[Page] [Page] A SHORT HISTORY OF THE English Rebellion.
Compiled in VERSE, by MARCHAMONT NEDHAM, And formerly extant, in his Weekly MERCURIUS PRAGMATICUS.
LONDON: Printed in the Year 166 [...].
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH REBELLION.
WHen as we liv'd in peace (GOD wot)
A King would not content us;
But we, forsooth, must hire the
Scot,
To
all-be-Parliament us.
Then down went
King and
Bishops too;
On goes the holy
Wirk,
Betwixt them and the
Brethren blew,
T' advance the
Crown and
Kirk.
But when that these had reign'd a time,
Robb'd
Kirk, and sold the
Crown;
A more religious sort up climbe,
And crush the
Jockies down.
But now we must have
Peace again,
Let none with fear be vext:
For, if without the King these raign,
Then heigh down they go next
A
Peace, a
Peace, the
Country cries,
Or else we shall be undone:
For this brave
War we thank the wise
Confiding Men of LONDON.
Sure now they may, as well as we,
Know how to value
Quiet,
When th' Army comes their
Guests to be,
For a Twelvemonths
Cash and
Diet.
Free Quarter is a tedious thing,
And so is the
Excise.
None can deliver us but the
King,
From this damn'd
Dutch Device.
The Parliament hath serv'd seven years;
True vengeance then we see
Upon feign'd
Jealousies and
Fears;
For yet they are not free.
Long
Peace a Plenty did beget,
And Plenty brought forth Pride;
Through Pride to Faction Men were set
In Parties to divide.
The new-form'd Priests first led the way,
And said it was no sin
By force to drive the King away,
And draw the CITY in.
The Lords and Commons they consent
To what each
Rabbi saith;
And so the
Catholick down went,
T' advance the
public Faith.
This brought a War and Taxes on,
T' inslave a free-born People:
And now the Work is thus far gone,
Next have at
Crown and
Steeple.
Our wise
Reformers, brave and gay,
Have ta'ne a goodly course,
To
fight, to
feast, to
fast and
pray,
And
milk each honest
Purse.
The Crown's Revenue goes to wrack,
While they sing
Hymns and
Psalms;
And rather than themselves will lack,
The King must live on Alms.
We are, the learned
Synod says,
The Church of
England's Nurse,
Who make them bless the
Sabbath-days,
And all the week to curse.
The
Plough stands still, and
Trade is small;
For
Goods, Lands, Towns, and
Cities,
Nay, I dare say, the
Devil and all,
Pays Tribute to
Committees.
A
Scot and
Jesuit joyn'd in hand,
First taught the World to say,
That
Subjects ought to have
command,
And
Princes to
obey.
These both agreed to have
no King;
The
Scotchman he cries further,
No Bishop: 'tis a godly thing
States to reform by Murther.
Then th'
Independent meek and sly,
Most lowly lies at lurch,
And so to put poor
Jocky by,
Resolves to have
no Church.
The
King dethron'd! the
Subjects bleed!
The Church hath no abode;
Let us conclude they 're all agreed,
That sure there is no GOD.
Our States men (though no Lunaticks,
No
Wizards, nor
Buffons)
Have shewn a hundred Changeling-Tricks,
In less than three New Moons.
The Devils foot is cleft (men speak)
And so (GOD knows) are they:
The Factions rule by fits, then take
Their turnes, and run away.
They vote, vnvote, and vote with noise
What they cry'd down before,
As ready as if LONDON-Boys
Were knocking at the dore.
To day an Independ out-side;
And then a Scotch to morrow:
Thus shuffle and cut, they do divide
Our Wealth, whilst we know sorrow.
O happy Treason! See how Wealth
Is made their Heaven! They swell
With Pride! and live by Blood and Stealth,
As if there were no Hell!
No
Saduces but must confess,
Those Monsters which are told
In Story, are risen now no less
Prodigious then of old.
Both
Cain and
Judas back are come,
In Vizards most
divine:
GOD bless us from a Pulpit-Drum,
And a Preaching
Catiline.
They feed upon a Kingdoms Curse,
And prey upon a King!
The Dev'l provide a second Course,
And then a
Voyder bring.
Now CHARLES, thy Conquest is compleat,
And all the World shall see,
That GOD which guides the
Royal Scot,
Will thy
Avenger be.
O
House of
Commons, House of
Lords,
Amend before
September:
For 'tis
decreed, your
Souldiers Swords
Shall then you
All-dismember.
But like fair
Chapmen, 'twas well done,
To give you time and day
To cast accompts; for one by one
They will you soundly pay.
The Kingdom all in pieces torn!
Your time is fairly spent;
To make your selves a very scorn,
Your
King but
Jack-a-Lent.
