University of Virginia Library

32 A SATIRE ON LONDON, THE MODERN BABYLON

London, hast thow accused me
Of breche of lawes, the roote of stryfe?
Within whose brest did boyle to see,
So fervent hotte, thy dissolute lief,
That even the hate of synnes, that groo
Within thy wicked walles so rife,
Ffor to breake forthe did convert soo
That terrour colde it not represse.
The which, by wordes, syns prechers knoo
What hope is left for to redresse,
By vnknowne meanes, it liked me
My hydden burden to expresse,
Wherby yt might appere to the
That secret synn hath secret spight;
Ffrom iustice rodd no fault is free;
But that all such as wourke vnright
In most quyet, are next ill rest.
In secret sylence of the night
This made me, with a reckles brest,
To wake thy sluggardes with my bowe;
A fygure of the Lordes behest,
Whose scourge for synn the Screptures shew.
That, as the fearfull thonder clapp
By soddayne flame at hand we knowe,
Of peoble stones the sowndles rapp,
The dredfull plage might mak the see
Of Goddes wrath, that doth the enwrapp;
That pryde might know, from conscyence free,
How loftye workes may her defend;
And envye fynd, as he hath sought,
How other seke hym to offend;
And wrath tast of eche crewell thought
The iust shapp hyer in the end;
And ydell slouthe, that never wrought,
To heven hys spirite lift may begyn;
& gredye lucre lyve in drede
To see what haate ill gott goodes wynn;
The lechers, ye that lustes do feed,
Perceve what secrecye is in synne;
And gluttons hartes for sorrow blede,
Awaked, when their faulte they fynd.
In lothsome vyce, eche dronken wight
To styrr to Godd, this was my mynd.
Thy wyndowes had don me no spight;
But prowd people that drede no fall,
Clothed with falshed' and vnright
Bred in the closures of thy wall,
But wrested to wrathe in fervent zeale,
Thow hast to strief, my secret call.
Endured hartes no warning feale.
On shamles hore! is dred then gone
By suche thy foes, as ment thy weale?
Oh membre of false Babylon!
The shopp of craft! the denne of ire!
Thy dredfull dome drawes fast uppon;
Thy martyres blood, by swoord & fyre,
In Heaven & earth for iustice call.
The Lord shall here their iust desyre;
The flame of wrath shall on the fall;
With famyne and pest lamentablie
Stricken shalbe thy lecheres all;
Thy prowd towers and turretes hye,
Enmyes to God, beat stone from stone;
Thyne idolles burnt, that wrought iniquitie.
When none thy ruyne shall bemone,
But render vnto the right wise Lord,
That so hath iudged Babylon,
Imortall praise with one accord.