NEWS from Gravesend: Sent to Nobody. Nec Quidquam nec Cuiquam. LONDON Printed by T.C. for Thomas Archer, and are to be sold at the long Shop under S. Mildred's Church in the Poultry. 1604 TEE EPISTLE Dedicatory. To Him, that (in the despite and never-dying-dishonour of all empty sisted Mecaen-Asses) is the Gracious, munificent, and golden. Rewarder of Rhymes: singular paymaster of Songs and Sonnets: Vnsquint-eyde Surveyor of Heroical Poems: Chief Rent-gatherer of Poets and musicans: And the most valiant Confounder of their desperate debts. And to the comfort of all honest Christians) The now-onely-onely-Supper-maker to Ingles & Plaiers-Boyes, Sir Nicolas Nemo, alias Nobody. SHall I creep (like a drowned Rat) into thy warm bosom, (my Benific Patron!) with a piece of some old musty Sentence in my mouth, stolen out of Lycosthenes Apothegms, and so accost thee? Out upon't! the fashion of such Dedications is more stale than kissing. No, no, suffer me (good Nobody) to dive (like a Whitefriars Punk) into thy familiar & solid acquaintance at the first dash: And in stead of Worshipful Sir, come upon thee with honest jew, how dost? Wonder not that out of the whole barrel of pickled Pat●ons, I have only made choice of thee, for I love none really, but thee and myself, for us two do I only care, and therefore I conjure thee, let the payment of thine affection be reciprocal. They are Rhymes that I have boiled in my leaden Inckpot, for thine own eating: And now (rarest Nobody) taste the reason why they are served up to thee (in the tail of the Plague) like Caviar, or a dish of Anchovies after supper. Know then (Monnsier verse-gilder) that I have failed (during this storm of the Pestilence) round about the vast Island of the whole world, which when I found to be made like a football, the best thing in it, being but a bladder of man's life, (lost with a little prick) I took up my foot and spurned at it, because I have heard that none but fools make account of the world. But mistake me not, (thou Spur-royal of the Muses!) for it was neither in Sir Francis Drakes nor in Candishes voyage, that I swom through so much salt-water: But only with two honest Card-makers Peter Plamius and Gerard Mercator) who in their universal Maps, (as in a Barber's Looking-glass, where a number of most villainous ungodly faces are seen, in a year, and especially now at Christmas) did (like Country-fellowes, that is to say very plainly) and in a shorter time, than a Sculler can row from Queene-hyve to Wapping, make a brave discovery unto me, as well of all the old raine-beaten, as of the spick and span newfound worlds, with every particular Kingdom, Dukedom, and Popedom in their lively colours, so that I knew Constantinople as perfectly, as jobbin, the Mault-mans' horse of Enfield knows the way to London: and could have gone to the great Turk's Seraglio (where he keeps all his wenches) as tolerably and far more welcome, than if I had been one of his eunuchs. Prester john, and the Sophy, were never out of mine eye, (yet my sight was not a pin the worse). The Sultan of Egypt I had with a wet finger: from whence, I travailed as boldly to the Courts of all the Kings in Christendom, as if I had been an Ambassador) his pomp only excepted.) Strange fashions did I pick (like worms) out of the fingers of every Nation, a number of fantastic Popinjays and Apes (with faces like men) itching till they had got them. And (besides fashions) many wonders worthy to be hung up (like Shields with senseless, bald, impraesaes) in the white paper-gallery of a large Chronicle. But this made me fret out worse than gumd Taffeta, that neither in any one of those Kingdoms, (no nor yet within the walls and waterworks of mine own country) could I either find or hear, (for I gave a Crier a King-Harry-groate to make an oyes) no nor read of any man, woman or child, left so well by their friends, or that carried such an honest mind to the Commonwealth of the Castalians, as to keep open-house for the seven poor Liberal Sciences: nor once (which even the rich cubs and fox-furred curmudgens do) make them good cheer so much as at Christmas, when every cobbler has licence (under the broad Seal of Hospitality) to sit cheek by jowl at the table of a very Alderman's deputy. What woodcocks then are these seven wise masters to answer to that worm-eaten name of Liberal, seeing it has undone them? It's a name of the old fashion: It came up with the old Religion, and went down with the new. Liberality has been a Gentleman of a good house, and an ancient house, but now that old house (like the Players old Hall at Dowgate) is fallen to decay, and to repair it, requires too much cost. My seven lattin-sellers, have been liberal so long to others, that now they have not a rag (or almost nothing but rags) left for themselves: Yea and into such pitiful predicaments are they fallen, that most of our Gentry (besides the Punies of Inns of Court and Chancery) takes them for the Seven Deadly Sins, and hate him worse than they hate whores. How much happier had it been for them, to have changed their copies, & tron Sciences been bound to good Occupations, considering that one London-occupier (dealing uprightly with all men) puts up more in a week, than seven Bachelors of Art (that every day go barely a wooing to them) do in a year. Hath not the Plague (incomparable Nobody: and therefore incomparable, because with an Aeneas-like glory, thou hast redeemed the golden-tree of Poesy, even out of the hellish scorn, that this world (out of her Luciferan pride) hopes to damn it with) hath it not I say done all men knights service in working the downfall of our greatest & greediest beggars? Dieite Io Paean, You young Sophistical Fry of the Universities! break Priscian's pate (if he cross you) for joy: for had not the Plague stuck to you in this case, fix of your seven Academical sweetheart's (if I said all seven I should not lie upon them) had long ere this (but that some Doctors withstood it) been begged, (not for Wards, yet some of them have lodged I can tell you in the knight's Ward) but for mere Stones, and chester's, Fools, Fools, and jesters, because whereas some of their Chemical & alchemical raw disciples have learned (at their hands) to distill gold and silver out of very Taverne-bushes, old greasy knaves of Diamonds, the dust of