Upon the Present PLAGVE AT LONDON AND His Majesty's Leaving The CITY.  

NOw quick as Lightning had our thunderers hand,  
Punished 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 Air;  
And strait these Cooks dress by the active heat  
Of a quick flame, the Gormandizers meat.  
This flame soon cools our Triumph, soon destroys,  
And dries our Ocean of swift ebbing joys!  
Joys as Incostant, and as quickly gone,  
As the unsettled Waves th' were raised upon.   

Sure 'twas kind Providence that wisely spied  
The bad effect of o'er successful Pride;  
And knew ours was no less than 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 drowned all memory:  
And therefore into Pyres our Bonfires turn,  
And every Sack-bowl strait becomes an Urn:  
Justice and Mercy, jointly this Plague sent,  
Past sins to punish, future to prevent.   

I'm not Aruspex, nor can I reveal  
That 'tis the fervour of Fanatic 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 distained Purple calls for blood:  
That 'tis the darkened lustre of a Crown,  
Now draws from Heaven so black an Influence down;  
And the three Daughters of Night thus combine,  
To vindicate and clear its Eclipsed shine.  
This makes th' Enlightened imitate their flame,  
And trembling, merit their Usurped Name;  
This makes all Sects turn Quakers, though (too late)  
Even they're Conformists to the common fate.   

Blame not mad Schismatics, 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 loud cries,  
Drag Hell to Earth, and fright the wondering 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 overcast the Throne.  
Each Evil is the Kings, in a sick state,  
Nor is His different from his Subjects, fate;  
But what Death formerly, disease now brings,  
The Beggar's state Coequal to the Kings.  
And though his Sacred Majesty now flies,  
And does at distance choose to Sympathise  
His Subjects griefs, 'tis cause he would not have  
A narrow Tomb become great Britain's grave:  
He knew the Death that shall his Person slay,  
Slaughters three Kingdoms in Epitome.  
Yet every bloody Tuesday does him kill,  
And  a dead King in each weekly Bill;  
Who shows the Valour of his Princely breath,  
Under the rigours of a lingering death:  
For where an end to growing woes Death gives,  
He's most Courageous there that boldly lives.  
Nor is it fear, but prudence now to fly,  
When valiantly to Conquer is to die.  
The Parthian King that so retir'dly dwells,  
And turns his stately Palaces to Cells,  
Had here his recluse Majesty resigned,  
Nor thought it liberty to be confined:  
The Parthian here would to his old sleight fly,  
And by Retreat best foil 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 seized His mighty Soul, then on that day,  
That fatal day; when obscured Majesty  
Sorrow less clouded than 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'er's the Grace  
And Power of England, and we justly style  
London, the Strength and Treasure of our Isle;  
The Spanish Error well may pardoned be:  
England in London's true Geography.    

TO THE KING, Upon His Intending for OXFORD.  
BUt by your Presence, Mighty Sir, since You  
Intent 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.  
Blessed 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 Muse's God, that pours forth streams  
Of kill Deaths, mixed with his quickening 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 flame, 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 sways the Sceptre 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 Aunts,  
Converted once into Inhabitants;  
And with stout Myrmidons Aegina filled,  
Whose Natives a quick Plague had lately killed,  
Our Laurel shall (proving the Fable true)  
Repeople England in Preserving You.  
FINIS.