UPON THE REBUILDING THE CITY, ●he Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, AND THE ●oble Company of Bachelor's Dining with Him, May 5 th'. 1669.  
Printed in the Year, 1670.   


NOr could Prometheus, when he would have stole  
From jealous jupiter a living coal  
To animate his well dissembled clay,  
Either prevail, or go unplagued away.   

Nor when proud Nature to recruit the earth  
And brave Heaven, brought forth Giants at each birth,  
(Those stalking Mountains, sons of slime and mud  
The Relics of the universal Flood)  
Setting them all to work, as soon as born  
Then when their Highnesses, did not think scorn  
To tread the Mortar, and were Masons made  
And Brick layers— the only thriving Trade,  
Though they designed, with high & pointed Towers  
To pierce & stab those clouds, whose mighty showers  
Had drowned their Fathers, and to climb so high,  
Till they picked Stars (like Cowslips) from the sky,  
Could they prevent their foolish Babel's fall,  
But were turned canting, wand'ring Gypsies all.   

Nor shalt thou better speed (proud Rome) not thou,  
Though thou hast carried Empire on thy brow,  
And with thy Cannons made all Monarches quake  
As thunder doth the trembling Mountains shake:  
No, though thy head, thy lofty head thou raise  
To try thy horned strength with Cynthia's.  
No, though thy Father be the Prince of th'Air  
And with thee doth his vast Dominion share;  
No, though thy Eagles wings thou stretch as wide  
As Sol his beams, or Neptnne doth his Tide;  
No, though thy greedy cruel breed be nursed  
With the same milk thy Founder sucked at first;  
And though thy zeal (Ah, cursed zeal!) aspire  
To raise thy Pope▪ great Pyramids of fire,  
From burned Cities; yet thyself (proud Dame)  
Who burned with Sodom's lust, shalt with her flame.  
Where are thy Fauxes in their dark disguise,  
Incendiary Priests, and subtle spies,  
Who when our London's fiery trial came,  
Like Salamanders feasted in the flame,  
And cursed the hands that first should lay a Brick  
Towards the rebuilding that grand Heretic;  
Who when great Gresham's spicy nest consumed  
(Though the immortal founder stood perfumed  
In the rich Incense) hug'd themselves to see  
Our Monarches martyred in Effigy.  
Now let them stare and startle at the fight,  
And bark as Curs do at the Moons fair light:  
Let them not boast their Charles lafoy grand, la Boon  
Great Britain can outshine them both in One,  
A Prince of far more gracious intents  
Than all thy Urbans, Clements, Innocents',  
Upon whose head shall stand a Triple Crown,  
When thy grand Tyrants shall be tumbled down.  
Still on our Thames shall noble Barges ride,  
When Tiber to a Ditch shall shrink her pride.  
Our Lions still are Rampant, and our Rose  
Yields her friend's sweetness, prickles to our foes:  
Our Citizens shall feast in their Guild-hall,  
And eat Geese— Patrons of thy Capital.  
Justice and Mercy now shall guard her store,  
And her Mock-Giants she shall need no more,  
Th' Exchange that Royal Infant, shortly will  
Her own and foreign Language speak with skill;  
And on that Acre the Noon Sun shall see  
 
We have our Newgate and old Tyburn too,  
Ready to serve their Turns who turn to you.   

Kind heaven and all the Elements conspire  
(And such conspiracy's we may desire)  
To make our City fairer, stronger, higher,  
The Sun gets up each morn at peep of day  
To oversee the Work, and late doth stay  
Before he lets the Labourers retreat,  
As if he undertook the work by th' Great.  
The earth gives clay, the water moistens it;  
The gentle Air tempers and makes it fit,  
And then the fire, as if it meant to make  
Full satisfaction, and revenges take  
Upon itself, (though in a smothered way  
As modest Thiefs their injuries repay)  
Works in the Brick kilne, works till it grow sick,  
And fainting dyes, leaving on every Brick  
And every tile a lasting blush— as who  
Would say, for former Mischiefs this I do.   

