A Dialogue betwixt a Citizen, and a poor Countryman and his Wife, in the Country, where the Citizen remaineth now in this time of sickness.  
Written by him in the Country, who sent the copy to a friend in London, Being both pitiful and pleasant.  
London Printed by R. Oulton for H. Gosson and are to be sold at his shop upon London Bridge near the Gate.  
1636.   

  

A Dialogue betwixt a Citizen and a Countryman.  Citizen. 
GOod Even good friend, inhabit you ne'er hand?  Countryman. 
Chy dwell not varre hence, what would you I pray?  Cit 
No harm, I would but kindly understand,  
Where I might lodge and eat, and frankly pay.  Coun. 
Why sir, whence come you? mass chiveare you come  
From London, where the Plague is perilous hot,  
And it be so, no further words but mum:  
No meat, nor drink, nor lodging will be got,  Cit 
Alas why so? are you a Christian,  
And suffer any die for lack of food?  
I am not sick believe me honest man,  
I would not do thee hurt for any good.  Coun. 
Yea so zay all that know not where to go,  
When as the Plague doth drive them from the City:  
But many a one doth work himself great woe,  
With foolish showing of another pity.  Cit 
Why here is gold and silver for thy pains,  
I'll richly pay for whatsoe'er I take.  Coun. 
You'll pay the Plague. O these are pretty trains,  
Which makes the simple woeful bargains make.  Cit 
Why search, and see, if I be not as sound,  
As any creature in your Country here.  Coun. 
Oh sir, th' infection is not so soon found,  
For clothes will keep the Plague in half a year.  Cit 
Yet let me lodge but in your barn or stable,  
Some cote, or outhouse, that you best may spare:  
I'll be content to take a simple table,  
Nor shall you find me dainty of my fare.  Coun. 
Sir, hold your rest, they zay a horse, a hog,  
And cats and mice, will die of that disease:  
I promise you, I would not lose my dog:  
Not for a strike of the best beans and pease.  Cit 
But do you make of cattle more than men?  
That were unchristian, Heathens do not so:  Coun. 
Why let us want our cattle, horse, and then  
How dogged some men we shall find I know.  Cit 
What men are they, that in extremity,  
Will not in conscience christian pity show?  Coun. 
Even you rich Landlords that have heard our cry  
Yet rack your rents, how ere our sorrows grow,  
Fruit blasted, cattle die, be ne'er so poor,  
Pay rend at day, or turn us out of door.  Cit 
Why we are thousands that no rent receive,  
But subject are to Landlords, and their wills:  
It is the Devil doth the world deceive,  
Which town and country with his veno me fills.  
Be pitiful, and think not on the worse,  
Believe me, I am free from this infection:  
The kind are blessed, and the cruel cursed,  
Beasts in their kind will show their kind affection.  Coun. 
Indeed: I hear an Ape will lime himself  
With putting on a pair of painted breeches:  
But I will not so play the foolish elf,  
To kill myself with listening to your speeches.  
There came this other day into our town,  
A handsome fine old man for flesh and blood:  
And as you do, went plodding up and down,  
And was (zome za) a man of much world's good,  
Met a poor man, as you do me, and quired,  
Where he might come by lodging, meat, and drink.  
The man with money, being poor, was hired  
To get him lodging: and where do you think?  
But in a cottage of his own here by:  
Where well he had not rested full three days,  
But he was dead and buried by and by,  
Whose purse the poor man to much wealth did raise,  
But long the riches did not with him bide:  
For in a week his wife and children died,  
Save only two, which yet are in good health:  
But as for me I seek for no such wealth.  Cit 
Why trust me of my word, you need not fear,  
Both you and yours shall better far by me.  
I am not sick, in faith and truth I swear,  
My clothes are fresh, and not infected be.  Coun. 
I pray stand further, zome will zay, the wind  
Will bring it through ones nose into their brain.  Cit 
Alas, their faith is of a fearful kind,  
Whose idle heads do beat on such a vain.  Coun. 
