1603. THE Wonderful year.  
Wherein is showed the picture of London, lying sick of the Plague.  
At the end of all (like a merry Epilogue to a dull Play) certain Tales are cut out in sundry fashions, of purpose to shorten the lives of long winter's nights, that lie watching in the dark for us.  Et me rigidi legant Catones. 
LONDON Printed by Thomas Creed, and are to be sold in Saint Donstones Churchyard in Fleetstreet. 16●●   

TO HIS WEL-RESPECTED GOOD friend, M. Cuthbert Thuresby, Water-Bailiffe of London.  
Books are but poor gifts, yet Kings receive them: upon which, I presume, you will not turn This out of doors. You cannot for shame, but bid it welcome, because it brings to you a great quantity of my love, which, if it be worth little, (and no marvel if Love be sold underfoot, when the God of Love himself, goes naked) yet I hope you will not say you have a hard bargain, Since you may take as much of it as you please for nothing. I have clapped the Cognizance of your name, on these scribbled papers, it is their livery: So that now they are yours; being free from any vile imputation, save only, that they thrust themselves into your acquaintance. But general errors, have general pardons: for the title of other men's names, is the common Heraldry which all those lay claim too, whose crest is a Penand Inkhorn. If you read, you may happily laugh; 'tis my desire you should, because mirth is both Physical, and wholesome against the Plague, with which sickness, (to tell truth) this book is, (though not sorely) yet somewhat infected. I pray, drive it not out of your company for all that; for (assure your soul) I am so jealous of your health, that if you did but once imagine, there were gall in mine Ink, I would cast away the Standish, and forswear meddling with any more Muses.   

To the Reader.  
AND why to the Reader? Oh good Sir! there's as found law to make you give good words to the Reader, as to a Constable when he caries his watch about him to tell how the night goes, though (perhaps) the one (oftentimes) may be served in for a Goose, and the other very fitly furnish the same mess: Yet to maintain the scurvy fashion, and to keep Custom in reparations, he must be honeyed, and comeover with Gentle Reader, Courteous Reader, and Learned Reader, though he have no more Gentility in him than Adam had (that was but a gardener) no more Civility than a Tartar, and no more Learning than the most errand Stinkard, that (except his own name) could never find any thing in the Hornbook.  
How notoriously therefore do good wits dishonour not only their Calling, but even their Creation, that worship Glow-worms (in stead of the Sun) because of a little false glistering? In the name of Phoebus what madness leads them unto it? For he that dares hazard a pressing to death (that's to say, To be a man in print) must make account that he shall stand (like the old Weathercock over Paul's Steeple) to be beaten with all storms. Neither the stinking Tobacco-breath of a Sattingull, the Aconited sting of a narrow-eyd Critic, the faces of a fantastic Stage-monkey, nor the Indeede-la of a Puritanical Citizen, must once shake him. No, but desperately resolve (like a french Post) to ride through thick & thin: endure to see his lines torn pitifully on the rack: suffer his Muse to take the Bastoone, yea the very stab, & himself like a new stake to be a mark for every Haggler, and therefore (setting up all these rests) why should he regard what fools bolt is shot at him? Besides, if that which he presents upon the Stage of the world be Good, why should he basely cry out (with that old poetical madcap in his Amphitruo) iovis summi causa clarè plaudite, beg a Plaudite for Godsake! If Bad, who (but an Ass) would entreat (as Players do in a cogging Epilogue at the end of a filthy Comedy) that, be it never such wicked stuff, they would forbear to hiss, or to damn it perpetually to lie on a Stationer's stall. For he that can so cozen himself, as to pocket up praise in that silly sort, makes his brains fat with his own folly.  
But Hinc Pudor! or rather Hinc Dolour, here's the Devil! It is not the rattling of all this former haile-shot, that can terrify our Band of Castalian Penmen from entering into the field: no, no, the murdering Artillery indeed lies in the roaring mouths of a company that look big as if they were the sole and singular Commanders over the main Army of Poesy, yet (if Hermes muster-book were searched over) they'll be found to be most pitiful pure freshwater soldiers: they give out, that they are heires-apparent to Helicon, but an easy Herald may make them mere younger brothers, or (to say troth) not so much. Bear witness all you whose wits make you able to be witnesses in this case, that here I meddle not with your good Poets, Name tales, nusquàm sunt hîc ampliùs, If you should rake hell, or (as Aristophanes in his Frog says) in any Cellar deeper than hell, it is hard to find Spirits of that Fashion. But those Goblins whom I now am conjuring up, have bladder-cheekes puffed out like a Swissers breeches (yet being pricked, there comes out nothing but wind) thin-headed fellows that live upon the scraps of invention, and travel with such vagrant souls, and so like Ghosts in white sheets of paper, that the Statute of Rogues may worthily be sued upon them, because their wits have no abiding place, and yet wander without a passport. Alas, poor wenches (the nine Muses!) how much are you wronged, to have such a number of Bastards lying upon your hands? But turn them out a begging; or if you can not be rid of their Riming-company (as I think it will be very hard) then lay your heavy and immortal curse upon them, that whatsoever they weave (in the motley-loome of their rusty pates) may like a beggars cloak, be full of stolen patches, and yet never a patch like one another, that it may be such true lamentable stuff, that any honest Christian may be sorry to see it. Banish these Word-pirates (you sacred mistresses of learning) into the gulf of Barbarism: doom them everlastingly to live among dunces: let them not once lick their lips at the Thespian bowl, but only be glad (and thank Apollo for it too) if hereafter (as hitherto they have always) they may quench their poetical thirst with small beer. Or if they will needs be stealing your Heliconian Nectar, let them (like the dogs of Nilus) only lap and away. For this Goatish swarm are those (that where for these many thousand years you went for pure maids) have taken away your good names, these are they that deflower your beauties. These are those ranck-riders of Art, that have so spur-galled your lusty winged Pegasus, that now he gins to be out of flesh, and (even only for provander-sake) is glad to show tricks like Banks his Curtal. O you Booksellers (that are Factors to the Liberal Sciences) over whose Stalls these Drones do daily fly, humming; let Homer, Hesiod, Euripides, and some other mad Greeks' with a band of the Latins, lie like musket-shot in their way, when these Goths and Geteses set upon you in your paper fortifications; it is the only Canon, upon whose mouth they dare not venture, none but the English will take their parts, therefore fear them not, for such a strong breath have these cheese-eaters, that if they do but blow upon a book, they imagine strait 'tis blasted, Quod supra nos, Nihil ad nos, (they say) that which is above our capacity, shall not pass under our commendation. Yet would I have these Zoilists (of all other) to read me, if ever I should write any thing worthily, for the blame that knowne-fooles heap upon a deserving labour does not discredit the same, but makes wise men more perfectly in love with it. Into such a ones hands therefore if I fortune to fall, I will not shrink an inch, but even when his teeth are sharpest, and most ready to bite, I will stop his mouth only with this, Haec mala sunt, sed tu, non meliora facis.   

Reader.  
WHereas there stands in the Rearward of this Book a certain mingled troup of strange Discourses, fashioned into Tales, Know, that the intelligence which first brought them to light, was only flying Report: whose tongue (as it often does) if in spreading them it have tripped in any material point, and either slipped too far, or fallen too short, bear with the error, and the rather, because it is not wilfully committed. Neither let any one (whom those Reports shall seem to touch) cavil, or complain of injury, sithence nothing is set down by a malicious hand.  
Farewell.   

THE Wonderful year.  
VErtumnus being attired in his accustomed habit of changeable silk, 
Vertumnus God of the year.  had newly passed through the first and principal Court-gate of heaven: to whom for a farewell, 
Description of the Spring.  and to show how dutiful he was in his office, janus (that bears two faces under one hood) made a very mannerly low leg, and (because he was the only Porter at that gate) presented unto this King of the months, all the newyears gifts, which were more in number, and more worth than those that are given to the great Turk, or the Emperor of Persia: on went Vertumnus in his lusty progress, Priapus, Flora, the Dryads, and Hamadryades, with all the wooden rabble of those that dressed Orchards and Gardens, perfuming all the ways that he went, with the sweet Odours that breathed from flowers, herbs and trees, which now began to peep out of prison: by virtue of which excellent airs, the sky got a most clear complexion, looked smug and smooth, and had not so much as a wart sticking on her face: the Sun likewise was freshly and very richly appareled in cloth of gold like a bridegroom; and in stead of gilded Rosemary, the horns of the Ram, 
Upon the 23 of March the Spring gins, by reason of the suns entrance into Aries.  (being the sign of that celestial bridehouse where he lay, to be married to the Spring) were not like your common horns parcell-gilt, but double double-gilt, with the liquid gold that melted from his beams: for joy whereof the Lark sung at his window every morning, the Nightingale every night: the Cuckoo (like a singlesole Fiddler, that réeles from Tavern to Tavern) plied it all the day long: Lambs friskte up and down in the valleys, Kids and Goats leapt too and fro on the Mountains: Shepherds sat piping, country wenches singing: Lovers made Sonnets for their Lasses, whilst they made Garlands for their Lovers: And as the Country was frolic, so was the City merry: Olive Trees (which grow no where but in the Garden of peace) stood (as common as beech does at Midsummer,) at every man's door, branches of Palm were in every man's hand: Streets were full of people, people full of joy: every house seemed to have a Lord of misrule in it, in every house there was so much jollity: no Screech-owl frighted the silly Countryman at midnight, nor any Drum the Citizen at noonday; but all was more calm than a still water, all hushed, as if the Spheres had been playing in Consort: In conclusion, heaven looked like a Palace, and the great hall of the earth, like a Paradise. But O the short-lived Felicity of man! O world of what slight and thin stuff is thy happiness! Just in the midst of this jocund Hollday, a storm rises in the West: 
The Queen's sickness.  Westward (from the top of a Ritch-mount) descended a hideous tempest, that shook Cedars, terrified the tallest Pines, and cleft in sunder even the hardest hearts of Oak: And if such great trees were shaken, what think you became of the tender Eglantine, and humble Hawthorne? they could not (doubtless) but droop, they could not choose but die with the terror. The Element (taking the Destiny's part, who indeed set abroach this mischief) scowled on the earth, and filling her high forehead full of black wrinkles, tumbling long up and down, (like a great bellied wife) her sighs being whirlwinds, and her groans thunder, at length she fell in labour, and was delivered of a pale, meager, weak child, named Sickness, whom Death (with a pestilence) would needs take upon him to nurse, and did so. This starveling being come to his full growth, had an office given him for nothing (and that's a wonder in this age) Death made him his Herald: attired him like a Courtier, and (in his name) charged him to go into the Privy Chamber of the English Queen, to summon her to appear in the star-chamber of heaven.  
