A SAD SIGH, WITH SOME Heart-Cracking Groanes sent after the LORD GOVERNOUR and his whole Hoast of MIRMIDONS.
Printed in the Yeare 1649.
A sad Sigh, with some Heart-craking Groans sent after the LORD Governour, and his whole Hoast of Mirmidons.
ANd art thou gon, great Sir, great Don, great Dagon?
Wh'art able to out-face Bell and the Dragon;
The burning rage of whose victorious snout
A Hambletonian Army put to rout.
O that our heads held Kilderkins of Beare
Strong as Prides Ale, to shed, stead of each teare
Should drown our words, and make our sad noates quaver
Forth dribling roapes of spittle, snot, and slaver.
Bring, bring me here Melpomine, thou Muse,
The fabl [...]st dresse thy buskin'd Poets use,
That I may shew how this dread Lamentation
Hath crackt th' reformed Arse-strings of our Nation.
O could we heare a Kennell of the best
Mouth'd Blood-hounds that ere smelt Thanksgiving-feast;
Or could we heare of howleing woules a crew,
Feircer 'mongst Lambs then Presbyter or Iew,
(Who take for Tithe both skin and flesh and wool,
And yealp Sedition forth whole Pulpits full)
Or could we heare but with what roaring throats,
A Parliament of Fiends could belch forth Votes.
Of Non-addresses to the throne of Grace,
(Because they dare not view Majesties faces.)
Or could ye hear their hideous screeching, growleing
When Witches send for them a catter whauling.
Had we a heard of most impetuous town bulls
To bellow (like Hal Martin after's brown trulls.
Or could we heare the banefull resonances
Of Screech owles (like the Commons Ordinances)
That fright poor trembling innocents i'th' night;
(As if their fatall cryes were just and right)
Were all the Whores at Shrove-tide put to rout,
And could you hear them squeek, whilst the boyes shout.
Were all these horrid noyses put together
To raise the fiends, or conjure up foule weather;
Such such a sound, nor all these yealps and rorings,
Could never equall our more sad deplorings:
For we must loose, Oh! how it stops my breath.
To think how Oliver must tugge with death:
That ene the grim-fac'd Skelleton will dread
To be by furious Oliver strooke dead,
And buried in a nasty Irish bogge,
(As if he were oth' two the fiercer dog.)
Nay we must loose (for absence still implyes
Alasse for th' present to our weeping eyes)
The best part of that most Religious rable
That made Saint Paules a den of theeves and stable,
Who had so fairly brought on Reformation,
That horses seem'd more holy then the Nation.
Nay (thank our stars, or our Rebellion rather)
'Tis Treason now to obey or King or father,
To go to Church ere long (if they had staid)
The Puritans I [...]ou [...]t would have been fraid:
Had we not now both liberty and ease
To pay large Taxes, and the Army please
With full fre-quarter? did not th' Parliament
By force of th' Army make us all content
With liberty of Conscience to adore
Our Calves-head Gods of England; least we shou'd
Revenge our late dread Soveraigns guiltlesse blood?
Nay more, pray wou'd not this reforming rout
Have compeld all to worship mighty snout?
O what brave times should we have seen
If these had stayd, the Churches would have been
Reform'd to Brothels, and that deadly crime
Of piety been taxt for Atheism, in short time.
Iudge you Gentlemen, have we not cause
To waile his losse, would have reform'd our Laws?
When th' very heat of Noses indignation,
Meant to have fier'd all the Records ith' Nation;
So that for future, nought but score and talley,
By some ingenious Dray-man rank'd in rally,
Should have remaind remembrancers of right;
No roules, save writ in blood had come in sight.
But squint [...]eyd Lenthall, that triumphant Iew
Oppos'd his wrath (to give the Devill his due)
For he is conscious were the Rolls puld down
H' has nere a house of 's one about the town.
Nay that young start up, trickt up like a Player,
His Six Cleark sonne, 's iniquities blest heire,
That thrives so well in those good qualities,
Of drink and drabbs, theres hopes heele loose his thighs
By Amphutation or dismembring (either)
If the pox consume not's pamperd corps together.
He had lost his new office (which some know
Is better then his patrimony I trow.)
If's Father nere, like a lame toad had lept
Into the Speakers chaire, he might have crept
Into od corners of good fellow hip
To nip a bnuge, and so been choakt with pip.
Presbyter Iohn now you may put on sackcloth
A leave to preach in thread-bare cloaks of black-cloath;
For put the case another King were brought
To Holmby house a prisoner, to be taught
To spell Religion backward by a Covenant,
And renounce grace your rash desires to grant,
And he with Christian magnanimity
Should still defend his soule from perjury,
And all your sophick machinations were
Retorted on your your soules, till black despair,
For e're usurping th' reverend Bishops chair,
Seize on your soules, how would you plot revenge
Wanting a Crumwell for to crowch and cringe,
By curst insinuation into's favour,
To swear, forswear, dissemble, lye and slavour,
Till's innocent credulity ensuar'd
Prove him a Iob in sufferings when debarr'd
Of Kingly liberty, by prophane force
To bring him to a Martirs death, nay worse,
Could they have murdred soule and body too
(As they endeavour'd his glorious name to do)
Their hell hatch'd hate would triumph were they sure
His soule like theirs, hells torments should endure.
Most mighty NOSE. O shield thee from the glaund [...]s,
Thou that containst the marrow of Commanders.
