And, lest examples should be too remote, A modern magistrate of famous note, Shall give you his own history by rote; I'll make it out, deny it he that can, His worship is a true-born Englishman; By all the latitude that empty word, By modern acceptation's understood: The parish books his great descent record, And now he hopes ere long to be a lord; And truly, as things go, it would be pity, But such as he bore office in the city; While robb'ry for burnt-offering he brings, And gives to God what he has stole from kings; Great monuments of charity he raises, And good St. Magnus whistles out his praises; To city jails he grants a jubilee, And hires huzza's from his own mobile. Lately he wore the golden chain and gown, With which equipp'd he thus harangued the town. HIS FINE SPEECH, &c. With clouted iron shoes, and sheep-skin breeches, More rags than manners, and more dirt than riches, From driving cows and calves to Leyton market, While of my greatness there appear'd no spark yet, Behold I come to let you see the pride, With which exalted beggars always ride. Born to the needful labours of the plough, The cart-whip graced me, as the chain does now. Nature and fate in doubt what course to take, Whether I should a lord or plough-boy make; Kindly at last resolv'd they would promote me, And first a knave, and then a knight they vote me. What fate appointed, nature did prepare, And furnish'd me with an exceeding care, To fit me for what they design'd to have me; And every gift but honesty they gave me. And thus equipp'd, to this proud town I came, In quest of bread, and not in quest of fame. Blind to my future fate, an humble boy, Free from the guilt and glory I enjoy. The hopes which my ambition entertain'd, Where in the name of foot-boy, all contain'd. The greatest heights from small beginnings rise; The gods were great on earth, before they reach'd the skies. Backwell, the generous temper of whose mind, Was always to be bountiful inclin'd: Whether by his ill fate or fancy led, First took me up, and furnish'd me with bread: The little services he put me to, Seem'd labours, rather than were truly so. But always my advancement he design'd; For 'twas his very nature to be kind: Large was his soul, his temper ever free; The best of masters and of men to me: And I who was before decreed by fate, To be made infamous as well as great, With an obsequious diligence obey'd him, Till trusted with his all, and then betray'd him. All his past kindnesses I trampled on, Ruin'd his fortunes to erect my own: So vipers in the bosom bred begin, To hiss at that hand first which took them in; With eager treach'ry I his fall pursu'd, And my first trophies were ingratitude.