I scarce lie down, and draw my curtains here,
But straight I'm roused by the next house on fire;
Pale, and half dead with fear, myself I raise,
And find my room all over in a blaze;
By this 't has seized on the third stairs, and I
Can now discern no other remedy,
But leaping out at window to get free;
For if the mischief from the cellar came,
Be sure the garret is the last takes flame.[1]
'The moveables of Pordage were a bed
For him and 's wife, a basin by its side,
A looking-glass upon the cupboard's head,
A comb-case, candlestick, and pewter spoon
For want of plate, a desk to write upon;
A box without a lid served to contain
Few authors, which made up his Vatican;
And there his own immortal works were laid,
On which the barbarous mice for hunger preyed;
Pordage had nothing, all the world does know,
And yet should he have lost this nothing too,
No one the wretched bard would have supplied
With lodging, house-room, or a crust of bread.
'But if the fire burn down some great man's house,
All straight are interested in the loss;
The court is straight in mourning sure enough,
The act, commencement, and the term put off;
Then we mischances of the town lament,
And fasts are kept, like judgments to prevent.
Out comes a brief immediately, with speed
To gather charity as far as Tweed.
- ↑ Fires were of frequent occurrence, and strict precautions was taken to provide against them. The citizens were ordered to keep their ashes in a secure part of their dwellings, at a distance from the staircases, and to quench them with water every night before they went to bed. Constables were appointed to inspect all houses twice every year, and, upon a cry of fire, every householder was required to place an armed man at his door, and to hang out a light if the fire happened at night.