Now, now we see 'twas for the Crown
The
Houses both did fight:
For since the
Cavaliers are down,
They put the
King to flight.
The
Adjutators stern and proud,
Said, He should have no
Quarter,
Because he is a
King; and vow'd
To make the Saint a
Martyr.
Their Officers cry'd,
Hail, O King;
The rest made mocks and scorns;
The
Houses Vinegar did bring,
And all did plat the Thorns.
Thus
crucifi'd, Great
CHARLES did live
As dead, is gone away:
For
Resurrection, GOD will give
A new
cor'nation day.
Rouze up!
King Charles hath mist the snare
Laid for his Royal Feet:
Let th'
Adjutators now take care
Each for his
Winding-sheet.
The
Army rendezvouzed are,
And do they know not what;
The
Scots and they are like to jar:
Let us thank GOD for that.
The
Houses know not what to think;
The
Citt's horn-madded be:
They must be whipt until they stink:
A joyful sight to see!
Thus
Cavaliers cast up your Caps,
And tell the
Rebels plain,
That
Charles in spight of all their traps,
Shall shortly rule again.
For
Liberty, and
Privilege,
Religion and the
King,
We fought; But O! the
Golden Wedge!
That is the only
Thing.
There lies the
Cream of all the
Cause;
Religion is but
Whig;
Pure
Privilege eats up the
Laws,
And cries, For
Kings a Fig.
The
Houses may a
Christmas keep,
The
Countrymen a
Lent,
The Citizens (like silly sheep)
Must fast, and be content.
Then where is Liberty, (I pray)
With
Justice, Truth and
Right?
Sure they and
Conscience fled away
With
Charles, to th'
Isle of Wight.
Gape, gape for
Peace, poor
Countrymen;
The Members mean to treat:
And we shall see fair play agen,
When they no more can cheat.
The
King shall come to
Westminster,
It may be to his Grave,
Or of a glorious Prince must there
Be made a
Royal-Slave.
But 'twere more wise to let him reign
Out of his
Peoples sight,
For fear he should bring Peace again,
And put them in a fright.
Sure
Martin lay in of a
Clap,
And
Say himself did dote;
The
Devil too, wore a sick Cap,
When th'
Houses past this Vote,
Come let us live, and laugh away
The follies of this Age;
Treason breeds care; we'll sing and play
Like birds within a cage.
Fetters are th' only favors now
The
Houses give (we see:)
And since the
King them wears, I vow,
'Twere baseness to be free.
Then let us all our sorrows drown
In
Sack and merry
Glee:
Ye
Citizens of
London-Town,
What jolly Slaves are we!
For
Common-prayer, ye have
Excise,
Free-quarter too is comming
To pay you for your
Mutinies,
Feasts, Covenants, and
Drumming.
No
Puritan, no
Popish Priest,
Nor
Prot'stant now shall be;
Nor
Law, but to live as we list,
'Tis
Heaven thus to be free.
Could
Babylons great King now sit
In Counsel with our Nation,
He were the only Man to fit
Us with a
Reformation.
The glorious
Golden-Idol then
Might shine in each
Dominion;
Both
Factions and their
Brethren
Would soon be
one-opinion.
Away, thou
Pagan-Cavalier,
This
God must not be thine;
But for the
Saints at
Westminster,
Whose souls are more divine.
Live, drink, and laugh, our
Worthies may,
And kindly take their fills;
The
Subjects must their reckonings pay,
The
King must pass their
Bills.
No
Princes now, but they; the
Crown
Is vanisht with our Quiet;
Nor will they let us use our own
Devotions and
Diet.
All
Plums the
Prophets Sons desie,
And
Spice-broths are too hot;
Treason's in a
December-Pye,
And
Death within the
Pot.
Christmas, farewel; thy day (I fear)
And merry-days are done:
So they may keep
Feasts all the year,
Our
Saviour shall have none.
O happy
Nation heretofore,
When Seas our Walls have been;
Unhappy now we see no shore,
But are all Sea within.
Factions, like
Billows, rage and toss,
And
Death mounts ev'ry
Wave;
Yet in this
Storm we are so cross,
We will no
Pilot have.
Just such a
Tempest seiz'd upon
Blest
Paul, the
Scripture says,
When he had seen no
Sun nor
Moon,
Nor
Stars for many days.
Our
Sun and
Moon no beams create,
Our
Stars disperst we see:
Such as was his, will be our
Fate,
We must all
shipwrackt be.
A glorious
Prince this
Parliament
The
King should be, did swear;
But now we understand they meant
In
Heaven, and not
here.
Let them invade the
Throne, and part
His
Crown, and vote his
Fate;
Yet know, in each true
Noble Heart,
He keeps his
Chair of State.
