Classic Poem

And why to me this, thou lame Lord of fire,
What had I done that might call on thine ire?
Or urge thy Greedie flame, thus to devoure
So many my Yeares-labours in an houre?
I ne're attempted, Vulcan , 'gainst thy life;
Nor made least line of love to thy loose Wife;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne
With Clownes, and Tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in horne.
'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe,
And Mars , that gave thee a Lanthorne for a Crowne:
Was it because thou wert of old denied
By Jove to have Minerva for thy Bride,
That since thou tak'st all envious care and paine,
To ruine any issue of the braine?
Had I wrote treason there, or heresie,
Imposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie,
I had deserv'd then, thy consuming lookes,
Perhaps, to have beene burned with my bookes.
But, on thy malice, tell me, didst thou spie
Any, least loose, or scurrile paper, lie
Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,
By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the honours of the Crowne?
Or taxe the Glories of the Church, and Gowne?
Itch to defame the State? or brand the Times?
And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting Rimes?
If none of these, then why this fire? Or find
A cause before; or leave me one behind.
Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule ,
Th' Esplandians, Arthur's, Palmerins , and all
The learned Librarie of Don Quixote ,
And so some goodlier monster had begot,
Or spun out Riddles, and weav'd fiftie tomes
Of Logogriphes , and curious Palindromes ,
Or pomp'd for those hard trifles Anagrams ,
Or Eteostichs , or those finer flammes
Of Egges, and Halberds, Cradles, and a Herse,
A paire of Scisars, and a Combe in verse;
Acrostichs , and Telestichs , on jumpe names,
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames,
On such my serious follies; But, thou'lt say,
There were some pieces of as base allay,
And as false stampe there; parcels of a Play,
Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;
Adulterate moneys, such as might not goe:
Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so.
Shee is the Judge, Thou Executioner,
Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power,
Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie
With some more thrift, and more varietie:
Thou mightst have had me perish, piece by piece,
To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese,
Sindge Capons, or poore Pigges, dropping their eyes;
Condemn'd me to the Ovens with the pies;
And so, have kept me dying a whole age,
Not ravish'd all hence in a minutes rage.
But that's a marke, wherof thy Rites doe boast,
To make consumption, ever where thou go'st;
Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire
T'have held a Triumph, or a feast of fire,
Especially in paper; that, that steame
Had tickled your large Nosthrill: many a Reame
To redeeme mine, I had sent in; enough,
Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper stuffe.
The Talmud , and the Alcoran had come,
With pieces of the Legend; The whole summe
Of errant Knight-hood, with the Dames, and Dwarfes;
The charmed Boates, and the inchanted Wharfes;
The Tristram's, Lanc'lots, Turpins , and the Peer's ,
All the madde Rolands , and sweet Oliveer's;
To Merlins Marvailes, and his Caballs losse,
With the Chimaera of the Rosie-Crosse ,
Their Seales, their Characters, Hermetique rings,
Their Jemme of Riches, and bright Stone, that brings
Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues:
The art of kindling the true Coale, by lungs,
With Nicholas Pasquill's , Meddle with your match,
And the strong lines, that so the times doe catch,
Or Captaine Pamplets horse, and foot; that sallie
Upon th'Exchange, still out of Popes-head-Alley.
The weekly Corrants, with Pauls Seale; and all
Th'admir'd discourses of the Prophet Ball:
These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine, or sup,
Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my Deske, what was there to accite
So ravenous, and vast an appetite?
I dare not say a body, but some parts
There were of search, and mastry in the Arts.
All the old Venusine , in Poitrie ,
And lighted by the Stagerite , could spie,
Was there made English: with the Grammar too,
To teach some that, their Nurses could not doe,
The puritie of Language; and among
The rest, my journey into Scotland song,
With all th'adventures; Three bookes not afraid
To speake the Fate of the Sicilian Maid
To our owne Ladyes; and in storie there
Of our fift Henry , eight of his nine yeare;
Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent,
Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:
And twice-twelve-yeares stor'd up humanitie,
With humble Gleanings in Divinitie,
After the Fathers, and those wiser Guides
Whom Faction had not drawne to studie sides.
How in these ruines Vulcan , thou dost lurke,
All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke!
I now begin to doubt, if ever Grace,
Or Goddesse, could be patient of thy face.
Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!
'Cause thou canst halt, with us in Arts, and Fire!
Sonne of the Wind! for so thy mother gone
With lust conceiv'd thee; Father thou hadst none.
When thou wert borne, and that thou look'st at best,
She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her brest.
