards his Country ran,  
to gain his liberty,  
But as he went along,  
in a faire Summers morn,  
Londons Bells sweetly rung,  
Whittington back return.   

Evermore soundiry so,  
turn again Whittington,  
And thou in time shall be,  
Lord Mayor of London  
Whore vpon badk again,  
Whittington came with speed,  
A apprentice to remain  
as the Lord had decreed.   

Still blessed be the Bells,  
this was his daily Song,  
Which my good fortune tells,  
most sweetly have they rung.  
If God so fav●ur me,  
I will not prove unkind;  
London my Love shall see,  
and my large bounties find.   

But see this happy chanc●,  
Whittington had a Cat,  
Which he a venture sent  
and got his wealth by that.  
For from foreign Land  
where Rats& Mice abound.  
Th●y brought him for his Cat  
many a fair thousand pound.   

When as they home were come  
with their Ship Laden so,  
Whittington's wealth began,  
by this Cat thus to grow:  
Scullions life he forsook;  
to be a Merchant good,  
And soon he began to look,  
how well his credit stood.   

Soon after he was choose  
Sheriff of the City here,  
And then he quickly rose  
higher as did appear.  
For to this City's praise,  
Sir Richard Whittington,  
Came to be in his days,  
thrice Lord Mayor of London.   

More his famed to advance,  
thousands he lent his King.  
To maintain Wars in France  
honour from thence to bring.  
And after at a Feast,  
which he the King did make  
Burnt the Bonds as a jest  
and would no m●ney take.   

Ten thousand pound he gave,  
to his Prince willingly,  
And would no penny have  
for his kind courtesy:  
As God thus made him great,  
so he would daily see,  
Poor people fed with meat,  
to show his Charity.   

Prisoners poor, cherished were,  
widows sweet, comfort found,  
Good deeds both far and near  
of him do still resound:  
Whittingtons college is  
one of his Charities;  
And a fair Church he built  
to lasting memories.   

New-gate he builded fair,  
for Prisoners to lie in;  
Christs Church he did repair,  
Christian love for to win.  
Many more such like deeds,  
were done by Whittington,  
Which joy and comfort breeds  
to all that look thereon.   

Let all brave Citizens  
who do this story red,  
By his example learn,  
always the poor to feed,  
What is lent to the Poor,  
the Lord will sure repay,  
And Blessings keep in store  
until the latter day.   

Lancashire thou hast bread,  
this flower of Charity,  
Though he be dead and gone,  
yet lives his Memory.  
Those Bells that called him so,  
turn again Whittington,  
Would they call many ma●  
such men to fair LONDON.    

London, Printed for R. Burton. at the Horse-shoe in West Smithfield.