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LONDON'S Bitter-Sweet-CUP OF TEARS, For Her late VISITATION: AND JOY, FOR The KING's Return.

With a Complement (in the cloſe) to FRANCE.

Non nos ampullas,

By Iohn Crouch.

LONDON, Printed for THOMAS PALMER, at the Crown in Weſtminſter-Hall. 1666.



AFter a wanton Century of Peace,
Which all things but Obedience did increaſe;
Feuds and Rebellions midſt three Kingdomes ſpread,
Whoſe Helliſh zeal took off both Crown and Head;
Foul dregs contracted by Inteſtine Wars,
Ill-Aſpects, and worſe frights of bearded Stars;
Rank Exhalations from the Blood was ſpilt,
And rankor from Impiety and Guilt:
After all theſe, with thouſand Cauſes more,
(Foreſeen, though not prevented, long before;)
The Air grown ſick, and the Contagion high,
Poor Londoners (not all prepar'd to die)
Herd after Herd into the Countrey throngs,
While many force their way thorow Forks and Prongs;
Some in wide Fields their Tabernacle pitch,
And ſome both Bed and Grave make in a Ditch;
Proviſions ſet at ſo unkind a ſpace,
The ſick man dies, ere he can reach the place:
One that had ſeen the placing of thoſe Cates,
Would not have judg'd them to be food, but Baits
Cunningly planted to deceive, not cheriſh:
'Tis ſad by ill plac'd Charity to periſh!
Nay Londons Money muſt not paſſe, but there
All the free Bounty not of Love, but Fear;
The Plow men are as jealous of their Lives,
As ever Citizens were of their Wives!
But leave we Rural hearts to Rocks and Stones,
And Survey London's Sorrows, Sighs and Moans.
As when our Thames with monſtrous Ebbe doth fly,
To wider Straits, and leaves his Channel dry;
The great Fiſh with his rapid Streams retire,
Leaving the leſs and weaker to expire
Upon the thirſty Sands, and deſolate Shelves,
Loſt, and unable to Protect themſelves:
The like deſtructive and unequal Fate,
Left London Streets too Wide and Deſolate;
Threw out the Wealthy int 'th' open Air,
And leaves the Needy to Heavens angry care!
Trade interrupted, and the Royal Burſe,
Quitted and Empty as the Cities Purſe;
While Steeples howling Day and Night, do call
Thouſands together to one Funeral:
Our Bells, neither the Old, and Conſecrate;
Nor the unhallowed New, could help our Fate:
Not with perpetual Motion purge the Sky,
Still mid-night and meridian Arrows fly.
Graves wide and deep Gape like the mouth of Hell,
In which whole Lanes (now nearer Neighbours) fell;
Pits round the Church, caſt like a fatal Line,
Threatned the Sacred Pile to undermine.
Pale Famine feeds upon the Plague; The Poor
All Searchers grown, to find a Rich-man's Door;
If One in a whole Street live here and there,
Their Gates are ſhut, either by Peſt or fear;
Perhaps ſome brawny Uſurer ſtayes behind,
Not to the City, but his Avarice, kind;
Who dying 'midſt his Gold and Silver, ſends
His City-gods to bleſs his Countrey Friends;
Now happily by Ruſticks uſ'd ſo well,
As if they had Remov'd from Heaven to Hell.
Sometimes when Charity her ſelf did meet,
A poor afflicted Creature in the Street;
Though warm'd Paſsion and Preſervatives,
Her trembling Palme contracts, and nothing gives;
But fearing ſome infected Hand or Breath,
Leaves the ſtarv'd Soul to pity and to Death:
Which now grew ſo familiar to the Eye,
The preſent wonder was to Live, not Dye.
The Vault at Weſtminſter ſo large and wide;
Which every Term fill'd with a buſie Tide
Of lawfull Adverſaries, (who, though mov'd
With Wrath and Spleen, walk cloſe as if they lov'd)
How ſad it looks! How like that paved Hall,
Which did a Chriſt, and King, to Iudgement call.
Nothing ſold here, but Oxford and L'Eſtrange,
Two Sheets, the Cities Market and Exchange:
Perhaps ſome idle Squire walks to and fro,
Not knowing what to do, nor where to go;
Till his Dogs Appetite barks, though in vain,
And wiſhes Arthurs Table here again.
The Sacred Fabricks of St. Pauls, and Abby,
Now (Synagogue like) ſerv'd with one Scribe and Rabby:
No Breath the Seats nor Organs to Inſpire,
Poor Robbin Redbreſt Sings for all the Quire;
When this ſad Reformation firſt was ſeen,
I thought Sir Robert Harlow had been Dean;
Who Broak and Melted all was in his power,
But dearly lov'd the Images o'th' Tower.
Mr. of the Mint.
Yet of the Two, this of St. Peters Chair,
Is, if not Beautiful, in good Repair;
When good St. Paul hath more of Faith then Works,
Th'Eaſt Chriſtian, but the Weſt not fit for Turks;
Only the King, to ſhew 'tis not his Guilt,
Has beautified all his bleſt Father Built;
Pauls Reformation do's moſt ſadly ſtick,
Rent in the Middle and turn'd Schiſmatick;
And now may well renew his juſt Complaint,
He came too late to be our Almanack-Saint:
St. Pauls Day, till this laſt Convocation, not marked with red Let­ters.
Many I fear could wiſh both Temples down;
T'enjoy (that Ador'd Trinity) in town;
King, Term, and Parliament; Great Cryes are made,
Not for St. Pauls, but (our Diana) Trade.
Ah! but when Weſtminſter or London meet,
Upon thoſe Peebles of the Royal Street;
(Anenſt that White tower, Rais'd by Scotlands Iames,
To gain two Proſpects, of the Park and Thames)
They weep o're the diſcoloured Stones, and Cry,
Here ſprung that High Blood firſt inflam'd the Sky:
Here was committed Englands Capital Crime,
The Monſter Plague hatcht here, but born in time.
O then bright Sun o'th' Britiſh World appear,
To Influence Your Native Hemiſphere:
Whoſe Preſence (Light and Heat) all Good creates;
Whoſe Abſence (an Eclipſe) Depopulates.
Till You with Oriental beames Ariſe,
Poor London faints, peopl'd with Winter flyes;
Which with Conſumptive Legs and Spirits crawle,
To ſeek their Sun from Cheapſide to White-hall;
The Place bereav'd of your Preſential Care,
Muſt ſink: Where you breath not, breaths no good Air:
Of thoſe vaſt Heaps the Sword of Pest'lence ſlew,
Moſt died o'th' Peſt, many for want of You.
But You are Come in Charitable haſt,
The firſt Return'd, who went away the laſt;
When noble Conſtellations drag by th' way,
With many leſſer Planets gon a ſtray;
Nothing but your warm Influence could ope,
London, that long cloſ'd dying*
* Heliotrope:
The City not with grief, but triumph pants,
Each Street as buſie as a Field of Ants;
Your Preſence, Barracado'd Shops and Doors,
Opens as kindly as the Spring our Pores:
Bon-fires Salute You, and the New-tun'd Bells
Chyme Pſalms of Ioy, inſtead of doleful Knells;
To purge the Air, no Coal-fires now need burn,
Magnificats do that for Your Return:
Thus Loyal LONDON hath a Ranſome paid,
For that Defection the Diſloyal made.
Heaven bleſs Your Majeſty, may You Advance,
Victorious Enſigns, through the Heart of France:
And ſince your Vice-Roy has committed Treaſon,
Be pleaſ'd ſans Complement, to do him Reaſon:
S. George ſhall go, and play a Game at Tennis,
*VVere the French was ba••by the Engliſh.
* Agincourt, or elſewhere, with S. Dennis.
Then over MONCK, and make your Dukedome good,
Seal Albemarle once more with Gallick Blood;
And let the Proclamation of proud Lewis,
Proclaim Great CHARLES, who King of France the true is.

