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.
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COme, come, prepare to Weep, our Sorrow's great,
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For we have lost our Worthiest Magistrate,
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Sir William Turner, Father of our Troy,
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The City's Darling and the Orphans Joy.
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Oh! who can Name him and forbear to Weep,
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Since he, Just Soul, does with his Fathers sleep.
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For thee, O LONDON, I am sorry too;
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Methinks I hear thee Cry, Ah Joys Adieu,
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Adieu! Adieu! Ah Death! what dost thou mean,
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To take the Pillar on which I did lean?
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I once from Ruins lifted up my Head,
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But now, Alas! Alas! Great TURNERs Dead.
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So Wise, so Just, and Equal too was He,
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He Punish'd Guilty, and set Guiltless Free;
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So Charitable, that though he is Dead,
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His Works of Charity Live in his stead.
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An Hospital he lately did Erect,
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The Hungry Christian to Feed and Protect;
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Besides a Chappel, wherein twice a Day
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A Minister is ordered to Pray;
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Wherein full Forty Poor he doth Maintain,
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Oh! that our Sighs could him recall again!
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So well Belov'd was he, that he was sent
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Our Grievance to Redress in Parliament,
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Where he behav'd himself so Just and Wise,
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His Death, draws Tears from ev'ry Readers Eyes.
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He's Dead alas! who strove with all his might
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To restore the Widows and Orphans to their Right.
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Weep, weep, therefore, let outward Sorrows shew
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Your inward Griefs, with Tears your Cheeks bedew,
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For him who while he did with us remain,
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Wrong'd not his Conscience for lucre of Gain;
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From base Deceit and Guile was always free,
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And th' great Asserter o'th' City's Liberty.
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But ah, bold Death, spares neither Great nor Small,
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All fare alike, the Shrubs and Cedars Tall:
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What shall we say, he Mortal was, though Brave,
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And as all Mortals, Subject to the Grave.
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But why should we thus Grieve? when he, I'm sure,
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In Everlasting Mansions is secure;
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And with the Bless'd doth Halelujahs sing,
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To our Great Creator and Eternal King.
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But since he's dead and gone, we'll let him Rest,
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Until the Resurrection of the Just.
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HERE Lies Interr'd, under this Stone,
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A Worthy Magistrate, well known,
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Lord-Mayor of LONDON, in Sixty Nine,
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And one who led a Life Divine;
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Sir William Turner was his Name,
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Whom no one Living I hear blame;
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A True Son of the English Church,
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Whose Name to Harlots smells like Birch;
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Whom while he lived on this Stage,
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Made Bridewel their chiefest Cage.
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Then rest, dear Ashes, in thy Urn,
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Until the Earth Consume and Burn.
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