Why ist not fectious, and doth kill so many?  
Why cats and dogs will bear it to and fro.  Cit 
Yea cats and dogs, but Christians few, if any  
That take it, in the time they pity show.  Coun. 
Oh, you are fine, it is, and 'tis not, well:  
You fear it, and fly from it where it is,  
And yet you zeeme an idle tale to tell,  
How zome 'twill hit, and other zome 'twil miss:  
But be what twill, our justices of Peace  
Have charged our parish, upon pain of galie,  
To take in none, until the sickness cease:  
And think you such Precepts of none avail?  Cit 
Alas, should so our City keep you out,  
How would you sell your corn to pay your rent?  
It may be ere the year doth go about,  
You may this lack of charity repent:  
For God can show his mercy where he will,  
And plague all those that will not pity show.  
The City well, the Country may be ill:  
(But yet I pray the Lord it be not so.)  
You are not free from sin, no more than we,  
Nor yet free from deserved punishment:  
Let us then now in you your pity see:  
And by our plague learn you amendment:  
Be not afraid man, do not stoppey our nose.  
Me thinks, your age should bid you fear no death.  Coun. 
Yet I am loath, good sir, my life to lose,  
By an infection of a plaguy breath,  
But what will all my neighbours think on me,  
If they should know that you from London came;  
There would be work enough iwis for me,  
To shut up me, my household and my dame.  Cit 
That were but if some in your house do die,  
Of the infection, and not other wise.  Coun. 
I tell you no, they are so jealous,  
They are almost afraid of London flies:  
A Londoner is looked on like a spirit,  
The city's thought a Sepulchre or grave.  Cit 
Oh faithless souls whose hearts are so affright.  
All civil rites and government they have:  
But for yourself, let me entreat you yet,  
Some little room, and victual what you will,  
I'll pay you well and one day think on it,  
And for your kindness not requite you ill.  Coun. 
What? shall I danger all my house for you?  
The loss will be far greater than my gain.  
If that your pass the Constable allow;  
The best I can I will you entertain.  Cit 
Then need I not your Courtesy entreat,  
But say I have none, shall I starve for food?  Coun. 
No, God forbid, I'll help you to some meat,  
Which you may eat upon that piece of wood:  
Many a good time have I upon that block  
Fed hungerly, on such as God hath sent,  
Though now the Lord increased hath our stock.  
On Easter days we do not make our Lent.  
But, should I lodge you in my little house,  
And that my Dame would so contented be,  
If there should die a cat, a rat, a mouse,  
That any neighbour by ill chance should see,  
I were undone, and if that you should die,  
You must he buried here in my back side,  
For not a man of all our ministry  
Will bury them that of the plague have died,  
And therefore this is all that I dare do,  
Under that hovel where my hogs do lie,  
Sat down, I'll bring you drink and victual too,  
The best I have, there you may sit you dry,  
Soon, if my Dame will 'gree thereto, I'll see  
What may be done, but further pardon me.  Wife. 
Bones, man, how now? who's that you talk to so,  
A Londoner? for God's sake come away,  
Are you too well? what do you mean I trow?  
You do not know yet who is dead to day,  
My neighbour jone that took home her lame sons,  
Both dead, and thus we shall be all undone,  
The fection will be round about the town,  
So many came to them when they were sick,  
And knew not 'twas the plague: her worsted gown  
She gave my jug, and her son's cloak to Dick:  
But I will hang them on the pales all day,  
And air them well, before they put them on.  
But, pray do you leave talking, come away,  
Lest you be taken napping too anon.  Coun. 
Why hark you Madge, the man is hail and well,  
For aught I see, and has good store of gold:  
Faith be content, cha heard my father tell,  
They are no men that do no pity hold:  
Thou seest 'tis late, the man's a handsome man,  
Well coloured, well clad, and moneyed too:  
The Zittie may do well again, and than,  
God knows what good the man for us may do.  Wife. 
