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ENGLAND'S PASSING BELL, by                    
First Line: I am no prophet, no, nor prophet's son
Last Line: And let her ruins be under thine hand.
Subject(s): Bells; Death; London Fire (1666); Dead, The; Great Fire Of 1666


I am no Prophet, no, nor Prophet's Son;
Yet dare pretend unto a Vision;
Pretend, say I? nay, 'tis no meer pretence,
Pretences do but juggle Conscience.
I pray for peace, yea, I could die for 't too
A willing Sacrifice, if that would do.
But what I do foresee, I dare foretell,
God is now ringing ENGLANDS Passing-Bell.
The sound is in mine ears, the doleful Toul
Strikes strange amazement on my trembling Soul.
She gasps for breath, her Optick nerves are crackt.
Eyes sunk into their holes, her spirits rackt
On fatal Tenters, and her Pulses beat
To her oppressed soul a faint Retreat.
Alas the day! these threatning symptoms call
Her Friends to mind her of a Funeral.
O thou the God of life, commiserate
Thy foolish peoples self-undone estate!
Calm all these Paroxismes, and allay
Those mortal heats; so will I ever pray.
'Wake sottish Island! let thy ruins teach
Thy Sons and Daughters to bewail the Breach.
Where are thy Noahs, Daniels and Jobs?
Are these the men, that in their linsie Robes
Chant their Devotions? th' Angels of the Quire,
Whose very Noses threat their shirts with fire;
Whose Bacchanalian zeal's a flame they stole
Not from the Altar, but Moeonian coal.
Are these the men, that with their Pipes can do
The Counter-wonder on a Jericho?
Ah! poor bewitched Land! how long wilt be
Before thy banisht Wits return to thee?
The Cup is in thine hand, hath toucht thy lips;
Thou wring'st thy mouth at some distasteful sips:
Fain would'st thou plead, enough; ay, so would I,
Or drink it in thy stead, and for thee die.
But what e're be the hopes that buoy thy mind,
Unless I dream, the dreggs are yet behind.
On whose unhappy heads this Lot shall fall
God knows, the wrathful fate doth threaten all.
Let him that thinks he's with a Bargain blest,
Know, the last Nail may double all the rest.
There are some few within thee that begin
To smite the thigh, and to confess their sin.
Others that think it safer to compound,
To shark and shuffle while the Cup goes round.
But if I know ought of thy constitution,
Or of the Products of a Revolution,
Compose the present Frights, and 'twill appear
The Frogs now quasht will be as bold as e're.
These brows of brass, these iron sinews may
Shine like the gold, and bend like kneaded clay,
Whilst an hot Furnace, preaching to the sence,
Applys the terrour of a Providence;
But once withdraw the coals, and you may see
These Metals have not lost their Propertie.
But as for Jonas, who's now Tarsus bound,
Let him remember who a Jonas found.
Let Demas know too, that his present world
Will cheat his fond love, when he shall be hurl'd
By an Ejectment from that dear possession,
That lay in right of Heaven's Sequestration.
And Judas may be sure, his treacherous Kiss
Shall be repay'd with lips as foul as his.
Haman must also know, the Gibbet's up;
Where Mordecai should dine, there he may sup.
'Twas not for lack of eyes the Jews were grown
So strangely blind, that nought but Babylon
Could make them see; nor is't for lack of eyes
I grope at noon, and fall, and cannot rise;
But 'tis this Babylon the Mystical
Hath blinded me; nay, which is worst of all,
She is my mated Incubus, and hence
I'm rid by her bewitching influence.
O pity me, all ye that ever saw
A Sampson snared by a Delilah!
Were Moses here, sure he would sigh with me
For their dear sakes; whose sin and slaverie
Was once like mine: Or could I but produce
A Jeremy, his eye should be the sluce
To weep me out a bitter Lamentation,
And to condole a bleeding dying Nation.

With tears of blood I could sit down and mourn
On my dear Children's most unhappy Urn.
Thousands of sprightly youth, whose breasts and bones
Were richly fill'd, have breath'd their fruitless moans
Under that wrathful hand that did dispense
The bloody arrows of the Pestilence.
Sure death had never such a Table spread
In any age, for ought we hear or read.
