The Glory of the SUN-Tavern Behind the EXCHANGE.  

BEhind? I'll ne'er believe it; you may as soon  
Persuade me that the SUN stands behind noon;  
We should be then more than Cymmerian blind,  
If the world's Eye (the SUN) should stand behind.  
Nay, rather than heavens lamp should so estrange  
His proper site, the Change itself must change;  
Gresham must face about, under the Rose,  
The Kings themselves must go as the SUN goes.  
Yet, notwithstanding what is here confessed,  
I am a Brownist, as to East and West▪   

What time the Peers did the Sun's rising stay,  
He found it first looked the contrary way.   

Cornhill may in the Southside still take pride;  
But where the SUN is, there's the warmer side.  
Yet some Astrologers (they say) maintain,  
Three Suns late set will never rise again;  
Three Meteors rather: if they were three Suns,  
Suns guided, sure, by Giddy Phaëtons.   

But, Noble Wadlow, thine a Palace is,  
A Superstructure on a Base of Bliss;  
When thy transcendent Arch I'm passing through  
Methinks in triumph I to Tavern go;  
To Tavern said I? out upon it, no,  
Methinks I rather to a Temple go;  
Where the Great Room (and who would judge it less?)  
A Church is, and the rest Chapels of Ease:  
At least a Presence, fit to entertain  
(As once thy Predecessor) Kings again.  
So pompous, so pyramidal, as if  
It would on tiptoes checkmate Tenariff:  
Such are the all-magnificent Contrives,  
Wolsey can ne'er be dead whilst Wadlow lives.   

The Turkywork about the Dining-Room,  
Would make a Sultan think himself at home.  
The Chimney piece does modern art surpass,  
No hand could do the like but Phydias.  
Pictures so acquaint, so to the life excel,  
You would not think 'em hanged, they look so well.  
Cathedral windows carry there the Bay,  
Where many Quarrels are, but not a Fray:  
I need no story of the Hang tell,  
Arras itself's sufficient Chronicle.  
There every Chamber has an Aquaeduct,  
As if the Sun had Fire for Water trucked:  
Water as it were exhaled up to heaven's shrouds,  
To cool your Cups and Glasses in the Clouds;  
Which having done, from your Celestial towers  
Like Jove himself, you send it down in showers.  
For Gold and Silver, Pewter, Brass and Iron,  
A Mine of such seems the whole house t'environ;  
Latin and Lead, and what not? all agree  
Here the seven Planets keep their Heptarchy.   

But to the Cellar now, that happy Port,  
Where Bacchus in the Arches keeps his Court.  
No more of the Exchange let people talk;  
Here's your high Germane, French & Spanish walk:  
In this Low Country is High Country Wine,  
Here's your old mellow Malaga, Muscadine,  
Canary, Florence and Medera's here,  
Or in a word, Here is Wine with one Ear.  
What shall I say? in vain I further write;  
Here's all that's Rare, that's Racy, Rich and Right:  
Such choice of choices, none amiss can call;  
'Twould almost fuddle me to name them all.  
But that's a task no Poet can fulfil,  
Except he writ with a Canary Quill.  
And thus the SUN, as with invisible Ropes,  
Draws all the Change, and makes 'em Heliotropes;  
You'd think, to see the Crowds that thither run,  
A Man in Paul's is but a Moat i'th' SUN.   
Regia SOLIS erat sublimibus alta columnis  
Clara micante auro—   

London, Printed for J. Lutton Bookseller in the Poultry, 1672.