LONDON'S Resurrection, Poetically represented, AND HUMBLY PRESENTED To His Most Sacred MAJESTY.   woodcut of shield bearing two crossed swords 
LONDON, Printed by A. M. for S A: GELLIBRAND, in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1669.   

LONDON's Resurrection, etc.  

MY Salamander-Muse, which newly sprung  
From London's Fires, her Mother-Furies sung;  
Wreathed with a lambent Flame; then viewed the waste,  
And in her Arms the dear Remains embraced,  
A new Birth's pledge; and (lastly) scourged the Crimes  
Which marked with London's Brands our dismal Times:  
Turned Phoenix now, claps her new-imped Wings,  
And the New City's Resurrection sings.   

Would Orpheus lend me his renowned Lyre,  
Or brisk Amphion's Lute my Song inspire!  
Their Airs (perhaps) might turn my Verse to Charm,  
And raise fallen London without Tool or Arm.  
My mighty Rhimes should quickly (then) remove  
Th' Hercynian Forest, and Dodona's Grove.  
From Climes remote, the capering Trees should meet  
Within its Gates; and in each ruin'd Street  
(Squared by a Wish) to every place assigned  
Dispose themselves after the Bvilder's mind.  
This Quill should dig down Mountains, and my Muse  
The listening Marbles from their Beds seduce.  
Th' whole Parian Quarry should obey her calls,  
And march a Volunteer to London's Walls.  
Yea, the glad Mason should sit by, and play,  
Whiles massy Rocks both square themselves, and lay   

But she (poor Girl) such high attempts disclaims,  
Content her Power give measure to her Aims.  
Accept her kindness (though) in what she's skilled:  
To bless, and press, is virtually to build.  
Words linked in Numbers, (though they be but wind)  
Have helped to do, what Force in vain designed.  
Who blows the Trumpet, though he ne'er engage,  
Governs the Fight, and whets the Fighter's Rage.   

Permit (Great Prince) my Swanlike Muse to sing  
Her Farwel-Notes under your sacred Wing.  
Poets, as Cities, hardly  rise high,  
But under th' Influence of Majesty.  
London, and I, equal Ambitions have  
By Your sole Aspect to survive the Grave.   

Nor let displeasure seize Your Sacred Breast,  
' Cause my First Muse to meaner Names addressed.  
Safe flights, as then, doubting her Wing, she flew;  
But meant those lower Perches Stairs to You.  
So the young Bird, before she trust the Sky,  
From Twig to Twig, doth rather hop than fly.  
Then, takes a Neighbour-Tree, till past her flights,  
She feels her strength, and dares the greatest heights.   

And, (though Your Name bespangle all my Verse,  
Yet) whiles Attendant on so sad an Hearse;  
Too much like an illomen it would have shown,  
In mourning Blacks to have approached the Throne.  
But now, sigh London springing from her Tomb,  
(Your Royal Work) my Royal Theme's become:  
Both by an equal Title are Your due,  
As both Her Founder, and her Poems too.   

You, when the City by desponding flight  
Yielded the Flames an undisputed Right;  
Sounded th' Alarm, and by a fresh Array  
Renewed the ONSET, and restored the Day.  
Your prudent Acts, confounded Rights decide,  
And fix the Bounds to potent Neighbour's Pride.  
Your  League all Foreign Wars accords,  
And We to Spades and Tru'ls reform our Swords.  
Janus' Temple now is triple-barred;  
Our Drums are silent whiles our Laws are heard.  
Devotion heavens, Trade Earth's Riches brings:  
The Ploughman whistles, and my Clio sings.   

On, (Royal Sir) tile Your own Bounties o'er,  
And check our bashful Hopes by doing More.  
Our Ruins yet afford Your Glories ground  
To spread themselves, and make Your Reign renowned.  
Let next Age add, when they Your Titles sing,  
London's Restorer, to Great Britain's King.  
Till the old Founder more obscure is grown,  
Not as out-dated now, but as outdone.   

