FARINGDON

AStonishment and frightful wonder, Shakes and splits my soul in sunder. Cannot graves contain their dead, Where long they have lain buried, But to Triumphs, sports, and shows They must be raised? Alack, God knows They count their quiet slumber hlest, Free from disturbance, and unrest. How? Whence? or where May I suppose my self? Well I wot, (If Faringdon mistake it not) That ancient famous Cathedral, Hight the Church of blessed Paul. And that this Ward well witness can, Once thereof I was Alderman, And gave it mine own proper name. I built these gates, the very same. But when I note this goodly train, (Yelad in Scarlet) it should sayen (And soothly too) that these are they Who watch for London night and day, Grave Magistrates; of which fair band, When second Edward swayed this land, Four several times the chief was I, And Lord of Londons Mayoralty. As by the bearing of that sword, It seems that you are Londons Lord: To whom becomes me lout full low, Old duty yet (methinks) I know. Turn now thy Glass to instant day, And let old Faringdon thee pray: Good Time, resolve him, what is he, Graced with this day of Dignity? Joy and gladsome jouissance, Does old Faringdon in-trance, To hear the tale that Time hath told, Since those reverend days of old, Unto this great Solemnity, For Brothers of my Company. Glad and golden be your days, Live in Prince and peoples praise: Honour London with your care, Study still for her welfare: And as Goldsmiths both you are, Such good and golden deeds prepare, That may renown our Mystery, To times of utmost memory. My minute calls, and Ghosts must go. Yet loath I am to leave you so. For I could well spend out this day, And do what service else I may; Were Time but pleased that I might stay. Now, as custom wills it so, On to Pauls Church must you go, To bless God for this bounteous day. Till you return, here will we stay, And usher then a gladsome guiding, Home to the place of your abiding. For such is your kind Brethrens will: And Time hath tied us thereuntill. So wish I too, with all my heart, And seeing now we needs must partly, From Faringdon one farewell take, Who gives it for the Goldsmiths sake. You are Lieutenant to your King, And 'tis a very worthy thing, To mind Gods blessing, and his grace, That brought ye to so high a place. O soil it not with any blame, That, may impeach it, or your name. For they have told you well before, That whereof I needs speak no more: You are a Goldsmith, Golden be Your daily deeds of Charity. Golden your hearing poor men's cases, Free from partial bribes embraces. And let no rich or mighty man Injure the poor, if help you can. The World well wots, your former care Forbids you now to pinch or spare, But to be liberal, frank, and free, And keep good Hospitality, Such as beseems a Mayoralty, Yet far from prodigality. To be too lavish, is Like crime As being too frugal in this time. I say no more, but God defend you, Many days of comfort send you, To whom (with all these) I commend you.