The burning of the Globe or playhouse on the Bankside on St. Peter's Day cannot escape you; which fell out by a peal of chambers (that I know not upon what occasion were to be used in the play), the tampin or stopple of one of them lighting in the thatch that cover'd the house, burn'd it down to the ground in less than two hours, with a dwelling house adjoining; and it was a great marvel and fair grace of God that the people had so little harm, having but two narrow doors to get out.[406]
THE FIRST GLOBE
From Visscher's View of London, published in 1616, but representing the city as it was several years earlier.
The Reverend Thomas Lorkin writes from London to Sir Thomas Puckering under the date of June 30, 1613:
No longer since than yesterday, while Burbage's company were acting at the Globe the play of Henry VIII, and there shooting off certain chambers in way of triumph, the fire catched and fastened upon the thatch of the house, and there burned so furiously, as it consumed the whole house, all in less than two hours, the people having enough to do to save themselves.[407]
A contemporary ballad[408] gives a vivid and amusing account of the disaster:
A Sonnet upon the Pitiful Burning of the Globe
Playhouse in London
Now sit thee down, Melpomene,
Wrapt in a sea-coal robe,
And tell the dolefull tragedy
That late was played at Globe;
For no man that can sing and say
Was scared on St. Peter's day.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.[409]
All you that please to understand,
Come listen to my story;
To see Death with his raking brand
Mongst such an auditory;
Regarding neither Cardinall's might,
Nor yet the rugged face of Henry the eight.
Oh sorrow, etc.
This fearful fire began above,
A wonder strange and true,
And to the stage-house did remove,
As round as taylor's clew,
And burnt down both beam and snagg,
And did not spare the silken flagg.
Oh sorrow, etc.
Out run the Knights, out run the lords,
And there was great ado;
Some lost their hats, and some their swords;
Then out run Burbage, too.
The reprobates, though drunk on Monday,
Prayd for the fool and Henry Condy.
Oh sorrow, etc.
The periwigs and drum-heads fry
Like to a butter firkin;
A woeful burning did betide
To many a good buff jerkin.
Then with swolen eyes, like drunken Flemminges
Distressed stood old stuttering Heminges.
Oh sorrow, etc.
Ben Jonson, who saw the disaster, left us the following brief account: