Londini Lachrymae; OR, LONDON'S COMPLAINT AGAINST HER FUGITIVES.  

WHither away? Why do ye fly so fast?  
Cannot Gods Omnipresence check your hast?  
What frenzy has possessed Your roving Pates,  
What! is the City run out of the Gates?  
Ye fly like Eagles on the Wings of Wealth,  
To overtake Your Prey afar off, Health:  
As if whoever could but get away,  
Had his Life given to Him for a Prey.  
Go, leave the City; do, and Post ye hence,  
From the sad Centre to th' Circumference.  
The Rocks, and Mountains, and the Paths untrod  
Cannot conceal ye from the Eyes of God.  
Why fly ye then? Is not the Lord, think you,  
God of the Hills, and of the Valleys too?  
Durst ye not trust the Lord in Your behalves,  
That You are gone unto Your Country Calves?  
Is it for this, You to the Hills repair,  
To sacrifice unto the Prince of th' Air,  
Gaping for Air as every One were gone,  
To Board himself with a chameleon?   

'tis like too many did their Trades adjourn,  
As those to Tyburn, never to return:  
And, though his Hand th' avenging Angel stop,  
Are still afraid to come to the Old Shop.  
These Men are sentenced to a double doom,  
Come Health, or sickness, still the Plague's at Home;  
For they can Whet their Knives at better rate  
On a Cartwheel, than at the Compter-Gate.  
To such I must confess a Plague will be,  
Not a Disease, but a Recovery:  
They must have needs shut up and hide the Head,  
Though not with Plague, they had been Visited:  
For Death and Debt they fear on equal score;  
But they are gone, and shall be seen no more.   

The Doctors think too,( whom I therefore mention)  
A Journey now, good physic for prevention.  
Who, when they see Contagion in such force,  
Prescribe themselves, for Fear, Bills of Divorce.  
Whose Excellencies from the foot-cloth-rank.  
Into the Country sneak to Mount-a-bank.  
Pure Visitants they are, to shun Heav'ns Rod,  
Leave their Poor Patients Visited of God:  
To whom they rid( as now too plain 'tis shown)  
Not to Cure their Diseases, but their own:  
The Fee they like well, that, alas, is sweet,  
But the Destroying Angel fear to meet.  
But here's enough to speak of them, for I  
Count this is just Religio Medici.   

This yet is greater, and it makes me sad,  
Most of the Tribe of Levi's run to Gad.  
Appeased Heaven, 'tis like, this Plague might stay,  
Did every Phinehas but stand up and Pray;  
Too many now are of their Priests bereft,  
And but the meanest of the People left.  
The person is( I know not of whose giving)  
Into the Country gone, to get a Living.  
How can we in our Heavenly course but stray,  
When those should guide Us thither, run away?  
They bid Us kneel when Heaven afflicts; not fly,  
And give their Doctrine( in their Deeds) the lie.  
As if our Errors( like Old Eli's 'vice)  
Could never be atoned by Sacrifice.  
Once said a Zealous Priest, Now Soldiers Fight;  
Who dyes to day, shall sup with Christ at Night:  
A Pistol streight to the Priests Breast was set,  
Who cries, Pray Sir, I am not hungry yet.  
Too many thus with Canaan's Language stalk  
For their own ends; and make Gods Word mere talk.  
It follows then, their flight this wrong hath done us;  
Gods House shut up, and Lord have Mercy upon us.  
If still the Livite be resolved to fly?  
Go thy way for a Church-man, then say I.   

Lastly, when Sion has a Cause to Mourn,  
God does not bid Us ramble, but return.  
Thus Solomon has  told Us in Times past,  
He that does fear the Lord, does not make hast.  
Then let us turn, and not our sins conceal,  
That Hand that Wounded Us, can only heal;  
Nothing can Cure Us of our Maladies,  
But the Bethesda of our troubled Eyes.   
— Timor addidit alas.  
I, fuge, said poteris tutior esse domi.   

London, Printed by R. D. 1665.