| |
| LONDON 1 now smokes with vapors that arise | |
| From his foule sweat, himselfe he so bestirres: | |
| “Cast out your dead!” the carcase-carrier cries, | |
| Which he by heapes in groundlesse graves interres.— | |
| |
| Now like to bees in summer’s heate from hives, | 5 |
| Out flie the citizens, some here, some there; | |
| Some all alone, and others with their wives: | |
| With wives and children some flie, all for feare! | |
| |
| Here stands a watch, with guard of partizans, | |
| To stoppe their passages, or to or fro, | 10 |
| As if they were not men, nor Christians, | |
| But fiends or monsters, murdering as they go. | |
| |
| Each village, free, now stands upon her guard, | |
| None must have harbour in them but their owne; | |
| And as for life and death all watch and ward, | 15 |
| And flie for life (as death) the man unknowne! | |
| |
| Here crie the parents for their children’s death, | |
| There howle the children for the parents’ losse, | |
| And often die as they are drawing breath | |
| To crie for their but now inflicted crosse. | 20 |
| |
| The last survivor of a familie | |
| Which yesterday, perhaps, were all in health, | |
| Now dies to beare his fellowes companie, | |
| And for a grave for all gives all their wealth. | |
| |
| The London lanes (thereby themselves to save) | 25 |
| Did vomit out their undigested dead, | |
| Who by cart-loads are carried to the grave; | |
| For all these lanes with folke were overfed. | |
| |
| The king himselfe (O wretched times the while!) | |
| From place to place himselfe did flie, | 30 |
| Which from himselfe himselfe did seek t’ exile, | |
| Who (as amaz’d) not safe knew where to lie. | |
| |
| For hardly could one man another meete | |
| That in his bosom brought not odious death; | |
| It was confusion but a friend to greet, | 35 |
| For, like a fiend, he banned with his breath. | |
| |
| Now fall the people unto publike fast, | |
| And all assemble in the church to pray; | |
| Early and late their soules there take repast, | |
| As if preparing for a later day. | 40 |
| |
| The pastors now steep all their words in brine, | |
| With “woe, woe, woe,”—and nought is heard but woe: | |
| “Woe and alas!” (they say) “the powers divine | |
| “Are bent mankind, for sinne, to overthrow! | |
| |
| “Repent, repent,” (like Jonas, now they crie) | 45 |
| “Ye men of England! O repent, repent, | |
| To see if ye maie move pittie’s eye | |
| To look upon you ere you quite be spent.” | |
| |
| And oft while he breathes out these bitter words, | |
| He drawing breath draws in more bitter bane; | 50 |
| For now the aire no aire, but death affords, | |
| And lights of art (for helpe) were in the wane. | |
| |
| The ceremonie at their burialls | |
| Is “ashes but to ashes, dust to dust;” | |
| Nay, not so much; for strait the pitman falls | 55 |
| (If he can stand) to hide them as he must. | |
| |
| But if the pitman have not so much sense | |
| To see nor feele which way the winde doth sit, | |
| To take the same, he hardly comes from thence, | |
| But for himself, perhaps, he makes the pit. | 60 |
| |
| For look how leaves in autumn from the tree | |
| With wind do fall, whose heaps fill holes in ground; | |
| So might ye with the plague’s breath people see | |
| Fall by great heaps and fill up holes profound. | |
| |
| No holy turf was left to hide the head | 65 |
| Of holiest men; but most unhallow’d grounds, | |
| Ditches, and highwaies, must receive the dead, | |
| The dead (ah, woe the while!) so o’er abound. | |
| |
| Time never knew, since he begunne his houres, | |
| (For aught we reade) a plague so long remaine | 70 |
| In any citie as this plague of ours; | |
| For now six yeares in London it hath laine. | |
| |
| But thou in whose high hand all hearts are held, | |
| Convert us, and from us this plague avert; | |
| So sin shall yield to grace, and grace shall yield | 75 |
| The giver glory for so dear desert. | |
| |
| In few, what should I say? the best are nought | |
| That breathe, since man first breathing did rebell: | |
| The best that breathe are worse than may be thought | |
| If thought can thinke, the best can do but well: | 80 |
| For none doth well on earth but such as will | |
| Confesse, with griefe, they do exceeding ill. | |
