A Case for Nol Cromwells Nose, AND The Cure of TOM FAIRFAX's Gout.

Both which Rebells are dead, and their deaths kept close, by the policy of our new States.

Ridentem'dicere verum
Quid vetat!
Ask Lillie, that seditious Quack,
And Booker, that same froth,
Why neither in his Almanack
Foretold Nol Cromwells death.
Or that Tom Fairfax and his Rout
Should be so bang'd by Kent;
He forced by his pockey Gout
From life and Parliament.
Poore Saints; how do your hopes decay!
How do your Champions fall!
VVarner and Atkins whine, and say,
We Saints must perish all.
Skippon doth claw his scabbey breech,
And Rolles roules up his eyes:
Lenthalls feet to be gone do itch;
O there were Clavells prize.

Printed in the Yeere 1648.

A Case for Noll Cromwells Nose; with the cure of Tom Fairfax his Gout.

OYes! OYes! OYes!

IF any Man, Angell or Devill can tell where the bodies of Oliver Cromwell and Tom Fairfax are now resident, you may know the one by his refulgent copper nose, which he ever kept well burnisht, that so he might not be constrained to trouble the devill to light him, or grope out his way to hell, you may know the other by his smoakie countenance, his mouth is drawn awry, and he looks like the picture of Dooms­day, when the Planets be darkned; if any as aforesaid can bring tale or tyding, where the two Archtraytors aforesaid now are, let him bring word to the cryer, and he shall be well rewarded.

God save the King and — the Parliament.

The Saints have lost their way to their promised Jerusalem, and they are like to reigne but bare seven of those thousand years of tranquillity, which they proposed to themselves, the conceit of which, some years since so tickled their fancies, that some of them openly averred, that God by their hands would root out the wicked and ungodly ones out of the Land, and that none should survive but those elected, with whom Christ should converse in person a thousand yeares: and this errour even the chiefest of their Rabbies have this many years confirmed unto them, and within this [Page 2]two moneths they sate upon the pinacle of their hopes, and imagined without doubt it should be so.

But see how these foolish Saints were frustrated of their expectation, and that worthily; for could they imagine that the foundation of that peace can stand, which is laid with dead bodies for brick, and Blood for morter, or that their impri­soning of Christs beloved, and his fathers Anointed our most deare and dread Soveraigne, could hasten the sun of Righte­ousnesse amongst them? or that while they upheld in open Rebellion, and supported in all lust, luxurie, murthers and out­rages, a knot of cursed Atheists (who are not ashamed to call themselves a Parliament) they should have the mountaines levelled, the vallies levelled, and all things reduced to a paritie? the madnesse of these Hypocrites, who were so besotted as to perswade themselves, of happinesse in Hell, or dreame of pleasures in a dungeon! they finde now that blood will have vengeance, and that Rebellion must not passe unpunisht: and let all the Nations of the world be warned by their example, and beware how they rise in armes for trifles: for what have these men done for the glory of God, save quite taken away all order and decencie in his worship? have given life to, and revived all the pestilent and pernicious Sects of old; So that it may be said of England as of Amsterdam, if any man have lost his Religion, let him but goe thither and he shall be sure to find it: what ease have they purchased to the people, unlesse it may be ease, to be overburthen'd and pressed even to the earth with Taxes, innumerable Assessements, so that the poore dry out for bread and nothing but lamentation is heard in the Streets: what glory have they purchased for their King, unlesse it be for his glory to be turned out of all he has, his lands and revenues seized on, and the majesty thereof imploy­ed to maintaine warre against him, to be clapt up close prison­er in a remote angle of the world, to have none about him but Rogues, who would as willingly kill him as feed themselves; and make no more scruple to give him poison, then to crack a nut: where hee is utterly destitute of all comforts, save those which his pious soule administers, where he hath been abused, scoffed, yea beaten and trod upon by a damnd villaine his jailor [Page 3] Hammond, where he may sy murthered (for ought we may know) even at this present time; what have these villaines gained to themselves, but even sure and certaine destruction, the whole Kingdome whom they have so long and strangely abused, being every day like to rise upon them and cut their throates, as Kent, Surrey, Essex, Cornwall, Sussex, Hampshire and even the whole Nations, are now arming themselves to take strickt vengeance on them: this their resolution put Oliver the Red Saint into such a feare, that he could not in­dure to think of living any longer, the griefe which that great nos'd Champion took to see things so strangely turne on the sudden, struck to his heart, which together with a wound that he received, fighting against Loyall Poyer, sent him to an no­ther world, and hath given me occasion to write this his Ele­gie, and to prefix the insuing Epitaph.