Well zaide iwis, when he has killed us all,  
Where goes his good, when we are under ground?  Cit 
Good woman, let no fear your heart appall,  
I would not hurt you for a hundred po●nd.  Wife. 
And truelyi honest man, if I knew how,  
I could find in my heart to do you good,  
And this I care not if I do for you:  
I'll see you shall notstarue for lack of food,  
Though some here in our town are so hard hearted,  
They care not though they see a thousand die:  
But God be thanked, some of them have smarted  
For showing of such dogged cruelty.  
But for it seems that God hath done his part  
In you, I hope you are a Christian,  
I will be glad in troth with all my heart,  
To do you good, and do the best I can:  
You shall come in, I'll venture once a joint:  
What my poor house can yield, you shall command,  
I care not for the Constable a point:  
For if by chance that any man demand,  
From whence you come, or what you are, or so:  
I'll frame a tale shall serve the turn I trow,  
Come in on God's name, man, be of good cheer,  
My daughter jug shall go for double beer:  
I have a goose, a duck, a pig, a chick.  
A piece of bacon, butter, milk, and bread.  
God hold you sound, that you do not fall sick,  
You shall do well: but truly for your bed,  
You must content yourself, with such a one,  
As our poor state affords, and we have none  
But two of straw, and one poor matteresse,  
That you shall have, we keep it for a friend,  
And you are welcome, you shall find no less,  
And glad I bought it to so good an end.  Cit 
Good woman, God reward your kind good will,  
Which at your hands I take most thankfully,  
And credit me, you need to fear no ill:  
Believe me, none before his time shall die,  
I hope my coming shall be for your good:  
Your pullein only by my means may die:  
But I will pay you sound for your brood.  
I pray you kill a pullet by and by:  
here's gold and silver, send for bread and beer,  
God give us health, and we will have good cheer.  Coun. 
Why lo you wife, you know how money goes:  
Surely, God sent him for our good, I see:  
I hope in God at last we shall not lose,  
By doing good to such a one as he:  
But pray remember that you go to morrow  
To master Baily with our Landlord's rent:  
And if you lack, you know where you may borrow.  Cit 
No borrowing now, I pray you be content:  
I will supply your want, what ere it be:  
You shall not find so ill a guest of me,  
Here's forty shillings, which I freely give.  Coun. 
God bless your worship, and long may you live.  Wife. 
Amen pray God: Ho Sisse, go take the can,  
And fetch some beer and white bread for this man:  
But take heed that you tell not for whom 'tis,  
And hie you home again. And hear you Sisse,  
If any chance to see him, and do choir  
Who 'tis, say 'tis my Gossip master Squire,  
But and they do not ask, say nothing, no:  
Go, let me see how quickly you can go:  
jug, kill the peckled pullet, the red chick,  
Scald them, and to the fire with them quick, quick:  
Bid Dick go fetch in sticks, cleave an old pale:  
And Gentleman, love you a cup of Ale?  
That we have in the house, pray sit you down,  
And welcome, tut, a pin for all the town,  
My husband is an honest man, and I  
Fear not the best of them a halfpenny  
I pay the Parson's tithe, and Scot, and Lot,  
And care not for the Constable a groat:  
A sort of Hogs will see men die for food:  
They, or their brats will come to little good.  
I marvel what the pestilence they scrape for,  
And what 'tis their wide mouths do yawn & gape for:  
But meat and drink, and cloth for me and mine,  
I seek no more, nor ●are I to be fine:  
To pay my rent, and with my neighbours live,  
And at my door a dog a bone to give.  
Be merry Gentleman, I pray be merry,  
And take your rest, I fear me you are weary.  Citti. 
Not much, my walk hath not been long to day,  
And your good mirth drives weariness away:  
I thank you for your kindness heartily,  
And if I live, I'll quite it thoroughly.  Wife. 
I thank you sir, I doubt it not iwis,  
Husband, I pray go meet my daughter Sisse,  
And beat her home: you spoil her, that you do:  
jug, blow the fire, and lay the pullet to.  
