Classic Poem

1

Mourne, London , mourne,
Bathe thy polluted soul in tears;
Returne, returne,
Thou hast more cause of grief, then th'hadst for fears,
For the whole Kingdom now begins
To feel thy sorrows as they saw thy sins,
And now do no
Compassion show
Unto thy misery and wo,
But slight thy sufferings as thou didst theirs.

2

Pride, towring pride,
And boyling lust, those fatal twins,
Sit side by side,
And are become plantations of sins
Hence thy Rebellions first did flow,
Both to the King above, and him below
And sordid sloth
The Nurse of both,
Have rais'd thy crimes to such a growth,
That sorrow must conclude as sin begins.

3

Fire, raging fire,
Shall burn thy stately towers down,
Yet not expire,
Tygres and Wolves, or men more savage grown,
Thy childrens brains, and thine shall dash,
And in your blood their guilty tallons wash,
Thy Daughters must
Allay their lust,
Mischiefs will be on mischief thrust,
Till thy Cap tumble as thou mad'st the Crown.

4

Cry, London cry!
Now now petition for redresse,
Where canst thou fly?
Thy emptyed chests augment thy heavinesse,
The Gentry and the Commons loath,
Th'adored Houses slight thee worse then both,
The King poor saint,
Would help but can't;
To heav'n alone unfold thy want,
Thence came thy plagues, thence only pity flow'th.