The summons made her start, but (having an invincible spirit) did not amaze her: yet whom would not the certain news of parting from a Kingdom amaze! But she knew where to find a richer, 
Her death.  and therefore lightly regarded the loss of this, and thereupon made ready for that heavenly Coronation, being (which was most strange) most dutiful to obey, that had so many years so powerfully commanded. She obeyed deaths messenger, and yielded her body to the hands of death himself. She died, resigning her Sceptre to posterity, and her Soul to immortality.  
The report of her death (like a thunderclap) was able to kill thousands, it took away hearts from millions: for having brought up (even under her wing) a nation that was almost begotten and borne under her; that never shouted any other ave then for her name, never saw the face of any Prince but herself, never understood what that strange out landish word Change signified, how was it possible, but that her sickness should throw abroad an universal fear, 
The general terror that her death bred.  and her death an astonishment? She was the Courtier's treasure, therefore he had cause to mourn: the Lawyer's sword of justice, he might well faint: the Merchant's patroness, he had reason to look pale: the Citizen's mother, he might best lament: the Shepherd's Goddess, and should not he droop? Only the Soldier, who had walked a long time upon wooden legs, and was not able to give Arms, though he were a Gentleman, had brisseld up the quilts of his stiff Porcupine mustachio, and swore by no beggars that now was the hour come for him to bestir his stumps: Usurers and Brokers (that are the devils Ingles, and dwell in the long-lane of hell) quaked like aspen leaves at his oaths: those that before were the only cut-throats in London, now stood in fear of no other death: but my signor Soldado was deceived, the Tragedy went not forward.  
Never did the English Nation behold so much black worn as there was at her Funeral: It was then but put on, to try if it were fit, for the great day of mourning was set down (in the book of heaven) to be held afterwards: that was but the dumb show, the Tragical Act hath been playing ever since. Her Hearse (as it was borne) seemed to be an Island swimming in water, for round about it there rained showers of tears, about her deathbed none: for her departure was so sudden and so strange, that men knew not how to weep, because they had never been taught to shed tears of that making. They that durst not speak their sorrows, whispered them: they that durst not whisper, sent them forth in sighs. Oh what an Earth quake is the alteration of a State! Look from the Chamber of Presence, to the Farmer's cottage, and you shall find nothing but distraction: the whole Kingdom seems a wilderness, and the people in it are transformed to wild men. The Map of a Country so pitifully distracted by the horror of a change, if you desire perfectly to behold, cast your eyes then on this that follows, which being heretofore in private presented to the King, I think may very worthily show itself before you: And because you shall see them attired in the same fashion that they wore before his Majesty, let these few lines (which stood then as Prologue to the rest) enter first into your ears.  
NOt for applauses, shallow fools adventure,  
I plunge my verse into a sea of censure,  
But with a liver dressed in gall, to see  
So many Rooks, catchpoles of poesy,  
That feed upon the fall of high wit,  
And put on cast inventions, most unfit,  
For such am I priest forth in shops and stalls,  
Pasted in Paul's, and on the Lawyer's walls,  
For every Basilisk-eyde Critics bait,  
To kill my verse, or poison my conceit,  
Or some smoked gallant, who at wit repines,  
To dry Tobacco with my wholesome lines,  
And in one paper sacrifice more brain,  
Than all his ignorant skull could ere contain:  
But merit dreads no martyrdom, nor stroke,  
My lines shall live, when he shall be all smoke.  
Thus far the Prologue, who leaving the Stage clear, the fears that are bred in the womb of this altering kingdom do next step up, acting thus: 
THe great impostume of the realm was drawn  
Even to a head: the multitudinous spawn  
Was the corruption, which did make it swell  
With hoped sedition (the  seed of hell.)  
Who did expect but ruin, blood, and death,  
To share our kingdom, and divide our breath?  
Religions without religion,  
To let each other blood, confusion  
To be next Queen of England, and this year  
The civil wars of France to be played here  
By Englishmen, ruffians, and pandaring slaves,  
That feign would dig up gouty usurers graves,  
At such a time, villains their hopes do honey,  
And rich men look as pale as their white money.  
Now they remove, and make their silver sweat,  
Casting themselves into a covetous heat,  
And then (unseen) in the confederate dark,  
Bury their gold without or Priest or Clarke,  
And say no prayers over that dead pelf,  
True: gold's no Christian, but an Indian elf.  
Did not the very kingdom seem to shake,  
Her precious massy limbs? did she not make  
All english cities (like her pulses) beat  
With people in their veins? the fear so great,  
That had it not been phisickt with rare peace,  
Our populous bower had lessened her increase.  
The spring-time that was dry, had sprung in blood,  
A greater dearth of men, than e'er of food:  
In such a panting time, and gasping year,  
Victuals are cheapest, only men are dear.  
Now each wise-acred Landlord did despair,  
Fearing some villain should become his heir,  
Or that his son and heir before his time,  
Should now turn villain, and with violence climb  
Up to his life, saying, father you have seen  
King Henry, Edward, Mary, and the Queen,  
I wonder you'll live longer! then he tells him  
he's loath to see him killed, therefore he kills him.  
And each vast Landlord dies like a poor slave,  
Their thousand acres make them but a grave,  
At such a time, great men convey their treasure  
Into the trusty City: wait the leisure  
Of blood and insurrection, which war eclipse,  
When every gate shuts up her Iron lips;  
Imagine now a mighty man of dust,  
Stands in a doubt, what servant he may trust,  
With plate worth thousands: jewels worth far more,  
If he prove false, than his rich Lord proves poor  
He calls forth one by one, to note their graces,  
Whilst they make legs, he copies out their faces,  
Examines their eyebrow, consters their beard  
Singles their Nose out, still he rests afeard,  
The first that comes, by no means he'll allow,  
Has spied three Hares starting between his brow,  
Quite turns the word, names it Celerity,  
For Hares do run away, and so may he,  
A second shown: him he will scarce behold,  
His beard's too red, the colour of his gold,  
A third may please him, but 'tis hard to say,  
A rich man's pleased, when his goods part away.  
And now do cherrup by, fine golden nests  
Of well hatched bowls: such as do breed in feasts,  
For war and death cupboards of plate down pulls,  
Then Bacchus drinks not in gilt-bowles, but skulls.  
Let me descend and stoop my verse a while,  
To make the Comic cheek of Poesy smile;  
Rank penny-fathers scud (with their half hams,  
Shadowing their calves) to save their silver dams,  
At every gun they start, tilt from the ground,  
One drum can make a thousand Usurers sound.  
In unsought Allies and unwholesome places,  
Back-wayes and by-lanes, where appear few faces,  
In shamble-smelling rooms, loathsome prospects,  
And penny-lattice-windowes, which rejects  
All popularity: there the rich Cubs lurk,  
When in great houses ruffians are at work,  
Not dreaming that such glorious booties lie  
Under those nasty roofs: such they pass by  
Without a search, crying there's nought for us,  
And wealthy men deceive poor villains thus.  
Tongue-travelling Lawyers faint at such a day,  
Lie speechless, for they have no words to say.  
Physicians turn to patients, their Arts dry,  
For then our fat men without physic die.  
And to conclude, against all Art and good,  
War taints the Doctor, let's the Surgeon blood.   
Such was the fashion of this Land, when the great landlady thereof left it: She came in with the fall of the leaf, and went away in the Spring: her life (which was dedicated to Virginity, both beginning & closing up a miraculous Maiden circle: for she was borne upon a Lady Eve, and died upon a Lady Eve: her Nativity & death being memorable by this wonder: the first and last years of her Reign by this, that a Lee was Lord Maior when she came to the Crown, and a Lee Lord Maior when she departed from it. Three places are made famous by her for three things, Greenwich for her birth, Richmount for her death, White-Hall for her Funeral: upon her removing from whence, (to lend our tiring prose a breathing time) stay, and look upon these Epigrams, being composed.  

1. Upon the Queen's last Remove being dead.  
THe queen's removed in solemn sort,  
Yet this was strange, and seldom seen,  
The Queen used to remove the Court,  
But now the Court removed the Queen.   

2. Upon her bringing by water to White Hall.  
THe Queen was brought by water to White Hall,  
At every stroke the owers tears let fall.  
More clung about the Barge: Fish under water  
Wept out their eyes of pearl, and swom blind after.  
I think the Bargemen might with easier thighs  
Have rowed her thither in her people's eyes.  
For howsoe'er, thus much my thoughts have skand,  
S'had come by water, had she come by land.   

3. Upon her lying dead at White Hall.  
THe Queen lies now at White Hall dead,  
And now at White Hall living,  
To make this rough objection even,  
Dead at White Hall in Westminster,  
But living at White-Hall in Heaven.   
