The Conflagration of London, Poem 2
THE AUTHOR TO THE GRAVER, Ʋpon occasion of a Draught of London in Flames, designed to have been prefixed as a Frontispice to the Poem, but forborn upon second thoughts.
HOld Graver hold, in vain thou doest engage
To crowd the Poem into th' Title Page;
Thy Picture much beneath thy Project falls,
Though thou present us flames and tottering Walls:
If that be all, thy Title thou'lt belye;
The Scene's the least part of the Tragedy.
Canst thou delineate shrieks, and doleful cryes,
That rent the Clouds, and pierc'd the melting Skies?
Can thy Lines reach to accent Babels voices,
Or, give the Eccho to confused Noyses?
Canst thou express the bawlings of a Crowd,
Wherein none's heard, 'cause every one is lowd?
And the extortion, thefts, and cozening Feats
Of Porters, Carters, Watermen, and Cheats?
Canst thou describe the sounds of tuneless Bells,
Whose awkward Musick tolls their Steeples knells?
The cracks of tumbling Houses; and the greeting▪
Of tottering Roofs, and battering Canons meeting?
Canst thou to view expose the hissing streams
Of melted Metals, checkt with quenching streams!
Or, draw the Medley of compounded smells,
Forc'd, some from fragrant, some from nasty Cells?
Canst reach the Horrours of distemper'd Minds,
Where ghastly fear with woful grief combines;
A grief, that Mourning from Amazement borrows,
Whiles Tears are stifled by profounder sorrows?
Or, th' Hurry which distracted Fancies fills,
Where, thought stabs thought; and project, project kills:
Where, what to save's in doubt, till all be lost,
And slow Resolves by speedy Fates are cross'd!
Canst draw the Misers Passions, while he laggs
In midst of flames, hugging his darling Baggs;
Whom, loth to lose, and loth to give, divide,
Neer sacrific'd to what he deifi'd?
Or a just Love 'twixt equal Children parted,
When, one must be preferr'd, th' other deserted:
Or, whilest both goods, and Childrens danger scares
The Mothers bowels, and the Fathers cares!
Or, labouring throws, and Births precipitate,
Where the Fright's Midwife, and the Nurse is Fate!
If all these miss'd in thy Picture are,
Not th' hundredth part of Londons Woes is there.
Hold then: For old Plays fashion pleaseth not,
Wherein, the Prologue onelyonly told the Plot.
Yet, (now I think on't) somewhat thou may'st do
To stead the Stationer, and Poem too.
The Book is sometimes turn'd for th' Baby-Letter;
And sorry Cuts help Ballads off the better.
In Chawcer, since his Language grew so stale,
Each Picture speaks more English, then its Tale.
And in Saints Legends Romanists believe
The Cut's do best edification give.
Perhaps thou may'st too, better Readers draw
To greet a Muse, till now, they never saw.
For oft the Bush directs us to the Wine,
And men know where the Sight is, by the Sign.
Go on, for once then. But thy Next shall be
A Nobler Draught, if thou'lt be rul'd by me.
Take my Directions, and I'll shew thee how
To act th' Engraver, and the Poet too.
Conceit Troy's Flames, and those that Nero made
To symbolize with the sad Tune he play'd.
Or those, He made, whose Name did *BrennusBurning bear,
When Jove, and Rome to Geese obliged were.
With those that laid Jerusalem in Dust;
And those of forreign Vulcans, ta'ne on Trust
From Travellers; t' impregnate thy Design,
And make thy lines more to resemble mine.
Then, from some Ghostly Father get a spell
To view the Cave (they say) joynes next to Hell;
From that Original thy Fancy fill,
(For, that's pure fancy,) and go, try thy skill.
And lastly, antedate the General Fire
In thought: and thy Invention thence inspire.
Thus arm'd; take Londons Situation right;
And spread a Mantle o're 't of blackest Night;
Take Lights and shades from its Blaze. Lookers on
Were satisfied, it might supply the Sun.
Nex, place instead of th' often changing Dame,
A black Clowd, big with sheets of oylie Flame;
Ruffled by Eurus, puffing out of th' East
Aetnean Vapours from's incensed Breast:
Let them drop melted stars, toss'd up and down
To scatter Ruines through the scared Town;
Out of the Skies (to shew from whence it came)
Stretch out an Hand, arm'd with a Rod of Flame:
Bound with a scrowl; which let this Motto fill,
LONDON Amend: His Hand is stretcht out still.
Let Flames on March, a mile in Front appear,
Brought up, with ruines smoth'ring in the Rear.
Before, express me Paul's as yet entire,
Its leaden Roof, weeping for fear o'th' Fire.
Some dwellings charg'd by the Van Heats, let smoak:
Let others stand forlorn, t' expect the shock.
On tops of some, thick Clouds with Buckets arm
For Charge, but flying at the next Alar'm.
Let ruining hooks others exposed, shake;
And gaping Chasmes let warlike Engines make.
Express me Roofs blown up into the Air;
And Flames they fly beneath, let meet 'em there.
Next, draw a reeking Thames, and Barges flying
With scorched Sayls, and stifled Fishes dying.
This done: A Jesuit cut▪ 'ith' view o'th' whole,
At Faux's Bo-peep in some lurking Hole;
Laughing in's sleeve: and let this be the Mot,
Ha! This hits better then the Powder Plot!
For close: At top of Pauls let be exprest
A melting Phoenix in a flaming Nest.
Hope will expound the Embleme; though I fear
Few hope, 'twill soon be verified there.
In summe: If any wish this Draught annext,
Say, This Edition sold, it may i'th' next.
FINIS.
End of the text · Simon Ford, The Conflagration of London (1667)