







 
   
     
       
         Thrēnodē, or Englands passing-bell
         Gilbert, Thomas, 1613-1694.
      
       
         
           1679
        
      
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             Thrēnodē, or Englands passing-bell
             Gilbert, Thomas, 1613-1694.
             Sherburne, Edward, Sir, 1618-1702.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           [4], 24 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             London :
             M.DC.LXXIX [1679]
          
           
             In verse.
             First word of title in Greek characters.
             Attributed by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints to Thomas Gilberts also variously attributed to Sir Edward Sherburne or Robert Wild.
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
             England's passing-bell--The bill of request--Romanzi--The postscript.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Poetry.
        
      
    
     
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             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
          
           :
           OR
           ,
           ENGLANDS
           Passing-Bell
           .
        
         
           Psal.
           80
           :
           3.
           
        
         
           
             
               Turn
               us
               O
               God
               to
               thee
               again
               ,
            
             
               For
               we
               too
               long
               have
               swerv'd
               :
            
             
               Cause
               thou
               thy
               face
               on
               us
               to
               shine
               ,
            
             
               And
               we
               shall
               be
               preserv'd
               .
            
          
        
         
           Quarles
           Eleg.
           
        
         
           
             
               Offended
               Iustice
               often
               strikes
               by
               turns
               ,
            
             
               Edom
               beware
               ,
               for
               thy
               next
               neighbour
               burns
               :
            
          
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           M.
           DC
           .
           LXXIX
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           TO
           THE
           READER
           .
        
         
           
             REader
             ,
             perhaps
             my
             melancholly
             Quill
          
           
             May
             dote
             ;
             but
             let
             Melpom'ne
             weep
             her
             sill
             .
          
           
             Bear
             with
             her
             weakness
             ,
             grudg
             not
             at
             her
             Tears
             ;
          
           
             It
             springs
             not
             from
             her
             Envy
             ,
             but
             her
             Fears
             :
          
           
             She
             is
             no
             hired
             Naenia
             ;
             her
             moans
          
           
             Are
             like
             to
             purchase
             little
             else
             than
             stones
             .
          
           
             Then
             give
             her
             leave
             to
             mourn
             upon
             these
             Rocks
             ;
          
           
             To
             ease
             her
             troubled
             heart
             to
             Stones
             and
             Stocks
             .
          
           
             Her
             sad
             abodings
             do
             not
             imprecate
             :
          
           
             But
             wish
             and
             warn
             thee
             to
             anticipate
             :
          
           
             And
             if
             there
             may
             no
             
               loyal
               method
            
             be
          
           
             Form'd
             to
             prevent
             thy
             hanging
             -
             Destinie
          
           
             Immure
             thy
             soul
             within
             those
             gracious
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             protect
             thee
             from
             the
             
               Syrenes
               charms
            
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           
             ENGLAND'S
             PASSING-BELL
             .
          
           
             
               I
               Am
               no
               Prophet
               ,
               no
               ,
               nor
               
                 Prophet's
                 Son
              
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               dare
               pretend
               unto
               a
               Vision
               ;
            
             
               Pretend
               ,
               say
               I
               ?
               nay
               ,
               't
               is
               no
               meer
               pretence
               ,
            
             
               Pretences
               do
               but
               juggle
               Conscience
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               pray
               for
               peace
               ,
               yea
               ,
               I
               could
               die
               for
               't
               too
            
             
               A
               willing
               Sacrifice
               ,
               if
               that
               would
               do
               .
            
             
               But
               what
               I
               do
               foresee
               ,
               I
               dare
               foretell
               ,
            
             
               God
               is
               now
               ringing
               
                 ENGLANDS
                 Passing-Bell
              
               ,
            
             
               The
               sound
               is
               in
               mine
               ears
               ,
               the
               doleful
               Toul
            
             
               Strikes
               strange
               amazement
               on
               my
               trembling
               Soul.
            
             
               She
               gasps
               for
               breath
               ,
               her
               
                 Optick
                 nerves
              
               are
               crackt
               .
            
             
               Eyes
               sunk
               into
               their
               holes
               ,
               her
               spirits
               rackt
            
             
               On
               fatal
               Tenters
               ,
               and
               her
               Pulses
               beat
            
             
               To
               her
               oppressed
               soul
               a
               faint
               Retreat
               .
            
             
               Alas
               the
               day
               !
               these
               threatning
               symptoms
               call
            
             
               Her
               Friends
               to
               mind
               her
               of
               a
               Funeral
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               thou
               the
               God
               of
               life
               ,
               commiserate
            
             
               Thy
               foolish
               peoples
               self-undone
               estate
               !
            
             
               Calm
               all
               these
               Paroxismes
               ,
               and
               allay
            
             
               Those
               mortal
               heats
               ;
               so
               will
               I
               ever
               pray
               .
            
          
           
             
               '
               Wake
               sottish
               Island
               !
               let
               thy
               ruins
               teach
            
             
               Thy
               Sons
               and
               Daughters
               to
               bewail
               the
               Breach
               .
            
             
               Where
               are
               thy
               
                 Noahs
                 ,
                 Daniels
              
               and
               Iobs
               ?
            
             
               Are
               these
               the
               men
               ,
               that
               in
               their
               linsie
               Robes
            
             
               Chant
               their
               Devotions
               ?
               th'
               Angels
               of
               the
               Quire
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               very
               Noses
               threat
               their
               shirts
               with
               fire
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Bacchanalian
               zeal's
               a
               flame
               they
               stole
            
             
               Not
               from
               the
               Altar
               ,
               but
               Maeonian
               coal
               .
            
             
             
               Are
               these
               the
               men
               ,
               that
               with
               their
               Pipes
               can
               do
            
             
               The
               Counter-wonder
               on
               a
               Iericho
               ?
            
             
               Ah!
               poor
               bewitched
               Land
               !
               how
               long
               wilt
               be
            
             
               Before
               thy
               banisht
               Wits
               return
               to
               thee
               ?
            