bowling Allies, yea & like Aesop's Gallus Gallinaceus, to scrape precious stones even out of dunghills, yet they themselves (poor harletries) had never the grace, nor the face, to carry one penny in their own purses. But to speak truth (my noble curer of the poetical madness for nothing) where should they have it? Let them be sent into the courts of Princes, there they are so lordly, that (unless they were bigger & taller of their hands, than so many of the Guard) every one looks over them, of it they give him any thing, it's nothing but good looks. As for the City, that's so full of Craftsmen, there is no dealing with their mysteries: the nine Muses stand in a brown study, when they come within their liberties, like so many mad wenches taken in a watch & brought before a bench of Brown bills. O Cives, Cives! quaerenda pecunia primum! Virtus post Nummos: First open your purses, and then be virtuous, part not with a penny: the rich miser's hold their own by this Canon law. And for those (whom in English we call poor snakes) Alas! they are bard (by the Statute against Beggars) from giving a dandiprat or a Bawbee. In the Camp there is nothing to be had but blows and Provant: for soldiers had never worse doings: My sweet Captain, bestows his pipe of rich Trynidado (taking the Muses for Irish Chimney-sweepers) and that's his Talon. Being in this melancholy contemplation, and having wept a whole inkhorn full of Verses in bewailing the miseries of the time, on the sudden I started up: with my teeth bit my writings, because I would eat my words: condemned my penknife to the cutting of powder-beefe and brews: my paper to the drying and inflaming of Tobacco: and my Retirements to a more Gentlemanlike recreation, viz. Duke Humphres walk in Paul's: swearing five or six poetical furious oaths, that the Goose-quill should never more gull me, to make me shoot paper-bullets into any Stationer's shop, or to serve under the weatherbeaten colours of Apollo, seeing his pay was no better. Yet remembering what a notable good fellow thou wert: the only Atlas that supports the Olympian honour of learning: and (out of thy horn of Abundance) a continual Benefactor to all Scholars (Thou matchless Nobody!) I set up my rest, and vowed to consecrate all my blotting-papers only to thee: And not content to dignify thee with that love and honour of myself: I summoned all the Rymesters, Play-patchers, jig-makers, Ballad-mongers, & Pamphlet-stitchers (being the yeomanry of the Company) together with all those whom Theocrytus calls the Muse's Birds (being the Masters and head-Wardens) and before them all made an encomiastical Oration in praise of Nobody, (scilicet your proper self) pronouncing them Asses, and threatening to have them priest to serve at sea in the ship of Fools, if ever hereafter, they taught their lines (like water-Spaniels) to fetch any thing that were thrown out for them, or to dive into the unworthy commendations of Lucius Apuleius, or any Golden-Asle of them all, being for their pains clapped only on the shoulder, and sent away dropping, when as thy leathern bags stand more open than Sea-coal sacks more bounteously to reward them. I had no sooner cut out thy virtues in these large cantles, but all the Synagogue of Scribes gave a Pla●dite, crying out Viva voce, with one loud throat, that All their verses should henceforth have more feet, and take longer strides than if they went upon stilttes, only to carry thy glorious praises over the earth: And that none (but Nobody) should lick the fat of their Inventions: that Dukes, Earls, Lords and Ladies, should have their Il-liberal names torn out of those books whose Authors they sent away with a Flea in their ear, And the style of Nobody in Capital Roman Letters, bravely Printed in their places. Hereupon crowding their heads together, and amongst themselves canvasing more & more thy inexplicable worth, All of them (as inspired) burst suddenly forth, and sung extemporal Odes in thine honour, & Palynodes in recantation of all former good opinions held of niggardly patrons: One of them magnifying thee, for that in this pestiferous shipwreck of Londoners, when the Pilot, Boteswaines, Master and Maisters-mates, with all the chief Mariners that had charge in this goodly Argozy of government, leapt from the stern, struck all the sails from the main yard to the mizzen; never looked to the Compass, never founded in places of danger, nor so much as put out their Close-fights, when they saw a most cruel man of war pursue them, but suffered all to sink or swim, crying out only, Put your trust in God my Bullies, & not in us, whilst they either hid themselves under hatches, or else scrambled to shore in Cockboats: yet thou (undaunted Nobody) then, even then, didst stand stoutly to thy tackling, step courageously to the helm, and manfully run up & down, encouraging those (with comfortable words) whose hearts lay coldly in their bellies. Another lifted thee up above the third Heaven, for playing the Constable part so rarely: And (not as your common Constables, charging poor sick wretches, that had neither meat nor money, in the king's name to keep their houses, that's to say, to famish & die: But discharging whole baskets full of victuals (like volleys of shot) in at their windows: thou, only thou (most charitable Nobody, madest them as fat as butter, & preservedst their lives. A third extolled thy martial discipline, in appointing Ambushes of Surgeons and Apothecaries, to lie close in every ward, of purpose to cut of any convoy that brought the plague succour. A fourth swore at the next Impression of the Chronicles, to have thy name, with the year of our Lord & certain Hexameter verses underneath) all in great golden letters, wherein thy Fame should be consecrated to eternal memory, for carefully purchasing convenient plots of ground, only for Burials (and those out of the City too, as they did in jerusalem) to the intent, that threescore (contrary to an Act of common Council against Inmates might not be pestered together, in one little hole, where they lie and rot: but that a poor man might for his money have elbow-room, & not have his guts thrust out to be eaten up with paltry worms: lest when in hot and dry summers (that are yet not dreamt on) those musty bodies putrefying, the inavoidable stench of their strong