And Thou, Almighty Architect, whose Call  
From Nothing's Womb produced this glorious All;  
Which friendly Atoms in firm Nuptials tied,  
Divorcing those which native Jars divide;  
Which, from rude Justles in th' unbounded space,  
Marshaled each Being in its proper place:  
Thou, whose Command we Christians firmly trust,  
Shall re-compose us out of crumbled Dust;  
When Limbs, which vastest Distances detain,  
Shall travel till they meet and hug again;  
And mindful Souls shall once more know, and wed  
Anew, those very Bodies whence they fled:  
Thy Suppliants hear. The Work we call thee to,  
Not misbecomes Omnipotence to do.  
Lo, here, a City to a Chaos turned,  
Her Ashes scattered, and her Bones in urned!  
Bring a like Power to a like Design;  
And Resurrection with Creation twine.  
Thus, while's on London's Stage thou shalt present  
Our Faith an Instance, Hope a Precedent:  
Even Atheism shall be disproven by Sense,  
And blush to crave a farther Evidence.  
Our Creed's hard knots, Example shall dissolve,  
And what may be, by what hath been, resolve.   

Joy to my Muse! Heaven our Requests doth hear,  
Our Prayers knock not at a bolted Ear.  
Oft hungry Hopes with slow Reliefs are pined;  
But we're twice answered both in speed and kind.  
Hark! Th' Oracle its sacred Veil displays,  
And [London Rise] the potent Whisper says.   

Hail, Glorious Day; Mayst thou be writ in Gold,  
Which saw'st the Sceptered Hand the Truel hold,  
To lay that Stone, whence the Exchange became  
Anew entitled to its Royal Name!  
Henceforth, proud Pillar, to thy Readers view  
Tell thine own story, and thy Founders too.   

Fruitful Example! From the Royal hand  
Each Artist now takes Pattern and Command.  
Hark, how the clattering Tools confused sound  
Divides the Ear! The Pickax rends the ground  
To load the Spade. Its Loads bestowed between  
The sifting Ridder, and the searching Screen.  
The Saw the File, the Axe the Grindstone whets;  
The knotty Tree this hews, the other eats.  
The Arm the Plane, the Maul the Chissel drives.  
Through heart of Oak the groaning Auger dives.  
The glowing Steel the weighty Sledges stroke  
Beats into Form; which quenched doth hiss and smoke.   

Room (next) for Miracles, profaned by use;  
The Issues of the famed Vitruvian Muse.  
And that grave Architects whose ominous Hand  
Drew learned Eines on Syracusan Sand.  
Whose dying Gore did the choice Figures drown,  
And's dying weight in their Room stamped his own!   

Here twisted Skrews, whiles planted on the ground,  
They worm themselves through a like wreathed Round,  
Prop tottering Roofs. Versatile Rundles there,  
By equal Helps their fellows Burdens bear,  
Transferred by clasping Ropes; whence greatest weights  
By a small force are wound to greatest heights.  
The Balance-Engine next, whose loaded End  
The tenth part of its Burden makes t' ascend.  
Nor is't less wondrous, that the vastest Beams,  
On Cylinders supporting both Extremes,  
Tough Levers roll; whiles every lifting Hand  
One Interjection jointly doth command.   

Thus goes the Building on. Confused grounds  
Just Verdicts part; and (whiles they fix the bounds  
To public Streets by the Imperious Line)  
Surveyors like unbounded Sov'raigns' reign,  
Each House clasps with its neighbour; and the Square  
Each Front unto its fellow-wall doth pair.  
And Sister-Piles, whiles thus they intermarry,  
Like Sister-Faces, uniformly vary.   

Lady Enchantress of the ravished Ear,  
ne'er did thy Art effect what Chance doth here!  
Whiles building Noises by the pleased Mind  
Are into all harmonious Notes combined,  
Orpheus to us would grate, Apollo jar:  
Hammers and Truels sweeter Music are.  
By this one Spell each melancholy breast  
Is of its Legion-Devil dispossessed.  
And where yet falling London's doleful Knell  
Doth in retentive apprehensions dwell;  
By Sympathetick Cure these joyful sounds  
With glad Ideas heal the Fancies wounds.   