             
               The
               Cup
               is
               in
               thine
               hand
               ,
               hath
               toucht
               thy
               lips
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               wring'st
               thy
               mouth
               at
               some
               distasteful
               sips
               :
            
             
               Fain
               would'st
               thou
               plead
               ,
               enough
               ;
               ay
               ,
               so
               would
               I
               ,
            
             
               Or
               drink
               it
               in
               thy
               stead
               ,
               and
               for
               thee
               die
               .
            
             
               But
               what
               e're
               be
               the
               hopes
               that
               buoy
               thy
               mind
               ,
            
             
               Unless
               I
               dream
               ,
               the
               dreggs
               are
               yet
               behind
               .
            
             
               On
               whose
               unhappy
               heads
               this
               Lot
               shall
               fall
            
             
               God
               knows
               ,
               the
               wrathful
               fate
               doth
               threaten
               all
               .
            
             
               Let
               him
               that
               thinks
               he
               's
               with
               a
               Bargain
               blest
               ,
            
             
               Know
               ,
               the
               last
               Nail
               may
               double
               all
               the
               rest
               .
            
          
           
             
               There
               are
               some
               few
               within
               thee
               that
               begin
            
             
               
                 To
                 smite
                 the
                 thigh
              
               ,
               and
               to
               confess
               their
               sin
               .
            
             
               Others
               that
               think
               it
               safer
               to
               compound
               ,
            
             
               To
               shark
               and
               shuffle
               while
               the
               Cup
               goes
               round
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               I
               know
               ought
               of
               thy
               constitution
               ,
            
             
               Or
               of
               the
               Products
               of
               a
               Revolution
               ,
            
             
               Compose
               the
               present
               Frights
               ,
               and
               't
               will
               appear
            
             
               The
               Frogs
               now
               quasht
               will
               be
               as
               bold
               as
               e're
               .
            
             
               These
               brows
               of
               brass
               ,
               these
               
                 iron
                 sinews
              
               may
            
             
               Shine
               like
               the
               gold
               ,
               and
               bend
               like
               kneaded
               clay
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               an
               hot
               Furnace
               ,
               preaching
               to
               the
               sence
               ,
            
             
               Applys
               the
               terrour
               of
               a
               Providence
               ;
            
             
               But
               once
               withdraw
               the
               coals
               ,
               and
               you
               may
               see
            
             
               These
               Metals
               have
               not
               lost
               their
               Propertie
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               as
               for
               Ionas
               ,
               who
               's
               now
               Tarsus
               bound
               ,
            
             
               Let
               him
               remember
               who
               a
               Ionas
               found
               .
            
             
               Let
               Demas
               know
               too
               ,
               that
               his
               
                 present
                 world
              
            
             
               Will
               cheat
               his
               fond
               love
               ,
               when
               he
               shall
               be
               hurl'd
            
             
               By
               an
               Ejectment
               from
               that
               dear
               possession
               ,
            
             
               That
               lay
               in
               right
               of
               Heaven's
               Sequestration
               .
            
             
               And
               Iudas
               may
               be
               sure
               ,
               his
               treacherous
               Kiss
            
             
               Shall
               be
               repay'd
               with
               lips
               as
               foul
               as
               his
               .
            
             
               Haman
               must
               also
               know
               ,
               the
               
               Gibbet's
               up
               ;
            
             
               Where
               Mordecai
               should
               dine
               ,
               there
               he
               may
               sup
               .
            
          
           
             
               'T
               was
               not
               for
               lack
               of
               eyes
               the
               Iews
               were
               grown
            
             
               So
               strangely
               blind
               ,
               that
               nought
               but
               Babylon
            
             
             
               Could
               make
               them
               see
               ;
               nor
               is
               't
               for
               lack
               of
               eyes
            
             
               I
               grope
               at
               noon
               ,
               and
               fall
               ,
               and
               cannot
               rise
               ;
            
             
               But
               't
               is
               this
               Babylon
               the
               Mystical
            
             
               Hath
               blinded
               me
               ;
               nay
               ,
               which
               is
               worst
               of
               all
               ,
            
             
               She
               is
               my
               mated
               Incubus
               ,
               and
               hence
            
             
               I
               'm
               rid
               by
               her
               bewitching
               influence
               .
            
             
               O
               pity
               me
               ,
               all
               ye
               that
               ever
               saw
            
             
               A
               Sampson
               snared
               by
               a
               Delilah
               !
            
          
           
             
               Were
               Moses
               here
               ,
               sure
               he
               would
               sigh
               with
               me
            
             
               For
               their
               dear
               sakes
               ;
               whose
               sin
               and
               slaverie
            
             
               Was
               once
               like
               mine
               :
               Or
               could
               I
               but
               produce
            
             
               A
               Ieremy
               ,
               his
               eye
               should
               be
               the
               sluce
            
             
               To
               weep
               me
               out
               a
               bitter
               Lamentation
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               condole
               a
               bleeding
               dying
               Nation
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               tears
               of
               blood
               I
               could
               sit
               down
               and
               mourn
            
             
               On
               my
               dear
               Children's
               most
               unhappy
               Urn
               ▪
            
             
               Thousands
               of
               sprightly
               youth
               ,
               whose
               breasts
               and
               bones
            
             
               Were
               richly
               fill'd
               ,
               have
               breath'd
               their
               fruitless
               moans
            
             
               Under
               that
               wrathful
               hand
               that
               did
               dispense
            
             
               The
               bloody
               arrows
               of
               the
               Pestilence
               .
            
             
               Sure
               death
               had
               never
               such
               a
               Table
               spread
            
             
               In
               any
               age
               ,
               for
               ought
               we
               hear
               or
               read
               .
            
             
               How
               greedily
               he
               fed
               on
               rich
               and
               poor
               ,
            
             
               As
               though
               he
               never
               meant
               to
               feast
               it
               more
               !
            
