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Which did his state advance,
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,
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
After that he was chose
Higher, as did appeare.
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
And would not one penny have;
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,
WHERE Kensington high o'er the neighboring lands
Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies,
Here England's daughter, darling of the land,
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,