WHat is there none that will the City right?
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Was all their story by feirce Vulcans spight.
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Burnt in Ben. Johnsons study; Let us rake,
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And from those Ashes new-liv'd, sparkles take.
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Not to consume our Troy, (as * he did Rome,
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Who made him Musicke of his Citys doome:)
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Rather such straines shall start from our strucke lyre
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Which shall build up our Thebes, not set on fire.
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Such a bright Beame we'l dart; that shall renew
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Your Ancestours, and bring their Acts to view.
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Acts that were lost, like his Eurydice,
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Which we'l reduce by Orphan Melody:
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Acts, that your Senators cloth will deeplier dy,
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And make them Scarlet now with infamy.
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When that their Purple shall upbraid the cloth,
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Now spoyld, and eaten by a Politique Moth,
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(Vermine at Westminster,) whom you have nurst,
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Untill your selves are starv'd; yet thei'le not burst.
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See how the Bull-chins hang oth' Kingdoms breasts,
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While she lanck Milcher lookes like Pharaos beasts.
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Transparent; and her squeez'd udders flop,
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Like the dry'd driver of a schoole-boys Top.
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Was the brave dagger in your Armes for this?
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Was it for yeilding up your Liberties?
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Was it for patient, modest siting still?
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And let the Rebell Act what his proud will
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Had once presum'd? No: It was given to shew,
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To after-age the Honour of that Blow.
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That dagger still so famous on Record,
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Which did engage unto it a double sword.
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That of the Kings, and Majors, and did advance,
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Upon its Point the Cap of Maintenance.
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Look up to that brave Trojans; and youl' stagger,
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Your' bold invaders, if you draw that dagger.
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Looke in your Chronicles, and read what feares,
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You were put in by the first * Levellers.
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A silly, Lowsy, undigested Throng,
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Who thought to have tane the Kingdome with * a song.
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Which these base Rebells, the true brood of those,
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But not so learned, doe pursue in Prose.
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Shall such a sort of Raskalls the State awe?
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Worse then those were, who are not worth a straw.
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Shall these in Triumph ride throw the glaz'd streets?
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When you may smell from Windsor by their feet.
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Shall these on Palfreys through the City ride?
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Who Crosse-legge sate till now, and ne're a stride.
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Shall these the Honour of an Nation merit?
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And say they tooke once London by the spirit.
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And have a Name, only renowned in story, *
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For burning London, to the good Lords glory.
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