             
               Wit
               ,
               wealth
               ,
               or
               beauty
               ,
               honour
               ,
               sex
               or
               age
               ,
            
             
               Made
               no
               distinction
               in
               his
               mortal
               rage
               .
            
             
               O
               cruel
               death
               !
               could
               not
               thy
               heart
               relent
            
             
               At
               those
               dear
               Infants
               that
               thy
               fury
               rent
            
             
               From
               tender
               mother's
               breasts
               !
               Could
               not
               their
               groans
            
             
               Have
               pierc'd
               thy
               heart
               ,
               that
               might
               have
               pierced
               stones
               ?
            
             
               Heaps
               upon
               heaps
               of
               choicest
               friends
               I
               saw
               ;
            
             
               Our
               
               Glory
               's
               now
               become
               our
               Golgotha
               .
            
             
               Could
               not
               the
               Ancients
               venerable
               Hairs
               ,
            
             
               (
               The
               silver
               Symbole
               of
               their
               age
               and
               cares
               )
            
             
               Have
               aw'd
               thy
               bold
               attempt
               ?
               or
               pleaded
               pity
               ,
            
             
               Who
               were
               the
               Eyes
               and
               Pillars
               of
               the
               City
               .
            
             
               Nor
               could
               thy
               sacrilegious
               hands
               forbear
            
             
               To
               rob
               our
               Churches
               of
               their
               Common-Prayer
               .
            
             
             
               Th'
               affrighted
               Levite
               durst
               not
               for
               his
               head
               ,
            
             
               Appear
               between
               the
               
                 Living
                 and
                 the
                 Dead
              
               .
            
             
               On
               him
               (
               poor
               Soul
               !
               )
               thou
               charged'st
               the
               extent
            
             
               Of
               his
               own
               Law
               ,
               of
               
                 five
                 miles
                 Banishment
              
               .
            
             
               O
               King
               of
               terrours
               great
               !
               how
               could'st
               thou
               quell
            
             
               The
               sacred
               vertue
               of
               his
               powerful
               spell
               ,
            
             
               Against
               thy
               
                 sudden
                 stroak
              
               ?
               or
               who
               should
               care
            
             
               For
               his
               forsaken
               Flock
               ,
               whose
               Fleece
               they
               are
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Now
               was
               not
               this
               enough
               ?
               but
               must
               it
               be
            
             
               But
               the
               Praeludium
               to
               thy
               Tragedy
               ?
            
             
               Whence
               is
               't
               ,
               thou
               wert
               in
               combination
               found
            
             
               With
               Mars
               and
               Neptune
               ,
               for
               a
               vantage
               ground
               ?
            
             
               What!
               had
               poor
               Mortals
               over-matcht
               thee
               ?
               or
            
             
               Hadst
               thou
               a
               Fit
               to
               hear
               the
               Cannons
               roar
               ?
            
             
               To
               toss
               their
               shatter'd
               bones
               ,
               and
               serve
               them
               in
               ,
            
             
               As
               carved
               Messes
               ,
               unto
               
               Triton's
               shrine
               ?
            
             
               Or
               was
               't
               to
               prove
               how
               far
               thy
               pow'r
               would
               do
               ,
            
             
               To
               feast
               not
               only
               Worms
               ,
               but
               Fishes
               too
               ?
            
             
               Was
               ever
               blood
               so
               prodigally
               spent
               ?
            
             
               Whole
               Hecatombs
               seem'd
               little
               to
               present
               .
            
             
               Neptune
               himself
               could
               not
               but
               blush
               to
               see
            
             
               Thy
               greedy
               Altar's
               Anthropophagie
               .
            
             
               Did
               not
               the
               Passing-Bell
               go
               sad
               enough
               ?
            
             
               That
               Cannons
               hellish
               mouths
               must
               speak
               how
               rough
            
             
               And
               grim
               a
               Ghost
               thou
               art
               ?
               for
               this
               ,
               will
               I
            
             
               Ne're
               hope
               to
               bribe
               thee
               when
               I
               come
               to
               die
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               Death
               !
               what
               is
               my
               sin
               ,
               that
               still
               I
               hear
            
             
               Those
               ruthful
               sighings
               to
               torment
               my
               ear
               ?
            
             
               Behold
               the
               Fatherless
               and
               Widows
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               The
               woful
               Relicts
               of
               thy
               Sacrifice
               .
            
             
               
                 Would
                 God
              
               ,
               say
               they
               ,
               
                 our
                 dearest
                 blood
                 had
                 run
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 those
                 dear
                 veins
                 ,
                 from
                 which
                 our
                 blood
                 begun
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 Then
                 had
                 we
                 been
                 as
                 happy
                 as
                 the
                 dead
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 ne're
                 have
                 pin'd
                 for
                 lack
                 of
                 daily
                 bread
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Ah
               me
               !
               methink
               with
               grief
               and
               shame
               I
               see
            
             
               The
               hostile
               rage
               of
               the
               proud
               enemy
            
             
               Insulting
               on
               our
               shores
               ,
               who
               durst
               not
               peep
               ,
            
             
               Had
               they
               not
               found
               us
               in
               so
               dead
               a
               sleep
               .
            
             
               Then
               might
               Philistims
               with
               advantage
               come
               ,
            
             
               When
               
               Sampson's
               shorn
               ,
               and
               lull'd
               with
               Opium
               .
            
             
             
               Oh!
               then
               who
               could
               but
               rent
               his
               heart
               to
               see
            
             
               Our
               Glory
               led
               into
               captivity
               ?
            
             
               Those
               floating
               Eulwarks
               ,
               and
               of
               Royal
               race
               ,
            
             
               The
               envy
               of
               the
               world
               ,
               that
               ne're
               gave
               place
            
             
               To
               a
               superiour
               ,
               nor
               could
               e're
               be
               mated
            
             
               By
               those
               of
               whom
               they
               were
               both
               fear'd
               and
               hated
               ;
            
             
               That
               like
               a
               thunder
               ,
               brake
               the
               thickest
               clouds
            
             
               Of
               bold
               assaults
               ,
               and
               scatter'd
               all
               the
               crouds
            
             
               Of
               martial
               force
               ,
               that
               could
               command
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               dash
               their
               foes
               like
               pots
               of
               glass
               or
               clay
               .
            
