%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> Upon the Stately Structure / OF / Bow-Church and Steeple, / Burnt, An. 1666. Rebuilt, 1679. / OR / A Second POEM upon NOTHING! University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1680-1680 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 05/07/2012 32577

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R213194 LOok how the Country-Hobbs with wonder flock / To see the City-crest, turn'd Weathercock! Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 482031 Upon the Stately Structure / OF / Bow-Church and Steeple, / Burnt, An. 1666. Rebuilt, 1679. / OR / A Second POEM upon NOTHING! Upon the Stately Structure OF Bow-Church and Steeple, Burnt, An. 1666. Rebuilt, 1679. OR A Second POEM upon NOTHING! Upon the Stately Structure OF Bow Church and Steeple, Burnt, Anno 1666. Rebuilt, 1679. OR A Second POEM upon NOTHING! 1680-1680

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 5/7/2012 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America London politics/ government Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 5/7/2012 2:17:50 PM XBallad Ly, Nancy Created XML Version of Ballad 5/7/2012 2:17:50 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 5/7/2012 2:17:50 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 5/7/2012 2:17:50 PM Transcriptionist Two Lester, Hillary Transcription of ballad manuscript 5/7/2012 2:17:50 PM Transcriptionist One Doss, MacKenzie Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/27/2011 Checker Percy Ross Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 5/18/2011 Bibliographer Shannon Meyer Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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LOok how the Country-Hobbs with wonder flock To see the City-crest, turnd Weathercock! Which with each shifting Gale, veres to and fro; London has now got twelve Strings to her Bow! The Winds South-East, and straight the Dragon russels His brazen wings, to court the Breeze from Brussels! The Winds at North! and now his Hissing fork, Whirles round, to meet a flattering gale from York! Boxing the Compass, with each freshing Gale, But still to London turns his threatning Tayle. But stay! whats there; I spy a stranger thing; Our Red-cross brooded by the Dragons wing! The wing is warm; but O! beware the sting! Poor English-Cross, exposd to winds, and weathers, Forct to seek shelter in the Dragons feathers! Nere had old Rome so rare a Piece to brag on, A Temple built to Great Bell, and the Dragon! Whilst yet undaunted Protestants, dare hope, They that will worship Bell, shall wear the Rope. O how our English Chronicles will shine! Burnt, sixty six; Rebuilt, in seventy nine. When Jacob Hall on his High Rope shews tricks, The Dragon flutters; the Lord Mayors Horse, kicks; The Cheapside-crowds, and Pageants scarcely know Which most tadmire, Hall, Hobby-horse, or Bow! But what mad Frenzy set your Zeal on fire, (Grave Citizens!) to Raise Immortal Spire On Sea-coal Basis? which will sooner yield Matter to Burn a Temple, than to Build! What the Coals build, the Ashes bury! no men Of wisdom, but would dread the threatning Omen! But say (Proud Dragon!) now preferrd so High, What Marvels from that Prospect dost thou spy? Westward thou seest, and seeing hatst the Walls Of, sometimes Revrend, now Regenerate Pauls, Thy envious eyes, such glories cannot brook, But as the Devil once ore Lincoln, look: And envys Poison, will thy Bowels Tear Sooner than Daniels Dose, of Pitch, and Hair! Then Eastward, to avoid that wounding sight, Thy Glaring eyes upon the Mum-glass, light.
Adornd with Monstrous forms to clear the scope, How much thou art out-dragond by the Pope. Ah fools! to dress a Monument of woe In whistling Silks, that should in Sackcloth, go! Nay strangely wise, our Senators appear To build That, and a Bedlam in a year, That if the Mum-glass crack, they may inherit An Hospital becoming their great merit! To Royal Westminster, next turn thine eye; Perhaps a Parliament thou mayst espy, Dragons of old gave Oracles at Rome; Then Prophesie, their Day, their Date, and Doom l And if thy Visual Ray can reach the Main; Tells when the Duke, new gone, returns again! Facing about; next view our Guildhall well, Where Reverend Fox-furrs charmd by potent spell Of Elephants, (turnd wrong side outward) dare Applaud the Plays; and yet hiss out the Player: Player! whose wise Zeal for City, Country, King, Shall to all points of the wide Compass ring Whilst Bow has Bells, or Royal Thames a Spring! Thy Roving Eye perhaps from Hague may sends How the New League, has made old Foes, new Friends: But let substantial witness, Credence give it, Or Nere believe me, if the House believe it! If true, I fear too late! France at one sup, (Like Pearls dissolvd in Cleopatras Cup) Trade, Empire, Neatherlands has swallowed up! But heark! The Dragon speaks from Brazen Mouth, Whose words, though wind, are spoken in Good south! To you of Ratling fame, and great esteem; The higher placed, the less you ought to seem! To you of noble souls, and gallant minds, Learn to outface (with me) the Huffing winds! To timrous feeble spirits, that live beneath; Learn not of me to turn with every breath! To those who like (Camelions) live on Air; Popular Praise is thin Consumptive fare! To you who Steeple upon Steeple set, Cut my Cocks-comb, if ere to Heaven you get.
FINIS.