Men-Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pox take you, Vulcan, & may that curse spread
All the Pye-Corner curses on thy head:
What? not a Pigge the Parsons Venson drest,
But needs your Cuckoldship must be a Guest,
And make the same Dish without more adoe,
Rosted and smoakt be Pigge and Bacon too?
Shame on your foule West phalia teeth, for me,
Your next Pigge shall be souc't with a vengance t'ye.
Some Houshould cause sure made you visit us,
Tis for the Wives sake you love Swines flesh thus,

For her Tyth Vrchin Cupid without doubt,
Was Litterd Pigge, and his eyes Rosted out.

Time was, ere your so furious Rites did rise,
A penny-Faggot was a Sacrifice.
Some heard your Engine Browne, the Woodman say
Six Billets cloyd you on a Gawdy day.
But now those lofty Piles which lately stood,
The pride of Shot-over, and Bagley Wood,
Are By-Repast, and homely Diet growne;
Nought can allay your Fury, but a Towne.
Well give me but your Tosted fist a while,
And I shall shew you in this Ruind Pile,
(Like him that showes the Tombes, and's own Nose where
Those Graves and Dust are now, and whose they were.

You din'd Hell doe you good on't, at the Pigge,
Which sure was Rosted well, were't nere so bigge.
But not content to feed as you could catch,
On so course Meat as Hospitable Thatch,
You foam'd and chaf'd, tasted the Barnes, and Hay,
And swallowed all the Wood yards in the Way.
And then you and your warme Tempestuous Trayne,
Followd by sent into a close by-Lane.

New Inne Lane.

Where you had seiz'd the Mint, but that withall
Aurum Potabile was too Cordiall.
Where you had injur'd those by Rash designes

Sir W.P. his Quarter.

Whom virtue core then all thy Flame Refines.

But Fire's a Glutton, Vulcan, all the Rest
Did but provoke, the Shambles were your Feast.
Here while you Rove about and Wanton runne,
Flesh was your Fuell and Provision.
Here you fell on amaine, and fed as hard,
As you had been a Gyant o'the Guard.
Entrailes and Skinnes goe to't, and All you eate,
The Stalles and Beeves, the Trenchers, and the Meate.
Buildings on either hand submit their height,
While Flame consumes what did support their Weight.

And here an Honest Loyall Printer dwelt,

L.L. Pr. to the Univers:

Who all the Furie of the Tempest felt,
One that had never yet deserv'd these Fires,
By trying how well Treason looks in Quires.
Nor Printing Votes, where letters forward lye,
But must be read still with an Hebrew Eye.
Where Truths runne Counter, that which way they goe,
Rabbines and Sea Crabs which goe backward, know.
He to cast Ordnance was still afraid,
Bell-Mettle Letters he us'd none in's Trade.
Nor desperate Orders ever did he dresse,
Where Inke and Conscience are both ith' Presse.
That when the Worke is ore 'tis hard to state
If booke or Printer should be stitcht up straight.

But see the storme on to the Maire-Maid hies,
And swifter then she swimmes the lightning flies.

The Metropolitan, Italian roome
Royalte now was wondrous neare his doome.
And in the Cellar to a generall drench,
Had reconcil'd the Spaniard and the Prench.

PH. Vint.

But Franke his Neighbours was and the Poores case,
These helpe him with their Buckets, these their Pray'r.
The double-Janus Church that lookes foure wayes,
Shelterd almost as much as it survayes.
Else though the Maire-maid in the Ocean stand,
The storme had seis'd on both her Combe and Hand,
To trimme her haire henceforth she will not passe,
Ith' Pale of water, rather then the Glasse.

Next as the last dayes active vengeance flies,
When 'twill be one to ruine and surprise.
When none can aske if Fire be here or there,
Cause they shall finde it scatter'd every where.
So now the Quere alter'd, doubts flow hot,
Not where it was, but where the flame was not;
For from the Point which did the Onset lend,
Till the quicke flame was at her Journeys end,
All was on fire at once, no stoppe was seene,
No halt or stage, and then set out agen.
One direct equall line convey'd the Aire,
It blew by Art, destroy'd by Rule and Square,
The Mathematicke wind precisely hit,
As Archimedes hand had levell'd it

On in this line Vulcan, your hotnesse comes,

Mr H. his house.

Where the low Kitchin built the Upper Roomes,
Old Smith a thrifty Cooke this stone pile lent,
Twas once his House, but now his Monument.
Here you were nibling, and had fed apace,
But he threw scalding water in your Face.
And thou be'st wise, Vulcan, come here no more,
The Builder fetcht it out oth' Fire before.
But though the maine erection safe be found,
Th' Appurt'nances, Out-houses were burnt to th' ground.
And there three Hogs did perish in the fire,
While they conceiv'd 'twas but a warmer Mire.
That Devils enterd Hogs was once divine,
But Hell it selfe went here into the Swine.
And here it wav'd, but stay did not endure,

D. Cl. his house.

The Feaver durst not come so nigh the Cure.

At last alowd the thirsty Varlet laught,
Dranke downe three wealthy Brewers at a draught,
They could have playd you Barrels without faile,
Had you beene a Conscionable Land whale.
You injurd here, your fury climbing higher,

Sir G.B. his quart.

Those knowne and tryd in a more searching fire.
They suffred here, but their first sufferings came
From those that set the Kingdome in a flame.
They lost two Coaches here, but they have arts,
For those Incendiaries to find out Carts.

Thence you with your intoxicated Heele.
Ore Chimney-Tops to Bacons Cause-way reele.
Out, out you Salamander, turne not here,
On to your Woodmonger and warme your Beere.