breath be smelled out by the Sun, and then there's new work for Clerks and Sextons. Thus had every one a flirt at thy praises: if thou hadst been begged to have played an Anatomy in Barber-surgeons Hall, thy good parts could not have been more curiously ripped up: they diu'de into the very bowels of thy hearty commendations. So that I, that (like a Match) scarce gave fire before, to the dankish powder of their apprehensions, was now burnt up myself, in the flames of a more ardent affection towards thee, kindled by them. For presently the court broke up, and (without a quarter-dinner) all parted: their heads being great with child, and aching very pitifully, till they were delivered of Hymns, Hexasticons, Paeans, and such other panegyrical stuff, which every one thought 7. year till he had brought forth, to testify the love that he bore to Nobody: In advancement of whose honour (and this was sworn upon a pen & inkhorn in stead of a sword, yet they all write Tam marti quam mercurio, but how lawfully let the Heralds have an eye to't) they vowed & swore very terribly, to sacrifice the very lives of their invention; And when they wanted ink (as many of them do wanting money) or had no more (like a Chancery-man) but one pen in all the world, parcel of their oath was, to write with their blood and a broome-stick before they would sit idle. Accept therefore (for hansell-sake) these curtal rhymes of ours (thou Capon-feaster of scholars:) I call them News from Gravesend: Be it known unto thy Nonresidence, that I come not near that Gravesend (which takes his beginning in Kent) by twenty miles at least; but the end of those Graves do I shoot at, which were cast up here in London, to stand as landmarks for every parish, to teach them how far they were to go: laying down (so well as I can) the manner how death & his army of pestilent Archers, entered the field, and how every arrow that they drew, did almost cleave a heart in sunder. Read over but one leaf (dear Nobody) & thou pursed upon me an armour of proof against the rankling teeth of those mad dogs (called Booke-biters) that run barking up and down Paul's Churchyard, and bite the Muses by the shins Commend thou my labours, and I will labour only to commend thee: for thy humour being pleased, all the mewing Critists in the world shall not fright me. I know the Stationers will wish me and my papers burnt (like heretics) at the Cross, if thou dost (now) but enter into their Shops by my means: It would fret their hearts to see thee at their Stalls reading my News. Yet therein they deal doubly, and like notable dissemblers, for all the time of this Plaguy alarum, they marched only under thy colours: desired none but thy company▪ none but thy sell wert welcome to them: none but Nobody (as they all cried out the thine immortal commendations) bought books of them: Nobody was their best, and most bounteous customer. Fie on this hollow-hearted world! Do they shake thee off now? Be wise, and come not near them by twelvescore at least, so shalt thou not need to care what disgraces they shoot at thee. But leaving them to their old tune, of What new Books do you lack? prick up thine ears like a March-Hare (at the sudden cry of a kennel of hounds) and listen what news the Post that's come from Winchester- Term winds out of his horn. O that thou hadst taken a lease there (happy Nobody) but for one month, the place had (for thy sake) been well spoken of for ever. Many did heartily pray (especially Watermen, and Players, besides the Drawers, Tapsters, Butchers, and Inholders, with all the rest of the hungry Commonalty of Westminster) for thy going thither. Ten thousand in London swore to feast their neighbours with nothing but plum-porredge, and mince-pies all Christmas, (that now for anger will not bestow a crust on a beggar) upon condition that all the judges, Sergeants, Barristers, and Attorneys, had not set a foot out of doors, but that thou only (in pomp) (saving them that labour) hadst rode the journey, so greedily did they thirst after thy preferment. For hadst thou been there, those black-buckrom tragedies had never been seen, that there have been acted. Alas! its a beastly thing to report. But (truth must out) poor dumb Horses were made mere jades, being used to villainously, that they durst neither weihy nor wag tail. And though the riders of them had grown never so choleric, and chafed till they foamd again, an Ostler to walk them was not to be had for love or money. Neither could the Geldings (even of Gentlemen) get leave (for all they sweat till they dropped again) to stand as they had wont at Rack & Manger. (no, no, 'twas enough for their masters to have that honour) but now (a-against all equity) were they called (when they little thought of any such matter) to a dear reckoning for all their old wilde-oates. A conspiracy there was amongst all the innkeepers, that jack Straw (an ancient rebel) should choke all the horses: and the better to bring this to pass, a bottle of hay was sold dearer than a bottle of wine at London. A truss cost more, than master majors truss of Forduch, with the sleeves & belly-piece all of bare Satin to boot: Which knavery being smelled out, the horsemen grew politic, & never sat down to dinner, but their Nags were still at their elbows: so that it grew to be as ordinary a question, to ask, What shall I pay for a Chamber for myself and my Gelding all night, (because they would not be jaded any more) as in other country towns, For my wife and myself, for a beast and a man were entertained both alike, and that in such wonderful sort, that they'll speak of it, In aeternam rei memoriam. For most of their rooms were fairly built (out of the ground, but not out of the dirt) like Irish hovels, hung round about with cobweb-lawn very richly, and furnished, no Alderman's Parlour in London like them: for here's your bed, there a stable, and that a hogsty, yet so artificially contrived, that they stand all under one roof, to the amazement of all that behold them. But what a childishness is it, to get up thus upon their Hobby-horses, let them bite a the bridle, whilst we have about with the men. As for the women, they may laugh and lie down, it's a merry world with them, but somebody pays for it. O Winchester! much mutton hast thou to answer for, which thou hast made away (being sluttishly