〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
LONDON'S Bitter-Sweet-CUP OF TEARS, For Her late VISITATION: AND JOY, FOR The KING's Return.  
With a Compliment (in the close) to FRANCE.  Non nos ampullas,— 
By john Crouch.  
LONDON, Printed for THOMAS PALMER, at the Crown in Westminster-Hall. 1666.   

The POEM  

AFter a wanton Century of Peace,  
Which all things but Obedience did increase;  
Feuds and Rebellions midst three Kingdoms spread,  
Whose Hellish zeal took off both Crown and Head;  
Foul dregs contracted by Intestine Wars,  
Ill-Aspects, and worse frights of bearded Stars;  
Rank Exhalations from the Blood was spilt,  
And rancour from Impiety and Gild:  
After all these, with thousand Causes more,  
(Foreseen, though not prevented, long before;)  
The Air grown sick, and the Contagion high,  
Poor Londoners (not all prepared to die)  
Herd after Herd into the Country throngs,  
While many force their way thorough Forks and Prongs;  
Some in wide Fields their Tabernacle pitch,  
And some both Bed and Grave make in a Ditch;  
Provisions set at so unkind a space,  
The sick man dies, ere he can reach the place:  
One that had seen the placing of those Cates,  
Would not have judged them to be food, but Baits  
Cunningly planted to deceive, not cherish:  
'Tis sad by ill placed Charity to perish!  
Nay London's Money must not pass, but there  
All the free Bounty not of Love, but Fear;  
The Blow men are as jealous of their Lives,  
As ever Citizens were of their Wives!  
But leave we Rural hearts to Rocks and Stones,  
And Survey London's Sorrows, Sighs and Moans.   

As when our Thames with monstrous Ebb doth fly,  
To wider Straits, and leaves his Channel dry;  
The great Fish with his rapid Streams retire,  
Leaving the less and weaker to expire  
Upon the thirsty Sands, and desolate Shelves,  
Lost, and unable to Protect themselves:  
The like destructive and unequal Fate,  
Left London Streets too Wide and Desolate;  
Threw out the Wealthy int' th' open Air,  
And leaves the Needy to Heavens angry care!   

Trade interrupted, and the Royal Burse,  
Quit and Empty as the City's Purse;  
While Steeples howling Day and Night, do call  
Thousands together to one Funeral:  
Our Bells, neither the Old, and Consecrate;  
Nor the unhallowed New, could help our Fate:  
Not with perpetual Motion purge the Sky,  
Still midnight and meridian Arrows fly.  
Graves wide and deep Gape like the mouth of Hell,  
In which whole Lanes (now nearer Neighbours) fell;  
Pits round the Church, cast like a fatal Line,  
Threatened the Sacred Pile to undermine.  
Pale Famine feeds upon the Plague; The Poor  
All Searchers grown, to find a Richman's Door;  
If One in a whole Street live here and there,  
Their Gates are shut, either by Pest or fear;  
Perhaps some brawny Usurer stays behind,  
Not to the City, but his Avarice, kind;  
Who dying 'midst his Gold and Silver, sends  
His City-gods to bless his Country Friends;  
Now happily by Rustics used so well,  
As if they had Removed from Heaven to Hell.   

Sometimes when Charity herself did meet,  
A poor afflicted Creature in the Street;  
Though warmed Passion and Preservatives,  
Her trembling Palm contracts, and nothing gives;  
But fearing some infected Hand or Breath,  
Leaves the starved Soul to pity and to Death:  
Which now grew so familiar to the Eye,  
The present wonder was to Live, not Dye.   

The Vault at Westminster so large and wide;  
Which every Term filled with a busy Tide  
Of lawful Adversaries, (who, though moved  
With Wrath and Spleen, walk close as if they loved)  
How sad it looks! How like that paved Hall,  
Which did a Christ, and King, to judgement call.  
Nothing sold here, but Oxford and L'Estrange,  
Two Sheets, the City's Market and Exchange:  
Perhaps some idle Squire walks to and fro,  
Not knowing what to do, nor where to go;  
Till his Dog's Appetite barks, though in vain,  
And wishes Arthur's Table here again.   

The Sacred Fabrics of St. Paul's, and Abbey,  
Now (Synagogue like) served with one Scribe and Rabbi:  
No Breath the Seats nor Organs to Inspire,  
Poor Robin redbreast Sings for all the Choir;  
When this sad Reformation first was seen,  
I thought Sir Robert Harlow had been Dean;  
Who Broke and Melted all was in his power,  
But dearly loved the Images o'th' Tower. 
Mr. of the Mint.    

Yet of the Two, this of St. Peter's Chair,  
Is, if not Beautiful, in good Repair;  
When good St. Paul hath more of Faith than Works,  
Th'East Christian, but the West not fit for Turks;  
Only the King, to show 'tis not his Gild,  
Has beautified all his blessed Father Built;  
Paul's Reformation does most sadly stick,  
Rend in the Middle and turned Schismatic;  
And now may well renew his just Complaint,  
He came too late to be our Almanack-Saint: 
St. Paul's Day, till this last Convocation, not marked with red Letters.   
Many I fear could wish both Temples down;  
T'enjoy (that Adored Trinity) in town;  
King, Term, and Parliament; Great Cries are made,  
Not for St. Paul's, but (our Diana) Trade.   

Ah! but when Westminster or London meet,  
Upon those Pebbles of the Royal Street;  
(Anent that White tower, Raised by Scotland's james, 
Banqueting-house.   
To gain two Prospects, of the Park and Thames)  
They weep o'er the discoloured Stones, and Cry,  
Here sprung that High Blood first inflamed the Sky:  
Here was committed England's Capital Crime,  
The Monster Plague hatched here, but born in time.   

O then bright Sun o'th' British World appear,  
To Influence Your Native Hemisphere:  
Whose Presence (Light and Heat) all Good creates;  
Whose Absence (an Eclipse) Depopulates.  
Till You with Oriental beams Arise,  
Poor London faints, peopled with Winter flies;  
Which with Consumptive Legs and Spirits crawl,  
To seek their Sun from Cheapside to Whitehall;  
The Place bereaved of your Presential Care,  
Must sink: Where you breathe not, breathes no good Air:  
Of those vast Heaps the Sword of Pestilence slew,  
Most died o'th' Pest, many for want of You.   

But You are Come in Charitable haste,  
The first Returned, who went away the last;  
When noble Constellations drag by th' way,  
With many lesser Planets gone a stray;  
Nothing but your warm Influence could open,  
London, that long closed dying 
* Marigold.  Heliotrope:  
The City not with grief, but triumph pants,  
Each Street as busy as a Field of Aunts;  
Your Presence, Barricadoed Shops and Doors,  
Opens as kindly as the Spring our Pores:  
Bonfires Salute You, and the New-tuned Bells  
Chime Psalms of joy, instead of doleful Knells;  
To purge the Air, no Coal-fires now need burn,  
Magnificats do that for Your Return:  
Thus Loyal LONDON hath a Ransom paid,  
For that Defection the Disloyal made.   

Heaven bless Your Majesty, may You Advance,  
Victorious Ensigns, through the Heart of France:  
And since your Viceroy has committed Treason,  
Be pleased sans Compliment, to do him Reason:  
S. George shall go, and play a Game at Tennis,  
In 
* VV●ere the French was b●a●●by the English.  Agincourt, or elsewhere, with S. Dennis.  
Then over MONCK, and make your Dukedom good,  
Seal Albemarle once more with  Blood;  
And let the Proclamation of proud Lewis,  
Proclaim Great CHARLES, who King of France the true is.   
FINIS.