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