Princes may be, like other Men,
Imprisoned, and kept under
A while, as
fire in clouds, but then
At length appear in
Thunder.
And, as in hidden
Caves the
wind
Sad
tremblings doth create;
So
Monarchs, by their own confin'd,
Cause
Earthquakes in the
State.
Farewel the
Glory of our
Land;
For, now the
Free-born Blades,
Our
Lives and our
Estates command,
And ride us all like
Jades.
Faith and
Religion bleeding lie,
And
Liberty grows faint:
No
Gospel, but pure
Treachery,
And
Treason make the
Saint.
Oh! 'tis a heavenly
Cause (I trow)
Which first baptiz'd the
Round-head
In
Noble Strafford's Blood! but now
Must on the
Kings be founded.
Yet know, that
Kings are
Gods on Earth;
And those which pull them down,
Shall find it is no less than Death
To tamper with a
Crown.
'Tis true, as
Harry Martin said,
The
Scots away must pack;
The Cov'nant shall aside be laid,
Like an
Old Almanac.
Come then, and buy my
New, true,
New,
New
Almanac most true,
Such
Accidents of
State to shew,
The like no
Age ere knew.
Since that we lost our
King and
Laws,
Since
Jealousies and
Fears,
Since
Peace, pure Truth, and this
Foul Cause,
It is full seven years.
Poor
CHARLES pursu'd in
Forty one,
Ʋnking'd in
Forty seven;
The
Eighth will place him on his
Throne,
In
Earth, or else in
Heaven.
Three
Kingdoms brought to a fine pass,
Whilst that our
Saviours Rule,
The Country is become an
Ass,
The City but a
Mule.
Each
Ʋniversity now pines,
The
Church may hang and rot;
They banish all our true
Divines,
The
Lawyers too must trot.
Come,
Sirs, more
Sacks unto the
Mill,
More
Taxes, more
Free-quarter;
'Tis fit our
Laws be your
bare Will,
And the
Excise our
Charter.
God speed the Plough: plague
Rooks and Crows,
And send us years more cheap:
For, I am sure, whoever
sows,
The
Houses mean to
reap.
Money, the
Soul of
Man and
Wit,
But yet no
Saint of mine!
While th'
Houses vote, and
Synod sit,
Thou ne're shalt want a
Shrine.
Reforming is a dull
Device,
Dreads nought but strife and rage:
Thou putt'st us into
Paradice,
And bring'st the
Golden Age.
Thou art
Religion, God, and all
That we may call
Divine:
Thy
Temple is
Westminster-Hall,
And all our
Priests are thine.
Tush, tell not us the way to
Heav'n,
Thou juggling
Clergy-Elf,
That sett'st the World at
six and
seven's;
Money is
Heav'n it self.
Betwixt those
Atheists feign'd of old,
And ours, there is no odds;
For, both this one opinion hold,
That
Fear did first make Gods.
Hell now is thought an idle
Dream
To fright Men from their
Crimes:
Religion but a crafty
Theam,
Made to
Bug-bear the
Times.
The
Bible and great
Babels Whore,
May both together burn;
For the
Religious Fit is o're
Now they have serv'd their turn.
Only, one
Text may scape their hands,
Since they have ta'en such pains,
To lay their
Lords in Iron Bands,
And bind their
Kings in Chains.
Copernicus, thy learned skill
We praise, since we have found
The truth; for now doth
Hea'vn stand still
Whilst that the
Earth runs round.
See how the
Wheel of
Providence
Back
Old Confusion brings!
Cashires us once of a
Prince,
To plague's with
Petty Kings.
They say the
Saints all rule must take,
And others must have none:
Their
Privilege it is to make
A
Foot-stool of the
Throne.
The
Laws o'th
Land say,
Charles must reign,
And
Conscience pleads his
Cause:
But
Conscience is a thing most vain,
Their
Gospel eats up
Laws.
Never such
Rebels have been seen,
As since we led this
Dance:
So we may feast, let
Prince and
Queen
Beg
a-la-mode-de-France.
Let
Conscience pine, and cry 'tis strange,
Wee'll say 'tis bravely done,
To make the
King take in
Exchange
A
Dungeon for a
Throne.
Away with
Justice, Laws and
Fear;
When Men resolve to rise,
Brave
Souls must scorn all
Scruples where
A
Kingdom is the
Prize.
Then let us what our
Labours gain
Enjoy, and bless our
Chance:
Like
Kings let's domineer and reign;
Thus,
a-la-mode-de-France.
King and
no King, was once a
Play,
Or
Fable on the
Stage:
But see! it is become this day
The
Moral of our
Age.
Newcastle was the first best
Scene,
Then
Holmby, Hampton-Court;
Next, from a
Palace to a
Den
Translated, to make sport.