Thus you see that both in her life and her death she was appointed to be the mirror of her time: And surely, if since the first stone that was laid for the foundation of this great house of the world, there was ever a year ordained to be wondered at, it is only this: 
1603. A more wonderful year than 88  the Sibyls, Octogesimus, Octaws Annus, that same terrible 88 which came sailing hither in the Spanish Armada, and made men's hearts colder than the frozen Zone, when they heard but an inkling of it: that 88 by whose horrible predictions, Almanac-makers stood in bodily fear, their trade would be utterly overthrown, and poor Erra Pater was threatened (because he was a jew) to be put to base offices, than the stopping of mustard-pots, that same 88 which had more prophecies waiting at his heels, than ever Merlin the Magician had in his head, was a year of jubilee to this. Plato's Mirabilis Annus, (whither it be passed already, or to come within these four years) may throw Plato's cap at Mirabilis, for that title of wonderful is bestowed upon 1603. If that sacred Aromatically-perfumed fire of wit (out of whose flames Phoenix poesy doth arise) were burning in any breast, I would feed it with no other stuff for a twelvemonth and a day than with kindling papers full of lines, that should tell only of the chances, changes, and strange shapes that this Protean Climacterical year hath metamorphosed himself into. It is able to find ten Chroniclers a competent living, and to set twenty Printers at work. You shall perceive I lie not, if (with Peter Bales) you will take the pains to draw the whole volume of it into the compass of a penny. As first, to begin with the queens death, than the Kingdoms falling into an Ague upon that. Next, follows the curing of that fever by the wholesome receipt of a proclaimed King. That wonder begat more, for in an hour, two mighty Nations were made one: wild Ireland became tame on the sudden, and some English great ones that before seemed tame, on the sudden turned wild: The same Park which great julius Caesar enclosed, to hold in that Dear whom they before hunted, being now circled (by a second Caesar) with stronger pales to keep them from leaping over. And last of all (if that wonder be the last and shut up the year) a most dreadful plague. This is the Abstract, and yet (like Stows Chronicle in Decimo sexto to huge Hollinshead) these small pricks in this Sea-card of ours, represent mighty Countries; whilst I have the quill in my hand, let me blow them bigger.  
The Queen being honoured with a Diadem of Stars, France, Spain, and Belgia, lift up their heads, preparing to do as much for England by giving aim, whilst she shot arrows at her own breast (as they imagined) as she had done (many a year together) for them: and her own Nation betted on their sides, looking with distracted countenance for no better guests than Civil Sedition, Uproars, Rapes, Murders, and Massacres. But the wheel of Fate turned, a better Lottery was drawn, Pro Troia stabat Apollo, God stuck valiantly to us, For behold, up rises a comfortable Sun out of the North, whose glorious beams (like a fan) dispersed all thick and contagious clouds. The loss of a Queen, was paid with the double interest of a King and Queen. The Cedar of her government which stood alone and bare no fruit, is changed now to an Olive, upon whose spreading branches grow both Kings and Queens. Oh it were able to fill a hundred pair of writing tables with notes, but to see the parts played in the compass of one hour on the stage of this newfound world! Upon Thursday it was treason to cry God save king james king of England, 
King james proclaimed.  and upon Friday high treason not to cry so. In the morning no voice heard but murmurs and lamentation, at noon nothing but shouts of gladness & triumph. S. George and S. Andrew that many hundred years had defied one another, were now sworn brothers: England and Scotland (being parted only with a narrow River, and the people of both Empires speaking a language less differing than english within itself, as though providence had enacted, that one day those two Nations should marry one another) are now made sure together, and king james his Coronation, is the solemn wedding day. Happiest of all thy Ancestors (thou mirror of all Princes that ever were or are) that at seven of the clock wert a king but over a piece of a little Island, and before eleven the greatest Monarch in Christendom. Now 
— Silver Crowds  
Of blissful Angels and tried Martyrs tread  
On the Star-seeling over England's head:  
Now heaven broke into a wonder, and brought forth  
Our omne bonum from the wholesome North  
(Our fruitful sovereign) james, at whose dread name  
Rebellion swooned, and (ere since) became  
groveling and nerue-lesse, wanting blood to nourish,  
For Ruin gnaws herself when kingdoms flourish.  
Now are our hopes planted in regal springs,  
Never to whither, for our air breeds kings:  
And in all ages (from this sovereign time)  
England shall still be called the royal clime.  
Most blissful Monarch of all earthen powers,  
Served with a mess of kingdoms, four such bowers  
(For prosperous hives, and rare industrious swarms)  
The world contains not in her solid arms.  
O thou that art the Meeter of our days,  
Poets Apollo! deal thy Daphnean bays  
To those whose wits are bay-trees, ever green,  
Upon whose high tops, Poesy chirps unseen:  
Such are most fit, t'apparell Kings in rhymes,  
Whose silver numbers are the Muse's chimes,  
Whose sprightly characters (being once wrought on)  
Outlive the marble theyare insculpt upon:  
Let such men chant thy virtues, than they fly  
On Learning's wings up to Eternity.  
As for the rest, that limp (in cold desert)  
Having small wit, less judgement, and least Art:  
Their verse! 'tis almost heresy to hear,  
Banish their lines some furlong, from thine ear:  
For 'tis held dangerous (by Apollo's sign)  
To be infected with a leprous line.  
O make some Adamant Act (ne'er to be worn)  
That none may write but those that are trueborn:  
So when the world's old cheeks shall raze and peel,  
Thy Acts shall breathe in Epitaphs of Steel.   
By these Comments it appears that by this time king james is proclaimed: 
The joys that followed upon his proclaiming.  now does fresh blood leap into the cheeks of the Courtier: the Soldier now hangs up his armour and is glad that he shall feed upon the blessed fruits of peace: the Scholar sings Hymns in honour of the Muses, assuring himself now that Helicon will be kept pure, because Apollo himself drinks of it. Now the thrifty Citizen casts beyond the Moon, and seeing the golden age returned into the world again, resolves to worship no Saint but money. Trades that lay dead & rotten, and were in all men's opinion utterly damned, started out of their trance, as though they had drunk of Aqua Caelestis, or unicorns horn, and swore to fall to their old occupation. Tailors meant no more to be called Merchant-taylors', but Merchants, for their shops were all lead forth in leases, to be turned into ships, and with their shears (in stead of a Rudder) would they have cut the Seas (like Levant Taffeta) and sailed to the West Indies for no worse stuff to make hose and doublets of, than beaten gold: Or if the necessity of the time (which was likely to stand altogether upon bravery) should press them to serve with their iron and Spanish weapons upon their stalls, than was there a sharp law made amongst them, that no workman should handle any needle but that which had a pearl in his eye, nor any copper thimble, unless it were lined quite through, or bombasted with silver. What Mechanical hardhanded Vulcanist (seeing the dice of Fortune run so sweetly, and resolving to strike whilst the iron was hot) but persuaded himself to be Master or head Warden of his Company ere half a year went about? The worst players boy stood upon his good parts, swearing tragical and buskined oaths, that how villainously soever he ranted, or what bad and unlawful action soever he entered into, he would in despite of his honest audience, be half a sharer (at least) at home, or else stroll (that's to say travel) with some notorious wicked floundring company abroad. And good reason had these time-catchers to be led into this fools paradise, for they saw mirth in every man's face, the streets were plumed with gallants, Tobacconists filled up whole Taverns: Vintners hung out spick and span new juy-bushes (because they wanted good wine) and their old raine-beaten lattices marched under other colours, having lost both company and colours before. London was never in the high way to preferment till now; now she resolved to stand upon her pantofles: now (and never till now) did she laugh to scorn that worm-eaten proverb of Lincoln was, London is, and York shall be, for she saw herself in better state than jerusalem, she went more gallant than ever did Antwerp, was more courted by amorous and lusty suitors than Venice (the minion of Italy) more lofty towers stood (like a Coronet, or a spangled head-tire) about her Temples, than ever did about the beautiful forehead of Rome: Tyrus and Sydon to her were like two thatched houses, to Theobals: the grand Cayr but a hogsty. Hinc illae lachrimae, She wept her belly full for all this. Whilst Troy was swilling sack and sugar, and mowsing fat venison, the mad Greeks made bonfires of their houses: Old Priam was drinking a health to the wooden horse, and before it could be pledged had his throat cut. Corn is no sooner ripe, but for all the pricking up of his ears he is pard off by the shins, and made to go upon stumps. Flowers no sooner budded, but they are plucked and die. Night walks at the heels of the day, and sorrow enters (like a taverne-bill) at the tail of our pleasures: for in the Apennine height of this immoderate joy and security (that like Paul's Steeple overlookt the whole City) Behold, that miracle-worker, who in one minute turned our general mourning to a general mirth, does now again in a moment alter that gladness to shrieks & lamentation.  
Here would I feign make a full point, 
The Plague.  because posterity should not be frighted with those miserable tragedies, which now my muse (as Chorus) stands ready to present. Time would thou hadst never been made wretched by bringing them forth, Oblivion would in all the graves and sepulchres, whose rank jaws thou hast already closed up or shalt yet hereafter burst open, thou couldst likewise bury them for ever.  