Sir, you may see rude gearles, they are but raw.  
Sisse, set down your kanne and fetch in fresh straw,  
Lay in the bed, and air the hempen sheets  
That lie in the brown chest, and strew some sweets  
Along the windows, Isope, Marioam,  
A Rose or two: come Gentleman, pray come,  
Take a hard cushion, be of good cheer I pray:  
Grief doth no good, no, no, cast care away:  
I thank my God that hither thus hath sent you,  
And if our fare and lodging will content you,  
Stay even your pleasure, till yourself be weary,  
we'll do the best we can to make you merry.  Cit 
It was my hap, after a weary walk,  
With this good man and wife to fall in talk:  
And where before I went in heart full grieved,  
I could not in my sorrow be relieved:  
Each sullen slouch and slut would so disdain me,  
As if they scorned or feared to entertain me:  
Scarce bread and drink for money I could get,  
Which from the house upon the ground was set,  
As if that one should cast a dog a bone.  
And thus I wandered up and down alone,  
Until I met these honest people here,  
Who for my money made me hearty cheer,  
And kindly careful of me every way.  
With good content I here was glad to stay,  
Where I beheld a number passing by,  
That (as I heard) did in the highways die:  
Some harbourless, and some through want of food,  
While faithless hearts did fear to do men good.  
Oh heavy time, how many hearts are broken  
With helpless grief, it is not to be spoken:  
But God almighty look upon the City:  
And in his mercy show his glorious pity,  
To cease this plague, or kill pestilence:  
Forgive us all the ill of our offence.  
Preserve his people, and our health restore,  
That we may love and praise him evermore.  
Preserve the Court and Country every where:  
Our King and Queen, their royal progeny,  
Their Counsel, friends, and all that true hearts bear  
Unto their gracious worthy Majesty.  
And bless both Court, City, and Country so,  
That none may to another stranger be,  
But passage free for every man to go,  
And friend his friend in friendly love may see,  
And all to gether may record in one,  
To give all glory unto God alone.  
Amen.   

  

London▪ Trumpet Sounding into the Country. When Death drives, the Grave thrives.  
Sin calls down Punishment: Punishment should bring forth Amendment of life: Amendment ever meets with mercy, and mercy stops Sickness, when 'tis in the highest speed: So that if we still go on in wickedness, we must every week look to have the bill of Terror strike us more and more.  
The visitation (and rightly may it carry that Name) hath now four times in a few years Road circuit through the whole Kingdom, and kept a dreadful Sessions, within London, and round about it: Death does at this hour Scout up and down the Suburbs, and shows his Ghastly face in some Parrishes of the City.  
Those houses which are shut up, Charity opens, and most liberally feeds them. Those houses of poor Handycraftsmen, that stand open, are for want of work pinched with hunger, and the people ready to go a begging.  
Yet there is one comfort, there is no man (been he never so poor) but meets in every corner, one poorer than himself: So that, what Adversities soever are laid upon us, we are bound to praise God, in that we are not cast down to the lowest Misfortunes in the World, for we hear of ten thousands in forteine places, in fat worse estate than we are.  
Now, as Men and Women, have a particular cause to send their Devotions up to Heaven, when they compare their present beings (how wretched soever) with others more wretched: So many Towns, Cities, and Kingdoms, may (in general) lift up their eyes with joy, when albeit the Divine vengeance hath smote them, with a Mace of Iron: Yet if they look on their Neighbours, miserably torn in pieces: They behold those overwhelmed with more raging billows than they feel or see coming near themselves.  
As for example, this goodly and beautiful City of London, hath now but a few faint spots set in her flesh: A few pestilential sores sticking on her body: But a few Tokens are sent her, to bid her Remember, who sees her doings: She hears no great Number of Bells Tolling: No terrible number of Graves are opened in her sight: Not whole streets of houses are now shut up with Red Crosses on the doors: And Lord have Mercy upon us, over those doors, to fright Beholders: There are not such Fines, and Incomes, to been paid for Tenements of the dead, (Heaven be blessed) as there were either at the coming of King james to his Crown, or of King Charles our Sovereign to his.  