Each
State-Buffoon a part did take;
Some plaid the
Fool, some
Knave;
But still the
Plot was laid to make
Their
King a
Royal Slave.
Brave Actors! we admire your skill;
Your Play none understands;
Yet make an
Exit when you will,
We all shall
clap our hands.
At
Westminster two wond'rous
Beasts
This day are to be seen,
March 14. 1648.
Call'd
Liberty and
Privilege,
(GOD
save the King and Queen)
Say,
Monsters strange, what kin are ye
To
Tygers or the
Lion?
For shame boast not your
Pedigree
From the sweet
Sons of Zion.
This
Libertie first whelpt the
Cause;
The
Cause then lay at lurch,
To gull the
City, damn the
Laws,
And quite cashire the
Church.
But
Privilege (O monstrous Thing!)
Eats up poor
Cavaliers,
Feeds on the
Gentry and the
King;
But next have at the
Peers.
Once more the
Kingdom lies at
Stake,
No matter then who wins;
Two
Schismaticks the
Wagers make,
And now the
Game begins.
The
Scots and
Sects, two
Godly Cheats,
Debar both
Ace and
Sice:
To rook each other with fine
Feats,
They both bring in false
Dice.
The first throws for the
Covenant,
Next who shall
rule and
sway:
For
Jocky now doth swear and rant,
He'll have no more
soul play.
The Sectaries cry'd,
Have at all,
When first the
Dice were thrown;
But rather than the
Scots shall brawl,
They'll part
stakes in the
Crown.
The
Devils reign is short, though fierce;
Then let our
Music sound;
The
Drawers all the Hogsheads pierce,
And make the
Healths go round.
Here's a
Health to the
King in
Sack,
To the
Houses in
Small-Beer;
In Vineger to th' crabbed
Pack
Of
Priests at
Westminster
Next, to revive our fainting States,
Fill out some
Aqua vitae:
'Twere pity on the
Bridge such
Pates
Should meet in a
Committee.
Let's water th'
Royal Plants with
Tears
Of
rich, divine Canary:
Drink on,
Cav'liers, t' all
Loyal Peers;
Then end with
Charles and
Mary.
Full forty thousand
Scots, by
Vote,
Must visit us e're long:
Brave
Army sure! when ev'ry
Scot
Is forty thousand strong!
Though th'
Houses have deserv'd these
plagues,
GOD keep our
Nation free:
Like
Egypt, let not us, by
Rags
And
Vermin conquer'd be.
For shame, for shame, call home your
King,
With Honour let him treat:
His
Nature is without a
sting;
His
Motto, To forget.
Return, return,
Disloyal Crue
Of Men forsworn: if not,
Rather than thus we'll stoop to you,
We'll
Idolize the
Scot.
Come,
Mahomet, thy
Turn is next;
Now
Gospel's out of
date:
The
Alcoran may prove
Good Text
In our new
Turkish-State.
Thou dost unto thy Priests allow
The
sin of full four
Wives:
Ours scarce will be content with now
Five
Livings, and nine
Lives.
Thy Saints and ours are all alike;
Their
Vertues flow from
Vice:
No
Bliss they do believe, and seek
But an
Earthly Paradice.
A
Heav'n on
Earth they hope to gain,
But we do know full well,
Could they their
glorious ends attain,
This
Kingdom must be
Hell.
From Prison now return the
King,
The
Queen and
Prince from
France;
For Chosen
Charles the
Welsh-men sing,
And stoutly lead the
Dance.
The
Scotch-Bag-Pipes, the
Pulpit-Drums
And
Priests sound high and big:
Once more the Cause and Cov'nant comes
To shew's a
Scotish Jig
The
Irish will a Voyage take,
To join their force in one;
And whilst they frisk a
Galliard, make
The
Houses sing,
O Hone.
Three
Kingdoms thus must dance the
Hay;
But ere the
Members run,
We'll see they shall the Music pay,
And then the
Dance is done.
Seven years by phrentic
Votes and
Fits,
Our
Worthies bore command;
Then did they run out of their
Wits,
But now out of the
Land.
No more shall they the
City ride
Like a fine
Golden Ass;
The
Navy's rigg'd with
Wind and
Tide,
They stay but for a
Pass.
But if they linger long behind,
And keep their
King in
Bands,
I'll undertake it shall be sign'd
By a hundred thousand
Hands.
For prosp'rous Gales then on the Deep;
Let their
Priests prate and
pray
By
Order, and at
Margarets keep
An
Humiliation-day.
The Factious now each other rout
With
Jealousies and
Fear:
The
Independents face about,
The rest cry,
A
[...] you were.
The
Presbyters put forth their
Horns
To guard their
Goods and
Homes;
The
She-Militia likewise scorns
Their
Cocks should lose their
Combs.