A stiff and fréezing horror sucks up the rivers of my blood: my hair stands an end with the panting of my brains: mine eyeballs are ready to start out, being beaten with the billows of my tears: out of my weeping pen does the ink mournfully and more bitterly than gall drop on the pale-faced paper, even when I do but think how the bowels of my sick country have been torn. Apollo therefore and you bewitching silver tongd Muses get you gone, Invocate none of your names: Sorrow and Truth, sit you on each side of me, whilst I am delivered of this deadly burden: prompt me that I may utter ruthful and passionate condolement: arm my trembling hand, that it may boldly rip up and Anatomize the ulcerous body of this Anthropophagized plague: 
Anthropophagis are Scythians that feed on men's flesh.  lend me Art (without any counterfeit shadowing) to paint and delineate to the life the whole story of this mortal and pestiferous battle, & you the ghosts of those more (by many) then 40000. that with the virulent poison of infection have been driven out of your earthly dwellings: you desolate hand-wringing widows, that beat your bosoms over your departing husbands: you woefully distracted mothers that with disheveled hair fallen into swoons, whilst you lie kissing the insensible cold lips of your breathless Infants: you outcast and downe-troden Orphans, that shall many a year hence remember more freshly to mourn, when your mourning garments shall look old and be forgotten; And you the Genij of all those emptied families, whose habitations are now among the Antipodes: join all your hands together, and with your bodies cast a ring about me: let me behold your ghastly vizages, that my paper may receive their true pictures: Echo forth your groans through the hollow trunk of my pen, and rain down your gummy tears into mine Ink, that even marble bosoms may be shaken with terror, and hearts of Adamant melt into compassion.  
What an unmatchable torment were it for a man to be bard up every night in a vast silent Charnell-house? hung (to make it more hideous) with lamps dimly & slowly burning, in hollow and glimmering corners: where all the pavement should in stead of green rushes, be strewed with blasted Rosemary, withered hyacinths, fatal Cypress and Ewe, thickly mingled with heaps of dead men's bones: the bare ribs of a father that begat him, lying there: here the chapless hollow skull of a mother that bore him: round about him a thousand Courses, some standing bolt upright in their knotted winding sheeets: others half mouldered in rotten Goffins, that should suddenly yawn wide open, filling his nostrils with noisome stench, and his eyes with the sight of nothing but crawling worms. And to keep such a poor wretch waking, he should hear no noise but of Toads croaking, Scréech-Owles howling, Mandrakes shrieking: were not this an infernal prison? would not the strongest-harted man (beset with such a ghastly horror) look wild? and run mad? and die? And even such a formidable shape did the diseased City appear in: For he that durst (in the dead hour of gloomy midnight) have been so valiant, as to have walked through the still and melancholy streets, what think you should have been his music? Surely the loud groans of raving sick men: the struggling pangs of souls departing: In every house grief striking up an alarum: Servants crying out for masters: wives for husbands, parents for children, children for their mothers: here he should have met some frantically running to knock up Sextons; there, others fearfully sweeting with Coffins, to steal forth dead bodies, lest the fatal hand-writing of death should seal up their doors. And to make this dismal consort more full, round about him Bells heavily tolling in one place, and ringing out in another: The dreadfulness of such an hour, is in-utterable: let us go further.  
If some poor man, suddenly starting out of a sweet and golden slumber, should behold his house flaming about his ears, all his family destroyed in their sleeps by the merciless fire; himself in the very midst of it, woefully and like a mad man calling for help: would not the misery of such a distressed soul, appear the greater, if the rich Usurer dwelling next door to him, should not stir, (though he felt part of the danger) but suffer him to perish, when the thrusting out of an arm might have saved him! O how many thousands of wretched people have acted this poor man's part? how often hath the amazed husband waking, found the comfort of his bed lying breathless by his side! his children at the same instant gasping for life! and his servants mortally wounded at the heart by sickness! the distracted creature, beats at death's doors, exclaims at windows, his cries are sharp enough to pierce heaven, but on earth no ear is opened to receive them.  
And in this manner do the tedious minutes of the night stretch out the sorrows of ten thousand: It is now day, let us look forth and try what Consolation rises with the Sun: not any, not any: for before the jewel of the morning be fully set in silver, a hundred hungry graves stand gaping, and every one of them (as at a breakfast) hath swallowed down ten or eleven lifeless carcases: before dinner, in the same gulf are twice so many more devoured: and before the sun takes his rest, those numbers are doubled: Threescore that not many hours before had every one several lodgings very delicately furnished, are now thrust altogether into one close room: a little little noisome room: not fully ten foot square. Doth not this strike coldly to the heart of a worldly miser? To some, the very sound of death's name, is in stead of a passing bell: what shall become of such a coward, being told that the self-same body of his, which now is so pampered with superfluous fare, so perfumed and bathed in odoriferous waters, and so gaily appareled in variety of fashions, must one day be thrown (like stinking carrion) into a rank & rotten grave; where his goodly eyes, that did once shoot forth such amorous glances, must be eaten out of his head: his locks that hang wanton dangling, trodden in dirt under foot: this doubtless (like thunder) must needs strike him into the earth. But (wretched man!) when thou shalt see, and be assured (by tokens sent thee from heaven) that to morrow thou must be fumbled into a Mucke-pit, and suffer thy body to be bruised and priest with threescore dead men, lying slovenly upon thee, and thou to be undermost of all! yea and perhaps half of that number were thine enemies! (and see how they may be revenged, for the worms that breed out of their putrefying carcases, shall crawl in huge swarms from them, and quite devour thee) what agonies will this strange news drive thee into? If thou art in love with thyself, this cannot choose but possess thee with frenzy. But thou art gotten safe (out of the civil city Calamity) to thy Parks and Palaces in the Country: lading thy Asses and thy Mules with thy gold, (thy god), thy plate, and thy jewels: and the fruits of thy womb thriftily growing up but in one only son, (the young Landlord of all thy careful labours) him also hast thou rescued from the arrows of infection; Now is thy soul jocund, and thy senses merry. But open thine eyes thou Fool! and behold that darling of thine eye, (thy son) turned suddenly into a lump of clay; the hand of pestilence hath smote him even under thy wing: Now dost thou rend thine hair, blaspheme thy Creator, cursest thy creation, and basely descendest into brutish & unmanly passions, threatening in despite of death & his Plague, to maintain the memory of thy child, in the everlasting breast of Marble: a tomb must now defend him from tempests: And for that purpose, the sweaty hind (that digs the rent he pays thee out of the entrails of the earth) he is sent for, to convey forth that burden of thy sorrow: But note how thy pride is disdained: that weatherbeaten sunburnt drudge, that not a month since fawnde upon thy worship like a Spaniel, and like a bondslave, would have stooped lower than thy feet, does now stop his nose at thy presence, and is ready to set his Mastiff as high as thy throat, to drive thee from his door: all thy gold and silver cannot hire one of those (whom before thou didst scorn) to carry the dead body to his last home: the Country round about thee, shun thee as a Basilisk, and therefore to London (from whose arms thou cowardly fledst away) post upon post must be galloping, to fetch from thence those that may perform that Funeral office: But there are they so full of gravematters of their own, that they have no leisure to attend thine: doth not this cut thy very heartstrings in sunder? If that do not, the shutting up of this Tragical Act, I am sure will: for thou must be enforced with thine own hands, to wind up (that blasted flower of youth) in the last linen, that ever he shall wear: upon thine own shoulders, must thou bear part of him, thy amazed servant the other: with thine own hands must thou dig his grave, (not in the Church, or common place of burial, (thou hast not favour (for all thy riches) to be so happy,) but in thine Orchard, or in the proud walks of thy Garden, wring thy palsie-shaken hands in stead of bells, (most miserable father) must thou search him out a sepulchre.  
My spirit grows faint with rowing in this Stygian Ferry, it can no longer endure the transportation of souls in this doleful manner: let us therefore shift a point of our Compass, and (since there is no remedy, but that we must still be tossed up and down in this Mare mortuum,) hoist up all our sails, and on the merry wings of a lustier wind seek to arrive on some prosperous shore.  
Imagine then that all this while, Death (like a Spanish Leagar, or rather like stalking Tamburlaine) hath pitched his tents, (being nothing but a heap of winding sheeets tacked together) in the sinfully-polluted Suburbs: the Plague is Muster-maister and Marshal of the field: Burning Fevers, boils, Blains, and Carbuncles, the Leaders, Lieutenants, sergeant, and Corporals: the main Army consisting (like Dunkirk) of a mingle-mangle, viz. dampish Mourners, merry Sextons, hungry Coffin-sellers, scrubbing Bearers, and nasty Grave-makers: but indeed they are the pioneers of the Camp, that are employed only (like Moles) in casting up of earth and digging of trenches; Fear and Trembling (the two Catch-polles of Death) arrest every one: No parley will be granted, no composition stood upon, But the alarum is struck up, the Toxin rings out for life, and no voice heard but Tue, Tue, Kill, Kill; the little Bell's only (like small shot) do yet go off, and make no great work for worms, a hundred or two lost in every skirmish, or so: but alas that's nothing: yet by these desperate sallies, what by open setting upon them by day, and secret Ambuscadoes by night, the skirts of London were pitifully pared off, by little and little: which they within the gates perceiving, it was no boot to bid them take their heels, for away they trudge thick & threefold, some riding, some on foot, some without boots, some in their slippers, by water, by land, In shoals swom they westward, mary to Gravesend none went unless they were driven, for whosoever landed there never came back again: Hackneys, watermen & Wagons, were not so terribly employed many a year; so that within a short time, there was not a good horse in Smithfield, nor a Coach to be set eye on. For after the world had once run upon the wheels of the Pest-cart, neither coach nor caroche durst appear in his likeness.  