fried out in steaks, or in burnt Carbonadoes) thy maidservants best know how, if they were called to an account. It was happy for some, that 4. of the Returns were cut off, for if they had held together, many a one had never returned from thence his own man. Oh beware! your Winchester-Goose is ten times more dangerous to surfeit upon, than your S. Nicholas Shambles-Capon. You talk of a Plague in London, & red Crosses set upon doors, but ten plagues cannot melt so many crosses of silver out of Lawyer's purses, as the Winchesterians (with a hey-pas, re-pas) juggled out of theirs to put into their own. Patient they were I must needs confess, for they would pocket up any thing, came it never so wrongfully, insomuch that very good substantial householders have oftentimes gone away with cracked crowns, & never complained of them that gave them. If ever money were currant (à currendo, of running away) now was the time, it ran from the poor clients to the Attorneys & Clarks of bands in small troops (here 10 & there 20) but when the Leaguers of Winchester cried Charge, Charge, the Lawyers paid for't, they went to the pot full dearly, & the townsmen still carried away all the noble and royal victories. So that being puffed up with an opinion, that the Silver Age was crept into the world again, they denied (in a manner) the King's Coin, for a penny was no money with them. Whensoever there shall come forth a priest for Soldiers, thither let it be sent, for by all the opinion of the best Captains (that had a charge there, and have tried them) the men of Winchester are the only serviceable men this day in England: the reason is, they care no more to venture among small shots, than to be at the discharging of so many Cans of beer: Tush, us their desire, to see those that enter upon them, to come off sound, that when they are gone, all the world may bear witness they came to their cost. And being thus (night and day) employed, and continually entering into Action, it makes them have mighty stomachs, so that they are able to soak and devour all that come in their way: A Rapier and a Cloak have been eaten up at a Supper as clean (and carried away well too) as if they had been but two Rabbet-suckers. A Nag served but one serving-man to a breakfast, whilst the Saddle and Bridle were brewed into a quart of strong Beer. This intolerable destroying of victuals being looked into, the Inhabitants laid their heads together, and agreed among themselves (for the general good of the whole Town) to make it a town of Garrison. And seeing the desperate Termers, that strove in law together, in such a pitiful pickle, and every day so dirty, that when they met their Council, they looked like the black Guard, fight with the Inns of Court, that therefore all the Householders should turn Turk, and be victuallers to the Camp. By this means having the law in their own hands, they ruled the roast how they listed: insomuch, that a common jug of double Beer scorned to kiss the lips of a Knight under a groat. Six hours sleep could not be bought under five shillings. Yea in some places a night's lodging was dearer than the hire of a Courtesan in Venice twice so long. And (having learned the tricks of London-Sextons) there they laid four or five in a bed, as here, those other knaves of Spades thrust nine and ten into one grave. Beds keeping such a justling of one another in every room, that in the day time the lodgings looked like so many Upholsters Shops, and in the night time like the Savoy, or S. Thomas Hospital. At which, if any guest did but once bite his lip, or grumble, he was cashiered the company for a mutinous fellow, the place was not for him, let him trudge. A number stood with Petitions ready to give money for the reversion of it: for Winchester now durst, (or at least hoped to) stand upon proud terms with London. And this (thou beloved of all men) is the very pith and marrow of the best and latest News (except the unmasking of certain Treasons) that came with the Post from Winchester, where if thou hadst hired a Chamber (as would to heaven thou hadst) thou wouldst never have gone to any Barbers in London whilst thou hadst lived, but have been trimmed only there, for they are the true shavers, they have the right Neapolitan polling. To whose commendations, let me glue this piece more, that it is the most excellent place for dispatching of old suits in the world, for a number of riding suits (that had lain long in lavender) were worn out there, only with serving amongst the hot shots, that marched there up and down: let Westminster therefore, Temple-bar, and Fleetstreet, drink off this draft of Rosa solis, to fetch life into them again, after their so often swooning, that those few jurors that went thither (if any did go thither) have ta'en an oath never to sit at Winchester-Ordinary again, if they can choose, but rather to break their fasts in the old Abbey behind Westminster, with Pudding-Pyes, and Furmenty. Deliver Copies of these News (good Nobody) to none of thy acquaintance (as thou tenderest me) and thou shalt command any service at my hands: for I have an intent to hire three or four Ballad-makers, who I know will be glad for six pence and a dinner, to turn all this limping Prose into more perfectly-halting Verse, that it shall do any trueborn Citizen's heart good, to hear such doings sung to some filthy tune, and so farewell. Turn over a new leaf, and try if I handle the Plague in his right kind. Devoted to none but thyself, Somebody. News from Graves-ende. TO Sickness, and to Queasy times, We drink a health in wholesome Rhymes, Physic we invoke thy aid, Thou (that borne in heaven) art made A lackey to the meanest creature, Mother of health; thou nurse of nature, Equal friend to rich and poor, At whose hands, Kings can get no more, Than empty Beggars; O thou wise In nothing but in Mysteries! Thou that hast of earth the rule, Where (like an Academe, or School) Thou readst deep Lectures to thy sons, (men's Demi-gods) Physicians; Who thereby learn the abstruse powers Of Herbs, of Roots, of Plants, of Flowers, And suck from poisonous stinking weed preservatives, man's life to feed. Thou nearest to a God, (for none Can work it, but a God alone,) O grave Enchantress, deign to breathe Thy Spells into us, and bequeath Thy sacred fires, that they may shine In