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Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore. So from this marchant-man,
Whittington secretly Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty. But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morne, Londons bells sweetly rung,
“Whittington, back return !”
Evermore sounding so,
“Turn againe, Whittington; For thou in time shall grow
Lord-Maior of London.” Whereupon back againe
Whittington came with speed, A prentise to remaine,
As the Lord had decreed.
“ Still blessed be the bells ”;
(This was his daily song) “They my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung. If God so favour me,
I will not proove unkind; London my love shall see,
And my great bounties find.”
But see his happy chance !
This scullion had a cat,
Which did his state advance,
And by it wealth he gat. His maister ventred forth,
To a land far unknowne, With marchandize of worth,
As is in stories showne.
Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as than, Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave marchant-man. “Vent'ring the same," quoth he,
“I may get store of golde, And Maior of London be,
As the bells have me told.”
Carried was to a land Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand. The king of that country there,
As he at dinner sat, Daily remain’d in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.
Meat that in trenchers lay,
No way they could keepe safe; But by rats borne away,
Fearing no wand or staff. Whereupon, soone they brought
Whittingtons nimble cat;
Which by the king was bought;
Heapes of gold giv'n for that. Home againe came these men
With their ships loaden so, Whittingtons wealth began
By this cat thus to grow. Scullions life he forsooke
To be a marchant good, And soon began to looke
How well his credit stood.
After that he was chose
Shriefe of the citty heere, And then full quickly rose Higher, as did
appeare. For to this cities praise,
Sir Richard Whittington Came to be in his dayes
Thrise Maior of London.
More his fame to advance,
Thousands he lent his king, To maintaine warres in France,
Glory from thence to bring. And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make, He burnt the bonds all in jeast,
And would no money take.
Ten thousand pound he gave
To his prince willingly,
And would not one penny have;
This in kind curtesie.
So would he daily see
To shew his charity.
Prisoners poore cherish'd were,
Widdowes sweet comfort found; Good deeds both far and neere,
Of him do still resound. Whittington Colledge is
One of his charities ; Records reporteth this
To lasting memories.
Newgate he builded faire,
For prisoners to live in ; Christs-Church he did repaire,
Christian love for to win. Many more such like deedes
Were done by Whittington; Which joy and comfort breedes,
To such as looke thereon.
Lancashire, thou hast bred
This flower of charity : Though he be gon and dead
Yet lives he lastingly.
Those bells that call'd him so,
* Turne again, Whittington,” Call back
many moe To live so in London.
THERE Kensington high o'er the neighboring lands
Midst greens and sweets a regal fabric stands, And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers, A snow of blossoms and a wild of flowers, The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair To groves and lawns and unpolluted air. Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies; Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread, Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed, Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow, And chintz, the rival of the showery bow.
Here England's daughter, darling of the land, Sometimes, surrounded with her virgin band, Gleams through the shades. She, towering o'er the rest, Stands fairest of the fairer kind confessed, Formed to gain hearts, that Brunswick’s cause denied, And charm a people to her father's side.
Long have these groves to royal guests been known, Nor Nassau first preferred them to a throne. Ere Norman banners waved in British air, Ere lordly Hubba with the golden hair Poured in his Danes, ere elder Julius came,