Upon the Present PLAGVE AT LONDON AND His Maiesties Leaving The CITY.
NOw quick as Lightning had our Thund'rers hand,
Punish'd a faithless and ungrateful Land:
[His every Cannon with a stronger Chain,
Doing what Xerxes did attempt in vain.]
Now did the doubtful god of Seas lay down,
And yield his Trident to a Triple Crown:
When lo, the greedy Earth (as if't had ta'en
Too bad Example from the Feasted main)
Exhales light Vapours, and with studious care,
Dispatches nimble deaths through th' neigb'oring Aire;
And straight these Cooks dress by the active heat
Of a quick flame, the Gormandizers meat.
This flame soon cools our Triumph, soon destroyes,
And dries our Ocean of swift ebbing joyes!
Joyes as Incostant, and as quickly gon,
As the unsetled Waves th' were rais'd upon.
Sure 'twas kind Providence that wisely spy'd
The bad effect of o're succesful Pride;
And knew ours was no less then if we meant,
T'enslave those Waters now 'bove th' Firmament.
'Twas Providence that saw we had forgot
Heavens wonderful assistance, and like Lot,
In floods of Drink (from flaming Deluge free]
Of past deliverance drown'd all memorie:
And therefore into Pyres our Bonefires turn,
And every Sack-bowl straight becomes an Urn:
Justice and Mercy, joyntly this Plague sent,
Past sins to punish, future to prevent.
I'm no Aruspex, nor can I reveal
That 'tis the fervour of Fanatick Zeal
Thus Inflames heaven; I'll not condemn the light
Of wretched Quakers to Eternal night;
Yet may without a Rapture, make this good,
That 'tis the distain'd Purple calls for blood:
That 'tis the darkned lustre of a Crown,
Now draws from Heaven so black an Influence down;
And the three Daughters of Night thus combine,
To vindicate and cleer its Eclips'd shine.
This makes th' Inlightned imitate their flame,
And trembling, merit their Usurped Name;
This makes all Sects turn Quakers, though (too late)
Ev'n they're Conformists to the common fate.
Blame not mad Schismaticks, with fiery rage,
The cool Devotion of our frozen age.
But while you feel this Tyranny of Death,
Think to what Slavery you sold your breath;
Think this disorder only does repeat,
The Anarchy of your confounded State:
And when you view the blewness of your skins,
Then curse Scotch bonnets, and your Pious sins.
Sins so Importunate, that their lowd cries,
Drag Hell to Earth, and fright the wond'ring skies;
Make Judgement antedate the latest breath,
And punish with just flames on this side death.
Yet every Dives, that did once command
The store and plenty of our fruitful Land,
And wore Kings Purple, from this Hell retires;
Laza'rus alone's tormented in these fires.
But sure these torments are not his alone,
His obscure miseries o'recast the Throne.
Nor is His different from his Subjects, fate;
But what Death formerly, disease now brings,
The Beggars state Co-equal to the Kings.
And though his Sacred Majesty now flies,
And does at distance choose to Sympathize
His Subjects griefs, 'tis cause he would not have
A narrow Tomb become great Brittains grave:
He knew the Death that shall his Person slay,
Slaughters three Kingdoms in Epitome.
Yet every bloody Tuesday does him kill,
And w'have a dead King in each weekly Bill;
Who shews the Valour of his Princely breath,
Under the rigours of a lingring death:
For where an end to growing woes Death gives,
He's most Couragious there that boldly lives.
Nor is it fear, but prudence now to flie,
When valiantly to Conquer is to die.
The Parthian King that so retir'dly dwells,
And turns his stately Pallaces to Cells,
Had here his recluse Majesty resign'd,
Nor thought it liberty to be confin'd:
The Parthian here would to his old sleight fly,
And by Retreat best foyl this Enemy.
This does our King, and is once more content,
To suffer 'midst his Subjects, Banishment;
For a more near Resentment, I dare say,
Now seiz'd His mighty Soul, then on that day,
That fatal day; when obscur'd Majesty
Sorrow less clouded then a shady Tree.
He from His Realm now does himself absent;
Since London's England in a smaller Print:
And truly too, for if the narrow space
Of this one City, keeps what e're's the Grace
And Power of England, and we justly stile
London, the Strength and Treasure of our Isle;
The Spanish Error well may pardon'd be:
England in London's true Geography.
TO THE KING, Upon His Intending for OXFORD.
BUt by your Presence, Mighty Sir, since You
Intend to Honour, and secure Us too;
And here seek Life and Safety, whence some just
and happy Pen must Eternize Your dust;
Amidst the trouble World, we must confess,
Great Brittain's Misery's Our Great Happiness.
Blest by the Influence of every Gem
That sparkles in your Starry Diadem,
While others blame Malignant Heaven, we'll say,
To Us the Planets wander the right way.
Since 'tis the Muses God, that poures forth streams
Of killing Deaths, mixt with his quickning Beams:
This City, Mighty Sir, he'll guard with care,
Which Love and Interest command him spare:
Or if he should not, when you come, his Bow
He'll quit at the least bending of Your Brow.
But We shall bless the Plague's kind slame, that is
More beneficial to our Muse then his;
And while Your Majesty, (Great Sir) shines here,
None shall a second Plague of Athens fear.
The Tyrant fiend that chief Command does bear,
And swayes the Scepter of Infected Air,
Shall find the utmost of his power too weak,
Into the Circle of Your Crown to break;
While to You Sir, our Laurels shade shall be,
(We hope) as Friendly as the Royal Tree.
And like that Tree, which a thick swarm of Ants,
Converted once into Inhabitants;
And with stout Myrmidons Aegina fill'd,
Whose Natives a quick Plague had lately kill'd,
Our Laurel shall (proving the Fable true)
Re-People England in Preserving You.
FINIS.