Classic Poem

Thou that by ruine doest repaire,
And by destruction art a Founder;
Whose art doth tell us what men are,
Who by corruption shall rise sounder:
In thy fierce fires intensive heat,
Remember this is Tom the great.

And, Cyclops , think at every stroak
With which thy sledge his side shall wound,
That then some Statute thou hast broak,
Which long depended on his sound;
And that our Colledge-Gates doe cry
They were not shut since Tom did die.

Think what a scourge 'tis to the City
To drink and swear by Carfax Bell,
Which, bellowing without tune or pitty,
The night and day devides not well;
But the poor tradesman must give ore
His ale at eight, or sit till four.

We all in haste drink off our wine,
As if we never should drink more;
So that the reckoning after nine
Is larger now then that before.
Release this tongue which erst could say:
" Home, Scollers; drawer, whats to pay?"

So thou of order shalt be Founder,
Making a Ruler for the people;
One that shall ringe thy praises rounder
Then t'other six bells in the steeple:
Wherefore think, when Tom is running,
Our manners wait upon thy cunning.
Then let him raised be from ground
The same in number, weight, and sound;
So may thy conscience rule thy gaine,
Or would thy theft might be thy baine.