Alas, these marks, Printed (London) upon thee now, are but Flea-bitinges to the stripes which drew blood from thy very Heart, in those days of Desolation.  
And yet, how art thou Frighted? How pale are thy Cheeks? How does this one fit of a burning Fea●er, inflame all thy body? How dost thou shake the Head, and complain, that doings are cold? that Trading lies dead? and that money keeps her bed, and is not stirring.  
How do thy Coaches, and Caroaches run thorough thy streets, and so out at thy Gates, full of brave, rich people to live safe (as they hope) in the Country? Not caring how sorrowful a life thou leadest here in their absence.  
How little do they regard the poor, which they leave behind them? What is it to them, if some poor wretches drop down in the streets? This touches not them: It wounds not them: Gallants, and Citizens, take leave of them with much compliment at the Coaches side, the Coachman with his Hart off, ask if he shall ●et forward: On, on, they then all cry, and away (in a Hurry:) thunder they (O London) out of thy Reach.  
Yet, cast thine eye on this Picture above, they cannot be out of his reach: who is ready to follow them, with Time's Glass in one hand and his own black darts in the other. This Rawbone Footman can run by the side of the Coach-horses, and smite the officious Coachman in the midst of his journey.  
When in heaps, people stand gazing on a dead Corpses suddenly strucken down in the fields: This cunning dart-caster, can stand before them, look at them, threaten them, and tell them (when he's bidden but to shoot) They shall feel the strength of his lean arm, as well as the others.  
And yet, albeit so many Wagons laden with Householdstuff, are every day drawn from thee: Albeit so many doors are locked up, and so many take their heels, and fly in this day of Battle: Yet their flight is for the most part into the mouth of danger. For, the Country looks with a more pale, and sickly Colour, than (London) thou dost.  
Rejoice not that thy Neighbours are so ill, but clap thy hands for joy then thyself art no worse. Pray for thy distressed friends, neighbouring Towns, and Cities: And relieve them to thy power, if they want: As thou hast with a Noble, Free, and bountiful hand done to some of late already.  
It is warrantable by the Laws of God, to shun infection, and to fly persecution: Divines and best men, does the one, And the Martyrs when they lived did the other. But now (blessed be the white hand of mercy) there are no such Tyrannical Enemies beating at thy gates.  
If they that are in the fullness of Riches, and the fatness of the Land, have Manors, and Lordships to ride to: And Country houses to repair to, for pleasure, to avoid infection: In God's name, let them go, wish them well at their setting forth, welcome them with Embraces at their coming in: But withal put them in mind of one thing, to do some good to the poor in the Country, though now they do none here, and all shall be well.  
And you in the Country, whose Barns are full of Corn, and whose fields are crowned with blessings: You, into whose Nostrils the breath of Heaven, suffers his wholesome air to pass to and fro, to give you health, and to make long lusty old age wait upon you at your Tables: To you I speak, your eyes do I wish to been opened. To look back at your hard and unkind dealings with Citizens, in the two last great Sicknesses: Remember how your Infidelity then, hath been punished since: And therefore welcome the Sons, and Daughters of London coming to you now, as if they were your own.  
This Sickness called the Plague, hath a quick foot, and a stirring hand: Yet (blessed be the sender of this dreadful Pursuivant) he has not been too busy with us as yet: Let your eyes but look beyond Seas, into other Cities and you will acknowledge the Almighty's Mercy wondrously extended to us. For, those three punishments (Sword, Pestilence, and Famine,) of which, david's Prophet bid him (from an Angel's mouth) make his choice of one, do at this instant hotly lay about them in some part of Italy: In so much, that for 4. Months, (Now in this Summer) there have died of the Plague in Milan, 30000. In Mantua, 36000. In Parma, 20000. And so in other City's great number besides.  
