EPƲLAE THYESTEAE: OR, The THANKSGIVING-DINNER: WHERE The Devill finds all, Meat, Cooks, Guests, &c.
TOGETHER WITH THE CITY PRESENT.
ALSO A Short GRACE after a Long Dinner. AND A GOD-SPEED.
LONDON. Printed in the Yeare, 1648.
AEPƲLAE THYESTEAE: OR, The THANKSGIVING-DINNER: WHERE The Devill finds all, Meat, Cooks, Guests, &c.
ENjoy the Angry Powers: Do, Feast away
The sense of your high Crimes, &
Judgment-day:
Mix your Frontiniack with Lethêan Drops,
And Crowne your guilty Heads with Poppy tops.
Errour hath seiz'd, Oblivion seale your Soules;
And as your Sinnes are deep, so be your Bowles.
Let the Starv'd
Country see your notous Feast,
Neither with
Grace, nor
Peace, nor
Conscience blest,
Let stupid
England see the Goblet Crown'd
Wherein is quaff'd their
Ninety Thousand Pound
Per Mensem: There we may those Epicures see
Who've put the Kingdome to an
Atrophie.
It is a
Collar Day,
Saint-Traytors Day,
Wherein that Pseudo-Martyr
Goodwyn may,
Inspir'd by
Lucifer, give Thanks; and can
Invert the Words of out-done
Iulian,
(Puny Apostate, He! oth'Lower Roome!)
And say,
The Galilaeans overcome:
Yet dare He Text it from the
Bible, Than
When he both Prayes and Preaches
Alchoran.
There
Peters, the
Denyer (nay, 'tis said
He, that (Disguis'd)
Cut off his
Masters Head)
That Godly Pidgeon of Apostacy,
Does buzze about his Anti-Monarchy:
His Scaffold-Doctrines; and such murdering stuffe,
Which yet Wounds nought but the affrighted Ruffe
Of the Laps'd
Aldermen; who have made good
E. of Strafford
was accused for saying, [It would never be well with
London, till halfe a dozen Aldermen were hang'd.]
Strafford's darke Maxim, now well understood:"Twill ne'r be well with
England, till we see
"The Complement of
Strafford's Prophesie:
"The
truth is still the same, the
number more,
"
Fifteen will but serve
now; Six would
before.
Sermon being done and
Scripture, the
Ruffes fall
Fore
CRUMWELL Bell, and
Dragon GENERALL,
Long Live CUSTODES; that's the Cry. What's He?
In
English thus,
Long Live our SLAVERY.
Custodes is the style, which
Pluto lent
In speciall Grace unto the
Parliament,
Puzled what Title to assume: No shame;
Father and Sonnes may go by the same Name.
For These this Feast is kept, while Orphans cry,
And
I and
Lilburne are in
Custody.
The
Anthropophagi are set: They Feed,
"Let them
Feed on, 'twill be their Time to
Bleed.
First Course is
Bishops Lands; A stately Dish,
Quoth
OLIVER, and
Cook'd unto my Wish.
Next, in a Charger,
Deanes and
Chapters are
Plac'd against
Martyn; 'Tis
Mar-prelates Fare.
Reach that great
Oleo to the
Generall,
Th' Estates of
poore Delinquents; Give't him All.
Lenthall and
St. Iohns, both, are feeding hard on
A Glorious Messe; O! 'tis a generall
Pardon.
Prideaux is Late come in, and had almost
Staying for Packet-money, kiss'd the Post.
Mildmay is for his Didledam's; and ownes
No Fare so choice, as that of
pretious Stones.
"
Goodwyn and
Peters at a Table sit,
"Eating
Sequestred Livings at a bit.
But, O!
Custodes raile upon the Cookes
Full sore; The
King's, Queen's, Prince's Lands &
Duke's
Are not enough, their stomachs wamble; they
Feare Their
Digestion, that They will not
stay;
A filthy
Norman Hogo of a
Nullum
Occurrit Regi, does like
Stibium pull 'um.
The
Iudges have, in skins of Parchment, boyl'd
A
Magna-Charta-Pudding; which was spoyl'd
And Broke it i'th' Seithing; that nor
Wild, nor
Pheasant
Could find one Reason in't, or ought that's pleasant.
Mick Oldsworth in his
Independent Clothes
Is feeding
PEMBROKE with a Broth of
Oaths.
"
BRADSHAW surveys the
Dishes and the
Meat,
"And likes All Well; but yet—
He dares not Eate.
Now, for a
Cheese and for Digestions sake
The SEALE is brought; and
Atkins gives a
Cake.
They're
Fill'd; not
Satisfi'd: They're now for
Wine.
O for a Draught, such as black
Catiline
Drank to be-ransack'd
Rome! Heark!
Ner
[...]'s Song,
Whil'st the Accursed Health doth passe along.
Viner the Goblet holds, and
Peters Fills;
And
Goodwyn Consecrates; and CRVMWELL swils:
The Draught is
CHARLS his
bloud, a crimson
wine,
The Health's
[Confusion to the Royall Line.] Hall,
The Health goes
round, Round through the Cursed
"And no Man sees, THE HAND UPON THE WALL.
THE CITY PRESENT.
A
Bason and
Ewre to the
Generall, of pure Gold.
ACcept (Black Sir) this Glorious
Ewre, where we
Present, in
Beaten Gold, like Loyalty:
We doe Confesse you high and Fortunate,
Or else this Gift had been a
Massy-Plate.
The
Bason is Antique, a richer show
Than
that the
Jewes on
Pilate did bestow.
Your services are not much lesse; It stands
Ready to
Wash Your
Excellent-Murth'rous
Hands.
A
Bason and
Ewre to the
Lieut. Gen: of pure Silver.
GReat Sir, that you may know we have a sense
Of your high Parts, and
candid Innocence,
With Purest
Silver we present those Hands
Made to bring Peace and Blessings on all Lands.
Ireland expects your
Soveraigne Face; and cries,
Come
Oliver, or bleeding
Ireland Dies.
But as you passe by
Windsor, if your Nose,
Comming neer
CHARLS his Corps, should ought disclose
Oh! drop the Bloud in
this; for 'twas our Plate,
(From
Bodkins unto
Basons) wrought His Fate.
A short
Grace, after a long Dinner.
WE thank thee
Oxford, thou hast given us
Grace,
And made us Doctors of thy
learned Race.
We thank thee
London, eke, each Citizen,
For Ye have made us more, Great
Gifted Men.
The God-speed.
"Go on, impose upon the World, and Awe
"All, till the
SECOND comes and gives you
Law.
FINIS.