             
               With
               what
               reproach
               and
               ignominious
               boasts
            
             
               Led
               they
               their
               captive
               prey
               to
               foreign
               coasts
               !
            
          
           
             
               Then
               farewell
               
                 Royal
                 Charles
              
               !
               yet
               this
               shall
               be
            
             
               Our
               joy
               and
               triumph
               still
               ,
               that
               here
               is
               He
            
             
               By
               whose
               great
               name
               th'
               rt
               call'd
               ;
               let
               Shadows
               go
               ,
            
             
               (
               The
               substance
               being
               come
               )
               sith't
               must
               be
               so
               .
            
          
           
             
               Might
               here
               my
               sorrows
               end
               ,
               I
               'd
               ne're
               lament
            
             
               As
               one
               undone
               ;
               but
               ah
               !
               my
               Fate
               is
               bent
            
             
               To
               rack
               my
               guilty
               bones
               ,
               and
               to
               devise
            
             
               New
               methods
               ,
               that
               her
               fury
               may
               comprize
            
             
               All
               the
               sad
               stories
               of
               the
               Ages
               past
               ,
            
             
               As
               though
               this
               scene
               were
               to
               us
               both
               the
               last
               .
            
          
           
             
               From
               Plague
               and
               Sword
               ,
               my
               mournful
               eyes
               I
               roul
            
             
               On
               that
               amazing
               mirrour
               ,
               which
               my
               soul
            
             
               So
               trembles
               to
               behold
               ;
               my
               Strength
               ,
               my
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               My
               Hope
               ,
               my
               Magazeen
               ,
               which
               now
               was
               grown
            
             
               From
               
                 Troy
                 novant
              
               ,
               to
               
                 Troy
                 le
                 grand
              
               ,
               is
               now
            
             
               My
               
                 Troy
                 l'extinct
              
               ;
               thus
               must
               the
               mighty
               bow
            
             
               When
               God
               will
               humble
               them
               ,
               and
               
                 lick
                 the
                 dust
              
            
             
               When
               once
               he
               smites
               ;
               for
               sure
               this
               God
               is
               just
               .
            
             
               But
               Oh!
               th'
               unhappy
               day
               that
               dawn'd
               in
               Flames
               ,
            
             
               Flames
               that
               contemned
               all
               the
               floods
               of
               Thames
               .
            
             
               What!
               could
               no
               Engins
               art
               nor
               power
               prevail
               ?
            
             
               Were
               
               Samson's
               Foxes
               turned
               tayl
               to
               tayl
               ?
            
             
               'T
               was
               some
               
                 strange
                 God
              
               ,
               no
               doubt
               ,
               that
               should
               require
            
             
               So
               chargeable
               an
               Offering
               made
               by
               fire
               .
            
             
               London
               and
               Sodom
               may
               sit
               down
               together
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               condole
               the
               Ashes
               of
               each
               other
               .
            
             
               For
               sin
               they
               perisht
               both
               ,
               and
               both
               by
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               But
               here
               's
               the
               odds
               ;
               Efficients
               did
               conspire
            
             
             
               In
               different
               methods
               ;
               that
               from
               Heaven
               came
               ,
            
             
               This
               from
               beneath
               :
               a
               black
               and
               hellish
               flame
               ,
            
             
               A
               spark
               of
               
               Faux's
               Cell
               ,
               infernal
               coals
            
             
               Matur'd
               for
               service
               in
               some
               Stygian
               holes
               .
            
             
               How
               did
               the
               hungry
               flames
               devour
               their
               prey
               !
            
             
               And
               lick
               up
               stones
               like
               straw
               !
               and
               force
               their
               way
            
             
               Through
               all
               obstructions
               ,
               Nature
               ,
               Art
               ,
               or
               Might
            
             
               Had
               rais'd
               to
               check
               their
               desolating
               flight
               !
            
             
               With
               what
               stupendious
               terrour
               did
               they
               roul
            
             
               From
               street
               to
               street
               ,
               disdaining
               all
               controul
               !
            
             
               As
               though
               the
               lungs
               of
               wide-mouth'd
               Aeolus
            
             
               Had
               been
               in
               
                 sacred
                 Oath
              
               to
               drive
               them
               thus
               !
            
             
               What
               horrour
               ,
               think
               you
               ,
               what
               distractions
               then
            
             
               Seiz'd
               on
               the
               heart
               of
               our
               poor
               Citizen
               !
            
             
               What
               bitter
               cries
               ,
               complaints
               and
               lamentations
               !
            
             
               While
               some
               bewail
               their
               own
               loss
               ,
               some
               the
               Nations
               !
            
             
               Some
               die
               for
               very
               grief
               ,
               and
               others
               curse
            
             
               The
               late
               indulgence
               of
               a
               faithful
               Nurse
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               no
               tongue
               nor
               pen
               can
               e're
               express
            
             
               The
               Hurries
               ,
               Hazards
               ,
               and
               the
               sad
               distress
               .
            
             
               Was
               ever
               grief
               like
               mine
               !
               
                 Deeps
                 call
                 to
                 Deeps
              
               :
            
             
               And
               what
               one
               Judgment
               spares
               ,
               the
               second
               sweeps
               .
            
             
               This
               Scald
               ,
               I
               doubt
               ,
               I
               shall
               bear
               in
               my
               face
            
             
               Unto
               my
               grave
               ,
               with
               grief
               and
               sore
               disgrace
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               now
               ,
               if
               Plague
               and
               Sword
               ,
               and
               Fire
               wont
               do
            
             
               To
               melt
               the
               heart
               ,
               and
               let
               the
               captive
               go
               ;
            
             
               I
               dread
               the
               thoughts
               of
               some
               impendent
               scourge
               ,
               
            
             
               More
               like
               to
               be
               a
               Poyson
               than
               a
               Purge
               .
            