Let us pursue these runnaways no longer, but leave them in the unmerciful hands of the Country-hard-harted Hobbinolls, (who are ordained to be their Tormentors,) and return back to the siege of the City; for the enemy taking advantage by their flight, planted his ordinance against the walls; here the Canons (like their great Bells) roared: the Plague took sore pains for a breach, he laid about him cruelly, ere he could get it, but at length he and his tyrannous band entered: his purple colours were presently (with the sound of Bow-bell in stead of a trumpet) advanced, and joined to the Standard of the City; he marched even thorough Cheapside, and the capital streets of Troynovant: the only blot of dishonour that stuck upon this invader, being this, that he played the tyrant, not the conqueror, making havoc of all, when he had all lying at the foot of his mercy. Men, women & children dropped down before him: houses were rifled, streets ransacked, beautiful maidens thrown on their beds, and ravished by sickness, rich-man's Coffers broken open, and shared amongst prodigal heirs and unthrifty servants, poor men used poorly, but not pitifully: he did very much hurt, yet some say he did very much good. Howsoever he behaved himself, this intelligence runs currant, that every house looked like S. Bartholomew's. Hospital, and every street like Bucklersbury, for poor Mithridatum and Dragon-water (being both of them in all the world, scarce worth thrée-pences) were boxed in every corner, and yet were both drunk every hour at other men's cost. Lazarus lay groaning at every man's door, mary no Dives was within to send him a crumb, (for all your Goldfinches were fled to the woods) nor a dog left to lick up his sores, for they (like Curs) were knocked down, like Oxen, and fell thicker than Acorns.  
I am amazed to remember what dead Marches were made of three thousand trooping together; husbands, wives & children, being lead as ordinarily to one grave, as if they had gone to one bed. And those that could shift for a time, and shrink their heads out of the collar (as many did) yet went they (most bitterly) miching and muffled up & down with Rue and Wormwood stuffed into their ears and nostrils, looking like so many Boar's heads stuck with branches of Rosemary, to be served in for Brawn at Christmas.  
This was a rare world for the Church, who had wont to complain for want of living, and now had more living thrust upon her, than she knew how to bestow: to have been Clerk now to a parish Clarke, was better than to serve some foolish justice of Peace, or than the year before to have had a Benefice. Sextons gave out, if they might (as they hoped) continue these doings but a twelvemonth longer, they and their posterity would all ride upon footcloths to the end of the world. Amongst which worm-eaten generation, the three bald Sextons of limping Saint Gyles, Saint Sepulchres, and Saint Olaf's, ruled the roost more hotly, than ever did the Triumuiri of Rome. jehochanan, simeon, and Eleazar, never kept such a plaguy coil in jerusalem among the hunger-starved jews, as these three Sharkers did in their Parishes among naked Christians. Cursed they were I am sure by some to the pit of hell, for tearing money out of their throats, that had not a cross in their purses. But alas! they must have it, it is their fee, and therefore give the devil his due: Only Hearbe-wives and Gardeners (that never prayed before, unless it were for rain or fair weather) were now day and night upon their marrowbones, that God would bless the labours of these molecatchers, because they suck sweetness by this; for the price of flowers, herbs and garlands, rose wonderfully, in so much that Rosemary which had wont to be sold for 12. pence an armful, went now for six shillings a handful.  
A fourth sharer likewise (of these winding-shéete weavers) deserves to have my pen give his lips a jews Letter, but because he worships the Baker's good Lord & Master, charitable S. Clement (whereas none of the other three ever had to do with any Saint) he shall scape the better: only let him take heed, that having all this year buried his prayers in the bellies of Fatones, and plump Capon-eaters, (for no worse meat would down this Sly-foxes stomach) let him I say take heed, lest (his flesh now falling away) his carcase be not plagued with lean ones, of whom (whilst the bill of Lord have mercy upon us, was to be denied in no place) it was death for him to hear.  
In this pitiful (or rather pitiless) perplexity stood London, forsaken like a Lover, forlorn like a widow, and disarmde of all comfort: disarmde I may well say, for five Rapiers were not stirring all this time, and those that were worn had never been seen, if any money could have been lent upon them, so hungry is this Ostrich disease, that it will devour even Iron: let us therefore with bag & baggage march away from this dangerous sore City, and visit those that are fled into the Country. But alas! Decidis in Scyllam, you are peppered if you visit them, for they are visited already: the broad Arrow of Death, flies there up & down, as swiftly as it doth here: they that road on the lustiest geldings could not out-gallop the Plague, It overtook them, and overturnd them too, horse and foot.  
You whom the arrows of pestilence have reached at eighteen and twenty score (though you stood far enough as you thought from the mark) you that sickening in the high way, would have been glad of a bed in an Hospital, and dying in the open fields, have been buried like dogs, how much better had it been for you, to have lain fuller of biles & plague-sores than ever did job, so you might in that extremity have received both bodily & spiritual comfort, which there was denied you? For those misbelieving Pagans, the plough-drivers, those worse than Infidels, that (like their Swine never look up so high as heaven: when Citizens boarded them they wrung their hands, and wished rather they had fallen into the hands of Spaniards: for the sight of a flatcap was more dreadful to a Lob, than the discharging of a Caliver: a treble-ruffe (being but once named the Merchants set) had power to cast a whole household into a cold sweat. If one new suit of Sackcloth had been but known to have come out of Burchen-lane (being the common Wardrobe for all their Clowneships) it had been enough to make a Market town give up the ghost. A Crow that had been seen in a sunshine day, standing on the top of Paul's would have been better than a Beacon on fire, to have raised all the towns within ten miles of London, for the keeping her out.  
Never let any man ask me what became of our Physicians in this Massacre, they hide their Synodical heads aswell as the proudest: and I cannot blame them, for their Phlebotomies, Losing, and Electuaries, with their Diacatholicons, Diacodions, Annulets, and Antidotes, had not so much strength to hold life and soul together, as a pot of Pinders Ale and a Nutmeg: their drugs turned to dirt, their simples were simple things: Galen could do no more good, than Sir Giles Goosecap: Hipocrates, Avicen, Paracelsus, Rasis, Fernelius, with all their succeeding rabble of Doctors and Water-casters, were at their wit's end, or I think rather at the world's end, for not one of them durst peep abroad; or if any one did take upon him to play the venturous Knight, the Plague put him to his Nonplus; in such strange, and such changeable shapes did this chameleon-like sickness appear, that they could not (with all the cunning in their budgets) make pursenets to take him napping.  
Only a band of Desper-vewes, some few Empirical madcaps (for they could never be worth velvet caps) turned themselves into Bees (or more properly into Drones) and went humming up and down, with hony-brags in their mouths, sucking the sweetens of Silver, (and now and then of Aurum Potabile) out of the poison of Blains and Carbuncles: and these jolly Mountibanks clapped up their bills upon every post (like a Fencer's Challenge) threatening to canvas the Plague, and to fight with him at all his own several weapons: I know not how they sped, but some they sped I am sure, for I have heard them band for the heavens, because they sent those thither, that were wished to tarry longer upon earth.  
I could in this place make your cheeks look pale, and your hearts shake, with telling how some have had 18. sores at one time running upon them, others 10. and 12. many 4. and 5. and how those that have been four times wounded by this years infection, have died of the last wound, whilst others (that were hurt as often) go up and down now with sounder limbs, than many that come out of France, and the Netherlands. And descending from these, I could draw forth a Catalogue of many poor wretches, that in fields, in ditches, in common Cages, and under stalls (being either thrust by cruel masters out of doors, or wanting all worldly succour but the common benefit of earth and air) have most miserably perished. But to Chronicle these would weary a second Fabian.  
We will therefore play the Soldiers, who at the end of any notable battle, with a kind of sad delight rehearse the memorable acts of their friends that lie mangled before them: some showing how bravely they gave the onset: some, how politicly they retired: others, how manfully they gave and received wounds: a fourth steps up and glories how valiantly he lost an arm: all of them making (by this means) the remembrance even of tragical and mischievous events very delectable. Let us strive to do so, discoursing (as it were at the end of this mortal siege of the Plague) of the several most worthy accidents, and strange births which this pestiferous year hath brought forth: some of them yielding Comical and ridiculous stuff, others lamentable: a third kind upholding rather admiration, than laughter or pity.  
As first, to relish the palate of liquorish expectation, and withal to give an Item how sudden a stabber this ruffianly swaggerer (Death) is, You must believe, that amongst all the weary number of those that (on their bare-feets) have travailed (in this long and heavy vacation) to the Holy-land, one (whose name I could for need bestow upon you) but that I know you have no need of it, the many want a good name) lying in that common Inn of sick-men, his bed, & seeing the black & blue stripes of the plague sticking on his flesh, which he received as tokens (from heaven) that he was presently to go dwell in the upper world, most earnestly requested, and in a manner conjured his friend (who came to interchange a last farewell) that he would see him go handsomely attired into the wild Irish country of worms, and for that purpose to bestow a Coffin upon him: his friend loving him (not because he was poor (yet he was poor) but because he was a scholar: Alack that the West Indies stand so far from Universities! and that a mind richly appareled should have a threadbare body!) made faithful promise to him, that he should be nailed up, he would board him, and for that purpose went instantly to one of the newfound trade of Coffin-cutters, bespoke one, and (like the Surveyor of death's buildings) gave direction how this little Tenement should be framed, paying all the rent for it before hand. But note upon what slippery ground life goes! little did he think to dwell in that room himself which he had taken for his friend: yet it seemed the common law of mortality had so decreed, for he was called into the cold company of his grave neighbours an hour before his infected friend, and had a long lease (even till dooms day) in the same lodging, which in the strength of health he went to prepare for the other. What credit therefore is to be given to breath, which like a harlot will run away with every minute. How nimble is Sickness, and what skill hath he in all the weapons he plays withal? The greatest cutter that takes up the Mediterranean I'll in Paul's for his Gallery to walk in, cannot ward off his blows. he's the best Fencer in the world: Vincentio Saviolo is no body to him: He has his Mandrittaes, Imbrocataes, Stramazones, and Stoccataes at's fingers ends: he'll make you give him ground, though you were never worth foot of land, and beat you out of breath, though Aeolus himself played upon your windpipe.  