Nor doth the Sun alone the Work o'er see,  
But there is One as vigilant as he,  
A Pious, Loyal, Wise, Just M●y'r, a Lord  
Who like Zerubbabel with awful sword  
Defends the trowel, whose sweet voice hath powers  
(As Orpheus had to raise his Theban Towers)  
To make the teeming bowels of the earth  
Shoot up new buildings by an easy birth.  
He guards the Sabbaths with an holy care,  
And blesseth all the week by that days prayer  
His Magistracy lies not in his Train,  
His stately Steed, his Scarlet, or his Chain;  
He and his sword in Velvet fast asleep▪  
But watchful, God's peace and the Kings to keep;  
With a strict hand the Balance he doth hold,  
Trying the Cause how weighty, not the Gold:  
As he with virtue meets, or with offence,  
So do his looks, or smiles, or frowns dispense;  
His smother Chin carrying as grave a grace,  
As the Diocesans well bearded face.   

Boast on (old Beldame Rome) and brag— Thou hast  
Thousands of Sons and Daughters pure and chaste,  
Yet thou shalt find for all their single Lives,  
But little Virgin Honey in their Hives:  
Those thievish Drones thy Friars without wings,  
Creep to thy Nuns, and leave behind their stings.  
Thou hast thy Ioan's as well as Popes— Fame says,  
Thy Innocents' have their Olympia's.   

But London which the Nuptial Band allows,  
And hates to lock her Virgins up in Vows,  
Can glory in her Bachelor Lord mayor,  
chaste as the Dove, though of the Raven's Hair:  
The Widow City is his Spouse— and He  
Cares for her Children and great Family;  
Not doth he stand (although he lies) alone  
(He were a Phoenix if he were but One)  
But as the Moon, when she her progress goes,  
The Court of Stars, as her Attendants shows:  
So when Beloved Turner please to call,  
Great troops of Bachelors adorn his Hall;  
None male content, and yet male Virgins all)  
On May's fifth day (Oh, 'twas a wondrous sight!)  
Three hundred Virgins, Virgin's day and night;  
Virgins in Breeches, Virgins all as true,  
As she for whom Saint George the Dragon slew;  
Some hoary old, some young, but all were chaste  
Either above, or underneath the waist;  
None of them had they been in Scottish School,  
Had grunted in the Penitential stool;  
None, had they lived in times of Commutation,  
Had paid a stone to Paul's for Fornication.  
None from an Ordeal Trial need to fly  
That Purgatory fire, of Chastity;  
None free of Creswel College, not a Man  
Need fear to meet a Nurse or some Trappan;  
None of them all, (for aught the Poet knows)  
Wears (though another's Hair) another's Nose.  
My Lord himself, and all his Guests, I think  
In the same Cup, might without danger drink▪  
Yet none (if called lawfully) but can  
Beget a Son, may prove an Alderman.   

These Sons of Peace, and Sons of Mars, if Charles  
Please to take notice of his Neighbours snarls  
Came not to show their Valour in his Hall,  
To combat Custard, batter Pastry Wall:  
To try the Issue of an equal Bet,  
Whether their Teeth, or Knives were sharper set,  
To take the Red-coat Lobsters by the back  
And with bold hands, their clattering Armour crack  
But their chief errand was, to pray he would  
Command their persons, and accept their Gold.  
And if their Votes and mine were current, He  
Should their Perpetual Dictator be.  
But if the scarlet Sphere must turn about  
〈◊〉 turning round makes giddy heads I doubt  
〈◊〉 his Exemplar Government shall stand,  
And teach Successors how they should command.   

A Virgin Queen, and Bachelor Lord Mayor,  
To England are as prosperous as rare,  
She made the City love the Court, and He  
The Court the city by his Loyalty.  
He a wise Imitator of his King,  
Finds Moderation is a healing thing.   

Oh, if our church's Overseers would yield▪  
And let poor Labourers come forth and build,  
Such as untempered Mortar dare not use,  
Nor for Foundations, straw and stubble choose;  
Though every stone across they do not lay,  
But some work one, and some another way,  
Our New jerusalem should soon behold  
Zion in glory, though it wanted Gold.  
Hard upon Hard, no lasting work will make,  
Nor can one Flint another kindly break:  
But Moderation is a cement sure,  
'Tis that which makes the universe endure  
That makes our climate prove a temperate Zone  
Betwixt the Torrid, and the Frigid One.  
If we all build up Pater-noster-Row,  
We may let Ave Maria corner go;  
Black and White Friar did together stand,  
And may again, if Wisdom might command,  
If not, I'll say no more, but this will swear,  
Bedlam and Bishopsgate near Neighbours are.   
FINIS.