Help now (Minerva), stand a Souldier’s friend,
Direct my Muse, that I may not offend.
’Tis known I write not for to gain applause,
My Sword and Pen shall maintain Martial Laws.
In July, Sixteen hundred sixty and five,
(O happy is the Man that’s now alive)
When God’s destroying Angel sore did smite us,
’Cause he from sin by no means could invite us;
When lovely London was in mourning clad,
And not a Countenance appeared but sad;