Cheapsides Triumphs, and Chyrones
Crosses Lamentation.
To the tune of the Building.
|
SEe the guilding
|
Of Cheapsides famous building
|
the glorious Crosse,
|
Trimd up most fairly,
|
With gold most rarely,
|
refin'd from drosse:
|
A pleasing prospect to all beholders,
|
that shall but view it,
|
and lately knew it
|
Defac'd of beauty,
|
but now a sumptuous thing:
|
Whose praise and wonder
|
Fame abroad doth ring.
|
Tricked most neatly
|
With cost compleatly
|
adorn'd most rare,
|
Whose shining beauty,
|
Showes the Cities duty
|
and tender care:
|
To preserve their rich & sumptuous buildings,
|
in stately manner,
|
such cost upon her
|
they bestow with honour,
|
Such is the love they beare
|
which now is seene
|
By Cheapside glistering faire.
|
The Crosse there placed,
|
Is now much graced,
|
that it may be knowne,
|
How well the Citie,
|
With care and pitie,
|
respects her owne:
|
Brave Citizens of worthy London,
|
such love they owe it,
|
and now they show it,
|
freely bestow it
|
Upon their City faire,
|
with Cheapside Crosse
|
There's none can make compare.
|
Search England over,
|
From hence to Dover,
|
and so about,
|
The like to Cheapside,
|
Faire Londons chiefe pride,
|
you'l not find out:
|
Newly beautifi'd most neat and fairly,
|
all may admire,
|
and still desire,
|
to gaze up higher,
|
To see the glorious state
|
of this rare building,
|
Rais'd up very late.
|
O sight most blessed,
|
To see Cheapside dressed,
|
in stately manner:
|
May you persever
|
In love for ever,
|
tis for your honor,
|
To see your Crosse excell in shining
|
all Crosses elsewhere,
|
to this comes not neere,
|
now trimmed most rare:
|
And glorious to behold,
|
whose shining bravery
|
Glistereth all of gold.
|
This golden splendor
|
Makes all men wonder,
|
to see Cheapside:
|
In sumptuous manner,
|
For Londons honor,
|
and state beside:
|
Put downe faire Oxfordshires chiefe beauty
|
Abingtons faire Crosse
|
was never grac't thus,
|
as is bright Cheaps Crosse,
|
Now shining faire and bright,
|
whose excellent splendor
|
Gives the city light.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part, To the same tune.
|
KInd friends pray turne ye,
|
With griefe now mourne ye,
|
to behold and see
|
An ancient building
|
Now downwards yeelding,
|
ah woe is me:
|
The proverb here is verified truly,
|
old things are worth nought,
|
but that's a bad thought,
|
for to forget ought
|
Once esteemed deare,
|
But yet alasse
|
Too true appeares.
|
In lamentation,
|
I make my supplication
|
to great and small,
|
That erst have view'd me,
|
And now perus'd me,
|
then judge withal,
|
That ancient things in these dayes are
|
more is the pity
|
that such a city,
|
so wise and witty,
|
Should not regard their fame,
|
censure aright,
|
Then tell me where's the blame.
|
I long have stood here,
|
Many bad and good yeare,
|
pining away,
|
Expecting ever,
|
But I feare never
|
to see the day
|
Wherein my state againe shall be advanced,
|
and all things made good,
|
of stone or else wood,
|
where I have long stood,
|
Expecting every day
|
I should be once againe
|
Made neat and gay.
|
Thou wert a deare one,
|
Old noble Chyron,
|
that plac't me here,
|
My first supporter
|
Of stone and morter,
|
was seated rare:
|
But now you see my top is downward bending
|
my state is reeling,
|
none hath a feeling
|
to my appealing,
|
That now in sad distresse
|
to court and city
|
My sad woes doe expresse.
|
Some honest Courtier
|
Be my Supporter,
|
I now intreate,
|
Some Lord or Barrone,
|
Pitty old Chyrone,
|
ere it be too late,
|
For now now my state you see is down declining
|
my ancient building,
|
is downward yeelding,
|
In wofull manner
|
I waile my wretched state,
|
Oh pity soone, for feare it be too late,
|
In time I crave it,
|
And faine would have it,
|
for mercies sake,
|
Take thou some pitie,
|
Faire London Citie,
|
my foundation make,
|
Aged Pauls and I may waile together
|
and pray in heaven
|
all may be eaven,
|
and gifts be given
|
By charitable men,
|
to beautifie
|
Our buildings faire agen.
|
|
FINIS.
|
|
|