A Satire Against The Citizens Of London

  London, hast thou accused me

  Of breach of laws, the root of strife?

  Within whose breast did boil to see,

  So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,

  That even the hate of sins that grow

  Within thy wicked walls so rife,

  For to break forth did convert so

  That terror could it not repress.

  The which, by words since preachers know

  What hope is left for to redress,

  By unknown means it liked me

  My hidden burden to express,

  Whereby it might appear to thee

  That secret sin hath secret spite;

  From justice' rod no fault is free;

  But that all such as work unright

  In most quiet are next ill rest.

  In secret silence of the night

  This made me, with a reckless breast,

  To wake thy sluggards with my bow—

  A figure of the Lord's behest,

  Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures show.

  That, as the fearful thunder-clap

  By sudden flame at hand we know,

  Of pebble-stones the soundless rap

  The dreadful plague might make thee see

  Of God's wrath that doth thee enwrap;

  That pride might know, from conscience free

  How lofty works may her defend;

  And envy find, as he hath sought,

  How other seek him to offend;

  And wrath taste of each cruel thought

  The just shapp higher in the end;

  And idle sloth, that never wrought,

  To heaven his spirit lift may begin;

  And greedy lucre live in dread

  To see what hate ill-got goods win;

  The lechers, ye that lusts do feed,

  Perceive what secrecy is in sin;

  And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed,

  Awaked, when their fault they find:

  In loathsome vice each drunken wight

  To stir to God, this was my mind.

  Thy windows had done me no spite;

  But proud people that dread no fall,

  Clothed with falsehood and unright,

  Bred in the closures of thy wall;

  But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal,

  Thou haste to strife, my secret call.

  Endured hearts no warning feel.

  O shameless whore, is dread then gone

  By such thy foes as meant thy weal?

  O member of false Babylon!

  The shop of craft, the den of ire!

  Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon;

  Thy martyrs' blood, by sword and fire,

  In heaven and earth for justice call.

  The Lord shall hear their just desire;

  The flame of wrath shall on thee fall;

  With famine and pest lamentably

  Stricken shall be thy lechers all;

  Thy proud towers and turrets high,

  En'mies to God, beat stone from stone,

  Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity;

  When none thy ruin shall bemoan,

  But render unto the right wise Lord

  That so hath judged Babylon,

Immortal praise with one accord.