The Fields are busy too. Bold Miners found  
In paunched Hills a London under ground.  
The Realm of Silence, and eternal Night,  
Is startled at th' approach of Noise and Light.  
Twin-stones long clasped in their Mother-bed,  
Now severed, yield with Foreign Rocks to wed.  
Each polished Marble to a mirror grows,  
Mocks its own Workman, and retorts his blows.   

Here, the green Robe pulled off, the unboweled ground  
Affords a Clay, which with chopped stubble bound  
First, the Sun fastens; then the brittle Cakes  
The rapid Furnace to just hardness bakes:  
An hardness that out-stands the fiercest showers  
Which Heaven from its opened sluices powers;  
Which Winter-Frosts can't mellow; and the Flame  
Itself that did beget it, cannot tame.  
Scarce Flint or Marble lasts so long in prime:  
This brittle Stone grind's out the teeth of Time.  
With this th' Immortal Queen built Babel's Spires,  
And with  Walls beguiled future Fires   

There, the Woods Glories fall, and where the Eye  
Of Heaven scarce pierced, now mortal sight doth pry.  
The Shades by Horror hallowed, th' early dawn  
Admitted, doth illustrate and profane.  
The reverend Oaks presumptuous Axes wound,  
measuring their lengths upon the furrowed ground.  
Whiles rattling Echo, (as great Talkers do)  
Reports at distance every blow for two.  
The Ring Dove sees her lofty Nest o'erthrown,  
And Turtles that their Love's bewrayed, moan:  
The Magpie scolds whiles her arched Roof doth fall;  
And sharking Rooks, their Camp dislodged, brawl;  
The Hare forsakes her Form; the roused Deer  
Their branched heads now above their Thickets rear;  
And all the Game tall Forests used to shield,  
Becomes a facile prey in th' open field.  
The traveler too, who setting forth, designed  
The crowned Hills, as certain Guides, to mind;  
At his Return, admires the shave Coast,  
And finds his way, with his Directors, lost.   

Yea, Foreign Realms contribute, Spain brings Steel,  
Libanus Cedar sends, and Denmark Deal:  
A chequered Gift the Sunburnt India gives,  
Whence th' whitest Tooth, and blackest Wood arrives:  
Our Ireland Oak, on which no spider builds,  
(Arachne sure hanged on that Timber) yields.  
Marbles come varied by their native grains.  
This, untrod Snow with purer brightness stains:  
That's pitchy black, a lump of solid Night:  
There, bloody Veins creep through a lovely White:  
Some in its speckled Face, heaven's portrait bears,  
An azure sky bespangled o'er with Stars:  
And some, (on which Medusa's Head did fall),  
Wherein her Snakes seem still to hiss and crawl.   

Nay, (would you think't? or Fame, my Author lies)  
London by th' Great in foreign Lands doth rise.  
Whiles the Dutch Artist takes his Module hence.  
And sends us Houses ready-framed from thence.  
The laden Sea foams, and the tugged Oar  
Plies hard to tow a floating Town to shore.  
And th' Eastern Wind (now a Repairer grown),  
Blows up our buildings as it fired them down.  
Whence, (sound's the Moral oft, when Tales are lame  
Some doubt New London may prove Amsterdam.   

Nor think it strange, Cities should cross the Seas.  
We Poets can do feats as great as these.  
We, when the whole combined Earth beside  
Unto a labouring Goddess Room denied;  
Did float a Delos to her, and assign  
A brace of Gods, a Birth-place and a Shrine.  
From nazareth to Loretto, (quick as thought)  
Our Tribe the Virgin Mother's Chamber brought:  
Whence Pilgrim-Votaries, (and well they may)  
To th' wand'ring Temple like Devotions pay.   

