I Ouercom & Conquer
MEMENTO MORI.
AN ELEGY, On the Death of Sir William Turner, Knight, AND Alderman of the City of
LONDON, and President 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 Fathers 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 Punish'd 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
Chappel, 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 Belov'd was he, that he was sent
Our Grievance to Redress in
Parliament,
Where he behav'd himself so Just and Wise,
His Death, draws Tears from ev'ry
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 shew
Your inward Griefs, with Tears your Cheeks bedew,
For him who while he did with us remain,
Wrong'd 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 Bless'd doth
Halelujahs 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 Interr'd, 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 Harlots smells like
Birch;
Whom while he lived on this Stage,
Made
Bridewel their chiefest Cage.
Then rest, dear Ashes, in thy Ʋrn,
Ʋntil the Earth Consume and Burn.
London, Printed for George Croom, at the Blew-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's-Castle.