Then toll (I pray) the
Passing-Bell
For our new
State-Committee:
These
monstrous Votes, which made them swell,
Are cow'd down by the
City.
Sweet
John-a-Nokes and
John-a-Styles,
And worshipful
Jack-Straws,
Of both the
Junto's, leave your
Wiles,
And give's our
King and
Laws.
Betwixt two thieves our
Saviour once
Suffer'd for us, and di'd:
So 'twixt two thievish
Factions
Our
King is crucifi'd.
Caesar, not
Christ, the ancient
Jews
Paid tribute of their
Treasure;
Our
Jews no
King but
Christ will chuse,
And rob, and cry down
Caesar.
Now, for the
King the zealous Kirk
'Gainst th'
Independent bleats,
When as (alass!) their only wirk
Is to renew
old Cheats.
If they can
sit, vote what they list,
And crush the new
States down,
Then up go
They, but neither
Christ
Nor
King, shall have his own.
The
Pox, the
Plague, and each Disease,
Are cur'd, though they invade us:
But never look for
Health and
Peace,
If once
Presbyt'ry jade us.
When ev'ry
Priest becomes a
Pope,
Then
Tinkers and
Sow-gelders
May, if they can but 'scape the
Rope,
Be Princes and
Lay-Elders.
If once the Kirk-men pitch their
Tents
Without our
Assembly-Asses,
Synods will eat up
Parliaments,
Courts be devour'd by
Classes.
Look to't, ye Gentry, else be
Slaves
To
Slaves that can't abide ye:
Though ye have been cow'd down by
Knaves,
Oh! let not
Fools now ride ye.
But sev'n years (of a thousand 'tis)
Our
Saints must
Rulers be:
So they shall lose in years of bliss,
Nine hundred ninety three.
No more then let those
Rabbies trust
Unto the
Revelation;
For their
Interpreter is
Lust,
And
Pride makes
Application.
Religion but a Pack-horse is,
To carry on
Designes;
The
Bible like a
Juglers Box,
Us'd by our
State-Divines.
Texts are tormented one by one,
Like
Votes, now here, now there:
Thus
Hocus-Pocus is out-done
By them at
Westminster.
The
Banes are askt, the
Marriage next
Goes forward in the
City:
For now the
Match is made betwixt
Them and the
State-Committee.
Thou Strumpet
(London) tell not us
Of
Babel any more;
If from thy
King thou partest thus,
Thou art the greater
Whore.
Thy
Bags their
Portion now are meant,
As well as
Crown and
Church;
But when that all is gone and spent,
They'll leave thee in the
lurch.
Thou
Bawd of
Treason, then for all
Thy cursed
Fornication,
Thou and thy
Priestly Panders shall
Be
Carted through the
Nation.
The Market's made; the
King shall
treat,
(They say) and buy his own:
But is not this a very
Cheat.
To set the price, a
Crown?
Alas! the
Members run by
rote,
And shew us many a
Feat:
Thus all the year they'll
vote, unvote,
For
Money, Cloaths and
Meat.
'Tis fit that they uphold their
Trades,
What ere
Malignants speak:
So they can thrive, the City-Jades
Their Backs and Necks may break.
Poor,
What d' lack? small gains can show,
With many an empty
Shelf:
The
House spoils
Shops; 'tis
Aye and
No,
That brings in all the
Pelf.
Rebellion makes our
Nation bleed
With fresh
Alarms (we see:)
But yet it is not well agreed
Who must the
Rebel be.
The
Round-head first the
Rebel was,
(If truth be in the
Laws)
Till
Treason did for
Gospel pass,
To bolster up the
Cause.
The thriving
Cause with high disdain,
In
Fortunes full
Career,
Throws
Rebel in the face again
Of
King and
Cavalier.
Thus
Prosp'rous mischief makes it good
Against all
Law and
Reason:
Not to spill
Royal, Loyal Blood,
But,
to be conquer'd 's Treason.
Five months ago, our mighty
States
June2 0. 1648.
Were pleas'd to vote
No King;
But two months since, to act new
Cheats,
Their
Votes the
Changes ring.
'Tis time the
Bells of
Westminster
Chime
Backwards, and retire
To quench the
Flame, when as we hear
The
Kingdom's all on fire
But yet (it seems) they make a
stand,
And cry it is no matter:
What need they care for
Fire on
Land,
Whose Journey lies by
Water?
GOD send them
Ships, fair Winds and Ti
[...]
With
Passage quick and good;
Or else I fear (to scourge our pride)
They'll swim through
Seas of Blood.
The
Holy War goes on apace,
Yet brings the
Saints no
Pay:
In triumph now they ne're say
Grace,
But only
Fast and
Pray.
