The downfall of the CHANCERY. OR, The Lavvyers Lamentation.
FArewell Lords Commissioners,
Your Hon'r lies a bleeding,
Injoyn the House (if you can)
To stay their proceeding:
The Chancery's voted down,
Well may your good Lordships frown,
And take up this sad tone,
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell Master of the Rolles
You must be outed,
The house of
Lenthals is
All-to-be-routed:
Iack and
Will. fat Knaves be,
And full of iniquity,
Take 'em Committees t'ee.
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell the six Clerks too,
Your Pride is falling,
You must go cast about,
For a new Calling:
Humbly complain ye may,
But 'tis in vain to pray,
For y'are sure to have Nay.
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell the Registers,
(A sad Dismission)
You no more bribes must take
For Expedition;
Farewell th' Examiners too,
Your which, when, where, and how,
Will get you little now.
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell that Goblin thing
Call'd a
Sub poena,
The hob-nail'd Country Clown,
Knows what I mean-a:
Over Mountain, over Bog,
The poor Bumkins this made jog,
Oh 'twas a dreadfull Pugg!
Ohone, Ohone.
Adiew, adiew, to Law,
And Equity too:
Alas poor Gownmen now
What will ye do?
You must ee'n truckle it to
The holy militant Crew,
Marry, and a good shift too,
Ohone, Ohone.
Like old Alm'nacks you will look,
When there's no pleading,
Or like the poor Cancell'd Peers,
(Titles are fading:)
When the Clients at your tayl,
And the good Angels fail,
You may bid the Squire farewell.
Ohone, Ohone.
To
Long-lane with your robes
If you are wise,
And sell the Cooks your Books
To put under Pies:
What need ye
Littleton,
Or the thing call'd a Gown,
Now your Trade's going down?
Ohone, Ohone.
You had best turn Gifted-men,
For y'are long winded,
And can cant Gospel too,
If y'are so minded:
Unlesse you preach or fight,
And practise the new light,
Your Worships may goe shite.
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell the learned
Cook,
And his Reports,
Hee'll be of small account
When there's no Courts:
Iohn-a-Nokes may well look pale,
Hee'l lose his Mannor of
Dale,
The sword will cut of th' Intayl,
Ohone, Ohone.
What will grim
Bradshaw doe,
His hopes are routed?
To little purpose now,
His noddleships mooted,
(His face and name suit well,
Black as the Prince of Hell,)
He may bid th' long robe farewell.
Ohone, Ohone.
What will Post
Prid— doe now,
That pamperd Saint,
His greedy stomack must
Suffer a long Lent:
Shortly perhaps hee'l rue,
That he ere Church-lands knew,
(Good Devil take your due.)
Ohone, Ohone.
What will young
Keble do,
When his Lord Sire
Is put besides his place?
(Alas poor Squire!)
Hee'l find th' case altered,
His breath will scarce get bread,
To put in his Fools head.
Ohone, Ohone.
What will old
Marriot doe
When ther's no motions?
His Belly'll grumble sure,
And raise commotions:
Every fart he lets fly,
Could it but speak, would cry,
Hang up the Souldiery.
Ohone, Ohone.
What will poor Scribes do now
For want of mony?
They must live chast perforce,
No Coyn, no Coney:
The Goose quill goes to wrack,
This will make Bawds to crack,
Their trading will grow slack.
Ohone, Ohone.
Farewell good dish and dash,
No more long Scribles;
Howl and lament ye Whores,
And strain your Trebbles,
To such a dolefull height,
That it may move the State,
To pity your sad Estate.
Ohone, Ohone.
FINIS.