 | Works of John Taylor the Water Poet not included in the folio volume of 1630 |  |
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The Fearefull Summer:
OR, Londons Calamitie, The Countries Discourtesie, And both their Miserie.
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To the truely Generous and Noble Knight, Sir Iohn Millissent, Serjeant-Porter to the Kings most Excellent Majestie.
Right worthy Knight, when first this Book I writTo You, I boldly Dedicated it:
And having now enlarg'd both Prose and Rime,
To you I offer it the second time.
To whom should I these sorrowes recommend,
But unto You, the Cities Noble Friend?
I know you are much grieved with their griefe,
And would adventure Life for their reliefe:
To you therefore these Lines I Dedicate,
Wherein, their Sorrowes partly I relate,
I humbly crave acceptance at your hand:
And rest
Your Servant ever at command,
John Taylor.
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THE Fearefull Summer: OR, Londons Calamitie.
The Patience and long-suffering of our God,Keeps close his Quiver, and restraines his Rod,
And though our crying Crimes to Heav'n doe cry
For vengeance, on accurst Mortality;
Yea though wee merit mischiefes manifold,
Blest Mercie doth the hand of Iustice hold.
But when that Eye that sees all things most cleare,
Expects our fruits of Faith, from yeere, to yeere,
Allowes us painefull Pastors, who bestow
Great care and toyle, to make us fruitfull grow,
And daily doth in those weake Vessels send
The dew of Heaven, in hope we will amend;
Yet (at the last) he doth perceive and see
That we unfruitfull and most barren be,
Which makes on us his indignation frowne,
And (as accursed Fig-trees) cut us downe.
Thus mercy (mock'd) plucks justice on our heads,
And grievous Plagues our Kingdome over-spreads:
Then let us to our God make quicke returning,
With true contrition, fasting and with mourning:
The Word is God, and God hath spoke the Word,
If wee repent hee will put up his Sword.
Hee's griev'd in punishing, Hee's slow to Ire,
And Hee a sinners death doth not desire.
If our Compunction our Amendment show,
Our purple sinnes Hee'll make as white as snow.
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Our scarlet crimes hee'l make as white as Wooll.
Faire London that did late abound in blisse,
And wast our Kingdomes great Metropolis,
'Tis thou that art dejected, low in state,
Disconsolate, and almost desolate,
The hand of Heav'n (that onely did protect thee)
Thou hast provok'd most justly to correct thee,
And for thy pride of heart and deeds unjust,
Hee layes thy pompe and glory in the dust.
Thou that wast late the Queene of Cities nam'd,
Throughout the world admir'd, renown'd, and fam'd:
Thou that hadst all things at command and will,
To whom all England was a hand-maid still;
For Rayment, Fewell, Fish, Fowle, Beasts, for Food,
For Fruits, for all our Kingdome counted good,
Both neere and farre remote, all did agree
To bring their best of blessings unto thee.
Thus in conceit thou seem'dst to rule the Fates,
VVhilst peace and plenty flourish'd in thy Gates,
Could I relieve thy miseries as well,
As part I can thy woes and sorrowes tell,
Then should my Cares be eas'd with thy Reliefe,
And all my study how to end thy griefe.
Thou that wer't late rich, both in friends and wealth,
Magnificent in state, and strong in health,
As chiefest Mistris of our Countrie priz'd,
Now chiefly in the Country art despis'd.
The name of London now both farre and neere,
Strikes all the Townes and Villages with feare;
And to be thought a Londoner is worse,
Than one that breakes a house, or takes a purse.
Hee that will filtch or steale now is the Time,
No Justice dares examine him, his crime;
Let him but say, that he from London came,
So full of Feare and Terrour is that name,
The Constable his charge will soone forsake,
And no man dares his Mittimus to make.
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Poore entertainement in the Countrie winnes.
Some feare the Citie, and flye thence amaine,
And those are of the Countrie fear'd againe,
Who 'gainst them barre their windowes and their doores,
More than they would 'gainst Turkes, or Iewes, or Moores,
I thinke if very Spaniards had come there,
Their well-come had been better, and their cheare.