They many an hungry
Conquest get,
But not
Thanksgiving Dinners:
The
City knows they scorn to eat
With
Publicans and
Sinners.
The
Members cannot spare one
Meal;
Their
Bags lie
seal'd in Town:
What though they broke the
Kings great Seal,
They'll not undo their own?
The Country bids them starve, or hang,
They'll be no more kept under:
The
Cavaliers will soundly bang
Them all, and spoil their
Plunder.
Reformation, thou
Stalking-Horse
Of our
Hip-shotten State,
Th'
Appendix of the
Public Purse,
And
Midwife of our Fate!
'Twas
Thou, and
Beldam-Conscience first,
That set the world a
madding;
And you your selves, like
Cain accurst,
Have ever since been
gadding.
Pox take th'
unlucky Cause, for me,
It is a Wild
Vagary;
The
Bane of
Boon Society:
For that first rais'd
Canary.
Poor
Sinners now must
snap a crust;
Ye
deadly sev'n, farewel:
For since y'are all Excis'd, we must
Pay dear to purchase
Hell.
What, though the
Factions are agreed
The
Kingdom still to
cheat?
Do what they can, it is decreed
The
King shall come and
treat.
Come from the
Dungeon to the
Throne,
(Great Charles) and quell the rage
Of th' Iron world; with
Thee alone
Revives the
Golden Age.
Those very Saints, which joy'd thy
Fall,
And said thy day was done,
Will now like
Persian-Pagans, all
Adore the
Rising Sun.
No more wrapt up in Clouds remain,
Secluded from the
Nation:
May
Thou and
Thine shine bright, and reign
A
Glorious Constellation.
It is decreed
(Great Prince) thy
Fate
Shall check their damned
Plots;
Though
London jade it for the
State,
And bandies at the
Scots.
The
Presbyters now fain would ride,
And shew us t' other
Feat;
Therefore to quell the
Saints high pride,
They say the
King shall
treat.
Were he in their hands, the
Town's their own,
The
Houses too must work,
To
vote the
Independents down,
And mount the Rascal
Kirk.
Away, ye
juggling, paltry
Crew
Of well-affected
Knaves;
Rather than free your
Sov'raign, you
Your selves will live like
Slaves.
Stand to 't, ye
Lords, we'll stand to you,
And clip the
Commons wings:
Let not the
Lev'ling Rascal-Crew,
Thus domineer like
Kings.
The
Lower is the
Ʋpper-House,
And hath been so seven years:
Your
Votes they value not a
Lowse,
Ye
Antichristian Peers.
They give you many a
Ratling Peal,
And bait you one by one;
For should a
Treaty take, their
Zeal
And
Saintships are undone.
My
Lords, of
Gotam, not of
Greece,
Your
Wisdoms I shall sing;
And sell you all for
pence apiece,
If you reject your
King.
No
Camel like the LONDON breed,
To
drudge, pray, pay, and
feast;
In
Body, and in
Purse to bleed:
O 'tis a
patient Beast!
If you'll needs pray, pray stay at home;
Tell GOD your sad condition:
'Tis
Popish to the
Saints to come
And put up your
Petition.
This wondrous
Idol of the
States,
The Stomach hath of
Bell:
Like
Moloch it
Mankind doth eat,
And quick devours like
Hell.
As th'
Horse-Leech (Give) it ever cries,
And rages like the
Dragon;
As the old
Serpent it is wise:
But it must fall like
Dagon.
Would you know why the
Plauge hath ceas't
These last sev'n years now spent?
Because GOD knows no greater
Pest
Than this same
Parliament.
1648
How many thousands hath it swept
Of
Bodies, Souls, and
Gold!
King, Church, and
People, (none except)
Have all been
bought and
sold.
Our merry
Pipes, for
Trumpets shrill;
Our
Tabers chang'd to
Drums:
Princes are brav'd by
Jac and
Gill,
Wat Tilers, and
Tom Thums.
'Tis time those
Bags, which caus'd the
War,
Should make the
War to cease;
For the
States Music is to jar,
But our best
Musick's
Peace.
Now shall the
King enjoy his own;
And that new Vertue,
Treason,
Whereby the
Saints do claim the
Crown,
Be baffled with high
Reason.
Great
CHARLES, thy
Vertues I desire,
Not
Solomons, nor his
Stores;
For who can tell most to admire
His
Wisdom or his
Whores?
His
Vices so eclips'd his
Grace,
That wranglers cannot tell,
Whether as yet they may him place
In
Heaven, or in
Hell.
But all that was in him
Divine,
And more, to
Thee is giv'n;
That where so many
Graces shine,
A
Prison must be
Heav'n.
Another
Blow! will not the
Scot,
And Loyal
English do?
Sure,
Jove himself is of the
Plot,
An
Independent too.