To witness which, I will call forth a Dutchman (yet now he's past calling for, h'as lost his hearing, for his ears by this time are eaten off with worms) who (though he dwelled in Bedlam) was not mad, yet the very looks of the Plague (which indeed are terrible) put him almost out of his wits, for when the snares of this cunning hunter (the Pestilence) were but newly laid, and yet laid (as my Dutchman smelled it out well enough) to entrap poor men's lives that meant him no hurt, away sneak's my clipper of the kings english, and (because Musket-shot should not reach him) to the Low-countries (that are built upon butter-firkins, and holland cheese) sails this plaguy fugitive, but death, (who hath more authority there than all the seven Electors, and to show him that there were other Low-countries besides his own) takes a little Frokin (one of my Dutch runaways children) and sends her packing, into those Netherlands she departed: O how pitifully looked my Burgomaster, when he understood that the sickness could swim! It was an easy matter to scape the Dunkirks, but Death's Galleys made out after him swifter than the great Turks. Which he perceiving, made no more ado, but drunk to the States five or six healths (because he would be sure to live well) and back again comes he, to try the strength of English Beer: his old Rendezvous of madmen was the place of meeting, where he was no sooner arrived, but the Plague had him by the back, and arrested him upon an Exeat Regnum, for running to the enemy, so that for the mad tricks he played to cozen our english worms of his Dutch carcase (which had been fatted here) sickness and death clapped him up in Bedlam the second time, and there he lies, and there he shall lie till he rot before i'll meble any more with him.  
But being gotten out of Bedlam, let us make a journey to Bristol, taking an honest known Citizen along with us, who with other company travailing thither (only for fear the air of London should conspire to poison him) and setting up his rest not to hear the sound of Bow-bell till next Christmas, was notwithstanding in the high way singled out from his company, and set upon by the Plague, who bid him stand, and deliver his life. The rest at that word shifted for themselves, and went on, he (amazed to see his friends fly, and being not able to defend himself, for who can defend himself meeting such an enemy?) yielded, and being but about forty miles from London, used all the slights he could to get lose out of the hands of death, and so to hide himself in his own house, whereupon, he called for help at the same Inn, where not long before he and his fellow-pilgrimes obtained for their money (mary yet with more prayers than a beggar makes in three Terms) to stand and drink some thirty foot from the door. To this house of tippling Iniquity he repairs again, conjuring the Lares or walking Spirits in it, if they were Christians (that if was well put in) and in the name of God, to succour and rescue him to their power out of the hands of infection, which now assaulted his body: the Devil would have been afraid of this conjuration, but they were not, yet afraid they were it seemed, for presently the doors had their wooden ribs crushed in pieces, by being beaten together: the casements were shut more close than an usurers greasy velvet pouch: the drawing windows were hanged drawn and quartered: not a crevice but was stopped, not a mousehole left open, for all the holes in the house were most wickedly damned up: mine Host and Hostess ran over one another into the backside, the maids into the Orchard, quivering and quaking, and ready to hang themselves on the innocent Plomtrées, (for hanging to them would not be so sore a death as the Plague, & to die maids too! Oh horrible!) As for the Tapster, he fled into the Cellar, rapping out five or six plain Country oaths that he would drown himself in a most villainous Stand of Ale, if the sick Londoner stood at the door any longer. But stand there he must, for to go away (well) he cannot, but continues knocking and calling in a faint voice, which in their ears sounded as if some staring ghost in a Tragedy had exclaimed upon Rhadamant: he might knock till his hands ached, and call till his heart ached, for they were in a worse pickle within, than he was without: he being in a good way to go to heaven, they being so frighted, that they scarce knew whereabout heaven stood, only they all cried out, Lord have mercy upon us, yet Lord have mercy upon us was the only thing they feared. The doleful Catastrophe of all is, a bed could not be had for all Babylon: not a cup of drink, no, nor cold water be gotten, though it had been for Alexander the great: if a draft of Aqua vitae might have saved his soul, the town denied to do God that good service.  
What misery continues ever? The poor man standing thus at death's door, and looking every minute when he should be let in, behold, another Londoner, that had likewise been in the Frigida Zona of the country, and was returning (like Aeneas out of hell) to the heaven of his own home, makes a stand at this sight, to play the Physician, and seeing by the complexion of his patient that he was sick at heart, applies to his soul the best medicines that his comforting speech could make, for there dwelled no Apothecary near enough to help his body. Being therefore driven out of all other shifts, he leads him into a field (a bundle of Straw, which with much ado he bought for money, serving in stead of a pillow.) But the destinies hearing the diseased party complain and take on, because he lay upon a field-bed, when before he would have been glad of a mattress, for very spite cut the thread of his life, the cruelty of which deed, made the other (that played Charity's part) at his wit's end, because he knew not where to purchase ten foot of ground for his grave: the Church nor Churchyard would let none of their lands: Master Vicar was struck dumb, and could not give the dead a good word, neither Clerk nor Sexton could be hired to execute their office; no, they themselves would first be executed: so that he that never handled shovel before, got his implements about him, ripd up the belly of the earth, and made it like a grave, stripped the cold carcase, bound his shirt about his feet, pulled a linen nightcap over his eyes, and so laid him in the rotten bed of the earth, covering him with clothes cut out of the same piece; and learning by his last words his name and habitation, this sad travailer arrives at London, delivering to the amazed widow and children in stead of a father and a husband, only the outside of him, his apparel. But by the way note one thing, the bringer of these heavy tidings (as if he had lived long enough when so excellent a work of piety and pity was by him finished) the very next day after his coming home, departed out of this world, to receive his reward in the Spiritual court of heaven.  
It is plain therefore by the evidence of these two witnesses, that death like a thief sets upon men in the high way, dogs them into their own houses, breaks into their bedchambers by night, assaults them by day, and yet no law can take hold of him: he devours man and wife: offers violence to their fair daughters: kills their youthful sons, and deceives them of their servants: yea, so full of treachery is he grown (since this Plague took his part) that no Lovers dare trust him, nor by their good wills would come near him, for he works their downfall, even when their delights are at the highest.  
Too ripe a proof have we of this, in a pair of Lovers; the maid was in the pride of fresh blood and beauty: she was that which to be now is a wonder, young and yet chaste: the gifts of her mind were great, yet those which fortune bestowed upon her (as being well descended) were not much inferior: On this lovely creature did a young man so steadfastly fix his eye, that her looks kindled in his bosom a desire, whose flames burnt the more brightly, because they were fed with sweet and modest thoughts: Hymen was the God to whom he prayed day and night that he might marry her: his prayers were received, & at length (after many tempests of her denial & the frowns of kinsfolk) the element grew clear, & he saw the happy landing-place, where he had long sought to arrive: the prize of her youth was made his own, & the solemn day appointed when it should be delivered to him. Glad of which blessedness (for to a lover it is a blessedness) he wrought by all the possible art he could use to shorten the expected hour, and bring it nearer: for whether he feared the interception of parents, or that his own soul (with excess of joy) was drowned in strange passions, he would often, with sighs mingled with kisses, and kisses half sinking in tears, prophetically tell her, that sure he should never live to enjoy her: To discredit which opinion of his, behold, the Sun has made haste and wakened the bridal morning. Now does he call his heart traitor, that did so falsely conspire against him: lively blood leaps into his cheeks: he's got up, and gaily attired to play the Bridegroom; She likewise does as cunningly turn herself into a Bride; kindred and friends are met together; Sops and Muscadine run sweeting up and down till they drop again, to comfort their hearts, and because so many Coffins pestered London-Churches, that there was no room left for weddings, Coaches are provided, and away rides all the train into the Country. On a Monday morning are these lusty lovers on their journey, and before noon are they alighted, entering (in stead of an Inn) for more State into a Church, where they no sooner appeared, but the Priest fell to his business, the holy knot was a tying, but he that should fasten it, coming to this, In sickness and in health, there he stopped, for suddenly the bride took hold of, in sickness, for in health all that stood by were in fear she should never be kept. The mayden-blush into which her cheeks were lately died, now began to lose colour: her voice (like a coward) would have shrunk away, but that her Lover reaching her a hand, which he brought thither to give her, (for he was not yet made a full Husband) did with that touch somewhat revive her: on went they again so far, till they met with For better, for worse, there was she worse than before, and had not the holy Officer made haste, the ground on which she stood to be married might easily have been broken up for her burial. All Ceremonies being finished, she was lead between two, not like a Bride, but like a Coarse, to her bed: That; must now be the table, on which the wedding dinner is to be served up (being at this time nothing, but tears and sighs and lamentation) and Death is chief waiter, yet at length her weak heart wrestling with the pangs, gave them a fall, so that up she stood again, and in the fatal funeral Coach that carried her forth, was she brought back (as upon a Beer) to the City: but see the malice of her enemy that had her in chase, upon the Wedsday following being overtaken, was her life overcome, Death rudely lay with her, & spoiled her of a maidenhead in spite of her husband. Oh the sorrow that did round beset him! now was his divination true, she was a wife, yet continued a maid: he was a husband and a widower, yet never knew his wife: she was his own, yet he had her not: she had him, yet never enjoyed him: here is a strange alteration, for the Rosemary that was washed in sweet water to set out the Bridal, is now wet in tears to furnish her burial: the Music that was heard to sound forth dances cannot now be heard for the ringing of bells: all the comfort that happened to either side being this, that he lost her, before she had time to be an ill wife, and she let him, ere he was able to be a bad husband.  