Whilst Hay-cock-lodging, with hard slender fare,
Welcome like dogges unto a Church they are,
Feare makes them with the Anabaptists joyne,
For if an Hostesse doe receive their coyne,
She in a dish of water, or a paile,
Will new baptize it, lest it something aile.
Thus many a Citizen well stor'd with Gold,
Is glad to lye upon his mother mold,
His bed the map of his mortalitie,
His curtaines Clouds, and Heav'n his Canopie.
The russet Plow-Swaine, and the Leathern Hinde,
Through feare is growne unmannerly, unkinde:
And in his house (to harbour) hee'l preferre
An Infidell before a Londoner:
And thus much friendship Londoners did win,
The Devill himselfe had better welcome bin:
Those that with travell were tir'd, faint, and dry,
For want of drinke, might starve, and choke, and dye:
For why the hob-nail'd Boores, inhumane Blocks,
Uncharitable Hounds, hearts hard as Rocks,
Did suffer people in the field to sinke,
Rather than give, or sell a draught of drinke.
Milke-maides and Farmers wives are growne so nice,
They thinke a Citizen a Cockatrice,
And Countrie Dames are wax'd so coy and briske,
They shun him as they'l shun a Basiliske:
For every one the sight of him will flye,
All fearing he would kill them with his eye.
Ah wofull London, I thy griefe bewaile,
And if my sighs and prayers may but prevaile;
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In Jesus Christ his wrath may be appeas'd,
With-holding his dread judgements from above,
And once more graspe thee in his armes of love.
In mercie all our wickednesse remit,
For who can give thee thankes within the pit?
Strange was the change in lesse than three months space,
In joy, in woe, in grace, and in disgrace:
A healthfull April, a diseased Iune,
And dangerous Iuly, brings all out of tune.
That Citie whose rare objects pleas'd the eyes
With much content and more varieties,
She that was late delightfull to the eares,
With melody Harmonious, like the Spheares:
Shee that had all things that might please the scent,
And all she felt, did give her touch content,
Her Cinque Port scences, richly fed and cloy'd
With blessings bountifull, which shee enjoy'd.
Now three months change hath fill'd it full of feare,
As if no Solace ever had beene there.
What doe the eyes see there but grieved sights
Of sicke, oppressed, and distressed wights?
Houses shut up, some dying, and some dead,
Some (all amazed) flying, and some fled.
Streets thinly man'd with wretches every day,
Which have no power to flee, or meanes to stay,
In some whole street (perhaps) a Shop or twaine
Stands open, for small takings, and lesse gaine.
And every closed window, doore and stall,
Makes each day seeme a solemne Festivall.
Dead Coarses carried, and recarried still,
Whilst fiftie Corpses scarce one grave doth fill.
With Lord have mercie upon us on the doore,
Which (though the words be good) doth grieve men sore.
And o're the doore-posts fix'd a Crosse of red,
Betokening that there Death some blood hath shed.
Some with Gods markes or Tokens doe espie,
Those Markes or Tokens, shew them they must die.
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Are fed with hope they have escap'd the worst:
Thus passeth all the weeke, till Thursdayes Bill
Shewes us what thousands Death that weeke did kill.
That fatall Bill, doth like a Razor cut
The dead, the living in a maze doth put,
And he that hath a Christian heart, I know,
Is griev'd, and wounded with the deadly blow.
These are the objects of the Eye, now heare
And marke the mournefull Musicke of the Eare;
There doe the brazen Iron tongu'd loud Bells,
(Deaths clamorous Musicke) ring continuall knells,
Some loftie in their notes, some sadly towling,
Whil'st fatall Dogges made a most dismall howling.
Some franticke raving, some with anguish crying,
Some singing, praying, groaning, and some dying,
The healthfull grieving, and the sickly groaning.
All in a mournefull diapason moaning.
