London, hast thou Accused me

London, hast thou accused meOf breach of laws, the root of strife?Within whose breast did boil to see,So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,That even the hate of sins that growWithin thy wicked walls so rife,For to break forth did convert soThat terror could it not repress.The which, by words since preachers knowWhat hope is left for to redress,By unknown means it liked meMy hidden burden to express,Whereby it might appear to theeThat secret sin hath secret spite;From justice' rod no fault is free;But that all such as work unrightIn most quiet are next ill rest.In secret silence of the nightThis made me, with a reckless breast,To wake thy sluggards with my bow--A figure of the Lord's behest,Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures show.That, as the fearful thunder-clapBy sudden flame at hand we know,Of pebble-stones the soundless rapThe dreadful plague might make thee seeOf God's wrath that doth thee enwrap;That pride might know, from conscience freeHow lofty works may her defend;And envy find, as he hath sought,How other seek him to offend;And wrath taste of each cruel thoughtThe just shapp higher in the end;And idle sloth, that never wrought,To heaven his spirit lift may begin;And greedy lucre live in dreadTo see what hate ill-got goods win;The lechers, ye that lusts do feed,Perceive what secrecy is in sin;And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed,Awaked, when their fault they find:In loathsome vice each drunken wightTo stir to God, this was my mind.Thy windows had done me no spite;But proud people that dread no fall,Clothed with falsehood and unright,Bred in the closures of thy wall;But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal,Thou haste to strife, my secret call.Endured hearts no warning feel.O shameless whore, is dread then goneBy such thy foes as meant thy weal?O member of false Babylon!The shop of craft, the den of ire!Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon;Thy martyrs' blood, by sword and fire,In heaven and earth for justice call.The Lord shall hear their just desire;The flame of wrath shall on thee fall;With famine and pest lamentablyStricken shall be thy lechers all;Thy proud towers and turrets high,En'mies to God, beat stone from stone,Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity;When none thy ruin shall bemoan,But render unto the right wise LordThat so hath judged Babylon,Immortal praise with one accord.