Upon the COALPITS about NEWCASTLE upon Tine.
ENGLAND's a perfect World; has
Indies too.
Correct your Maps;
Newcastle is
Peru.
Let th'haughty
Spaniard triumph, 'till 'tis told
Our sooty Mineralls purify his Gold.
This will sublime and hatch th'abortive Oare
When the Sun tires, and Starres can do no more.
No Mines are current unrefin'd and grosse:
Coals make the Sterling, Nature but the Drosse.
For Metalls (
Bacchus-like) two Births approve,
Heav'n's heat's the
Semele, and ours the
Jove.
Thus Art doth polish Nature; 'tis her Trade:
So every Madame has her Chamber-maid.
Who'd dote on Gold? a thing so strange and odde,
'Tis most contemptible when made a God.
All sinnes and mischiefs thence have rise, and swell.
One
Indies more would make another Hell.
Our Mines are innocent, nor will the North
Tempt poor Mortality with too much worth.
They'r not too precious; rich enough to fire
A Lover, yet make none Idolater.
The moderate value of our guiltlesse Oare
Makes no man Atheist, nor no woman Whore.
Yet why should hallow'd
Vesta's glowing shrine
Deserve more honour then a flaming Mine?
These pregnant Wombs of Heat would fitter be
Then a few Embers, for a Deity.
Had he our Pits, the
Persian would admire
No Sun, but warm's Devotion at our Fire.
Hee'd leave the trotting Whipster, and prefer
This profound
Vulcan 'bove that Wagoner.
For, wants he Heat or Light? would he have store
Of both? 'tis here: and what can Suns give more?
Nay, what's that Sun, but (in a different name)
A Coal-pit Rampant, and a Mine on Flame?
Then let this Truth reciprocally run,
"The Sun's Heav'n's Coalery, and Coals our Sun.
A Sun that scorches not, lock'd up i'th' Deep;
The Bandog's chain'd, the Lion is asleep.
That tyrant Fire, which uncontroll'd doth rage,
Here's calm and hush'd, like Bajazet i'th' Cage.
For in each Coal-pit there doth (couchant) dwell
A muzzled
Aetna, and an innocent Hell.
Kindle the Cloud, you'l Lightning then descry,
Then will a Day break from the gloomy sky:
Then you'l unbutton though
December blow,
And sweat i'th' midst of Iceicles and Snow:
'Tis Dog-dayes then at Christmasse: thus is all
The Year made
June and Aequinoctiall.
If Heat offend, our Pits afford us Shade.
Thus Summer's Winter, Winter Summer made.
What need we Baths? what need we Bowre or Grove?
A Coal-pit's both a Venti-duct and Stove.
Such Pits and Caves were Palaces of old:
Poor Innes (God wot) yet in an Age of Gold.
And (what would now be thought a strange Design)
To build a House, was then to Undermine.
People liv'd under ground: and happy dwellers,
Whose joviall Habitations were all Cellars!
Those Primitive times were innocent, for then
Man, who turn'd after Fox, but made his Den.
But see a Fleet of Rivals trim and fine,
To court the rich
Infanta of our Mine!
Hundreds of grim
Leanders dare confront,
For this lov'd
Hero, the lowd
Hellespont.
'Tis an
Armado Royall doth ingage
For some new
Helen with this Equipage:
Prepar'd too (should we their Addresses barre)
To force their Mistresse with a ten-yeare's warre:
But that our Mine's a common Good, a Joy
Not made to ruine, but enrich our
Troy.
Thus went those gallant Heroes of old
Greece,
(The
Argonauts) in quest o'th' Golden Fleece.
But O, these bring it with them, and conspire
To pawn that Idole for our Smoak and Fire.
Silver's but Ballast, this they bring ashoar,
That they may treasure up our better Oare.
For this they venture Rocks and Stormes, defy
All the extremities of Sea and Sky.
For the glad purchase of this precious Mould
Cowards dare Pirates, Misers part with Gold.
Hence 'tis, that when the doubtfull Ship sets forth,
The knowing Needle still directs it North:
And Nature's secret wonder (to attest
Our
Indies worth) discards both East and West.
For 'tis not only Fire commends this Spring;
A Coal-pit is a Mine of every thing.
We sink a
Jack-of-all-trades Shop, and sound
An invers'd Burse, an Exchange under ground.
This
Prot
[...]us-earth converts to what you'd ha'ce;
Now you may weav't to Silk, then coyn't to Plate:
Or (what's a Metamorphosis more dear)
Dissolve it, and 'twill melt to
London Beer.
For whatsoe're that gawdy City boasts,
Each Moneth derives to these attractive Coasts.
We shall exhaust their Chamber, and devour
The Treasures of
Guild-hall, the
Mint, the
Tower.
Our
Staiths their morgag'd Streets will soon divide;
Blathon owe
Corn-hill, Stella share
Cheap-side.
Thus will our Coal-pit's Charity and Pity
At distance under-Mine and Fire the City.
Should we exact, they'd pawn their Wives, and treat
To swap those Coolers for our soveraign Heat.
'Bove Kisses and Embraces Fire controuls:
No
Venus heightens like a Peck of Coales.
Medaea was the Drudge of some old Sire,
And
Aeson's bath a lusty Sea-coal Fire.
Chimneys are old men's Mistresses, there innes
A modern Dalliance with their meazled Shinnes.
To all Defects the Coal-heap brings a Cure;
Gives Life to Age, and Raiment to the Poor.
Pride first wore Cloaths; Nature disdaines Attire:
She made us Naked 'cause she gave us Fire.
Full Wharfs are Wardrobes; and the Taylour's charm
Belongs to th' Collier, He must keep us warm.
The quilted Alderman with all's Aray,
Finds but cold comfort on a Frosty day.
[Page 4] Girt, wrapp'd and muffled, yet with all that stirr,
Scarce warm when smother'd in his drouzy Furr.
Not proof against keen Winter's Batteryes,
Should he himself wear all's own Liveryes▪
But Chil-blains under Silver Spurrs bewailes,
And in embroider'd Buck-skins blowes his Nailes.
Rich Meadowes and full Cropps are elsewhere found;
We can reap Harvest from our Barren ground.
The bald, parch'd Hills that circumscribe our
Tine,
Are no lesse fruitfull in their hungry Mine.
Their unfledg'd tops so well content our Palats,
We envy none their Nosegaies and their Sallads.
A gay, rank Soil (like a young Gallant) growes,
And spends it self, that it may wear fine Cloaths.
Whilst all its worth is to its back confin'd;
Ours weares plain Out-sides, but is richly Lin'd.
Winter's above, 'tis Summer underneath;
A trusty
Morglay in a Rusty Sheath.
As precious Sables sometimes interlace
A wretched Searge, or Grogram Cassock-case.
Rocks own no Spring, are pregnant with no Showers;
Crystall and Gemms grow there in stead of Flowers:
In stead of Roses, Beds of Rubies sweet;
And Emeralds recompense the Violet.
Dame Nature, not (like other Madames) weares
(Where she is bare) Pearls on her Breast or Eares.
What though our Fields present a Naked sight?
A Paradise should be an
Adamite.
The Northern Lad his Bonny Lasse throwes down,
And gives her a Black Bagge for a Green Gown.
FINIS.