Roused with th' unwonted Noises, from his Bed,  
The Royal Thames advanced his singed Head.  
At first amazed, (for still his troubled breast  
With the late dismal Horrors was poslest)  
He wildly stared around the scorched shore:  
But when he saw it neatly clothed o'er  
With rising Structures; ravished with delight,  
He gorged his Eyes with the surprising sight:  
And thus he spoke:   

‛ O what Celestial Powers   

‛ (For nothing less could) did erect these Towers?  
Hold Troy, two hired Gods did raise, 'tis said,  
‛ And, though they wrought by th' Great, by halves were paid.  
‛ The Virgin-Goddess built th' Athenian Town,  
‛ And planted there the Olive, and the Gown.  
‛ But such Romantic Tales will better be  
' (London) in time, told and believed of Thee.  
‛ Not jolly Thebes itself, to whose advance  
‛ The merry Stones into the Walls did dance;  
‛ Nor Dido's Town, in aftertimes too wide  
 be thought once encircled with an Hide;  
' Nor Rome, (of old and still, the Scene of wonders)  
‛ Whose Vatican Tarpejan Jove out-thunders;  
‛ Nor She, that long hath both Rome's Rival been,  
‛ For Beauty, Empire, and the Man of Sin,  
‛ Which (from her seven Hills too) once Sov'raigns' gave  
To half the World, but now the whole doth crave;  
‛ Nor dirty Paris, where the muddy Seine  
‛ Swells big with Envy at the Crystal Rhine;  
‛ Nor Venice, round which th' Adriatic roars,  
‛ And limns her Beauties to th'encircling shores;  
' Nor stately Florence, (though their Proverb says,  
‛ She's a sight only fit for holidays)  
‛ Through which the rapid Arnus posting, stays,  
‛ And from both Banks doth on her Glories gaze;  
‛ Nor mighty Milan, with immortals bread  
' In former Times by sweet-tongued Ambrose fed;  
‛ Nor royal Naples, which two mischiefs tyre,  
‛ The Spanish Vapours, and Vesuvian Fire;  
‛ Shall dare appear in a contest with Thee:  
‛ But like mean Shrubs to lofty Oaks shall be,   

' Let each fair Nymph exhaust her native Spring,  
‛ And Royal Aids to our Exchequer bring:  
‛ With fresh supplies fill up my empty shores,  
‛ Cloth every flat, and lift the grounded Oars.  
‛ See, all the River's overspread with Sails,  
' And the rude Bargeman jointly tugs and rails.  
‛ Here, milk-white Chalk, from the unboweled hills  
‛ Transformed to Lime, the sluggish Lighters fills.  
‛ There, th'easy-wrought Freestone in western Boats  
‛ Down my obsequious Current smoothly floats.  
' This Oxford sends, (the Mother of its Pride)  
To all its noble Palaces allied,  
 Wolsey's vast and Bodley's lofty Stories,  
‛ And (the great Prelate-Founders mounting Glories,  
To which even Roman Grandeur must defer  
' The Sovereignty of Art) its Theatre.  
‛ And thee, (small Island, to the Dorset-strand  
‛ Stuck, like a Glass-drop, with a Tongue of sand)  
‛ We'll waft to Paul's, until again it be  
HE taller Mark at Land, than thou at Sea.  
' See! All my shores, one Timber-wharf are grown.  
‛ And whole Woods every where on Heaps are thrown.  
‛ My very Banks are peeled. The Fish bewrayed  
‛ In vain seek Covert from their plundered shade.  
‛ Few whispering Trees discourse my purling streams;  
' Or daple them with percolated Beams.  
‛ Yet on, kind Axe; no Vegetable spare;  
‛ Rifle the Woods, and poll the Mountains bare.  
‛ This Waste is Merit; May but London rise,  
‛ We'll chide in Thanks, and count our Losses Prize.   

Thus was He saying, when the Sailor's shout  
(The Timber-Fleet arriving) put him out.  
The Cannons Thundered, and from under ground  
The grateful Ruins did the Joy rebound:  
Th' applaunding Flood replied: and the grave Sire  
Did, highly-pleased, to's mossy Couch retire.   