             
               Good
               God!
               avert
               whatever
               it
               may
               be
               ;
            
             
               Avenge
               not
               on
               us
               our
               Iniquitie
               .
            
             
               Sin
               has
               gone
               big
               ;
               but
               ah
               !
               we
               knew
               it
               not
               :
            
             
               She
               's
               now
               in
               Travel
               ,
               and
               her
               reckonings
               out
               ;
            
             
               The
               
                 fore
                 springs
              
               come
               ,
               which
               threatens
               what
               may
               be
            
             
               The
               Birth
               ,
               if
               God
               permit
               Deliverie
               .
            
             
               Lord
               strangle
               thou
               the
               Monster
               in
               the
               womb
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               the
               Mothers
               bowels
               be
               its
               Tomb.
               
            
          
           
             
               But
               if
               my
               wandring
               Muse
               should
               chance
               to
               fly
            
             
               Within
               the
               compass
               of
               that
               
                 Royal
                 eye
              
               ,
            
             
             
               Whose
               very
               Aspect
               gives
               her
               life
               or
               death
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               whose
               sake
               this
               Die
               she
               ventureth
               ;
            
             
               She
               will
               confess
               't
               is
               bold
               to
               soar
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               To
               trip
               on
               Crowns
               ;
               the
               beams
               of
               Majesty
            
             
               May
               shine
               too
               hot
               for
               such
               Icarian
               wings
               ,
            
             
               And
               melt
               the
               Copper
               of
               her
               feeble
               strings
               .
            
             
               She
               has
               no
               wanton
               nor
               prestigious
               Lyricks
            
             
               To
               fawn
               on
               Kings
               with
               flattering
               Panegyricks
               .
            
             
               But
               her
               true
               loyal
               heart
               she
               'l
               ne're
               betray
               ,
            
             
               Though
               she
               can't
               vent
               it
               in
               the
               Courtiers
               way
               .
            
             
               Nor
               will
               she
               e're
               bethink
               her
               sworn
               Allegiance
               ,
            
             
               Or
               boggle
               at
               her
               duty
               of
               obedience
               ;
            
             
               Although
               the
               Persians
               have
               contriv'd
               their
               snare
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               it
               criminal
               if
               found
               at
               Prayer
               .
            
          
           
             
               Pardon
               ,
               
                 dread
                 Sov'raign
              
               ,
               if
               some
               rambling
               fit
            
             
               Transport
               her
               honest
               zeal
               ,
               and
               so
               commit
            
             
               A
               sin
               Poetical
               ;
               Her
               Pegasus
            
             
               Is
               Saddle-gall'd
               ,
               and
               therefore
               hobbles
               thus
               .
            
             
               She
               gads
               eccentrick
               ;
               hence
               it
               is
               she
               hovers
            
             
               On
               every
               Pinacle
               that
               hope
               discovers
               ;
            
             
               Under
               these
               gracious
               wings
               my
               Dove
               may
               find
            
             
               Protection
               ,
               if
               propitiously
               inclin'd
               .
            
             
               I
               hate
               those
               Tongues
               ,
               whose
               morsels
               make
               them
               loyal
               ,
            
             
               To
               serve
               their
               Int'rest
               on
               the
               Favour
               Royal.
            
             
               I
               only
               wish
               their
               Lips
               may
               never
               shew
            
             
               Those
               bloody
               Teeth
               that
               just
               within
               them
               grow
               .
            
             
               Nor
               that
               those
               
                 Hooded
                 Moths
              
               may
               ever
               sit
            
             
               So
               near
               the
               Crown
               as
               to
               dishonour
               it
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               ever
               pray
               the
               King
               may
               know
               his
               Friends
               ,
            
             
               And
               fully
               understand
               his
               Flatterers
               ends
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Kingdom
               groans
               ,
               although
               her
               King
               be
               come
               !
            
             
               Why
               !
               what
               's
               the
               matter
               ?
               sure
               he
               's
               welcome
               home
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               she
               's
               sick
               ,
               and
               of
               some
               strange
               disease
               ,
            
             
               Which
               neither
               Kings
               nor
               Parliaments
               can
               ease
               ,
            
             
               Until
               that
               God
               ,
               whom
               th'
               Athiest
               doth
               contemn
               ,
            
             
               Do
               purge
               the
               Blood
               of
               our
               Ierusalem
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               say
               no
               more
               here
               ,
               but
               
                 God
                 save
                 the
                 King
              
               ,
            
             
               From
               whom
               ,
               or
               whatsoe're
               may
               mischief
               bring
               !
            
          
           
             
             
               And
               what
               if
               I
               let
               loose
               my
               scribling
               Fancy
               ,
            
             
               To
               give
               a
               piece
               of
               her
               poor
               Chronomancie
            
             
               Unto
               her
               
                 Honourable
                 Senate
              
               ,
               who
            
             
               If
               God
               incline
               their
               hearts
               ,
               great
               things
               may
               do
               .
            
             
               O
               Sirs
               !
               ye
               are
               our
               wise
               Physicians
               ,
               and
            
             
               Ye
               have
               the
               sickest
               Nation
               now
               in
               hand
            
             
               That
               e're
               had
               men
               :
               The
               first
               step
               to
               a
               cure
            
             
               Is
               to
               know
               the
               cause
               of
               what
               we
               do
               endure
               .
            
             
               The
               cause
               is
               complicated
               both
               in
               Civil
            
             
               And
               Spiritual
               respects
               ;
               a
               twisted
               evil
               ,
            
             
               Deep
               Labyrinths
               we
               're
               in
               ;
               our
               strong
               foundations
            
             
               Do
               shake
               and
               tremble
               ;
               dismal
               Desolations
            
             
               Seem
               to
               attend
               us
               :
               Lord
               !
               avert
               this
               cup
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               thy
               bloody
               En'mies
               drink
               it
               up
               .
            