And so did Jove , who ne're meant thee his Cup:
No mar'le the Clownes of Lemnos tooke thee up.
For none but Smiths would have made thee a God.
Some alchimist there may be yet, or odde
Squire of the Squibs, against the Pageant day,
May to thy name a Vulcanale say;
And for it lose his eyes with Gun-powder,
As th'other may his braines with Quicksilver.
Well-fare the Wise-men yet, on the Banckside ,
My friends, the Watermen! They could provide
Against thy furie, when to serve their needs,
They made a Vulcan of a sheafe of Reedes,
Whom they durst handle in their holy-day coates,
And safely trust to dresse, not burne their Boates.
But, O those Reeds! thy meere disdaine of them,
Made thee beget that cruell Stratagem,
(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy madde pranck)
Against the Globe , the Glory of the Banke .
Which, though it were the Fort of the whole Parish,
Flanck'd with a Ditch, and forc'd out of a Marish,
I saw with two poore Chambers taken in
And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have been!
See the Worlds Ruines! nothing but the piles
Left! and wit since to cover it with Tiles.
The Brethren, they streight nois'd it out for Newes,
'Twas verily some Relique of the Stewes.
And this a Sparkle of that fire let loose
That was lock'd up in the Winchestrian Goose
Bred on the Banck , in time of Poperie,
When Venus there maintain'd the Misterie.
But, others fell, with that conceipt by the eares,
And cry'd, it was a threatning to the beares;
And that accursed ground, the Parish-Garden:
Nay, sigh'd, ah Sister 'twas the Nun, Kate Arden
Kindled the fire! But, then did one returne,
No Foole would his owne harvest spoile, or burne!
If that were so, thou rather would'st advance
The place, that was thy Wives inheritance.
O no, cry'd all. Fortune , for being a whore,
Scap'd not his Justice any jot the more.
He burnt that Idoll of the Revels too:
Nay, let White-Hall with Revels have to doe,
Though but in daunces, it shall know his power;
There was a Judgement shew'n too in an houre.
Hee is true Vulcan still! He did not spare
Troy , though it were so much his Venus care.
Foole, wilt thou let that in example come?
Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?
And what hast thou done in these pettie spights,
More then advanc'd the houses, and their rites?
I will not argue thee, from those of guilt,
For they were burnt, but to be better built.
'Tis true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
Which thou hast only vented, not enjoy'd.
So would'st th'have run upon the Rolls by stealth,
And didst invade part of the Common-wealth,
In those Records, which were all Chroniclers gone,
Will be remembred by Six Clerkes , to one.
But, say all sixe, Good Men, what answer yee?
Lyes there no Writ, out of the Chancerie
Against this Vulcan? No Injunction?
No Order? No Decree? Though we be gone
At Common-Law: Me thinkes in his despight
A Court of Equitie should doe us right.
But to confine him to the Brew-houses,
The Glasse-house, Dye-fats, and their Fornaces;
To live in Sea-coale, and goe forth in smoake;
Or lest that vapour might the Citie choake,
Condemne him to the Brick-kills, or some Hill-
foot (out in Sussex ) to an iron Mill;
Or in small Fagots have him blaze about
Vile Tavernes, and the Drunkards pisse him out;
Or in the Bell -Mans Lanthorne like a spie,
Burne to a snuffe, and then stinke out, and die:
I could invent a sentence, yet were worse;
But I'le conclude all in a civill curse.
Pox on your flameship, Vulcan; if it be
To all as fatall as't hath beene to me,
And to Pauls-Steeple; which was unto us
'Bove all your Fire-workes, had at Ephesus ,
Or Alexandria; and though a Divine
Losse remaines yet, as unrepair'd as mine.
Would you had kept your Forge at Ætna still,
And there made Swords, Bills, Glaves, and Armes your fill.
Maintain'd the trade at Bilbo; or else-where;
Strooke in at Millan with the Cutlers there;
Or stay'd but where the Fryar, and you first met,
Who from the Divels-Arse did Guns beget;
Or fixt in the Low-Countrey's , where you might
On both sides doe your mischiefes with delight;
Blow up, and ruine, myne, and countermyne,
Make your Petards, and Granats, all your fine
Engines of Murder, and receive the praise
Of massacring Man-kind so many wayes.
We aske your absence here, we all love peace,
And pray the fruites thereof, and the increase;
So doth the King , and most of the Kings men
That have good places: therefore once agen,
Pox on thee Vulcan , thy Pandora's pox,
And all the Evils that flew out of her box
Light on thee: Or if those plagues will not doo,
Thy Wives pox on thee, and B.B.'s too.