Mean while, the Streets are filled with busy throngs.  
'tis doubtful, which sound loudest, Tools or Tongues.  
Some pray, some pay; some work, and some advice:  
Some use their Hands, some rule those Hands with Eyes.  
Thus, hastened Buildings th' Owners vote out grow,  
And to their Speed our very Hopes are slow.   

So, the new Hive the active Swarm divides.  
Some, with their Teeth file the uneven sides;  
Some clear the Rubbish; others, by the Line  
Here, a Whitehall, a Cheapside there, assign.  
The humming Troop surveys the fragrant fields,  
And from each Flower a gummy Bird-lime peels:  
Others, with joy receive their welcome load;  
Which with warm breath bedewed, they spread abroad;  
Then, with smooth Tongues they lick th'obsequious mass  
Into a Form which Reasons Art doth pass.   

Thus, when th' industrious Aunt's design to dwell  
In an old Oak, or Moles forsaken Cell,  
The Field with little Myrmydons is sown;  
And each clod crawls around the rising Town.  
Here, strict Surveyors walk the destined round;  
There, Pioners levelly th' uneven Ground;  
Whiles (like a routed Troop with shattered Spears)  
Advanced Straws a scattered Squadron bears;  
Which, cropped to fitting lengths, their fellows match,  
And some for Rafters, some they lay for Thatch.  
Their Shoulders some, some contribute their Skill,  
Till to a Cone they mount the hollow Hill;  
Whose chequered Fabric, mixed of close and wide,  
Admits the Wind, but turns the Shower beside.   

On, gallant Londoners. Husband your Fate,  
And cloth your Ruins with a Robe of State.  
Prove Death the nobler Lise: and stamped a Truth,  
Nature may circulate through Age to Youth.  
Till they, who by the Old, New London Size,  
Confess their Thoughts confuted by their Eyes:  
As old Acquaintance, when men's Fortunes mend,  
Find him a Courtier whom they left a Friend.  
Till Citizens themselves, returned, stray  
In the new-moduled Streets, and lose their way:  
Yea, London, whiles 'mong Stars she sows her Spires,  
No less her self, then others Her, admires.   

Thus, when the Gauls old Rome in Ashes laid,  
And Jove himself in a false Balance weighed:  
The valiant Exile built the City new,  
And with her walls advanced her Glories too.  
Whence she, that till then, (for so long a while)  
Retained the Relics of her base Asyle;  
Whose Shepherds sheds with sorry Temples blended,  
Reproached the meanness whence she was descended  
Whose each prime street some hovel did avow,  
Whence a Dictator drove his Teem to blow;  
Whose wooden Gods by their own Altars flame  
Themselves (well-nigh) a Sacrifice became;  
Where Numa's Chapel had a Roof of Thatch,  
And Vesta's Nuns her Hearth with fear did watch:  
Made then an youthful sally from her Grave,  
And nought but wrinkles unto Death she gave.  
Yea, (thanks to th'  Conflagration) grew  
More rich in aftertimes, and splendid too.  
Mud-walls gave place to Marbles, and (compared)  
Her golden Tops the Neighbour-Stars out-glared,  
That by mere Beauties Right, she might have been  
Without a Rival, th' Vniverses Queen.   

May London copy all her Glories out:  
Rise as Magnificent, nor less devout:  
Religion, best, City's foundations lays:  
Be Rome therein her Pattern, as my Praise.  
There, (not content, the cheap and sordid way,  
In private Corners sacred Rites to pay)  
As fast their Temples as their Homes they built,  
And as themselves, their gods in Cedar dwelled,  
Yea, statelier too. The thunderer cased in gold,  
(Lately his Ransom) held his rescued hold.  
Bright Phoebus' gilt beams out-glared his own,  
And in white Metal Silver-Phoebe shone.  
Now Marble Walls did Vesta's fires surround:  
And Ears of richest yellow Ceres crowned.  
Old Saturn Sent'nell sat on golden Bars,  
Queen Juno's Roof, like Heaven, was ceiled with Stars.  
Snakes scaled with Pearl the Virgin-Champion bare,  
And Venus was as fine as she was fair.  
Luster and Horror Mars' Arms combined,  
And old Quirinus like his City shined.  
Convinced, a second Fire they well might fear,  
If their Shops statelier than their Altars were.   