How greedily he fed on rich and poor,
As though he never meant to feast it more!
Wit, wealth, or beauty, honour, sex or age,
Made no distinction in his mortal rage.
O cruel death! could not thy heart relent
At those dear Infants that thy fury rent
From tender mothers' breasts! Could not their groans
Have pierc'd thy heart, that might have pierced stones?
Heaps upon heaps of choicest friends I saw;
Our Glory's now become our Golgotha.
Could not the Ancients venerable Hairs,
(The silver Symbole of their age and cares)
Have aw'd thy bold attempt? or pleaded pity,
Who were the Eyes and Pillars of the City.
Nor could thy sacrilegious hands forbear
To rob our Churches of their Common-Prayer.
Th' affrighted Levite durst not for his head,
Appear between the Living and the Dead.
On him (poor Soul!) thou charged'st the extent
Of his own Law, of five miles Banishment.
O King of terrours great! how could'st thou quell
The sacred vertue of his powerful spell,
Against thy sudden stroak? or who should care
For his forsaken Flock, whose Fleece they are?
Now was not this enough? but must it be
But the Proeludium to thy Tragedy?
Whence is't, thou wert in combination found
With Mars and Neptune, for a vantage ground?
What! had poor Mortals over-matcht thee? or
Hadst thou a Fit to hear the Cannons roar?
To toss their shatter'd bones, and serve them in,
As carved Messes, unto Triton's shrine?
Or was't to prove how far thy pow'r would do,
To feast not only Worms, but Fishes too?
Was ever blood so prodigally spent?
Whole Hecatombs seem'd little to present.
Neptune himself could not but blush to see
Thy greedy Altar's Anthropophagie.
Did not the Passing-Bell go sad enough?
That Cannons hellish mouths must speak how rough
And grim a Ghost thou art? for this, will I
Ne're hope to bribe thee when I come to die.
O Death! what is my sin, that still I hear
Those ruthful sighings to torment my ear?
Behold the Fatherless and Widows eyes,
The woful Relicts of thy Sacrifice.
Would God, say they, our dearest blood had run
In those dear veins, from which our blood begun;
Then had we been as happy as the dead,
And ne're have pin'd for lack of daily bread.
Ah me! methinks with grief and shame I see
The hostile rage of the proud enemy
Insulting on our shores, who durst not peep,
Had they not found us in so dead a sleep.
Then might Philistims with advantage come,
When Sampson's shorn, and lull'd with Opium.
Oh! then who could but rent his heart to see
Our Glory led into captivity?
Those floating Bulwarks, and of Royal race,
The envy of the world, that ne're gave place
To a superiour, nor could e're be mated
By those of whom they were both fear'd and hated;
That like a thunder, brake the thickest clouds
Of bold assaults, and scatter'd all the crouds
Of martial force, that could command their way,
And dash their foes like pots of glass or clay.
With what reproach and ignominious boasts
Led they their captive prey to foreign coasts!
Then farewell Royal Charles! yet this shall be
Our joy and triumph still, that here is He
By whose great name th'rt call'd; let Shadows go,
(The substance being come) sith't must be so.
Might here my sorrows end, I'd ne're lament
As one undone; but ah! my Fate is bent
To rack my guilty bones, and to devise
New methods, that her fury may comprize
All the sad stories of the Ages past,
As though this scene were to us both the last.
From Plague and Sword, my mournful eyes I roul
On that amazing mirrour, which my soul
So trembles to behold; my Strength, my Crown,
My Hope, my Magazeen, which now was grown
From Troy novant, to Troy le grand, is now
My Troy l'extinct; thus must the mighty bow
When God will humble them, and lick the dust
When once he smites; for sure this God is just.
But Oh! th' unhappy day that dawn'd in Flames,
Flames that contemned all the floods of Thames.
What! could no Engins art nor power prevail?
Were Samson's Foxes turned tayl to tayl?
'Twas some strange God, no doubt, that should require
So chargeable an Offering made by fire.
London and Sodom may sit down together,
And now condole the Ashes of each other.
For sin they perisht both, and both by Fire,
But here's the odds; Efficients did conspire
In different methods; that from Heaven came,
This from beneath: a black and hellish flame,
A spark of Faux's Cell, infernal coals
Matur'd for service in some Stygian holes.