Is he a
King, and will he see
Rebels assault the
Crown?
Had they but hands to reach, 'tis he
Should next resign his own.
Is he a
God? and shall this
Tribe
Go on as they begin?
Atheists will say, They do him bribe
For
Privilege to
sin
If these be
Saints, 'tis vain indeed
To think there's
Good or
Evil:
The
World will soon be of this
Creed,
No God, no King, no Devil.
Of all those
Monsters which we read
In
Afric, Inde, or
Nile,
None like to those now lately bred
Within this wretched
Isle.
The
Cannibal, the
Tygre fell,
Crocodile and
Sycophant;
The
Turk, the
Jew, and
Infidel,
Make up an
English Saint.
By these were
Lisle and
Lucas crown'd;
Two
Worlds, both great and good:
For
Men, Art, Arms, were all here drown'd
I'th'
Deluge of their blood.
The Trump of
Fame's too low and weak,
That of the
General Doom
Is only fit their praise to speak,
The
World to be their
Tomb.
The Treaty holds; and some men are
Convinc'd the
Wars will cease:
Fond
Folk! To think the Men of
War
Will e're endure a
Peace.
Go, bid the
Scot quit
English Ground,
The
Swede the
German Air;
Holland obey the
Spanish Crown,
The
Pope leave
Peter's Chair.
Woo the great
States-man to his
Grave,
Preach
Gospel to the
Jews;
To
Turks, that
Mahomet's a Knave,
Platonic Love to Stews.
Let
Citizens loath sacred things,
Presbyters pride and ease;
When these are done, make
Saints love
Kings,
And then we may have
Peace.
See in what glory
CHARLES now sits,
With
Truth to conquer
Treason;
And prove he is the
King of
Wits,
The
World, Himself, and
Reason.
Angels bear witness GOD looks down,
The
Graces too attend;
Sure none but
Devils then will frown
Upon a blessed end.
Ten hundred thousand
Loyal Hearts,
All bleeding at his
Fate;
As many Wishes from all parts
Flie round his
Chair of State.
Come then, ye dirty
Sainted Elves,
Worse than
Church-window paint:
By this fair
Glass abhor your selves,
Learn here to be a
Saint.
The
King the four great
Bills must pass,
And none but
Saints be free:
Th'
Irish and
Cavaliers (alas!)
Must th' only
Rebels be.
New
Lords, new
Laws, new
Saints are we;
Religion's in a fine pickle,
When 'tis resolv'd the
Church shall be
A Three-years
Conventicle.
Militia too, they needs must gain,
Those pretty carnal
Tools:
For
Pauls old
Weapons they disdain,
As fit for none but
Fools.
Thus
Royal CHARLES lets to
Lease,
Lays
Sword and
Scepter down,
To shew he values
Ʋs and
Peace
Above a glorious
Crown.
Give me the
Dragons Gall for
Ink,
His
sting to be my
Pen,
To blast the
Scot, and make him stink
Worse than the
Dregs of men.
See now the
Reformation-Wirk,
For which they made us bleed,
Is to cashire
King, Church and
Kirk,
On this and that side
Tweed.
Let them with
Egypts plagues be crost,
Yet still find new and worse;
And since I have
Jobs patience lost,
Give me his skill to
curse.
At
Home and
Hell may they e're dwell;
And for quick passage thither,
As they have
juggled all full well,
So may they
hang together.
Let me be
Turk, or any thing,
But a
Scotch Calvinist:
First he damn'd
Bishops; next, his
King;
Now he cashires his
Christ.
Gude faith, Sir, they the
Pulpit bang,
But let their
Gospel down;
For, the old
Saviour needs must gang
Now a new one's come to
town.
The
Saints, whom once their mouths did
curse,
Dear
Brethren are, and
Friends:
Which proves their
Zeal a
Stalking-Horse
For
Knavish-godly ends.
Then rail no more at
Antichrist,
But learn ye to be
civil:
And since ye have King
Cromwel kist,
Shake hands too with the
Devil.
Since they have damn'd all
Saints of old,
No
new shall be for me:
Like
Jews, they worship
Gods of
Gold,
Their
King they crucifie.
Were he the
King of
Kings, his
Crown
Could not be safe from
Foes:
Like
Jesuites, they no
Gospel own,
But
Murther and
Depose.
Like
Turks, their
Heav'n lies all in
Sense,
In
Wenches, Tarts and
Gelly:
No
Hell they fear, when parted hence;
They serve no
God, but
Belly.
All this, and more, (by
Jove) is true,
If they the
Treaty cease,
To juggle with the
Lev'lling Crew
That cry,
No King, No Peace.
No
Lord, no
Knight, no
Gentleman,
For
Honours now are Crimes:
The
Saints will form us (if they can)
All to the
Prim'tive times.