An Elegie on the most incomparable Rebell Oliver Cromwell.
Am I awake or dreame? can it be sed,
Englands Arch Traytor thus to hell is fled?
With Strange Dilemmas, is my soule perplext;
On this fide murther, Treason on the next:
My blood strives too, passion doth seize my heart,
These both encounter, and againe they part.
Is Cromwell Dead, durst Death his eyes to close,
Did he not tremble, to behold his nose,
Whose raidiant splendour, (if Fame) doth not lie,
Shone brighter, than a Comet in the Skie.
Great cause hath Say, Martin, and Manchester,
Fouke, Rolle, Ash, Scot, Weaver, and Challoner;
To, wring their hands, and ashes for to spread,
And like to mourners, sit down with the dead.
Howle Warner, Gibbs, Chambers, and Renardson,
Bide, Viner, Hall, Gaze, Kendall, Waterson,
And all the Rabble of the Saints, whose worth
My pen so oft, and amply hath set forth.
Let your loud Echoes thunder in the skie,
And curse those Fates, who caus'd your Nol to die.
Who now shall rob the Church, pull windows down,
Who now shall dare to trample on a Crowne?
Who now shall lead the Saints, by springs and fountains,
Ore hills, through dales, by craggy rocks and mountains,
Against fierce Poyer? who the first did dare
Refund Rebellion to a second warre.
What Tray tor ere like Nol, that mischief sought,
So often, and so valliantly hath fought:
Spartacus, was a Punie, unto him.
He acted Cataline in every limme:
He hated God, and Charles, with all his heart,
And to unking him us'd his utmost art:
The Destinies sent him upon the earth,
To ruine Truth, and give all errors birth:
And yet this monster, here doth lie intomb'd,
Smitten with death by God, by Fates inhum'd.
HIS EPITAPH.
STumble not here, lest that his Ghost arise
That here lies wrapt in lead, and do surprize
Your senses with amazement, here lies one,
Whom Fame doth stile PRINCE OF REBELLION,
Heaven, forbid he should unmentioned die
Without an Epitaph, or obsequie.
His guift must not anticipate his doome,
While I have pen and ink, and paper roome:
This man, as the Ephesian Priest Erostratus
At one act graspt at being gloriuos,
Which was for ever to extirpate Kings,
As uselesse; not to be regarded things,
From out his native Clime, and to create
Some hundred Kings, most falsly term'd a State.
Upon his back, continually did ride,
As on the Cittie Asse, Treason, and pride.
This son of Anak, would perswade his Nation,
That curst Rebellion, was blest Reformation.
He di'd a Rebell, and a Rebell fell,
So great, we want one him to parallell.

Farwell Olliver Cromwell a name that hath been ever omminous to the Church: for in Henry the eights [Page 5]daies, (you may remember) that a Cromwell was the hammer that beat downe the monasteries, and religi­ous Houses, and in the raigne of our most pious So­veraigne Lord, unfortunate King CHARLES, this Cromwell hath been chiefly active in defacing, demol­lishing, and levelling Churches, in persecuting, rob­bing and imprisoning all learned and knowing men: but enough of him whose infamie will ever last; Fair­fax a perjurd Rebell, who obliged himselfe to his Ma­jesty at Newmarket, and afterwards took his oath in the presence of God and his King, that he would use his utmost indeavours to reinthrone him; and for that purpose would put his Army into a condition of warre, in case those at Westminister should gainsay; yet af­terwards by faire promises, and at the instigation of the Kings knowne enemies, broke his oath, and per­mitted his Soveraigne to be carried close Prisoner to the Ile of Wight, and hath since in person fought a­gainst his friends, both in Kent and other parts of the Kingdome, but by the just judgement of God he was lately shot in the groine, of which he is since dead; so may they all perish that hate their King, which acci­dent happy without doubt to the Kingdome, hath gi­ven me occasion to write this his Elegie, and to annex his Epitaph.

An Elegie on the Arch-traytor Thomas Fairfax.
IS Fairfax dead? he whose ambitious soule
Still prompted him his Soveraign to controule,
And in the face of heaven dirt to sting,
To be the Rebells Generall 'gainst his King?
Was Fate so courteous to dismisse him hence,
Before his head paid for his insolence?
Was he growne great in ills, ripe for his doome,
And must he go in peace unto his Tombe?
This shewes, the Almighty sometimes doth permit
Traytors till death, for to persist in it:
Most noble villaine, Essex shed his horns,
And then he di'd, thy Father cut his corns
And crept into his Tomb, a boy shot thee,
Thus by weak meanes, you went to hell all three:
England behold with Rogue thou need'st not vie,
Hold, hold thy hands, they of themselves will die.
His Epitaph.
HEre lies Fairfax, Marble show it,
'Tis fit that all the world should know it,
Arch-Traytor 'gainst his Soveraigne Lord,
By him, as by his God abhorr'd
Prince and head of all the rout,
Who honour'd Cromwell and his Snout.
Famous for plunders and for rapes,
For Battells, but more for escapes;
The peoples plague, this Nations curse,
The head of all their woes, the sowrse
Of all their mischiefs, let him lie
And stink unto eternity.

Barkestead the thimble-maker also is dead, his whole com­pany were cut almost all off at the late fight in Kent by the just judgement of God, for their murthering and pillaging those innocent men that came out of Surrey only to petition for a redresse of grievances, let us but wait a while, I mean we that are aged and not fit to oppose the Rebells, and we shall see them all drop into the grave one after another, we have Gods own Word, yea his Oath, that he will confound them.

We see then God hath tane our cause in hand,
If he say no the Rebells cannot stand.
FINIS.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.