quick and virtual medicine, Arm us to convince this Foe, This King of dead men, conquering so; This hungry Plague, Cater to death, Who eats up all, yet famisheth: Teach us how we may repair These Ruins of the rotten Air, Or, if the Airs pollution can So mortal strike through beast and man, Or, if in blood corrupt, Death lie, Or if one dead, cause others die, How ere, thy sovereign cures disperse, And with that glory crown our verse: That we may yet save many a soul (Perchance now merry at his Bowl) That ere our Tragic Song be done, Must drink this thick Contagion: But (o grief) why do we atcite The charms of Physic? whose numbed spirit Now quakes, and nothing dare, or can, Checked by a more dread Magician? Sick is Physics self to see Her Aphorisms proved a mockery: For whilst she's turning o'er her books, And on her drugs and simples looks, she's run through own armed heart, (Th'infection flying above Art:) Come therefore thou the best of Nine, (Because the Saddest) every line That drops from sorrows pen is due Only to thee, to Thee we sue: Thou Tragic Maid, whose Fury's spent In dismal, and most black O●tent. In Uproars, and in Fall of Kings, Thou of Empire's change that sings, Of Dearths, of Wars, of Plagues, and laughs At Funerals, and Epitaphs: Carouse thou to our thirsty soul A full draft from the Thespian bowl, That we may power it out again, And drink, in numbers juice to men, Striking such horrors through their ears Their hair may upright stand with fears, Till rich Heirs meeting our strong verse May not shrink back, before it pierce Their marble eyeballs, and there shed One drop (at least) for him that's dead: To work which wonder, we will write With pens pulled from that bird of night (The shrieking Owl) our Ink we'll mix With tears of widows, (black as Styx) The paper where our lines shall meet, Shall be a folded winding sheet, And that the Scene may show more full, The Standish is a dead man's skull. Inspire us therefore how to tell The Horror of a Plague, the Hell. The cause of the Plague. NOr drops this venom, from that fair And crystal bosom of the Air, Whose ceaseless motion clarifies All vaporous stench, that upward flies And with her universal wings, Thick poisonous fumes abroad she flings, Till (like to Thunder) rudely tossed, Their malice is (by spreading) lost. Yet must we grant that from the veins Of Rottenness and Filth, that reigns, O'er heaps of bodies, slain in war, From Carrion (that endangers far) From standing Pools, or from the wombs Of Vaults, of Muckhills, Graves, & Tombs, From Bogs; from rank and dampish Fens, From Moorish breaths, and nasty dens, The Sun draws up contagious Fumes, Which falling down burst into Rheums, And thousand maladies beside, By which our blood grows putrefied. Or, being by winds not swept from thence, They hover there in clouds condense, Which sucked in by our spirits, there flies Swift poison through our Arteries, And (not resisted) straight it chokes The heart, with those pestiferous smokes. Thus Physic and Philosophy Do preach, and (with this) Salves apply: Which search, and use with speed: but now This monster breeds not thus: For how (If this be proved) can any doubt But that the Air does (round about) In flakes of poison drop on all, The Sore being spread so general? Nor dare we so conclude: for then Fruits, Fishes, Fowle, nor Beasts, nor Men Should scape unteinted, Grazing flocks Would feed upon their graves: the Ox Drop at the plough: the traveling Horse Would for a Rider bear a Corpse: Th'ambitious Lark, (the Bird of state) Whose wings do sweep heavens pearled gate, As she descended (Then) would bring, Pestilent News under each wing: Then Rivers would drink poisoned air: Trees shed their green and curled hair: Fish swim to shore full of disease, (For Pestilence would Fin the seas:) And we should think their scaly barks, Having small speckles, had the marks. No soul could move: but sure there lies Some vengeance more than in the skies: Nor (as a Taper, at whose beams Ten thousands lights fetch golden streams, And yet itself is burnt to death,) Can we believe that one man's breath Infected, and being blown from him, His poison should to others swim: For than who breathed upon the first? Where did th'embulked venom burst? Or how scaped those that did divide The self-same bits with those that died? Drunk of the self-same cups, and lay In Ulcerous beds, as close as they? Or, those, who every hour, (like Crows) Pray on dead carkasies: their nose Still smelling to a grave: their feet Still wrapped within a dead man's sheet! Yet (the sad execution done) Careless among their Canns they run, And there (in scorn of Death or Fate) Of the deceased they widely prate, Yet snore untouched, and next day rise To act in more new Tragedies: Or (like so many bullets flying) A thousand here and there being dying, Death's Text-bill clapped on every door, Crosses on sides, behind, before, Yet the (i'th' midst) stands fast: from whence Comes this? you'll say from Providence. 'tis so, and that's the common Spell, That leads our Ignorance, (blind as hell) And serves but as excuse, to keep The soul from search of things more deep; No, no, this black and burning star (Whose sulphurd drops, do scald so far,) Does neither hover o'er our heads, Nor lies it in our bloods, nor beds: Nor is it stitched to our attires, Nor like wild balls of running fires Or thunderbolts, which where they light Do either bruise, or kill outright; Yet by the violence of that Bound Leap off, and gives a second wound: But this fierce dragon (huge and fowl) Sucks virid poison from our soul, Which being spit forth again, there reigns Showers of Blisters, and of Blains, For every man within him feeds A worm which this contagion breeds; Our heavenly parts are plaguy sick, And there such leprous spots do stick, That God in anger fills his hand With Vengeance, throwing it on the land; Sure 'tis some Capital offence, Some high, high Treason doth incense Th'eternal King, that thus we are Arraigned at Death most dreadful bar; Th'indictment writ on England's breast, When other Countries (better blessed) Feel not the judges heavy doom Whose breath (like Lightning doth consume And (with a whip of Planets) scourges The Veins of mortals, In whom Surges Of sinful blood, Billows of Lust Stir up the powers to acts unjust. Whether they be