This was thy work, how had we done to bring
To th' fatall block, so wise, so just a King,
If Peeters had not stablisht strong thy heart
In [...]hat rare doctrin, that King-killing art?
And may we not well mourn to part with thee,
Whose blood-shot eyes have out-star'd Majesty?
And though thou Basilisk like, with poysonous spight
Couldst not confound him with thy hideous sight,
Yet thou couldst force thy Imps the traiterous Commons
To warn him rudely by an unjust summons,
T' appeare before a perjur'd Convocation
Of Brewers, Tapsters, Tinkers, of good fashion;
And hadst not thou been there to bribe the Slaves,
To cry for iustice Iustice, (O heaven save's
From murderers and tyrants) he had been
Alive to raign as King (a heavy sin.)
Those puny Sophisters, that sit and wrangle
The Kingdome out of all their wealth, and tangle
The wretched people in traps, gins, and snares
By open force (not when by unawares)
These these without thy dictates nere durst make
A knick knack yet that with or treason speak;
How are we bound to thee whose bright Nose shines
Like a red Sun, or best of claret of wines.
Nay I must speak thy praises who for merrit
Though not in Heaven, in Hell art sure t [...] inherit.
Of thy descent or breeding 'twere vaine glory
To trouble honest eares with a vain story.
Because the Reverend Draymen all know well
For bungeing, flinging, O thou borest the bell
In thy young dayes; but where thy mother whelpt,
(Or who to case her of her burthen helpt,
When thou camst forth to terrifie the earth
By thy prodigious ill portending birth)
Wee'l nere examine, nor we need not dive
To see how thou camst on, and now doth thrive
Since thy first serving of thy now made slaves,
Since thou wast sent from Lucifer to save's
From turning to our old abomination
Of serving God sans frantick profanation;
These mighty works we know heaven hath permitted;
And thee for th' fire brand of confusion fitted.
Who still persisting zealous for the cause
Of Independant barbartime, (whose Laws
Are capitally wrote in bloody lines
As a fit rule for after heathenish times)
Art now upon thy march, either to rue
Thy cursed birth, a [...]d give the D vill his due,
Or else to reinvolve poor Ireland in
A loody mantle, if th' inchanted skin
B [...]y t [...]mp [...]nitrable, but I hope
Thoult hardly live to crack a well spun rope,
Which [...] thou do'st this Epitaph shall be
The just conserver of thy in amie,
Here lies a Devill incarnate, who nor death,
Nor open danger could deprive of breath,
Till sledge and rope, and Hangmans Axe did quarter
This Traito [...], who deserves worse then hells torture.
Thus thus I have with brevity orerun
Thy matchlesse deeds that will outlive the sun,
Thy same deserves to be writ down on tables
Of such rogues hearts turn Churches into stables.
Nay th' Iuncto ought each one to cut's own throat
(Without referring the matter to a Vote)
And with their bloods to write a Declaration
Of thy brave feates to their Elect of th' Nation.
O London, London, you most wretched sinners,
Who made so many great thanksgiving dinners;
Now y'had more need to make the Conduits weep
Strong Sack and Claret for our sorrows deep;
Your suit of Plate (rope stretch you for your kindnesse)
Hath struck us all into a mournfull blindnesse,
That and the purse of Gold you consecrated
To this great Idell (may you still be hated
For th' hundred fifty thousand pound you lent)
These summes dread Oliver hath packing sent.
Now put the case your boyes should cut your throates,
How would ye doe to hire in more Rod-coats
To put them to the rour, and make you stand
Like Rye-dow images with cap in hand?
How how'le ye do now to be kept in awe
By Rogues and Ruffins, more then God or Law
Now Crumwells gone? For his out-braving crew
Made slaves oth' Parliament, Cuckolds of you.
Why shreiv'd ye not your selves of all the evill
Vpon Saint NOSES day? (shields from the Devill)
On such a day not for to mourn and bellow
In sad new catches like a boone good fellow,
It argues hees a Publican at least,
When th' Independant weeps dare quaffe and feast.
How do ye thinke this land should ere be blest
With peace, or plenty, or at quiet rest
So long as men refuse to congregate
And pray for vengence each on's neighbours pate?
To pray these blades may wade to th'knees in blood,
And make heaven seem to countenance it for good;
To play the hypocrites in perfect shape,
And make each Zelot prove the Devills ape;
To roare at Church in most blasphemous noates
Of sorrow, cause we can't cut good mens throats:
To force down power from heaven with yealps and cries
To Massacre, Oppresse, and Tyrannize;
Vntill wee make this land, and others too,
Vallies of teares, stages of grief and woe.
Vntill the Saints (who have tight to't by birth)
Have made each place seem perfect hell on earth.
He that can pray for these things, and forget
Noses prosperity, when in's throne set
If these rare jems to's prayers cannot win him,
I'le say not much, but think the devill's in him.
Now now farewell ye Oliverian bilbowes,
To th' back as true as well-strung steel-bowes.
May th' Parliament remember to befreind ye,
And ropes and butter whole ships lading send ye.
And may brave Ormond that most loyall sinner
Give you a breakfast, that you need no dinner,
He he I consider all your toyles and labours,
And send ye to fright Hell with trumps and tabors,
Where Oliver may raign world without end,
Great Lord Leiftenant, Lucifer [...] best freind:
But first I doubt me ye'l be foundly bang'd,
So twice adeiu, that's farewell and be hang'd.
FINIS.