Here, Parents for their Childrens losse lament;
There, Children grieve for Parents life that's spent:
Husbands deplore their loving Wives decease:
Wives for their Husbands weepe remedilesse:
The Brother for his Brother, friend for friend,
Doe each for other mutuall sorrowes spend.
Here, Sister mournes for Sister, Kin for Kin,
As one griefe ends, another doth begin:
There one lyes languishing with slender fare,
Small comfort, lesse attendance, and least care,
With none but Death and hee to tug together,
Untill his Corps and Soule part each from either.
In one house one, or two, or three doth fall,
And in another Death playes sweepe-stake all.
Thus universall sorrowfull complaining,
Is all the Musicke now in London raigning,
Thus is her comfort sad Calamitie,
And all her Melodie is Maladie.
These are the objects of the Eyes and Eares,
Most wofull sights, and sounds of griefes and feares.
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With cost and care to please the Appetite;
What she was wont to hate, she doth adore,
And what's high priz'd, she held despis'd before;
The drugs, the drenches, and untoothsome drinkes,
Feare gives a sweetnesse to all severall stinckes;
And for supposed Antidotes, each Palate
Of most contagious weeds will make a Sallate,
And any of the simplest Mountebankes,
May cheat them (as they will) of coyne and thankes,
With scraped pouder of a shooing horne,
Which they'l beleeve is of an Unicorne:
Angelicaes, distastfull root is gnaw'd,
And Hearbe of grace most Ruefully is chaw'd;
Garlicke offendeth neither taste nor smell,
Feare and opinion makes it rellish well;
Whilst Beazer stone, and mightie Mithridate,
To all degrees is great in estimate:
And Triacles power is wondrously exprest,
And Dragon water in most high request.
These 'gainst the Plague are good preservatives,
But the best Cordiall is t'amend our lives:
Sinn's the maine cause, and we must first begin
To cease our griefes, by ceasing of our sinne.
I doe beleeve that God hath given in store
Good Medicines to cure, or ease each Sore;
But first remove the cause of the disease,
And then (no doubt but) the effect will cease:
Our sinne's the cause, remove our sinnes from hence,
And God will soone remove the Pestilence:
Then every med'cine (to our consolation)
Shall have his power, his force, his operation;
And till that time, experiments are not
But Paper walls against a Canon shot.
On many a post I see Quacke-salvers Bills
Like Fencers Challenges, to shew their skills;
As if they were such Masters of defence,
That they dare combat with the Pestilence,
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And bragge to beare the victory away;
But if their Patients patiently beleeve them,
They'l cure them (without faile) of what they give them;
What though ten thousands by their drenches perish,
They made them purposely themselves to cherish:
Their Art is a meere Artlesse kinde of lying,
To picke their living out of others dying.
This sharpe invective no way seemes to touch
The learn'd Physician, whom I honour much,
The Paracelsians and the Galennists,
The Philosophicall grave Herbalists:
These I admire and revereuce, for in those
God doth Dame Natures secrets fast inclose,
Which they distribute as occasion serve
Health to reserve, and health decay'd conserve:
'Tis 'gainst such Rat-catchers I bend my pen,
Which doe mechanically murther men,
Whose promises of cure (like lying knaves)
Doth begger men, or send them to their graves.
Now London, for thy sence of feeling next,
Thou in thy feeling chiefly art perplext;
Thy heart feeles sorrow, and thy body anguish,
Thou in thy feeling feel'st thy force to languish,
Thou feel'st much woe, and much calamitie,
And many millions feele thy misery;
Thou feel'st the fearefull Plague, the Flix, and Fever,
Which many a soule doth from the body sever:
And I beseech God for our Saviours merit,
To let thee feele the Comfort of the Spirit.
Last for the solace of the smell or scent;
Some in contagious roomes are closely pent,
Whereas corrupted aire they take, and give
Till time ends, or lends liberty to live.
