LONDINENSES LACRYMAE. LONDON'S Second Tears mingled with her Ashes.  
A POEM By John Crouch.  
Non Priamus tanti, totaque Troja fuit.  
CRONOGRAM. Vrbs LonDon CoMbVsta fVIt. M.DC.LXVI.  
London, Printed for T. Palmer at the Crown in Westminster-Hall. 1666.   

Londinenses Lacrymae.  
A POEM.  
THou Queen of Cities, whose unbounded fame  
Shadowed thy Country and thy Country's Name!  
London! that word filled the vast Globe; Japan  
Saluted Londoner for Englishman.  
'Twas thy peculiar, and unrivalled pride  
At greatest distance to be magnified.  
When thy next 
* [Paris.]  Christian Sister scarce does know  
Whether there be another World or no:  
When the false Dutch more known in Foreign parts,  
Buy scorn with gold; Merchants of wealth not hearts.  
Good Heavens, good in the most severe Decree!  
Must London first burn in Epitome,  
And then in gross? Must, O sharp vengeance! must  
The Glory of the World kiss her own dust?  
Shall then this Molehill, and its Ants expire  
By parcels, some by water, some by fire?  
Or do great things, like restless Circles, tend  
From their first point, unto the last, their End?  
When neither Foreign nor Domestic Wars,  
The Distillations of malignant Stars,  
Thunder from Heaven, nor its Terrestrial Ape  
Gunpowder, could thy total ruin shape;  
Nor the long smotherings of Fanatic heats,  
Which when they broke out ended in cold sweats:  
Shall Balls of Sulphur (Hell's blue Tapers) light  
Poor London to its funeral in one night?  
Shall Britain's great Metropolis become  
Alike in both her Fortunes to old Rome?  
Whose Seat (if we believe Antiquity)  
Is full as old, though not so proud as she;  
Survived the Cornucopia of her Hills:  
Time, strongest Towns, as well as Bodies, kills!  
But when her Life had drawn so long a breath,  
Must she be mowed down by a sudden Death?  
Three days undo three thousand years? O yes,  
One day (when that one comes) shall more than this;  
Shall make the World one fatal Hearth, That Day  
The last that ever Hearth shall Tribute pay;  
Though now as just as Law; (And they that Curse  
This Duty, may they want both Hearth and Purse.)  
But as in three days our jerusalem fell,  
And gave the World an easy miracle:  
So three (O golden Number) years being gone,  
Shall spring old London's Resurrection.  
Now (dearest City) let my Pencil trace  
The scattered lines of thy disfigured Face;  
Dropping tears as I pass; tears shed too late  
To quench thy Heats, and bribe thy stubborn fate!  
This dreadful Fire first seized a narrow Lane,  
As if the Dutch or French had laid a Train.  
But grant they or that Boutifeu their Roy,  
Formed this Cheval for Britain's envied Troy;  
These might the stroke, did not the wound dispense,  
Were but the Vulcan's of Jove's Providence.  
Sin was the Common Cause, no faction freed;  
Here all dissenting Parties were agreed.  
And let the Author of our welfare, be  
The welcome Author of our Misery!  
Rather than Enemies, who but fulfil  
Heavens just decrees, more by Instinct then Skill!  
The fierce flame gathering strength had warmed th'Air  
And chilled the people into cold despair:  
With swift wing from it straitened Corner posts,  
And forthwith Fish-street and fat East-cheap roasts.  
Sunday (to scourge our guilty Rest with shame)  
Had given, full dispensation to the flame.  
Now London-Bridge (expected to provide  
Auxiliar forces from the other side)  
Alarmed by the fall of Neighbouring Bells  
Takes fire, and sinks into its stony Cells;  
Blocks up the way with rubbish, and dire flames,  
Threatening to choke his undermining Thames.  
Southwark, shut out, on it's own banks appeared  
As once when fiery Cromwell domineered.  
Thames-street hastens it ashes, to prevent  
All aids and succours from the River sent.  
The heated wind his flaming arrows cast,  
Which snatched both ends, and burned the middle last.  
Now the proud flame had took the open field  
And after hearts were vanquished, all things yield!  
Rores through Cannon-street and Lombardie  
Triumphing o'er the City's Liberty.  
This fiery Dragon, higher still it flies,  
The more extends his wings, and louder cries.  
Just so that spark of Treason, (first suppressed  
In the dark angles of some private breast)  
Breaks through the Mouth and Nostrils into Squibs,  
And having fired the Author's reins and ribs,  
Kindles from man to man by subtle Art,  
Till Rebels are become the major part:  
Thus late fanatics in their Zeal of pride  
March from close Wood-street into broad Cheapside.  
Now all in Coaches, Cars, and Wagons fly,  
London is sacked without an Enemy.  
All things of beauty, shattered lost and gone;  
Little of London whole but London-stone.  
As if those Bulwarks of her Wall and Thames  
Served but to Circle, and besiege her flames!  
Such active Rams beat from each opposite Wall,  
You would have judged the fire an Animal.  
When (strangely) it from adverse Windows roared:  
Neighbour his Neighbour kindled and devoured.  
Houses the Churches, Churches Houses fired,  
While profane Sparks against divine conspired.  
This devastation makes one truth appear,  
How sanctimonious our forefathers were;  
How thick they built their Temples, long concealed  
By lofty Buildings, now in flames revealed.  
Then one small Church served many Priests, but they  
The truth is, eat not roast meat every day.  
Now the profane, not superstitious Rout  
(Whose faith ascends no higher than to doubt)  
May, without help of weekly papers, tell  
Their Churches, to their Eyes made visible.  