Princes Errors, Or faults of Peers, pull down these Terrors, Or (because we may not err,) Lets sift it in particular, The Courtier's pride, lust, and excess, The Church man's painted holiness; The Lawyers grinding of the poor, The soldiers starving at the door, Raged, lean, and pale through want of blood, Sold cheap by him for Country's good. The scholars envy; Farmer's curse, When heavens rich Threasurer doth disburse In bounteous heaps (to thankless men) His universal Blessings: then This delving Moale, for madness eats Even his own lungs, and strange oaths sweats, Because he cannot sell for pence, Dear years, in spite of Providence. Add unto these, the City sin (Brought by seven deadly monsters in) Which doth all bounds, and blushing scorn, Because 'tis in the Freedom borne, What Trains of Vice, (which even Hell hates) But have bold passage through her gates? Pride in Diet, Pride in Clothing, Pride in Building, pure in nothing, And that she may not want disease She sails for it beyond the Seas, With Antwerp will she drink up Rhine: With Paris act the bloodiest Scene: Or in pied fashions pass her folly, Mocking at heaven yet look most holy: Of Usury she'll rob the jews, Of Luxury, Venetian Stews, With Spaniards, she's an Indianist, With barbarous Turks a Sodomist. So low her antic walls do stand, These sins leap o'er even with one hand: And He, that all in modest black, Whose Eyeball strings shall sooner crack, Then seem to note a tempting face, Measuring streets with a dove-like pace, Under that oily vizard wears, The poor man's sweat, and Orphans tears: Now whether these particular Fates, Or general Moles (disfiguring States) Whether one sin alone, or whether This Main Battalion joined together, Do dare these plagues; we cannot tell, But down they beat all human Spell: Or, it may be, jehovah looks But now upon those Audit-Bookes Of 45. years hushed account, For hours misspent, (whose sums surmount The price of ransomed Kings) and there Finding our grievous debts, doth clear And cross them under his own hand, Being paid with Lives, through all the land. For since his Maiden. servant's gone, And his new Vizeroy fills the Throne, Heaven means to give him (as his bride) A Nation new, and purified. Take breath a while our panting Muse, And to the world tell gladder news, Than these of Burials, strive a while, To make thy sullen numbers smile: Forget the names of Graves, and Ghosts, The sound of bells: the unknown coasts Of Death's vast Kingdom: and sail o'er With fresher wind to happier Shore. For now the maiden isle hath got, A Royal Husband, (heavenly lot) Fair Scotland does fair England wed, And gives her for her maidenhead, A crown of gold, wrought in a Ring, With which she's married to a King: Thou Beldame (whisperer of false Rumours) Fame; cast aside those antic humours, Lift up thy golden Tromp, and sound Even from Tweedes utmost christ all bound, And from the banks of Silver Thames To the green Ocean, that King james Had made an Island, (that did stand Half sinking) now the firmest land: Carry thou this to Neptune's ear, That his shrill Tritons it may bear, So far, until the Danish sound With repercussive voice rebound, That Echoes (doubling more and more) May reach the parched Indian shore, For 'tis heavens care so great a wonder, Should fly upon the wings of Thunder. The Horror of the Plague. O Thou my Country, here mine eyes Are almost sunk in waves, that rise From the rough wind of Sighs, to see A spring that lately courted thee In pompous bravery, All thy Bowers Gilt by the Sun, perfumed with flowers, Now like a loathsome Leaperlying, Her arbours withring, green Trees dying, Her Revels, and May-meriments, Turned all to Tragic dreeryments: And thou (the mother of my breath) Whose soft breast thousands nourisheth, A pos 〈…〉 ad Civi 〈…〉 tem. Alrar of jove, thou throne of Kings: Thou Fownt, where milk and honey springs, Europa's jewel; England's gem: Sister to great jerusalem: Neptune's minion, ('bout whose waist The Thames is like a girdle cast,) Thou that (but health canst nothing want, Empress of Cities, Troynovant. When I thy lofty Towers behold, (Whose Pinnacles were tipped with gold Both when the Sun did set and rise So lovely wert thou in his eyes) Now like old Monuments forsaken, Or (like tall Pines) by winter thaken; Or, seeing thee gorgeous as a bride Even in the height of all thy pride Disrobd'e, disgracte; And when all Nations Made love to thee in amorous passions, Now scorned of all the world alone, None seek thee, nor must thou seek none, But like a prisoner must be kept In thine own walls, till thou hast wept Thine eyes out, to behold thy sweet Dead children heaped about thy feet: O Derrest! say how can we choose But have a sad and drooping Muse, When Courses do so choke thy way That now thou look'st like Golgatha; But thus, The altering of a State Alteis our Bodies, and our Fate, For Prince's death's do even bespeak Millions of lives; when Kingdoms break, People dissolve, and (as with Thunder) Cities proud glories rend asunder. Witness thy walls, whose stony arms But yesterday received whole swarms Of frighted English: Lord and Loon, Lawyer, and Client, Courtier, Clown, All sorts did to thy buildings fly, As to the safest Sanctuary. And he that through thy gates might pass, His fears were locked in Towers of brass, Happy that man: now happier they That from thy reach get first away: As from a shipwreck, to some shore: As from a lost field, drowned in gore: As from high Turrets, whose joints fail: Or rather from, some loathsome jail: But note heavens justice, they by flying That would cozen Death, and save a dying, How like to chaff abroad theyare blown, And (but for scorn) might walk unknown; Like to plumde Ostriches they ride, Or like Sea-pageants, all in pride Of Tacklings, Flags, and swelling Sails, Borne on the loftiest waves, that veils His purple bonnet, and in dread Bows down his snowy curled head, So from th'infected city fly These Swallows in their Gallantry, Looking that wheresoe'er they light, Gay Summer, (like a Parasite) Should wait on them, and build'em bowers And crown their nests with wreathed flowers, And Swains to welcome them should sing And dance, as for their Whisson King: Feather of Pride, how art thou tossed? How soon are all thy beauties lost? How easily golden hopes unwind? The russet