The soft wings of compassion, all this while Cover us, not that we deserve to be spared, but that out of his love, God does spare us. For in this last blow, which he gives us, been fights not with many old men, he gives them time yet to repent, nor with many young men, he winks at their faults a while, hoping they will been wiser: But look over all your weekly Bills, ever since there died at first but one, and you shall find, of Infants and young Children, twenty for one snatched out of their Cradles, because God will been sure to increase his Saints in Heaven.  
The king of kings when he sees his time, shorten and end these miseries, and pour down his wont blessings on this Land, This City, us all, AMEN.   

  
Death 
NOw whither a God's name run you 〈…〉,  
Why ride you here, why trudge you there  
As though for fear you were aghast?  
come stay your journey straight.  
For do you not know in field or town,  
That I am a captain of high renown?  
So when I list, I can beat you down, for still I lay in wait.  
Consider then, I pray you men,  
What moves you thus to fly?  
Come home again, for I tell you plain,  
That here I could make you die.  Life. 
What art thou every where to find?  
Fearfully thus thou comest to us,  
With cruelty thou art inclined, for to pursue men still:  
Thou wast in London when we came out,  
Throwing thy deadly darts about,  
And now in the Country thou art as stout, to follow thy froward will.  
What needest thou to make us bow?  
The air is pleasant here:  
The grass doth spring, the birds do sing:  
For God's sake come not near.  Death. 
Oh weak of faith I see you are,  
Consider and know what David doth show,  
In the sixth Psalm his sayings are, as thus it doth begin:  
Good Lord in rage rebuke me not,  
When thy displeasure is waxen hot,  
For than we must needs go to the pot, as herbs that be put in.  
Cry mercy then, you filly men.  
For wondrous weak you be:  
You are perplexed, your bones are vexed,  
As far as I can see.  Life. 
O Lord our Souls are troubled sore,  
Release our grief, and send relief,  
Have mercy as thou hadst before, forgive our sins and save our lives.  
Or else it little doth avail,  
For death doth follow us at the tail,  
O let thy mercy still prevail, save us like Bees in hives.  
And thus we know it needs must go,  
That thou mayst have thy will:  
Thou hast met us here, as doth appear,  
Which thought to have lived still.  Death. 
Is not jehova your chief defence?  
For under his wings he keeps all things,  
Then what have you need to run from hence, if that your faith were strong?  
Though the air be fresh, and fields be green,  
And goodly fruits which you esteem,  
Yet I can come when least you deem, and lay you all along.  
On Christ be bold, to take your hold,  
Your anchour-holde is he,  
None other may, this pestilence stay,  
But all must come to me.  Life. 
Alas our flesh is frail to see,  
When Christ did groan, and make such moan,  
Besides the mount of calvary, when thou approched'st near:  
And there did sweat both water and blood,  
And suffered death to do us good,  
These things of thee are understood, 'twas seen that thou was't there.  
At last did he, both sin and thee,  
Tread down and conquer too,  
Which faith of his, if we should miss,  
Alas what should we do?  Death. 
I come not every way a like,  
Three darts in band, I hold in hand,  
The first is war, when I do strike, in other Countries far,  
And I think all Belgia quakes at me,  
And Spain you know hath not gone free,  
'Tis much to speak of each Country, for I turn them all to dust.  
And here the rest shall be expressed,  
Of two darts more in store,  
Of Famine's power, which doth devour  
Whole regions more and more.  Life. 
Then the dart of Pestilence at the last,  
Takes all in store, were left before,  
Oh spare us Lord, we'll pray and fast, and all our sins repent:  
Vouchsafe to stay, sweet Christ thy hand,  
Upon this sinful English land,  
And give us grace to understand, these dangers to prevent.  
'Tis time to pray, that he away,  
His indignation take:  
Lord grant us grace, in every place,  
Petitions for to make.  
FINIS.