About this transcription

TextPotērion glykypikron. London's bitter-sweet-cup of tears, for her late visitation: and joy, for the King's return With a complement (in the close) to France. By Iohn Crouch.
AuthorCrouch, John, fl. 1660-1681..
Extent Approx. 11 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 5 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
SeriesEarly English books online text creation partnership.
Additional notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A81069)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 133232)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2465:2)

About the source text

Bibliographic informationPotērion glykypikron. London's bitter-sweet-cup of tears, for her late visitation: and joy, for the King's return With a complement (in the close) to France. By Iohn Crouch. Crouch, John, fl. 1660-1681.. 8 p. printed for Thomas Palmer, at the Crown in Westminster-Hall,London :1666.. (First two words of title in Greek characters.) (In verse.) (Reproduction of original in the Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington, D.C.)
  • Charles -- II, -- King of England, 1630-1685 -- Early works to 1800.
  • Great Britain -- History -- Commonwealth and Protectorate, 1649-1660 -- Early works to 1800.
  • Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Early works to 1800.
  • London (England) -- History -- 17th century -- Early works to 1800.

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  • Text Creation Partnership,
ImprintAnn Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2014-11 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2).
  • DLPS A81069
  • STC Wing C7304A
  • STC ESTC R231707
  • EEBO-CITATION 99897059
  • PROQUEST 99897059
  • VID 133232

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