Better fortune had this Bride to fall into the hands of the Plague, than one other of that frail female sex, (whose picture is next to be drawn) had to scape out of them. An honest Cobbler (if at least Cobblers can be honest, that live altogether amongst wicked soles) had a wife, who in the time of health treading her shoe often awry, determined in the agony of a sickness (which this year had a saying to her) to fall to mending as well as her husband did. The bed that she lay upon (being as she thought, or rather feared) the last bed that ever should bear her, (for many other beds had borne her you must remember) and the worm of sin tickling her conscience, up she calls her very innocent and simple husband, out of his virtuous shop, where like justice he sat distributing among the poor, to some, halfpenny pieces, penny-pieces to some, and twopenny pieces to others, so long as they would last; his provident care being always, that every man and woman should go upright. To the bed's side of his plaguy wife approaches Mounsieur Cobbler, to understand what deadly news she had to tell him, and the rest of his kind neighbours that there were assembled: Such thick tears, standing in both the gutters of his eyes, to see his beloved lie in such a pickle, that in their salt water, all his utterance was drowned: which she perceiving, wept as fast as he: But by the warm counsel which sat about the bed, the shower ceased; she wiping her cheeks with the corner of one of the sheeets, and he, his sullied face, with his lothren Apron. At last, two or three sighs (like a Chorus to the Tragedy ensuing) stepping out first, wring her hands (which gave the better Action) she told the pitiful Actaeon her husband, that she had often done him wrong: he only shook his head at this, and cried humh! which humh, she taking as the watchword of his true patience, unraveld the bottom of her frailty at length, and concluded, that with such a man (and named him, but I hope you would not have me follow her steps and name him too) she practised the universal & common Art of grafting, and that upon her good man's head, they two had planted a monstrous pair of invisible horns: At the sound of the Horns, my Cobbler started up like a march Hare, and began to look wild: his Awl never ran through the sides of a boot, as that word did through his heart: but being a politic Cobbler, and remembering what piece of work he was to under-laie, stroking his beard (like some grave Head-borough of the Parish) and giving a nod, as who should say go on, bade her go on indeed, clapping to her sore soul, this general salve, that All are sinners, and we must forgive, etc. For he hoped by such wholesome Physic, (as Shoemakers wax being laid to a bile) to draw out all the corruption of her secret villainies. She good heart being tickled under the gills, with the finger of these kind speeches, turns up the white of her eye, and fetches out an other. Another (O thou that art trained up in nothing but to handle pieces) Another hath discharged his Artillery against thy Castle of Fortification: here was passion predominant: Vulcan struck the cobblers ghost (for he was now no Cobbler) so hard upon his breast, that he cried oh! his neighbour's taking pity to see what terrible stitches pulled him, rubbeth his swelling temples with the juice of patience, which (by virtue of the blackish sweat that stood réeking on his brows, and had made them supple) entered very easily into his now-parlous-understanding skull: So that he left wenching, and sat quiet as a Lamb, falling to his old vomit of council, which he had cast up before, and swearing (because he was in strong hope, this shoe, should wring him no more) to seal her a general acquittance, pricked forward with this gentle spur, her tongue mends his pace, so that in her confession she overtook others, whose boots had been set all night on the cobblers Last, bestowing upon him the Poesy of their names, the time, and place, to the intent it might be put into his next wives wedding-ring. And although she had made all these blots in his tables, yet the bearing of one man false (whom she had not yet discovered) stuck more in her stomach than all the rest. O valiant Cobbler (cries out one of the Auditors) how art thou set upon? how art thou tempted? happy art thou, that thou art not in thy shop, for in stead of cutting out pieces of leather, thou wouldst doubtless now pair away thy heart: for I see, and so do all thy neighbours hear (thy wives ghostly fathers) see that a small matter would now make thee turn Turk, and to meddle with no more patches: but to live within the compass of thy wit: lift not up thy collar: be not horn mad: thank heaven that the murder is revealed: Study thou baltazar's part in jeronimo, for thou hast more cause (though less reason) than he, to be glad and sad.  
Well, I see thou art worthy to have patiented Griseld to thy wife, for thou bearest more than she: thou showst thyself to be a right Cobbler & no souter, that canst thus cleanly clout up the broken & seamerent sides of thy affection. With this learned oration the Cobbler was tutored: laid his finger on his mouth, & cried Paveos palabros: he had sealed her pardon, and therefore bid her not fear: hereupon she named the malefactor (I could name him too, but that he shall live to give more cobblers heads the bastinado.) And told, that on such a night when he supped there (for a Lord may sup with a Cobbler, that hath a pretty wench to his wife) when the cloth (O treacherous linen!) was taken up, and Menelaus had for a parting blow, given the other his fist; down she lights (this half-sharer) opening the wicket, but not shutting him out of the wicket; but conueys him into a by-room (being the wardrobe of old shoes and leather) from whence (the Vnicorne-cobler (that dreamt of no such spirits) being overhead and ears in sleep; his snorting giving the sign that he was cocksure) softly out-steales Sir Paris, and to hellena's teeth proved himself a true Trojan.  
This was the cream of her confession, which being skimmed off from the stomach of her conscience, she looked every minute to go thither, where she should be far enough out of the cobblers reach. But the Fates laying their heads together, sent a Reprieve, the Plague that before meant to pepper her, by little and little left her company: which news being blown abroad, Oh lamentable! never did the old buskined Tragedy begin till now: for the wives of those husbands, with whom she had played at fast and lose, came with nails sharpened for the nonce like cats, and tongues forkedly cut like the stings of Adders, first to scratch out false cressida's eyes, and then (which was worse) to woorry her to death with scolding.  
But the matter was took up in a Tavern; the case was altered, and brought to a new reckoning (marry the blood of the Bordeaux Grape was first shed about it) but in the end, all anger on every side was powered into a pottle-pot, and there burnt to death. Now whether this Recantation was true, or whether the steam of infection, fuming up (like wine) into her brains, made her talk thus idly, I leave it to the jury.  
And whilst they are canvasing her case, let us see what doings the Sexton of Stepny hath: whose warehouses being all full of dead commodities, saving one: that one he left open a whole night (yet was it half full too) knowing that thieves this year were too honest to break into such Cellars. Besides those that were left there, had such plaguy-pates, that none durst meddle with them for their lives. About twelve of the clock at midnight, when spirits walk, and not a Mouse dare stir, because Cats go a Caterwauling: Sin, that all day durst not show his head, came reeling out of an Alehouse in the shape of a drunkard: who no sooner smelled the wind, but he thought the ground under him danced the Canaries: houses seemed to turn on the toe, and all things went round: in so much that his legs drew a pair of Indentures, between his body and the earth, the principal covenant being, that he for his part would stand to nothing what ever he saw: every tree that came in his way, did he justle, and yet challenged it the next day to fight with him. If he had clipped but a quarter so much of the King's silver, as he did of the Kings English, his carcase had long ere this, been carrion for Crows. But he lived by gaming, and had excellent casting, yet seldom won, for he drew reasonable good hands, but had very bad feet, that were not able to carry it away. This setter up of maltmen, being troubled with the staggers, fell into the self-same grave, which stood gaping wide open for a breakfast next morning, and imagining (when he was in) that he had stumbled into his own house, and that all his bedfellows (as they were indeed) were in their dead sleep, he, (never complaining of cold, nor calling for more sheet) sound takes a nap till he snorts again: In the morning, the Sexton comes plodding along, and casting upon his finger's ends what he hopes the dead pay of that day will come too, by that that which he received the day before, (for Sextons now had better doings than either Taverns or bawdy-houses,): In that silver contemplation, shrugging his shoulders together, he steps ere he be aware on the brims of that pit, into which this worshipper of Bacchus was fallen, where finding some dead men's bones, and a skull or two, that lay scattered here and there; before he looked into this Coffer of worms, those he takes up, and flings them in: one of the skulls battered the sconce of the sleeper, whilst the bones played with his nose; whose blows waking his musty worship, the first word that he cast up, was an oath, & thinking the Cans had flyen about, cried zounds, what do you mean to crack my mazer? the Sexton smelling a voice, (fear being stronger than his heart) believed verily, some of the corpses spoke to him, upon which, feeling himself in a cold sweat, took his heels, whilst the Goblin scrambled up and ran after him: But it appears the Sexton had the lighter foot, for he ran so fast, that he ran out of his wits, which being left behind him, he died in a short time after, because he was not able to live without them.  
A merrier bargain than the poor Sextons did a Tinker meet with all in a Country Town; through which a Citizen of London being driven (to keep himself under the léeshore in this tempestuous contagion) and casting up his eye for some harbour, spied a bush at the end of a pool, (the ancient badge of a Country Alehouse:) Into which as good luck was, (without any resistance of the Barbarians, that all this year used to keep such landing places) veiling his Bonnet, he strucks in. The Host had been a mad Greek, (mary he could now speak nothing but English,) a goodly fat Burger he was, with a belly Arching out like a beer-barrel, which made his legs (that were thick & short like two piles driven under London-bridge) to straddle half as wide as the top of Paul's, which upon my knowledge hath been burnt twice or thrice. A leathern pouch hung at his side, that opened and shut with a Snap hance, and was indeed a flask for gunpowder when King Henry went to Boulogne. An Antiquary might have picked rare matter out of his Nose, but that it was worm-eaten (yet that proved it to be an an ancient Nose:) In some corners of it, there were bluish holes, that shun like shells of mother of Pearl, and to do his Nose right, Pearls had been gathered out of them: other were richly garnished with Rubies, Chrysolites and Carbunckles, which glisteren so oriently that the Hamburgers, offered I know not how many Dollars, for his company in an East-Indian voyage, to have stood a nights in the Poop of their Admiral, only to save the charges of candles. In conclusion, he was an Host to be led before an Emperor, and though he were one of the greatest men in all the shire, his bigness made him not proud, but he humbled himself to speak the base language of a Tapster, and upon the Londoners first arrival, cried welcome, a cloth for this Gentleman: the Linen was spread and furnished presently with a new Cake and a Can, the Room voided, and the Guest left (like a French Lord) attended by no body: who drinking half a Can (in conceit) to the health of his best friend the City, which lay extreme sick, and had never more need of health, I know not what qualms came over his stomach, but immediately he fell down without uttering any more words, and never rose again.  