How did the hungry flames devour their prey!
And lick up stones like straw! and force their way
Through all obstructions, Nature, Art, or Might
Had rais'd to check their desolating flight!
With what stupendious terrour did they roul
From street to street, disdaining all controul!
As though the lungs of wide-mouth'd AEolus
Had been in sacred Oath to drive them thus!
What horrour, think you, what distractions then
Seiz'd on the heart of our poor Citizen!
What bitter cries, complaints and lamentations!
While some bewail their own loss, some the Nations!
Some die for very grief, and others curse
The late indulgence of a faithful Nurse.
Alas! no tongue nor pen can e're express
The Hurries, Hazards, and the sad distress.
Was ever grief like mine! Deeps call to Deeps:
And what one Judgment spares, the second sweeps.
This Scald, I doubt, I shall bear in my face
Unto my grave, with grief and sore disgrace.
And now, if Plague and Sword, and Fire wont do
To melt the heart, and let the captive go;
I dread the thoughts of some impendent scourge,
More like to be a Poyson than a Purge.
Good God! avert whatever it may be;
Avenge not on us our Iniquitie.
Sin has gone big; but ah! we knew it not:
She's now in Travel, and her reckonings out;
The fore springs come, which threatens what may be
The Birth, if God permit Deliverie.
Lord strangle thou the Monster in the womb,
And let the Mothers bowels be its Tomb.

Alas! poor London! who can see thine Ashes,
And not sit down and score those angry lashes
Thy righteous Judg hath in just wrath inflicted
For that whereof thou hadst been long convicted?
Thy Prophets were not dumb, but thou wert deaf:
They warn'd in season; but thy unbelief
Was warning-proof: like knotty crooked wood,
They rul'd and hew'd thee for a common good,
Until their hearts did ake, and arms did tire;
At last thou art condemned to the Fire.
Thou could'st out-face the frowns of Pestilence,
Daring provoked Justice to commence
In hotter Plagues: That Cup is fill'd thee now,
That hath abasht thy proud and shameless brow.
Old Sodom was in our young London found,
Yea, more than Sodom did in her abound,
And now if any will of London hear,
To Sodom he may go, and find her there.
In thee was found the blood of Martyrs, yea,
The murder'd blood of Royal Majesty.
Oaths, Drunk'ness, Lust, and ravenous Oppression,
Pride and Deceit, the spots of high Profession.
In thee was found the woman Jezebel,
With those infernal Locusts that compell
Her Proselytes to commit Fornication;
Which were sad Omens of thy Desolation.
And now, my Daughter, may we come to treat
With that poor Rag that's left? or art too great
Yet to incline thy stubborn ear? Remember
In Sixty-six thou hadst a hot September.
He that thy Remnant, like a smoaking Brand,
Then snatcht out of the fire, with the same hand
Can crush what he hath sav'd; nay, look thou to it,
Lest peradventure he indeed may do it.
True Penitentials might have prevented
That fearful breach that's now in vain lamented.
The Buckets of thine eyes had checkt the Flames,
If well appli'd, 'fore all the Pow'rs of Thames.
But Epimetheus doth but aggravate
And rake the wound, by being wise too late.
Yet for the future, if thou wilt be wise,
And re-espoused, thus I do advise.
Thine Ashes steept in penitent tears may
Make thee a Lie to wash thy shame away.
Thou hast been in the smoak, (and wash thou must);
Both in the smoak of Fire, and smoak of Lust.
Wash therefore, make thee clean, and thou shalt be
As in the days of thy Virginity.
Thy Bricks are fallen, wilt thou change them for
The Hewen Stone? and turn the Sycomore
Into the Cedar? yea, and be it so!
And let thine Ashes to a Phoenix grow!
But yet I doubt, thy pregnant hopes may prove
A Babel's project, unless God above
Unite thy Languages, and undertake
Both to begin, and a full end to make:
Be both thy Builder, and thy Corner-stone,
And raise thee in a Modell of his own.
Lord! rear thy London's Walls, and purge her blood,
And let her know thou hast chastiz'd for good.
Make her thy Sion, thine Emanuel's Land,
And let her Ruins be under thine hand.





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