One with a piece of tasseld well tarr'd Rope,
Doth with that Nose-gay keepe himselfe in hope:
Another doth a wispe of Wormewood pull,
And with great judgement crams his nostrils full:
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And makes them his perfume alongst the street:
A fourth hath got a pownc'd Pommander Box,
With worme-wood juice, or sweating of a Fox,
Rue steep'd in vineger, they hold it good
To cheere the sences, and preserve the blood.
Whil'st Billets Bonefire-like, and Faggots drie
Are burnt i'th streetes, the Aire to purifie.
Thou great Almightie, give them time änd space,
And purifie them with thy heavenly Grace,
Make their repentance Incense, whose sweet savour
May mount unto thy Throne, and gaine thy favour.
Thus every sence, that should the heart delight,
Are Ministers, and Organs to affright.
The Citizens doe from the Citie runne.
The Countries feares, the Citizens doe shunne:
Both feare the Plague, but neither feares one jot
The evill wayes which hath the Plague begot.
This is the way this Sicknesse to prevent,
Feare to offend, more than the punishment.
All Trades are dead, or almost out of breath,
But such as live by sicknesse or by death:
The Mercers, Grocers, Silk-men, Gold-smiths, Drapers,
Are out of Season, like noone-burning Tapers:
All functions faile almost, through want of buyers,
And every Art and Mystery turne Dyers:
The very Water-men give over plying,
Their rowing Trade doth faile, they fall to dying.
Some men there are, that rise by others falls,
Propheticke Augurists in Urinals,
Those are right Water-men, and rowe so well,
They either land their Fares in Heav'n or Hell.
I never knew them yet, to make a stay
And land at Purgatorie, by the way:
The reason very plainely doth appeare,
Their Patients feele their Purgatorie here.
But this much (Reader) you must understand,
They commonly are paid before they land.
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By Physicke Bills, and his Preservatives:
Worme-eaten Sextons, mightie gaines doe winne,
And nastie Grave-makers great commings in:
And Coffin-makers are well paid their rent,
For many a wofull woodden tenement;
For which the Trunke-makers in Pauls Church-yard,
A large Revenue this sad yeere have shar'd,
Their living Customers for Trunkes were fled,
They now made Chests or Coffins for the dead.
The Searchers of each corps good gainers be,
The Bearers have a profitable fee,
And last, the Dog-killers great gaines abounds,
For braining brawling Curres, and foisting hounds.
These are the Grave Trades, that doe get and save,
Whose gravitie brings many to their grave.
Thus grieved London, fill'd with moanes and groanes,
Is like a Golgotha of dead mens bones:
The field where Death his bloody fray doth fight,
And kil'd a thousand in a day and night.
Fair houses, that were late exceeding deare,
At fiftie or an hundred pounds a yeere,
The Landlords are so pittifull of late,
They'l let them at a quarter of the rate.
So hee that is a mightie moneyed man,
Let him but thither make what haste hee can,
Let him disburse his Gold and Silver heape,
And purchase London, 'tis exceeding cheape;
But if he tarry but one three months more,
I hope 'twill be as deare as 'twas before.
A Countrie Cottage, that but lately went
At foure markes, or at three pounds yeerely rent;
A Citizen, whose meere necessitie
Doth force him now into the Countrie flie,
Is glad to hire two Chambers of a Carter,
And pray and pay with thankes five pounds a quarter.
Then here's the alteration of this yeere,
The Cities cheapnesse makes the Countrie deare.
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A man dares not be sicke although he be:
Let him complaine but of the Stone or Gout,
The Plague hath strooke him, presently they doubt:
My selfe hath beene perplexed now and then,
With the wind-Collicke, yeeres above thrice ten,
Which in the Country I durst not repeat,
Although my pangs and gripes and paines were great:
For to be sicke of any kind of griefe,
Would make a man worse welcome than a thiefe;
To be drunke sicke, which er'st did credit winne,
VVas fear'd infectious, and held worse than sinne.
This made me, and a many more beside,
Their griefes to smother, and their paines to hide,
To tell a merry tale with visage glad,
VVhen as the Collicke almost made me mad.