Anon (as it was his fashion) enters my puffing Host, to relieve with a fresh supply out of his Cellar,) the shrinking Can, if he perceived it stood in danger to be overthrown. But seeing the chief Leader dropped at his feet, and imagining at first he was but wounded a little in the head, held up his gouty golls and blessed himself, that a Londoner (who had wont to be the most valiant rob pots) should now be struck down only with two hoops: and thereupon jogged him, fumbling out these comfortable words of a soldier, If thou art a man stand a thy legs: he stirred not for all this: whereupon the Maids being raised (as it had been with a hue and cry) came hobbling into the Room, like a flock of Geese, and having upon search of the body given up this verdict, that the man was dead, and murdered by the Plague; Oh daggers to all their hearts that heard it! Away trudge the wenches, and one of them having had a freckled face all her life time, was persuaded presently that now they were the tokens, and had liked to have turned up her heels upon it: My gorbelly Host, that in many a year could not without grunting, crawl over a threshold but two foot broad, leapt half a yard from the coarse (It was measured by a Carpenter's rule) as nimbly, as if his guts had been taken out by the hangman: out of the house he wallowed presently, being followed with two or three dozen of napkins to dry up the lard, that ran so fast down his heels, that all the way he went, was more greasy than a kitchin-stuffe-wifes' basket: you would have sworn, it had been a barrel of Pitch on fire, if you had looked upon him, for such a smoky cloud (by reason of his own fatty hot stéeme) compassed him round, that but for his voice, he had quite been lost in that stinking mist: hanged himself he had without all question (in this pitiful taking) but that he feared the weight of his intolerable paunch, would have burst the Rope, and so he should be put to a double death. At length the Town was raised, the Country came down upon him, and yet not upon him neither, for after they understood the Tragedy, every man gave ground, knowing my pursy Ale-cionner could not follow them: what is to be done in this strange alarum? The whole Village is in danger to lie at the mercy of God, and shall be bound to curse none, but him for it: they should do well therefore, to set fire on his house, before the Plague scape out of it, lest it forage higher into the Country, and knock them down, man, woman, and child, like Oxen, whose blood (they all swear) shall be required at his hands. At these speeches my tenderhearted Host, fell down on his marrowbones, meaning indeed to entreat his audience to be good to him; but they fearing he had been peppered too, as well as the Londoner, tumbled one over another, and were ready to break their necks for haste to be gone: yet some of them (being more valiant than the rest, because they heard him roar out for some help) very desperately stepped back, and with rakes and pitchforks lifted the gulch from the ground. Concluding (after they had laid their hogsheads together, to draw out some wholesome counsel) that whosoever would venture upon the dead man & bury him, should have forty shillings (out of the common towne-purse, though it would be a great cut to it) with the love of the Churchwardens and Sidemen, during the term of life. This was proclaimed, but none durst appear to undertake the dreadful execution: they loved money well, mary the plague hanging over any man's head that should meddle with it in that sort, they all vowed to die beggars before it should be Chronicled they killed themselves for forty shillings: and in that brave resolution, every one with bag and baggage marched home, barricadoing their doors and windows with firbushes, fern, and bundles of straw to keep out the pestilence at the staves end.  
At last a Tinker came sounding through the town, mine Hosts house being the ancient watering place where he did use to cast Anchor. You must understand he was none of those base rascally Tinkers, that with a bandog and a drab at their tails, and a pikestaff on their necks, will take a purse sooner than stop a kettle: No, this was a devout Tinker, he did honour God Pan: a Musical Tinker, that upon his kettledrum could play any country dance you called for, and upon Holidays had earned money by it, when no Fiddler could be heard of. He was only feared when he stalked through some towns where Bees were, for he struck so sweetly on the bottom of his copper instrument, that he would empty whole Hives, and lead the swarms after him only by the sound.  
This excellent egregious Tinker calls for his draft (being a double jug) it was filled for him, but before it came to his nose, the lamentable tale of the Londoner was told, the Chamber-dore (where he lay) being thrust open with a long pole, (because none durst touch it with their hands) and the Tinker bidden (if he had the heart) to go in and see if he knew him. The Tinker being not to learn what virtue the medicine had which he held at his lips, powered it down his throat merrily, and crying trillill, he feared no plagues. In he stepped, tossing the dead body too and fro, and was sorry he knew him not: Mine Host that with grief began to fall away villainously, looking very ruefully on the Tinker, and thinking him a fit instrument to be played upon, offered a crown out of his own purse, if he would bury the party. A crown was a shrewd temptation to a Tinker; many a hole might he stop, before he could pick a crown of it, yet being a subtle Tinker (and to make all Sextons pray for him, because he would raise their fees) an Angel he wanted to be his guide, and under ten shillings (by his ten bones) he would not put his finger in the fire. The whole parish had warning of this presently, thirty shillings was saved by the bargain, and the town likely to be saved too, therefore ten shillings was levied out of hand, put into a rag, which was tied to the end of a long pole and delivered (in sight of all the parish, who stood aloof stopping their noses) by the Headboroughs own self in proper person, to the Tinker, who with one hand received the money, and with the other struck the board, crying hay, a fresh double pot. Which armour of proof being fitted to his body, up he hoists the Londoner on his back (like a Schoolboy) a shovel and Pickax standing ready for him: And thus furnished, into a field some good distance from the town he bears his deadly load, and there throws it down, falling roundly to his tools, upon which the strong beer having set an edge, they quickly cut out a lodging in the earth for the Citizen. But the Tinker knowing that worms needed no apparel, saving only sheeets, stripped him stark naked, but first diu'de nimbly into his pocket, to see what linings they had, assuring himself, that a Londoner would not wander so far without silver: his hopes were of the right stamp, for from one of his pockets he drew a leathern bag, with seven pounds in it: this music made the Tinker's heart dance, he quickly tumbled his man into the grave, hid him over head and ears in dust, bound up his clothes in a bundle, and carrying that at the end of his staff on his shoulder, with the purse of seven pounds in his hand, back again comes he through the town, crying aloud, Have ye any more Londoners to bury, hay down a down dery, have ye any more Londoners to bury: the Hobbinolls running away from him, as if he had been the dead citizens ghost, and he marching away from them in all the hast he could, with that song still in his mouth.  
You see therefore how dreadful a fellow Death is, making fools even of wisemen, and cowards of the most valiant; yea, in such a base slavery hath it bound men's senses, that they have no power to look higher than their own roofs, but seem by their turkish and barbarous actions to believe that there is no felicity after this life, and that (like beasts) their souls shall perish with their bodies. How many upon sight only of a Letter (sent from London) have started back, and durst have laid their salvation upon it, that the plague might be folded in that empty paper, believing verily, that the arm of Omnipotence could never reach them, unless it were with some weapon drawn out of the infected City: in so much that even the Western Pugs receiving money here, have tied it in a bag at the end of their barge, and so trailed it through the Thames, lest pleague sores sticking upon shillings, they should be nailed up for counterfeits when they were brought home.  
More venturous than those blockheads was a certain justice of peace, to whose gate being shot (for you must know that now there is no open house kept) a company of wild fellows being lead for robbing an orchard, the stouthearted Constable rapt most courageously, and would have about with none, but the justice himself, who at last appeared in his likeness above at a window, enquiring why they summoned a parley. It was delivered why: the case was opened to his examining wisdom, and that the evil doers were only Londoners: at the name of Londoners, the justice clapping his hand on his breast (as who should say, Lord have mercy upon us) started back, and being wise enough to save one, held his nose hard between his forefinger and his thumb, and speaking in that wise (like the fellow that described the villainous motion of julius Caesar and the Duke of Guise, who (as he gave it out) fought a combat together) pulling the casement close to him, cried out in that quail-pipe voice, that if they were Londoners, away with them to Limbo: take only their names: they were sore fellows, and he would deal with them when time should serve: meaning, when the plague and they should not be so great together, and so they departed; the very name of Londoners being worse than ten whetstones to sharpen the sword of justice against them.  
I could fill a large volume, and call it the second part of the hundred merry tales, only with such ridiculous stuff as this of the justice, but Dii meliora, I have better matters to set my wits about: neither shall you wring out of my pen (though you lay it on the rack) the villainies of that damned Keeper, who killed all she kept; if had been good to have made her keeper of the common jail, and the holes of both Counters, for a number lie there, that wish to be rid out of this motley world, she would have tickled them, and turned them over the thumbs. I will likewise let the Churchwarden in Thames street sleep (for he's now past waking) who being requested by one of his neighbours to suffer his wife or child (that was then dead) to lie in the Churchyard, answered in a mocking sort, he kept that lodging for himself and his household, and within three days after was driven to hide his head in a hole himself. Neither will I speak a word of a poor boy (servant to a Chandler) dwelling thereabouts, who being struck to the heart by sickness, was first carried away by water, to be left any where, but landing being denied by an army of brown billmen that kept the shore, back again was he brought, and left in an out-celler, where lying groveling and groaning on his face (amongst faggots, but not one of them set on fire to comfort him) there continued all night, and died miserably for want of succour. Nor of another poor wretch in the Parish of Saint Mary Oueryes, who being in the morning thrown (as the fashion is) into a grave upon a heap of carcases, that stayed for their complement, was found in the afternoon, gasping and gaping for life: but by these tricks, imagining that many a thousand have been turned wrongfully off the ladder of life, and praying that Derick or his executors may live to do those a good turn, that have done so to others: Hic finis Priami, here's an end of an old Song.  Et iam tempus Equûm fumantia solvere colla. 
FINIS.