Seven yeares expired, the third of November, 1647,
SEven yeares the troublous time away did slip,
And King and Parliaments Apprenticeship
Are come t'an end, let both sides be made Free,
Th'ave bin at strife too long, 'tis time t'agree.
Seven is a number of most strange Predictions,
Seven yeares King
Charles hath under-gon Afflictions,
Seven yeares the Parliament the Rule did hold,
Seven years (twice more) they would do, if they could.
Seven yeares
Egypts leane Kine did gourmandise,
Seven yeares (thrice more) their Mawes wil not suffise.
Seven yeares all good men have endured slaverie,
Seven years base villains have grown rich by knaverie,
Seven yeares the King serv'd to a troublous Trade,
Seven yeares expir'd, pray let him Free be made;
Seven yeares are gone, th' Apprenticeship is past,
Pray let him have his Freedome now at last;
Hee's past a Prentice, doe the best you can
To set him Vp, make him no Journey-man:
Of all men, he deserves most to be Free;
To be set Vp, no man's so fit as hee.
His Freedome is, to have but what's his owne;
His Libertie, his Kingdomes, Crowne, and Throne,
His VVife, his Children; and that Lawes and Right
May not be over-sway'd by Power and Might;
That Gods true Service may set forth his Glorie,
And not a babbling Non-sence
Directorie;
That King and Parliament may so agree,
That one may Soveraigne, th'other Subiects bee:
And such as wish not King and Kingdomes freedom,
The Devill to the Gallowes quickly speed 'em.
A direfull Anathema against PEACE-HATERS,
PEace Vipers, Peace, let crying bloud ne'r cease
To haunt your guilty Soules, that love not Peace:
And curst be that Religion, that must buy
A Reformation with Phlebotomie.
Infernall Fire-brands, whom the very Teares
Of groaning
England, swallow'd up with Feares,
Cannot allay, nor yet the bleeding Vaines
Of desperate
Ireland, which even now remaines
A very
Golgotha, cannot asswage;
VVhose Babes, the Earnest of another Age,
Taste of your savage Pietie, and lie
The Lambe-like Martyrs of your Crueltie:
VVhilest you lye safely embr'd, to encrease
The flames of
Christendome, and cry, No Peace.
Let
Samsons coupl'd Messengers convay
These Fire-brands hence, and let them make their way
To their owne Houses, there consume, devast,
Burne downe their Houses, lay their Gran'ries wast:
Let all their Sonnes run mad into the Street,
And seeking Refuge there, there let them meet
Th'encountring Sword; and whom that spares to kill,
Let them be Slaves, and labour at the Mill:
Let all their VVives and Daughters beg in vaine,
Let them be ravisht first, and after slaine.
Let all their Kindred wander up and downe
Like Vagabonds, be lasht from Towne to Towne:
Let Basenesse be en tayl'd upon their Name
Too firme for all Recoveries; let Shame,
Reproach, and lasting Infamie remaine.
In deeper Characters then that of Raine,
Let
Catesby, Piercy, and that bloudie Knot
Be Sainted now, or else at least forgot:
And let these Vipers vindicate their Crimes
In every
Almanack for after-Times;
VVhere, let their basenesse live among the
Sinces,
More firm thē reigns of Kings, or births of Princes:
Thus let these Fire-brands thrive, and if this Curse
Succeed not, may it yeeld unto a worse
For them; let them still live, till (He) thinke good
To quench them in their Generations blood:
That all the world may hisse, and heare them crie,
VVho lov'd not Peace, in Peace shall never die.
The Commons Exultation, Anagrammaticall to the PARLIAMENT, Anagram PRAI LAMENT.
PRay ye that awe the Land, in
Moses Chaire,
And you (the Church) in
Aarons, gainst that
Prayer,
An Ancient Parliament made
Common; more
Hate
Common Prayer then a common Whore;
Especially reject the
Pater Noster
And Churches
Liturgie: for if you foster
Such Heavenly Charmes, take heed you'l pray for Kings,
Queenes, Princes, Prelates, such are deadly things:
So you your Christian Faith might re-admit,
Turne honest men regaine your long-lost Wit,
And so your fear'd black Consciences would vex ye,
Which are benum'd now, and not yet perplex ye.
As God commands, t'obey the Higher Powers,
You will be highest, and all Power is yours,
And you know, if the King should have his due,
And you have yours, what would become of you?
