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 courtesie.
God did thus make him great,
So would he daily see
Poor people fed with meat,
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;
Christ's 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 gone and dead,
Yet lives he lastingly.
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