Brave days, when
Adam was a King
Without
Crown, Lands, or
Riches!
So, stript of
Royal Robes, they'll bring
Great
CHARLES, to
Fig-leave Breeches.
Princes with
Plowmen rank shall pass;
Ladies, like the first
Woman,
Must spin, or else be turn'd to Grass,
Now all things are in
common.
Thus
Cov'nanting; and
Levelling,
Three
Kingdoms have o'rethrown,
And made
all fellows with their
King,
A
Foot-ball of the
Crown.
Tell me thou
Presbyterian Ass,
Why thou at first didst jar:
Thy peevish
Plea (No Bishops) was
The first ground of the War.
Next, to thy shame, thou didst combine
With the Sectarian Routs;
Our
CHARLES should be no
King of thine,
Or but a King of
Clouts.
Both
King and Bishops thus exil'd,
The Saints not yet content:
Now with fresh flames of
Zeal grow wild,
And cry,
No Parliament.
Well may we then this Maxime prove,
Treason no end can know,
But levels at the
Gods above,
As well as those below.
Hark, how for Peace the
Kingdom groans,
That warr'd they knew not why!
Yeild then, or else the very
Stones
Will out against you cry.
For shame, ye
Bastard-saints, give oe'r,
Or else the world will think
Your Mother is great
Babels Whore,
If blood you love to drink.
The State's grown fat with
Orphans Tears,
Whilst
Widows pine and moan;
And
tender Conscience in sev'n years,
Is turn'd t' a heart of
Stone.
Return, hard hearts, the
Treaty ends,
Our breasts with hope do swell;
Your
Bags are full, then let's be friends,
Or bid the
World farewel.
No
Gods above, nor
Gods below,
Our
Saints (I see) will own;
Allegiance is
Rebellion now,
Treason to wear a
Crown.
Nor
King nor
Parliament will please,
'Tis
Gospel to rebel:
Nay, they'll
Remonstrate against
Peace,
Be it in
Heav'n or
Hell.
Pluto, beware, (to thee they come
When here their work is done:)
For they'll break loose, and beat up
Drum,
And storm thee in thy
Throne.
Then
John-a Leyden, Nol, and all
Their goblin ghostly
Train,
(Brave
Rebel Saints triumphant) shall
Begin their second
Reign.
Brave
Reformation! now I see
London's a blessed place,
To find the
Saints chearful and free
And nurse the
Babe of Grace.
Let
yellow boys ne're tempt their sight,
Of Valour with the sourcis
For the
tame Slaves will never fight
Till they have empty
Purses.
Come then, ye lowsie wanton
Wags
Of sainted
Chivalry,
And free their poor condemned
Bags
That groan for
Liberty.
March on, boon
Blades, here's store of Cash,
Their King they will not pity
:
Then spur them on, and soundly lash
These
Dull-men of the
City.
Dull
Cuckolds! we are dainty
Slaves,
And well may be content,
When
Thirty Fools, and
Twenty Knaves,
Make up a
Parliament.
They banish all men in their
Wits,
Vote
King, Lords, all
Offenders;
And authorize the phrentic Fits
Of our long-sword
State-menders.
'Tis
Nol's own
Brew-house now, I swear;
The
Speaker's but his
Skinker:
Their
Members are, like th'
Council of War,
Car-men Pedlers, and
Tinkers.
Fine
Journey Junto! prety
Knack!
None such in all past Ages!
Shut shop; for, now the
godly Pack
Will next pay you your
Wages.
Gone are those Golden Days of yore,
When
Christmas was an
High-day,
Whose sports we now shall see no more;
'Tis turn'd into
Good-Friday.
Now, when the
King of
Kings was born,
And did
salvation bring,
They strive to crucifie in scorn
His
Vice-Roy, and their
King.
Since th' ancient
Feast they have put down,
No new one will suffice;
But the choice
Dainties of a
Crown,
Princes in
Sacrifice.
No Powers are safe,
Treason's a Tilt,
And the mad
Sainted-Elves
Boast when the
Royal Blood is spilt,
They'll all be
Kings themselves.
Like jolly
Slaves, ye goodly
Knaves,
We'll bid th' old year
Adieu:
Old
Sack, and things must pass away,
And so shall all your new.
Now for a
No-King, or a
New;
For th' old, they say, shall pack;
The
New may serve a year to view
Like an old
Almanack.
New
Houses, new; for th' old ones dote,
And have been thrice made
Plunder;
The Saints do vote, and act by
rote,
And are a
Nine-days-wonder.
Then let us chear, this merry New-year;
For
CHARLES shall wear the Crown:
'Tis a
damn'd Cause, that damns the Laws,
And turns all up-side down.
FINIS.