Yea, Memphis-self claims in my Song a place.  
Glorious her Temples, though her Gods were base.  
Here, Ibis vested in a Room of State:  
And there, enthroned, an ugly Monkey sat:  
In richest Shrines the hallowed Bull did bellow;  
From like Roofs answered by his Female Fellow.   

And shall not We a nobler Zeal express?  
Sith more our Light, why should our Love be less?  
Shame on our baseness if those Dunghil-gods  
With great Jehovah vie and have the odds!  
If Curr-Anubis Heaven's Lord excel;  
And the true thunderer more obscurely dwell!   

Say not, th' Eternal Mind delights to come  
Into the pure Heart, not the Gaudy Room.  
That th' Who, in Worship, sanctify the Where:  
And make a Barn, or Booth, an House of Prayer.  
Thus Satan in a Samuel's Mantle sneaks,  
Whiles Avarice Religious Language speaks!   

But Wranglers, learn, He will in both reside,  
Who (equally removed from Need and Pride)  
Expects the best, scorns not the meanest Treat;  
Val'uing in both the Welcome, not the Meat;  
Gifts by the Mind, the Mind by them he weighs;  
And as men give, by a like scale repays.  
Ill Parsimony Purity pretends:  
Nor is the worship Pure, where foul the Ends.   

At least with thee, brave City, in whose frame  
Both Art and Cost equally court a name,  
Let Interest sway; lay not a train of Gild,  
Once more to blow up what thy Wealth hath built.  
'Tis an affront too daring to be born,  
When th' object of our Worship grows our Scorn.  
Who shames, disclaims his God; whiles (meanly placed)  
His House is by its Neighbouring Pomp disgraced.   

Our Fathers (sure) were of a nobler strain,  
Whose Times we treat 'twixt Pity and Disdain.  
Their Twilight-Zeal raised us the Churches, where  
Those Lights have shined that made our Day so clear.  
O let's not tempt Posterity to call  
Those the worse Christians that let 'em fall!   

And (sigh Church-founding's now my Muse's Aim)  
Thou Reverend Paul's her first Essay mayst claim.  
Whether the Royal Charles in Thee design  
To crown the Glories of his Princely Line;  
Or some Successor, Maurice, in thy seat,  
Rival thy Honours with a mind as great;  
Or grateful Piety thy Sons engage  
With thy Revenues to restore thine Age;  
Or private Breasts a glorious zeal inspire;  
Or public work a public Purse require;  
Or all these helps be neeeful: Pity 'twere  
Thy sacred walls alone should want Repair.  
And whiles they overlook all round 'em new,  
Threaten the City and reproach it too.   

True, 'tis a work of Ages, and our Days  
May well despair to grasp so vast a Praise:  
But yet we may begin, and part the glory  
Bet wixt our own, and our Descendants story,  
The ancientest Christian Monument we have  
To have redeemed from its fatal Grave.   

You, whose, full Chests with smothered Gold are crammed,  
At once to Rust and second darkness damned:  
Rescue your Treasure from your Heirs Excess.  
A Part thus spent will the Remainder bless.  
Or would you propagate your Wealth by Use?  
Cajole the Law, and Cent per Cent produce?  
Trust Him that's most Responsible, and add  
(Besides the Gain) a Credit to your Trade?  
No Usury like this you can devise,  
Where God's the Debtor, Heaven at Mortgage lies.   

And you, whose Riches most in Wishes are,  
(The Poet's Tribe) assist with Verse and Prayer.  
Old Bards did thus build Cities, Churches We;  
Though better Founders, Paul's, we wish to Thee:  
Until (great Doctor of the Gentiles) thine  
Become the Envy of the Fisher's shrine.  