             
               Ye
               're
               our
               Physicians
               ,
               Sirs
               !
               Oh!
               cast
               the
               state
            
             
               Of
               your
               sick
               Patient
               ,
               and
               prevent
               that
               Fate
            
             
               Her
               Enemies
               threaten
               ,
               and
               her
               fears
               suggest
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               Posterities
               shall
               call
               you
               blest
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               cast
               abroad
               your
               wise
               and
               prudent
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               pity
               ,
               pity
               
               England's
               miseries
               .
            
             
               Let
               not
               the
               Canaanite
               reproach
               and
               laugh
            
             
               To
               see
               us
               breaking
               of
               that
               
                 Golden
                 staff
              
            
             
               On
               our
               own
               Shoulders
               ,
               which
               might
               else
               have
               been
            
             
               Our
               Rod
               to
               rule
               ,
               and
               reins
               to
               hold
               them
               in
               .
            
             
               Our
               costly
               Pills
               indeed
               have
               purg'd
               the
               Purse
               ,
            
             
               But
               our
               disease
               is
               growing
               worse
               and
               worse
               .
            
          
           
             
               Poor
               
               England's
               hour
               is
               come
               !
               a
               Trinitie
            
             
               Of
               wrestling
               Int'rests
               in
               her
               bowels
               lye
               .
            
             
               Two
               Opposites
               might
               happy
               Union
               know
               ,
            
             
               If
               well
               concenter'd
               in
               some
               Tertio
               .
            
             
               Three
               Contradictories
               will
               never
               be
            
             
               Espoused
               in
               a
               fair
               consistencie
               .
            
             
               Those
               that
               consult
               the
               peace
               and
               good
               of
               State
               ,
            
             
               I
               think
               (
               as
               case
               stands
               )
               must
               accommmodate
               .
            
             
               Sirs
               !
               pity
               those
               poor
               hearts
               that
               cannot
               see
            
             
               With
               any
               other
               eyes
               than
               those
               that
               be
            
             
               Their
               own
               ;
               some
               squeamish
               stomacks
               turn
               at
               Cheese
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               won't
               give
               for
               all
               our
               
                 Coquus
                 Fees.
              
            
             
               Were
               all
               confin'd
               to
               one
               Dish
               ,
               and
               no
               other
               ,
            
             
               You
               'd
               poyson
               me
               with
               what
               you
               feed
               my
               brother
               .
            
             
             
               When
               you
               can
               pare
               all
               Bodies
               to
               one
               stature
               ,
            
             
               And
               club
               the
               Elements
               into
               one
               nature
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               all
               faces
               of
               the
               same
               complexion
               ,
            
             
               (
               which
               will
               scarce
               be
               ev'n
               at
               the
               Resurrection
               )
            
             
               Then
               may
               you
               find
               all
               Consciences
               agreed
            
             
               In
               nice
               
               Punctilio's
               ,
               and
               our
               judgments
               freed
            
             
               From
               quaint
               Idea's
               ,
               which
               not
               understood
               ,
            
             
               Have
               bred
               us
               this
               dissenting
               Brotherhood
               .
            
          
           
             
               Religion
               is
               that
               
                 Primum
                 Mobile
              
            
             
               Of
               States
               and
               Kingdoms
               ,
               yea
               ,
               their
               Int'rests
               be
            
             
               Mov'd
               in
               their
               Politick
               Circungyrations
               ,
            
             
               Upon
               this
               golden
               Pole
               ,
               the
               soul
               of
               Nations
               .
            
             
               Lord
               !
               so
               co-ordinate
               each
               gliding
               Sphere
               ,
            
             
               As
               that
               their
               motions
               may
               not
               interfere
               .
            
          
           
             
               Two
               parallel
               lines
               are
               never
               like
               to
               greet
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Capricorn
               with
               sultry
               Cancer
               meet
               .
            
             
               If
               each
               would
               stoop
               to
               other
               ,
               you
               might
               see
            
             
               Our
               Tabernacl's
               handsome
               Canopie
               .
            
             
               Our
               First
               is
               up
               ;
               where
               are
               the
               Builders
               now
               ?
            
             
               Come
               !
               shut
               the
               Roof
               ,
               and
               let
               the
               Rafters
               bow
               .
            
             
               Is
               it
               impossible
               such
               storms
               should
               rise
            
             
               From
               Hell
               or
               Rome
               ,
               as
               may
               convince
               our
               eyes
               ?
            
             
               Our
               Walls
               will
               tumble
               if
               they
               want
               a
               Cover
               ;
            
             
               Why
               !
               't
               is
               but
               mud
               ,
               though
               it
               be
               varnisht
               over
               .
            
             
               All
               ope
               '
               at
               top
               ?
               nay
               ,
               ev'ry
               Thief
               may
               enter
               ,
            
             
               And
               scale
               our
               naked
               Walls
               ;
               who
               's
               mad
               to
               venture
            
             
               His
               Life
               and
               Fortunes
               on
               such
               Guards
               ,
               and
               let
            
             
               His
               Iewels
               hazard
               such
               a
               Cabinet
               ?
            
             
               Well!
               in
               this
               naked
               case
               ,
               I
               'le
               pray
               ,
               I
               'le
               sing
            
             
               To
               him
               that
               is
               both
               Walls
               and
               Covering
               .
            
          
           
             
               Alas
               !
               poor
               London
               !
               who
               can
               see
               thine
               Ashes
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               sit
               down
               and
               score
               those
               angry
               lashes
            
             
               Thy
               righteous
               Judg
               hath
               in
               just
               wrath
               inflicted
            
             
               For
               that
               whereof
               thou
               hadst
               been
               long
               convicted
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Prophets
               were
               not
               dumb
               ,
               but
               thou
               wert
               deaf
               :
            
             
               They
               warn'd
               in
               season
               ;
               but
               thy
               unbelief
            
             
               Was
               warning-proof
               :
               like
               knotty
               crooked
               wood
               ,
            
             
               They
               rul'd
               and
               hew'd
               thee
               for
               a
               common
               good
               ,
            
             
             
               Until
               their
               hearts
               did
               ake
               ,
               and
               arms
               did
               tire
               ;
            
             
               At
               last
               thou
               art
               condemned
               to
               the
               Fire
               .
            
