 | Miscellaneous works of George Wither |  |
2
To the ENGLISH.
Am not I now in England? Is not this
The Thames? Is not that London? Sure it is.
Me thinks that vast, and ancient structure, there,
Looks just like Pauls, and that like Westminster.
Loe, yon is High-gate, yon is Hamsted-mill,
There Bansted-downes, there Kent, there Shooters-hill.
This doubtlesse is that Countrey: but why then,
Are here now living so few Englishmen?
Are all those English-men which now I see?
All true-bred English-men? the Devill they be.
Indeed I finde there are a few among them;
And for their sakes I will not so much wrong them
To say, the Land hath none, within whose veines
The blood of our old Worthies yet remaines.
But, out of question, if the greatest part
Were not a mungrell brood, and without heart,
They could not lie so tamely in their beds,
And see what Plague their Countrey over-spreads;
Yea seem content, to be inslav'd to slaves,
And carie guilt, and curses to their graves.
The Thames? Is not that London? Sure it is.
Me thinks that vast, and ancient structure, there,
Looks just like Pauls, and that like Westminster.
Loe, yon is High-gate, yon is Hamsted-mill,
There Bansted-downes, there Kent, there Shooters-hill.
This doubtlesse is that Countrey: but why then,
Are here now living so few Englishmen?
Are all those English-men which now I see?
All true-bred English-men? the Devill they be.
Indeed I finde there are a few among them;
And for their sakes I will not so much wrong them
To say, the Land hath none, within whose veines
The blood of our old Worthies yet remaines.
But, out of question, if the greatest part
Were not a mungrell brood, and without heart,
They could not lie so tamely in their beds,
And see what Plague their Countrey over-spreads;
Yea seem content, to be inslav'd to slaves,
And carie guilt, and curses to their graves.
Perhaps they are asleep. Ho! Englishmen!
Awake, and be your selves, yet, once agen.
Heark, how the Trumpet sounds! heark how the Drum
Beats up, and cals in English, Come, Come, Come!
Heark, how the ghosts of your poore Brethren, slain
and massacred in Ireland, do complain
And call for vengeance! heark, how loud they cry,
And threaten, if you passe their murthers by!
Awake, and be your selves, yet, once agen.
Heark, how the Trumpet sounds! heark how the Drum
Beats up, and cals in English, Come, Come, Come!
Heark, how the ghosts of your poore Brethren, slain
and massacred in Ireland, do complain
And call for vengeance! heark, how loud they cry,
And threaten, if you passe their murthers by!
Heark, how the countrey round about you mourns!
See in how many parts it flames and burns!
Mark, what a desolation, in one year,
Is broken in among us! and, how near
Our just and everlasting ruine drawes
If we become no warmer in this Cause!
And that your cooled zeal may re-inflame,
Take up this Paper, and new light the same.
See in how many parts it flames and burns!
Mark, what a desolation, in one year,
Is broken in among us! and, how near
Our just and everlasting ruine drawes
If we become no warmer in this Cause!
And that your cooled zeal may re-inflame,
Take up this Paper, and new light the same.
| Miscellaneous works of George Wither | |