boor, and leathern hind, That two days since did sink his knee, And (all uncovered) worshipped thee, Or being but poor, and meanly clothed, Was either laughed to scorn or loathed, Now thee he loathes, and laughs to scorn, And though upon thy back be worn, More Satin than a kingdoms worth, He bars his door, and thrusts thee forth: And they whose palate Land nor Seas, Whom fashions of no shape could please, Whom Princes have (in ages past) For rich attires, and sumptuous waist, Never come near: now sit they round And feed (like beggars) on the ground, A field their bed, whose dankish Sheets Is the green grass: And he that meets The flatrings●? Fortune, does but lie In some rude barn, or loathsome sty: Forsook of all, flowered, forlorn: Own brother does own brother scorn, The trembling Father is undone, Being once but breathed on by his son; Or, if in this sad pilgrimage The hand of vengeance fall in rage, So heavy upon any'es head Striking the sinful body dead. O shame to ages yet to come! Dishonour to all Christendom! In hallowed ground no heaped gold Can buy a grave; nor linen sold To make (so far is pity fled) The last apparel for the dead: But as the fashion is for those Whose desperare hands the knot unlose Of their own lives, In some highway Or barren field, their bones they lay, Even such his burial is; And there Without the balm of any tear, Or pomp of Soldiers, But (o grief!) Dragged like a Traitor or some thief At horses tails, he's rudely thrown, The coarse being stuck with flowers by none, No bells (the dead man's Comfort) playing, Nor any holy Churchman saying A Funeral Dirge: But swift theyare gone, As from some noisome carrion O desolate City! now thy wings (Whose shadow hath been loved by Kings) Should feel sick feathers on each side, Seeing thus thy sons (got in their pride) And heat of plenty, In peace borne, To their own Nation left a scorn: Each cowherd's fears a Ghost him haunts, Seeing one of thine inhabitants, And does a jew, or Turk prefer, Before that name of Londoner; Would this were all: But this black Curse Doing ill abroad, at home does worse, For in thy (now dispeopled) streets, The dead with dead, so thickly meets, As if some Prophet's voice should say None shall be Citizens, but they. Whole households; and whole streets are stricken, The sick do die, the sound do sicken, And Lord have mercy upon us, crying E'er Mercy can come forth, theyare dying. No music now is heard but bells, And all their tunes are sick men's knells; And every stroke the bell does toll, Up to heaven it winds a soul: Oh, if for every coarse that's laid In his cold bed of earth, were made A chime of bells, if peals should ring For every one whom death doth sting, Men should be deaf, as those that dwell By Nilus' fall; But now one Knell, Gives with his Iron voice this doom, That twenty shall but have one room; There friend, and foe, the young and old, The freezing coward, and the bold: Servant, and master: Fowl and fair: One Livery wear, and fellows are Sailing along in this black fleet, And at the New Gravesend do meet, Where Churchyards banquet with cold cheer, Holding a feast once in ten year, To which comes many a pilgrim worm, Hungry and faint, beat with the storm Of galping Famine, which before Only picked bones, and had no more, But now their messes come so fast, They know not where, or which to taste; For before (Dust to Dust) be spoken, And thrown on One, more Graves be broken. Thou jealous man I pity thee, Thou that liv'st in hell to see A wantoness eye cheapening the sleek Soft jewels, of thy fair wives cheek, My verse must run through thy cold heart, Thy wife has played the woman's part And lain with Death: but (spite on spite) Thou must endure this very night Close by her side the poorest Groom, In self-same bed, and self-same room: But ease thy vexed soul, thus behold There's one, who in the morn with gold Could have built castles: now he's made A pillow to a wretch, that prayed For halfpenny Alms, (with broken limb) The Beggar now is above him; So he that yesterday was clad In purple robes, and hourly had Even at his finger's beck, the fees Of bared heads, and bending knees, Rich men's fawn, poor men's prayers (though they were but hollow airs) Troops of servants at his calling, Children (like to subjects) falling At his proud feet: lo, (now he's taken By death,) he lies of all forsaken. These are the Tragedies, whose sight With tears blot all the lines we write, The Stage whereon the Scenes are played Is a whole Kingdom: who was made By some (most provident and wise) To hide from sad Spectators eyes Acts full of Ruth, a private Room To drown the horror of death's doom, That building now no higher rear The pest-house standeth every where, For those that on their Beeres are borne, Pest-ho 〈…〉 Are numbered more, than those that mourn. But you grave Patriots, whom Fate Makes Rulers of this walled State, We must not lose you in our verse, Whose Acts we one day may rehearse In marble numbers, that shall stand Above times all-destroying hand: Only (methinks) you do err In flying from your charge so far. So coward Captains shrink away, So Shepherds do their flocks betray: So Soldiers, and so Lambs do perish, So you kill those, y'are bound to cherish: Be therefore valiant, as y'are wife, Come back again: The man that dies Within your walls, is even as near To heaven, as dying any where; But if (o pardon our bold thought) You fear your breath is sooner caught Here then aloof; and therefore keep Out of Death's reach, whilst thousands weep And wring their hands for thousands dying, No comfort near the sick man lying: 'tis to be feared (you petty-kings,) When back you spread your golden wings, A deadlier siege (which heaven avert) Will your replenished walls engird. 'tis now the beggars plague, for none Are in this Battle overthrown But Babes and poor: The lesser Fly Now in this Spider's web doth lie. But if that great, and goodly swarm (That has broke through, and felt no harm,) In his envenomed snares should fall, O pity! 