Thus meere dissembling, many practis'd then,
And mid'st of paine, seem'd pleasant amongst men,
For why, the smallest sigh or groane, or shrieke,
VVould make a man his meat and lodging seeke.
This was the wretched Londoners hard case,
Most hardly welcome into any place;
VVhilst Country people, whereso'ere they went,
VVould stop their noses to avoid their sent,
VVhen as the case did oft most plaine appeare,
'Twas only they themselves that stunke with feare.
Nature was dead (or from the Country runne)
A Father durst not entertaine his Sonne,
The Mother sees her Daughter, and doth feare her,
Commands her on her blessing not come neere her.
Affinitie, nor any kinde of Kinne,
Or ancient friendship could true welcome winne;
The Children scarcely would their Parents know,
Or (did if they) but slender duty shew:
Thus feare made Nature most unnaturall,
Duty undutifull, or very small,
No friendship, or else cold and miserable,
And generally all uncharitable.
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They would not be receiv'd (much lesse be read)
But cast into the fire and burnt with speed,
As if they had been Hereticks indeed.
And late I saw upon a Sabbath day,
Some Citizens at Church prepar'd to pray,
But (as they had been excommunicate)
The good Church-wardens thrust them out the gate.
Another Country vertue Ile repeat,
The peoples charitie was growne so great,
That whatsoever Londoner did dye,
In Church or Church-yard should not buried lye.
Thus were they scorn'd, despised, banished,
Excluded from the Church, alive, and dead,
Alive, their bodies could no harbour have,
And dead, not be allow'd a Christian Grave:
Thus was the Countries kindnesse cold, and small,
No house, no Church, no Christian buriall.
Oh thou that on the winged Winds dost sit,
And seest our misery, remedy it,
Although we have deserv'd thy vengeauce hot,
Yet in thy fury (Lord) consume us not:
But in thy mercies sheath thy slaying Sword,
Deliver us according to thy Word:
Shut up thy Quiver, stay thy angry Rod,
That all the World may know thou art our God,
Oh open wide the Gate of thy Compassion,
Assure our Soules that thou art our Salvation:
Then all our thoughts, and words, and works, we'l frame
To magnifie thy great and glorious Name.
The wayes of God are intricate, no doubt
Unsearchable, and passe mans finding out,
He at his pleasure worketh won'drous things,
And in his hand doth hold the hearts of Kings,
And for the love which to our King he beares,
By sicknesse he our sinfull Country cleares,
That he may be a Patron, and a Guide,
Unto a people purg'd and purifi'd.
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When famous late Elizabeth deceast,
Before our gracious Iames put on the Crowne,
Gods hand did cut superfluous branches downe,
Not that they then that were of life bereft,
Were greater sinners than the number left:
But that the Plague should then the Kingdome cleare,
The good to comfort, and the bad to feare:
That as a good King, God did us assure,
So hee should have a Nation purg'd and pure.
And as Elizabeth when she went hence,
Was wayted on, as did beseeme a Prince:
Of all degrees to tend her Majestie,
Neere fortie thousand in that yeere did dye,
That as shee was belov'd of high and low,
So at her death, their deaths their loves did show;
Whereby the world did note Elizabeth,
Was lovingly attended after death.
So mightie Iames (the worlds admired mirour)
True faiths defending friend, sterne Foe to Errour,
VVhen he Great Britaines glorious Crowne did leave,
A Crowne of endlesse glory to receive,
Then presently in lesse than eight months space,
Full eighty thousand follow him apace.
And now that Royall Iames intombed lyes,
And that our gracious Charles his roome supplies,
As Heav'n did for his Father formerly,
A sinfull Nation cleanse and purifie:
So God, for him these things to passe doth bring,
And mends the subjects for so good a King.
Upon whose Throne may peace and plenty rest,
And he and his Eternally be blest.
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FINIS.
| Works of John Taylor the Water Poet not included in the folio volume of 1630 | |