             
               Thou
               could'st
               out-face
               the
               frowns
               of
               Pestilence
               .
            
             
               Daring
               provoked
               Justice
               to
               commence
            
             
               In
               hotter
               Plagues
               :
               That
               Cup
               is
               fill'd
               thee
               now
               ,
            
             
               That
               hath
               abasht
               thy
               proud
               and
               shameless
               brow
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               Old
               Sodom
               was
               in
               our
               young
               London
               found
               ,
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               more
               than
               Sodom
               did
               in
               her
               abound
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               if
               any
               will
               of
               London
               hear
               ,
            
             
               To
               Sodom
               he
               may
               go
               ,
               and
               find
               her
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
               In
               thee
               was
               found
               the
               blood
               of
               Martyrs
               ,
               yea
               ,
            
             
               The
               murder'd
               blood
               of
               
                 Royal
                 Majesty
              
               .
            
             
               Oaths
               ,
               Drunk'ness
               ,
               Lust
               ,
               and
               ravenous
               Oppression
               ,
            
             
               Pride
               and
               Deceit
               ,
               the
               spots
               of
               high
               Profession
               .
            
             
               In
               thee
               was
               found
               the
               woman
               Iezebel
               ,
            
             
               With
               those
               infernal
               Locusts
               that
               compell
            
             
               Her
               Proselytes
               to
               commit
               Fornication
               ;
            
             
               Which
               were
               sad
               Omens
               of
               thy
               Desolation
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               now
               ,
               
                 my
                 Daughter
              
               ,
               may
               we
               come
               to
               treat
            
             
               With
               that
               poor
               Rag
               that
               's
               left
               ?
               or
               art
               too
               great
            
             
               Yet
               to
               incline
               thy
               stubborn
               ear
               ?
               Remember
            
             
               In
               Sixty-six
               thou
               hadst
               a
               hot
               September
               .
            
             
               He
               that
               thy
               Remnant
               ,
               like
               a
               smoaking
               Brand
               ,
            
             
               Then
               snatcht
               out
               of
               the
               fire
               ,
               with
               the
               same
               hand
            
             
               Can
               crush
               what
               he
               hath
               sav'd
               ;
               nay
               ,
               look
               thou
               to
               it
               ,
            
             
               Lest
               perad
               venture
               he
               indeed
               may
               do
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               True
               Penitentials
               might
               have
               prevented
            
             
               That
               fearful
               breach
               that
               's
               now
               in
               vain
               lamented
               .
            
             
               The
               Buckets
               of
               thine
               eyes
               had
               checkt
               the
               Flames
               ,
            
             
               If
               well
               appli'd
               ,
               'fore
               all
               the
               Pow'rs
               of
               Thames
               .
            
             
               But
               Epimetheus
               doth
               but
               aggravate
            
             
               And
               rake
               the
               wound
               ▪
               by
               being
               wise
               too
               late
               .
            
             
               Yet
               for
               the
               future
               ,
               if
               thou
               wilt
               be
               wise
               ,
            
             
               And
               re-espoused
               ,
               thus
               I
               do
               advise
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thine
               Ashes
               steept
               in
               penitent
               tears
               may
            
             
               Make
               thee
               a
               Lie
               to
               wash
               thy
               shame
               away
               .
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               been
               in
               the
               smoak
               ,
               (
               and
               wash
               thou
               must
               )
               ;
            
             
               Both
               in
               the
               smoak
               of
               Fire
               ,
               and
               smoak
               of
               Lust.
            
             
               Wash
               therefore
               ,
               make
               thee
               clean
               ,
               and
               thou
               shalt
               be
            
             
               As
               in
               the
               days
               of
               thy
               Virginity
               .
            
             
             
               Thy
               Bricks
               are
               fallen
               ,
               wilt
               thou
               change
               them
               for
            
             
               The
               
                 Hewen
                 Stone
              
               ?
               and
               turn
               the
               Sycomore
            
             
               Into
               the
               Cedar
               ?
               yea
               ,
               and
               be
               it
               so
               !
            
             
               And
               let
               thine
               Ashes
               to
               a
               Phoenix
               grow
               !
            
             
               But
               yet
               I
               doubt
               ,
               thy
               pregnant
               hopes
               may
               prove
            
             
               A
               
               Babel's
               project
               ,
               unless
               God
               above
            
             
               Unite
               thy
               Languages
               ,
               and
               undertake
            
             
               Both
               to
               begin
               ,
               and
               a
               full
               end
               to
               make
               :
            
             
               Be
               both
               thy
               Builder
               ,
               and
               thy
               Corner-stone
               ,
            
             
               And
               raise
               thee
               in
               a
               Modell
               of
               his
               own
               .
            
             
               Lord
               !
               rear
               thy
               
               London's
               Walls
               ,
               and
               purge
               her
               blood
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               her
               know
               thou
               hast
               chastiz'd
               for
               good
               .
            
             
               Make
               her
               thy
               Sion
               ,
               thine
               
               Emanuel's
               Land
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               her
               
                 Ruins
                 be
                 under
                 thine
                 hand
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               World
               is
               God's
               great
               Wheel
               ,
               his
               Providence
            
             
               The
               hand
               that
               turns
               it
               ;
               its
               intelligence
               ,
            
             
               The
               
               Wheel's
               in
               motion
               ;
               but
               the
               
                 rising
                 side
              
            
             
               Will
               still
               pursue
               their
               chase
               ,
               till
               they
               bestride
            
             
               The
               whole
               Circumference
               ;
               and
               then
               beginning
            
             
               To
               take
               their
               turn
               again
               they
               fall
               a
               whining
               ;
            
             
               Complain
               of
               Envy
               ,
               Pride
               ,
               Revenge
               ,
               Oppression
               ,
            
             
               Which
               just
               before
               was
               but
               their
               own
               ambition
               .
            
