LONDON Undone; OR, A Reflection upon the Late DISASTROUS FIRE.  

NO more Historians your surmise recant,  
For London's Flames have proved her Troy-Novant  
Pack that Pack may, all ready to be gone,  
For every man was an Ucaligon.  
London, that once was glory of the World,  
Heaps upon heaps is in confusion hurled!  
The Head and Foot, the Root and Branch embrace,  
The lofty Turret, and the lowly base.  
Tables, and Stools, as they the Flames were wooing,  
Contribute matter to their own undoing.  
Their Goods (alas!) men knew not where to carry,  
For even the Churches were no Sanctuary:  
Such as conveyed their Treasure to St. Paul,  
In hope they there were safe, even they lost all.  
No Eye could travel thither, but it meets  
Too many Authors in their winding Sheets.  
Th' imperious Flames about each Arch did hover,  
Till every Book had got on a red cover;  
And so continued in that furious rage,  
That it writ Finis in the Title Page.  
What any saved, (as who would not desire?)  
He earnt it, for he got it out o' th' Fire.  
Our Merchants turned (O sad to the beholders!)  
Scotch Merchants with their shops upon their shoulders.  
Places were lost where Coach and Cart might meet,  
A half burnt Steeple was the Sign o' th' Street.  
A dumb deformity could nothing say,  
No, not so much as give ye time o' th' day:  
Houses lay topsie turvy turvy, Farewell Rents;  
For now like Isea'lites, we dwell in Tents:  
Here Parson we Pluralities allow,  
I fear ye ye l scarcely make one Church of two;  
For fatal Time with his impartial Sith  
Has mowed down all, scarce left so much as Tithe.  
And what yet much more sad is, with the Dead,  
A man may see the Living buried.   

But that those Hobnailed Clowns should be so chubbish,  
Whom though we knew much base than our rubbish:  
Those pilfering Country-coridons', that they  
Should come to make of us a second prey;  
E'er I'd have answered their unjust desire,  
I'd first have seen my Goods, and then i'th' Fire.  
But then (alas!) men had no time to talk,  
No more but so, Take up your Bed and walk,  
Into the Fields on that bleak dew-dropt Grass,  
Where the Earth Bed, and Heaven its Taster was.  
Infants and aged quartered row by row,  
Never more Quarters had morefield's then now.  
The Miscellany made in every square,  
The Counterfeit of the Great Bed of Ware.  
Like those in debt; the People durst not troth  
Along the Streets, the Stones they were too hot.  
This (London) might be spoken of thy fall.  
Burnt Wine was plenteous at thy Funeral:  
And, as Eye-witness, I may well report  
Thy Bearers were those of the, better sort.  
This to the Field, that to the Water bears,  
The City than swarmed with Philosophers.  
In brief, that I may to a period come,  
Never was day so sadly burdensome:  
Day did I say? Alas! we had no Night,  
For a whole week together, 'twas t●o light.  
Ah lovely London! cruel Fate, and strange,  
Beauty for Ashes, 'tis a sad Exchange:  
When such as did in cieled Houses dwell,  
Live now like Hermits in a smoky Cell:  
Me thinks I tremble still at the sad sight,  
Where loads were heavy, and the houses light.  
Sad Spectacle, for maugre all endeavour,  
London departed of a burning Fever.   

Let others look at second Causes, I  
See nothing in it but a D 〈…〉  
If I look up to Heavens A 〈…〉 ty Lord,  
I shall with David see the Angels Sword.  
Shall I with A●sop's Dog snarl at the Stone?  
No, I'll observe the Hand whence it was thrown.  
My Sins have forced this Vengeance from my God,  
Shall I then kick? No, I will kiss the Rod;  
And by Repentance to my God be turning,  
Who might have made this Everlasting burning:  
Nor doubt I, but, if from our sins we cease,  
The Lord of Hosts will be the Prince of Peace.  
Then shall this ruin'd City like a Ball,  
Rebound so much the higher for her fall.  
And with the Phoenix; (Heaven will so contrive,)  
From her own Ashes shall again revive.  
When, like the Churches you her Streets shall see  
Founded, and fronted uniformallie:  
Houses so firmly built, so fairly furnished,  
As if it had been burnt, but to be burnished;  
Then you will conclude with me, the Flames were kind,  
She was not so much ruined, as refined.    

London, Printed by E. C. for H. Eversden, and H. Brome, 1666.