To see how soon the fatal Hand of Death,
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[?], who can forbear to weep,
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To see how soon the fatal Hand of Death,
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After his Mayoralty, could snatch the Breath
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Of such a Wife, Judicious Magistrate!
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One of the Pillars of our present State.
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When Death the Glories of this World will shake,
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He on the Mighty dos a Conquest make,
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And takes em from the Place of Trust and Care,
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To live where Saints forever happy are:
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In Blessed Regions of Celestial Love,
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Which neither Storm nor Tempest can remove,
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Of this contentious restless World below;
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For there perpetual Joys like Rivers flow.
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His quiet Soul shall there in Glory reign;
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Tis only we have Reason to complain,
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That Death such Subjects to the Grave should bring,
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While they are serviceable to their King.
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Two years and more, he governd here with care,
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Still doing what was honest, just and fair,
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Between the King and Subject constantly,
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In Love and Truth, without partiality.
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No Fear nor Favour coud his Judgment sway,
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Nor could his upright Heart be drawn away
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From Justice by the Gifts of Golden Oar,
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For he had seen too much of that before.
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When Laws did on the brink of Ruine stand,
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And Rome did seem to bear the sole Command,
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Still flowing on us like a mighty Floud,
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And punishd Men merely for being good.
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Amongst the rest, Sir THOMAS PILKINGTON,
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Did feel that Storm and Stream against him run;
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Who being long confind in Prison, where
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He did his Cross with Christian Patience bear.
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That he Three times obtaind a Legal Choice.
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But stay my Muse, why do we rove so far,
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Since Death hath dimnd the Glory of his Star?
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Let me return back to his mournfull Herse,
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There to present this sad relenting Verse.
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How are the Mighty fallen by the Hand
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Of Death! who never doth disputing stand:
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The highest pitch of Honour he will meet,
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And make them lay their Trophies at his Feet.
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Yet tho he may Mans Worldly Glory blast,
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Yet he the Righteous will convey at last
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Unto the Mansions of eternal Joy,
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Which neither Time nor Death shall eer destroy.
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Theres neither Sighs, nor sad lamenting Tears,
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Nor dying Groans for to invade our Ears;
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But Songs of Triumph sung on eery side,
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By Saints and Angels, which are glorifyd.
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Farewel Sir THOMAS, thou art happy made,
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Whose spotless Soul was carefully conveyd
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From this tumultuous World, on Angels Wings,
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As a sweet Present to the KING of Kings.
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HEre lies a Magistrate of worthy Fame,
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Who in his Time sad Troubles has run through:
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Lord Mayor of London, Pilkington by Name,
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To King and Subjects ever just and true.
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