'Twould make all good men glad, and bad men grieve,
And
Gregories gaines would make him fine for Shrieve;
His Foot-cloth, Saddle, and his golden Chaine,
The Knave would be a fine proud Knave in Graine.
For just power will o're-top your Lording state,
And curbe (your Pride Superlative) your hate.
Pray for the Spirit of Stupid Ignorance,
Which may to sacred Pulpits fooles aduance;
For
Academicks see, (with
Argos Eyes)
Th'are for your Sects and doings, too quick Spies:
There's two wayes left you, do as, you began,
Love nor regard, or feare nor God or Man,
Sit in your Thrones, ne're to your Homes go back,
To see your handy-worke, your Countries wrack,
Y'are safe and whole, here gaine the golden Fleeces,
But in the Countrey you'd be torne in peices;
Though Home be Homely, yet 'tis full of feare,
If you go home you'le find the Devill is there.
Therefore (as yet) pray breake not up your Schooles,
Clubs, Flailes, Pitchforkes, are but churlish Tooles,
And where you thinke the fresh Ayre will refresh ye,
The oppressed Countrey
Corridons will thresh ye.
The wronged
Yeomanrie are stout and tough,
And they are not yet pol'd halfe bare enough,
They still have left some Horses, Sheepe and Swine,
Some little store of Money, Calves, and Kine;
You have but taken part from them as yet,
You must take all, or leave them ne're a whit:
The onely way their courages to quaile,
Is, strip 'em all, as naked as my Nayle,
Take from them all, whereby they may subsist,
And then they'le not be able to resist:
Thus may you Rule and Raigne, and sit secure,
You and your Heires, for ever to endure.
Sit still, Returne not to your Habitations,
They'le call you to account for Sequestrations,
For plunderings, for free-quarterings, and oppressions,
And all your Tyraunies, (beyond expressions)
You'le be examin'd what good you have done?
And you (most humbly) must say, truely none;
They'le aske you then, what evills ye have committed?
You'le answer, We no Mischiefe have omitted;
Then they'le demand, How fares the King, I pray?
You'le say, he beares the Name, and we the sway.
They'le aske, of true Religion what's become?
And you must answer, you have strucke her dumbe:
Then theyle require, What did you with the Church?
And you'le Reply, ye'ave left her in the lurch:
Ye'ave brought Confusion to our
Albion.
And made King
Charles a King of
Babylon:
Nothing of
Englands left, but foule defame,
And
Babell-Building of old
Amsterdam:
Famous for this, that sinne, or any thing
May be endured, but one Church, one King.
The Arke once Landed at our happy Haven.
We have refus'd the Dove, and tooke the Raven,
Whose greedy Appetite, and dismall croaking,
Hath bin Lawes, Churches, and Religions choaking:
Of all these crimes the Country will accuse you,
And find you Guilty, and most kindly use you.
These questions will be ask'd, and more then these,
Therefore sit still if you love Wealth and Ease.
The cryes and curses of the poore are fierce,
And to Gods terrible Tribunall pierce:
Therefore (good)
Parliament (l)
Prai Lament,
Lament, repent, just Vengeance to prevent:
Pray till your lasting Lungs and Breath is spent
The rest of time melt into teares, lament.
But can you weepe your selves into a stood,
That could not weepe to see us weepe in blood?
Your hearts were rather tickl'd at the p
[...]ey,
VVhen as you traffiqu'd over our Red Sea:
If ere you weepe, perhaps your cheekes you'le wet,
As
Ahab did, who did but counterfet;
Or like the weeping of the
Crocodile,
That murthers people as they passe by
Nyle;
Or if your teares are reall, you must borrow
From
Esau tardy teares of needlesse sorrow:
For why (like him) you do repent too late,
To move our wornged Soules you've fill'd with hate.
But if (like
Peter) you could weepe most bitter
True teares of Penitence, they would be sweeter
T'your selves, the widowes and the fatherlesse,
(Your late petitioners without redresse.)
I would you knew how Country, Court, and City,
Laugh at your dangers, slight you without pitty,
Curses flye up, that you may be confounded
To that black pit, whose bottome ne're was sounded.
But yet (though not to Man) to God still weepe,
For in his Bottle he true teares doth keepe:
Pay true repentance up, for your Excise,
To God for Sinne, Hee'le wipe teares from your eyes,
FINIS.