'twere most tragical: For then the Usurer must behold His pestilent flesh, whislt all his gold Turns into Tokens, and the chest (They lie in,) his infection's breast: How well he'll play the Miser's part When all his coin sticks at his heart? he's worth so many farthings then, That was a golden God 'mongst men. And 'tis the aptest death (so please Him that breath heaven, earth, and Seas) For every covetous rooting Mole That heaves his dross above his soul, And doth in coin all hopes repose To die with corpse, stamped full of those. Then the rich Glutton, whose swollen eyen Look fiery red (being boiled in wine) And in his meals, adores the cup, (For when he falls down that stands up Therefore a goblet is his Saint, To whom he kneels with small constrain:, When his own goblet skull flows o'er He worships Bacchus on all four, For none's his God but Bacchus then, Who rules and guides all drunken men,) When He shall wake from wine, and view More than Tavern-tokens, new Stamped upon his breast and arms, In horrid throngs, and purple swarms, Then will he loathe his former shapes, When he shall see blue marks mock grapes, And hang on clusters on each vein, Like to wine-bubbles, or the grain Of staggering sin, which now appears In the December of his years, His last of hours; when he'll scarce have Time to go sober to his Grave. And then to die! (dreadful to think!) When all his blood is turned to drink: And who knows not this Sentence given, 'mongst all sins, none can reel to Heaven? But woe to him that sinks in wine, And dies so (without heaved up eyen) And buried so! O loathsome trench! His grave is like a Tavern bench. 'tis fearful, and most hard to say, How he shall stand at latter day. The adulterous and luxurious spirit Pawned to hell, and sins hot merit, That baths in lust his leprous soul, Acting a deed without control Or thought of Deity: through whose blood, Runs part of the Infernal flood: How will he freeze with horror? lying In dreadful trance before his dying: The heat of all his damned desires Cooled with the thought of gnashing fires: His Riots ravished, all his pleasures His marrow wasted with his treasures, His painted harlots (whose embraces Cost him many silver faces, Whose only care and thought was then To keep them sure from other men) Now they dance in Russians hands, Lazy Leiftenents (without bands,) With muffled halfe-fac'de Panders, laughing, Whilst he lies gasping, they sit quaffing, Smile at this plague, and black mischance, Knowing their deaths come o'er from France: 'tis not their season now to die, Two gnawing poisons cannot lie, In one corrupted flesh together, Nor can this poison then fly thither: There's not a strumpet 'mongst them all That lives and rises by the fall, Dreads this contagion, or her threats, Being guarded with French Annulets. Yet all this while thyself liest panting, Thy Luxurious hours recanting, Whilst before thy face appears, Th'adulterous fruit of all thy years In their true form and horrid shapes, So many Incests, violent Rapes, Chambered adulteries, unclean passions, Wanton habits, riotous fashions, And all these Antics dressed in hell, To dance about the passing bell; And clip thee round about the bed, Whilst thousand Horrors grasp thy head. The Cure of the Plagne. ANd therefore this infectious season That now arrests the Flesh for Treason Against heavens everlasting King, Anointed with th'eternal spring (Of life and power) this stroke of Force, That turns the world into a Coarse, Feeding the Dust with what it craves, Emptying whole houses to fill graves, These speckled Plagues (which our sins levy) Are as needful as theyare heavy; Whose cures to cite, our Muse for bears, though he the Daphnean wreath that wears (Being both Poesis Sovereign King, And God of medicine) bids us sing As boldly of those policies, Those Onfets, and those Batteries, By Physic cunningly applied, To beat down Plagues (so fortified) And of those Arms defensative, To keep th'assaulted Heart alive, And of those wards, and of those sleights, Used in these mortal single fights, As of the causes that commence This civil war of Pestilence, For Poet's souls should be confined Within no bounds, their towering minds Must (like the Sun) a progress make Through Arts immensive Zodiac: And suck (like Bees) the virtuous power, That flows in learning's seven-sold flower, Distilling forth the same again In sweet and wholesome juice to men: But for we see the Army great Of those whose charge it is to beat This proud invader, and have skill In all those weapons, that do kill Such pestilent foes, we yield to them The glory of that stratagem: To whose Oraculous voice repair, For they those Delphic Prophets are, That teach dead bodies to respire By sacred Aesculapian fire: We mean not those pied Lunatics, Those bold fantastic Empirics, Quacksalvers, mishrump mountebanks, That in one night grow up in ranks And live by pecking Physics crumbs, O hate these venomous broods, there comes Worse sores from them, and more strange births Then from ten plagues, or twenty deaths: Only this Antidote apply, Cease vexing heaven, and cease to die. The 〈…〉 Seek therefore (after you have found Salve natural for the natural wound Of this Contagion,) Cure from thence Where first the evil did commence, And that's the Soul: each one purge one, And England's free, the Plague is gone. The necessity of a Plague. YEt to mix comfortable words though this be horrid, it affords Sober gladness, and wise joys, Since desperate mixtures it destroys; For if our thoughts sit truly trying, The just necessity of dying How needful (though how dreadful) are Purple Plagues, or Crimson war, We would conclude (still urging pity) A Plague's the Purge to cleanse a City: Who amongst millions can deny (In wrought prose, or smooth Poesy) Of Evils, 'tis the lighter brood, A dearth of people, then of food! And who knows not, our Land ran o'er With people; and was only poor In having too too many, living, And wanting living! rather giving Themselves to waste, deface and spoil, Than to increase (by virtuous toil) The bankrupt bosom of our Realm Which naked births did overwhelm: This beggar's famine, and bleak dearth: When fruits of wombs pass fruits of earth, Then Famines only Physic: and The medicine for a riotous Land Is such a plague: So it may please Mercies Distributer to appease, His speckled anger, and now hide Th'old rod of Plagues: no more to chide And lash our shoulders and sick veins With Carbuncles, and shooting Blains: Make us the happiest amongst men, Immortal by our prophecing pen, That this last line may truly reign, The Plague's ceased, heaven is friends again. FINIS.