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Rapparee MOAB - Mother of All BS [annex] (2640* d) RE: MOAB - Mother of All BS [annex] 04 Sep 21

Stanzas from “The Triumph of Death”
         John Davies, 1609

LONDON now smokes with vapors that arise        
From his foule sweat, himselfe he so bestirres:        
“Cast out your dead!” the carcase-carrier cries,        
Which he by heapes in groundlesse graves interres.—        

Now like to bees in summer’s heate from hives,              
Out flie the citizens, some here, some there;        
Some all alone, and others with their wives:        
With wives and children some flie, all for feare!        

Here stands a watch, with guard of partizans,        
To stoppe their passages, or to or fro,              
As if they were not men, nor Christians,        
But fiends or monsters, murdering as they go.        

Each village, free, now stands upon her guard,        
None must have harbour in them but their owne;        
And as for life and death all watch and ward,              
And flie for life (as death) the man unknowne!        

Here crie the parents for their children’s death,        
There howle the children for the parents’ losse,        
And often die as they are drawing breath        
To crie for their but now inflicted crosse.              

The last survivor of a familie        
Which yesterday, perhaps, were all in health,        
Now dies to beare his fellowes companie,        
And for a grave for all gives all their wealth.        

The London lanes (thereby themselves to save)              
Did vomit out their undigested dead,        
Who by cart-loads are carried to the grave;        
For all these lanes with folke were overfed.        

The king himselfe (O wretched times the while!)        
From place to place himselfe did flie,              
Which from himselfe himselfe did seek t’ exile,        
Who (as amaz’d) not safe knew where to lie.        

For hardly could one man another meete        
That in his bosom brought not odious death;        
It was confusion but a friend to greet,              
For, like a fiend, he banned with his breath.        

Now fall the people unto publike fast,        
And all assemble in the church to pray;        
Early and late their soules there take repast,        
As if preparing for a later day.              
The pastors now steep all their words in brine,        
With “woe, woe, woe,”—and nought is heard but woe:        
“Woe and alas!” (they say) “the powers divine        
“Are bent mankind, for sinne, to overthrow!        

“Repent, repent,” (like Jonas, now they crie)              
“Ye men of England! O repent, repent,        
To see if ye maie move pittie’s eye        
To look upon you ere you quite be spent.”        

And oft while he breathes out these bitter words,        
He drawing breath draws in more bitter bane;              
For now the aire no aire, but death affords,        
And lights of art (for helpe) were in the wane.        

The ceremonie at their burialls        
Is “ashes but to ashes, dust to dust;”        
Nay, not so much; for strait the pitman falls              
(If he can stand) to hide them as he must.        

But if the pitman have not so much sense        
To see nor feele which way the winde doth sit,        
To take the same, he hardly comes from thence,        
But for himself, perhaps, he makes the pit.              

For look how leaves in autumn from the tree        
With wind do fall, whose heaps fill holes in ground;        
So might ye with the plague’s breath people see        
Fall by great heaps and fill up holes profound.        

No holy turf was left to hide the head              
Of holiest men; but most unhallow’d grounds,        
Ditches, and highwaies, must receive the dead,        
The dead (ah, woe the while!) so o’er abound.        

Time never knew, since he begunne his houres,        
(For aught we reade) a plague so long remaine              
In any citie as this plague of ours;        
For now six yeares in London it hath laine.        

But thou in whose high hand all hearts are held,        
Convert us, and from us this plague avert;        
So sin shall yield to grace, and grace shall yield              
The giver glory for so dear desert.        

In few, what should I say? the best are nought        
That breathe, since man first breathing did rebell:        
The best that breathe are worse than may be thought        
If thought can thinke, the best can do but well:              
For none doth well on earth but such as will        
Confesse, with griefe, they do exceeding ill.

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