Our Non-conformists (if not hardened) may  
Scatter some tears, where once they scorned to pray.  
Now the Imperious Element did range  
Without Control, kept a full Evening Change.  
Where the religious Spices for some Hours,  
Seemed to burn Incense to th' incensed Powers.  
At last the flame grown quite rebellious, calls  
Our Sacred Monarches to new Funerals.  
The Conqueror here Conquered, tumbles down  
As Conscious of the burden of a Crown.  
Only the good old Founder, standing low,  
His Station kept, and saw the dismal Show.  
Though the Change broke, he's not one penny worse,  
Stands firm resolved to visit his new Burse.  
Which by her 
* Mr. Hooke.  Optics happily was saved,  
And for the honour of the City paved.  
Here a good sum of active Silver raised  
Th' ingenious Beggar, and wise Donors praised.  
All fall to work, assisted by the Guard,  
To whom, and money, nothing seemed hard.  
Here fires met fires, but industry reclaims  
Lost hope, and quenched a Parliament of flames.  
Mean time the Neighbouring Steeple trembling stood,  
Defended not by Stone, nor Brick, but Wood:  
Yet was secure 'cause low; to let us see  
What safety waits upon humility!  
When Laurence, Three-Cranes, Cornhill, lofty Bow,  
Are all chastised, for making a proud show.  
One Steeple lost its Church, but not one Bell;  
Reserved by fate to Ring the City's Knell.  
Now the Circumference from every part  
The Centre scalds; poor London pants at heart!  
Cheapside the fair, is at a fatal loss  
Wants the old blessing of her golden Cross.  
Poor Paul the Aged has been sadly tossed,  
Reformed, then after Reformation lost;  
Placed in a Circle of Heaven's fiery wrath:  
The Saint was tortured when he broke his Faith!  
At the East-End a spacious sheet of Lead  
(Rend from the rest) his Altar canoped;  
But from its Coal below strange fires did rise,  
And the whole Temple proved the sacrifice.  
Altars may others save, but cannot be  
(When Heaven forsakes 'em) their own Sanctuary!  
Then was their doleful Music as the Choir,  
When the sweet Organs breath was turned to fire.  
Was 't not enough the holy Church had been  
Invaded in her Rites and Discipline?  
Must her known Fundamentals be baptised  
In purging flames, and Paul's School catechized?  
She that had long her tardy Pupils stripped,  
Is now herself with fiery Scorpions whipped.  
But when I pass the sacred Martyr's West  
I close my Eyes and smite my troubled Breast;  
What shall we now for his dear Memory do  
When fire un-carves, and Stones are mortal too?  
Let it stand un-repaired, for ever keep  
Its mournful dress, thus for its Founder weep.  
By this time Lud with the next Newgate smokes,  
And their dry Prisoners in the Dungeon chokes;  
Who left by Keepers to their own reprives  
Broke Goal, not for their Liberty but Lives;  
While good Eliza on the outside Arch  
Fired into th' old Mode, stands in Yellow Starch.  
Though fancy makes not Pictnres live, or love,  
Yet Pictures fancied may the fancy move:  
Methinks the Queen on White-Hall cast her Eye;  
An Arrow could not more directly fly.  
But when she saw her Palace safe, her fears  
Vanish, one Eye drops smiles, the other tears.  
Where (Christ-Church) is thy half-Cathedral now?  
Fallen too? then all but Heaven to Fate must bow!  
Where is thy famous Hospital? must still  
The greatest good be recompensed with ill?  
That House of Orphans clad in honest blue;  
The VVorld's Example, but no parallel knew.  
Cold Charity has been a long Complaint,  
Here she was too warm like a martyred Saint.  
Where are those stately Fabrics of our Halls,  
Founders of sumptuous Feasts and Hospitals?  
Where is the Guild, that place of grand resort  
For Civil Rights, the Royal City's Court?  
Forced to take Sanctuary in the Tower,  
To show, what safety is in Regal Power!  
Not Gog or Magog could defend it; These  
Had they had sense, had been in Little-Ease.  
Chimneys and shattered Walls we gaze upon  
Our Body Politics sad Skeleton!  
Now was the dismal Conflagration stopped,  
Having some branches of the Suburbs lopped.  
Though most within the verge; As if th' add showed  
Their mutual freedom was to be destroyed.  
When after one day's rest. The Temple smokes,  
And with fresh fires and fears the Strand provokes  
But with good Conduct all was slacked that night  
By one more valiant than a Templar Knight.  
Here a brisk Rumour of affrighted Gold  
Sent hundreds in; more Covetous than bold.  
But a brave Seaman up the Tiles did skip  
As nimbly as the Cordage of a Ship,  
Bestrides the singsed Hall on its highest ridge,  
Moving as if he were on London-Bridge,  
Or on the Narrow of a Skullers' Keel:  
Feels neither head nor heart nor spirits reel.  
Had some few Thousands been as bold as he,  
And London, in her fiery Trial free;  
Then (with submission to the highest will)  
London now buried had been living still.  
Thus Chant the people, who are seldom wise  
Till things be past, beforehand have no Eyes.  
But when I sigh myself into a pause,  
I find another more determined cause:  
Had Tiber swelled his monstrous Waves, and come  
Over the seven Hills of our flaming Rome,  
'T had been in vain: no less than Noah's flood.  
Can quench flames kindled by a Martyr's blood.  
Now Loyal London has full Ransom paid  
For that Defection the Disloyal made:  
Whose Ashes hatched by a kind Monarch's breath,  
Shall rise a fairer Phoenix after Death.  
FINIS.