Upon the Stately Structure OF Bow-Church and Steeple, Burnt, An. 1666. Rebuilt, 1679. OR A Second PsM upon NOTHING!
LOok how the
Country-Hobbs with wonder flock
To see the
City-crest, turn'd
Weathercock!
Which with each
shifting Gale, veres to and fro;
London has now got
twelve Strings to her
Bow!
The Wind's
South-East, and straight the
Dragon russels
His brazen wings, to court the Breeze from
Brussels!
The Wind's at
North! and now his
Hissing fork,
Whirles round, to meet a flattering gale from
York!
Boxing the
Compass, with each freshing Gale,
But still to
London turns his
threatning Tayle.
But stay! what's there; I spy a stranger thing;
Our
Red-cross brooded by the
Dragon's wing!
The
wing is
warm; but O! beware the
sting!
Poor
English-Cross, expos'd to winds, and weathers,
Forc't to seek shelter in the
Dragon's feathers!
Ne're had
old Rome so rare a Piece to brag on,
A Temple built to
Great Bell, and the
Dragon!
Whilst yet undaunted
Protestants, dare hope,
They that will worship
Bell, shall wear the
Rope.
O how our English Chronicles will shine!
Burn't, sixty six;
Rebuilt, in seventy nine.
When
Iacob Hall on his
High Rope shews tricks,
The
Dragon flutters; the
Lord Mayor's Horse, kicks;
The
Cheapside-crowds, and
Pageants scarcely know
Which most t'admire,
Hall, Hobby-horse, or
Bow!
But what mad Frenzy set your Zeal on fire,
(
Grave Citizens!) to Raise
Immortal Spire
On
Sea-coal Basis? which will sooner yield
Matter to
Burn a Temple, than to
Build!
What the
Coals build, the
Ashes bury! no men
Of wisdom, but would dread the threatning
Omen!
But say (
Proud Dragon!) now preferr'd so High,
What Marvels from that Prospect dost thou spy?
Westward thou seest, and seeing hat'st the
Walls
Of, sometimes
Rev'rend, now
Regenerate, Pauls,
Thy envious eyes, such glories cannot brook,
But as
the Devil once o're Lincoln, look:
And
envys Poison, will thy
Bowels Tear
Sooner than
Daniel's Dose, of
Pitch, and Hair!
Then
Eastward, to avoid that wounding sight,
Th
[...] light
Adorn'd with
Monstrous forms to clear the scope,
How much thou art
out-dragon'd by the
Pope.
Ah fools! to dress a
Monument of woe
In
whistling Silks, that should in
Sackcloth, go!
Nay
strangely wise, our
Senators appear
To build
That, and a
Bedlam in a year,
That if the
Mum-glass crack, they may inherit
An Hospital becoming their great merit!
To
Royal Westminster, next turn thine eye;
Perhaps a Parliament thou mayst espy,
Dragons of old gave Oracles at
Rome;
Then Prophesie,
their Day, their
Date, and
Doom
[...]
And if thy
Visual Ray can
reach the Main;
Tell's when the
Duke, new gone, returns again!
Facing about; next view our
Guildhall well,
Where
Reverend Fox-furrs charm'd by potent spell
Of
Elephants, (turn'd wrong side outward) dare
Applaud the Plays; and yet
hiss out the
Player:
Player! whose wise Zeal for
City, Country, King,
Shall to all points of the wide Compass
ring
Whilst
Bow has Bells, or
Royal Thames a Spring!
Thy Roving Eye perhaps from
Hague may send's
How the
New League, has made
old Foes, new Friends:
But let substantial witness, Credence give it,
Or
Ne're believe me, if the
House believe it!
If
true, I fear
too late! France at one sup,
(Like Pearls dissolv'd in
Cloepatra's Cup)
Trade, Empire, Neatherlands has swallowed up!
But heark! The Dragon speaks from Brazen Mouth,
Whose
words, though
wind, are spoken in
Good south!
To you of Ratling fame, and great esteem;
The higher placed, the less you ought to seem!
To you of noble souls, and gallant minds,
Learn to outface (
with me) the Huffing winds!
To tim'rous feeble spirits, that live beneath;
Learn not of me to turn with every breath!
To those who like (
Camelions) live on
Air;
Popular Praise is thin Consumptive fare!
To you who
Steeple upon
Steeple set,
Cut my
Cocks-comb if e're to Heaven you get.