* These Verses and divers that follow are to be referred to the time when the Latin Poem (of which this is a Version) was written, viz. Feb. 1667. when the Winter was remarkably dry and calm.  Mean while, calm Winter thanks, young London's friend,  
ne'er was the Sky to better purpose kind.  
How Divine Favour rocks the Storms to Rest,  
To give her space to build her Halcion-Nest!  
Whiles February laughs that used to mourn,  
And galloping Spring out-post's the Suns Return.  
Whiles no hard Frosts lock up the costive ground,  
Nor snowy Fleeces severed Rights confound,  
Nor Icy-drops the Truel double-glaze,  
Nor the cold ferment lodged Bricks doth raise,  
Nor hasty rains with an impetuous Dash  
Into a bog the mellow buildings quash.   

Hail, heavens great Fav'rite-City! For thy ends,  
The Course of Things and Law of Nature bends:  
El'ments commute, and the inverted year  
Her Summer-Months on Winter doth confer.  
What glorious Fabrics may we (then) expect  
The Vernal Sun advanced shall erect!  
When the unequal Ram with equal Rage  
The chafed Bull in Combat shall engage:  
When from the Martial Twins the fiery Carr  
Retreats into the retrogressive Star:  
When Nemea's Lion roars, and a cold sweat  
Baths the scared maid amidst her flagrant Heat:  
If the decrepit year such Issues show,  
And London thus under dull Planets grow.   

Then, sure, (as when the Earth hath quaffed up  
Jove's Tankard-bearers overflowing Cup,  
And tepid Zephyr thawing Winters cold  
Makes sprouting Trees their closed Buds unfold;  
Whiles the returning Sap with want on heat  
Swelling each Bud, new Blossoms each beget:)  
Thy Ruins shall prove Vegetable too:  
And thy scorched Stump to a new City grow.  
Whose adverse Fronts at equidistant space,  
As Lines drawn Parallel, their Fellows face.  
Each noble Street detaining with delight,  
While it gives Passage to th' admiring sight:  
Till intercepted by no Envious bound,  
It find itself in heavens vast Ocean drowned.   

Thus, whiles the Quin cunx curious Orchards throws  
Into a thousand subdivided rows;  
It's several Walks are looped to th' Hemisphere,  
And each end-twig not Fruit but Stars doth bear.   

And where Commerce in crowded Throngs was penned,  
Or Fires cooped up had raged for want of vent:  
Where obscure Lanes obscurer Facts did hid:  
And Pests by being straitened, spread more wide:  
Traffic in spacious Streets shall now be free,  
And Flames soon spent, or soon suppressed shall be.  
Day's Eye each where shall skulking Sinners trace,  
And transient Air infectious steams shall chase.   

Yea, (though Front-buildings shall be backward thrust,  
T'enlage each Passage to dimensions just)  
London, thou shalt not less by lessening grow;  
Whiles each House gains above what's lost below,  
Its breadth squeezed into Height; and from the skies  
Stealing the room the cramped Ground denies,  
Thus thy own Thames both robs and makes amends:  
While it pays this shore what from that it rends.   

Happp thy Poet, if his friendly Fates  
Spare him to see what he prognosticates!  
No mean content would such a prospect bring  
Unto his Autumn to behold thy Spring.  
Nor will his Muse (born for thy service) pine,  
If, thy Turns served, her stock of wit decline.  
On other Themes to flag less must her grieve,  
Secure enough by thy sole Name to live.   

And you (Great Sir) who toiled in vain to save  
A dying London from her dismal Grave:  
Shall less repent your unsuccessful pain,  
When, worthy you, by you, she lives again.  
Yea, aftertimes, that mourning read her Fall;  
With equal Joy shall read her Rise withal.  
And all her past misfortunes from your story  
Shall be expunged by her succeeding Glory.   

Whence she (Augusta height in days of Eald  
Though much beyond her State her Title swelled)  
By this improvement, with a fairer claim  
Into her own shall graft your greater Name.   

Yea, could she now state on a just account,  
How much her Gain her Loss shall then surmount.  
'Tis thought, she'd thank her Flames, and count it Prize,  
Even so to die, that so she might arise.   
FINIS.