             
               
               Rebeccah's
               Twins
               !
               we
               catch
               each
               others
               heel
               ,
            
             
               And
               ne're
               observe
               the
               Dog
               that
               's
               in
               the
               wheel
               .
            
             
               Lord
               !
               shall
               we
               e're
               have
               wit
               enough
               to
               know
            
             
               To
               poise
               our selves
               in
               Aequilibrio
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sure
               God
               hath
               set
               his
               Ministers
               for
               Lights
            
             
               In
               a
               blind
               ,
               giddy
               world
               ;
               the
               Rechabites
            
             
               Of
               an
               apostate
               age
               ;
               but
               sure
               I
               am
               ,
            
             
               There
               are
               too
               many
               of
               the
               seed
               of
               Cham
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               can
               
                 Canonical
                 Adoption
              
               lurch
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               are
               naturaliz'd
               
                 Sons
                 of
                 the
                 Church
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               
               Clergy's
               Gods
               inheritance
               ;
               but
               these
            
             
               Are
               
               Pliny's
               Insects
               ,
               Worms
               that
               spoil
               the
               Bees
               ,
            
             
               Those
               sweet
               industrious
               creatures
               ;
               
               Aesop's
               Dogs
               ,
            
             
               That
               starve
               the
               Ox
               ,
               but
               will
               not
               touch
               the
               Hogs
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               blushing
               Carbuncles
               ,
               and
               purple
               faces
               ,
            
             
               Are
               no
               
                 Crown
                 Iewels
              
               ,
               nor
               the
               
                 Churches
                 Graces
              
               .
            
             
             
               Will
               a
               debauched
               Clergy
               e're
               invest
            
             
               Your
               Cause
               with
               an
               applauded
               Interest
            
             
               In
               sober
               minds
               ?
               Will
               a
               sulphureous
               zeal
               ,
            
             
               In
               things
               confest
               indifferent
               ,
               ever
               heal
            
             
               Our
               dismal
               breaches
               ?
               or
               what
               !
               do
               you
               hope
            
             
               To
               make
               us
               your
               Peace-offring
               to
               the
               Pope
               ?
            
             
               But
               I
               have
               better
               thoughts
               ;
               yet
               pray
               take
               heed
            
             
               Lest
               you
               and
               we
               both
               offer'd
               be
               indeed
               .
            
             
               While
               we
               contend
               for
               shadows
               ,
               there
               are
               those
            
             
               That
               will
               their
               greedy
               clutches
               interpose
               ,
            
             
               And
               seize
               that
               Morsel
               ,
               which
               preserv'd
               ,
               might
               be
            
             
               The
               Medium
               of
               our
               Correspondencie
               .
            
             
               What!
               are
               we
               Artick
               and
               Antartick
               ?
               must
            
             
               The
               Mother
               separate
               the
               Babes
               she
               nurst
               ?
            
             
               Did
               one
               womb
               bare
               us
               ?
               and
               what
               !
               are
               we
               now
            
             
               No
               nearer
               kin
               at
               all
               ,
               than
               
                 I
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
              
               ?
            
             
               Sirs
               !
               is
               't
               not
               bold
               enough
               to
               set
               your
               Post
            
             
               By
               Gods
               ?
               to
               introduce
               a
               ragged
               Host
            
             
               Of
               Ceremonies
               ,
               borrowed
               of
               that
               Groom
               ,
            
             
               (
               For
               the
               most
               part
               )
               that
               keeps
               his
               Stall
               at
               Rome
               ?
            
             
               But
               would
               you
               back
               to
               Egypt
               shuffle
               too
               ,
            
             
               In
               hopes
               to
               feast
               it
               on
               their
               flesh-pots
               ?
               you
            
             
               May
               chance
               to
               change
               your
               wood
               for
               worser
               Timber
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               there
               's
               a
               
                 Red
                 Sea
              
               too
               ,
               as
               I
               remember
               ,
            
             
               'Twixt
               us
               and
               them
               ,
               where
               Pharoah
               and
               his
               Host
            
             
               Were
               buri'd
               once
               :
               although
               his
               restless
               Ghost
            
             
               Still
               haunt
               our
               shores
               ,
               and
               with
               his
               Magick
               strive
            
             
               To
               serve
               his
               Capias
               on
               's
               ,
               
                 Dead
                 or
                 alive
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Are
               
               Egypt's
               Leeks
               such
               Dishes
               !
               let
               me
               tell
               ye
               ,
            
             
               Their
               
                 Tale
                 of
                 Bricks
              
               may
               chance
               to
               fill
               your
               belly
               !
            
          
           
             
               Sirs
               !
               you
               that
               bear
               so
               stiff
               from
               Scylla
               ,
               may
            
             
               In
               a
               Charibdis
               cast
               your selves
               away
               .
            
             
               'T
               will
               vex
               you
               sure
               (
               yet
               help
               it
               while
               you
               can
               )
            
             
               When
               you
               are
               plac't
               behind
               the
               Veteran
               .
            
             
               Turn
               Capuchins
               then
               ,
               if
               your
               guts
               will
               bear
               it
               ;
            
             
               Though
               you
               have
               won
               it
               ,
               let
               your
               Lord-Danes
               wear
               it
               .
            
             
               Your
               
                 Rubrick
                 ,
                 Articles
              
               ,
               and
               Canon-Law
               ,
            
             
               You
               may
               set
               back
               with
               the
               Apocrypha
               .
            
             
               Some
               Mendicancy
               of
               unbounded
               Order
            
             
               May
               be
               your
               Monitor
               ,
               and
               my
               Recorder
               .
            
             
             
               Nay
               ,
               were
               it
               not
               for
               our
               
                 Faith
                 's
                 Great
                 Defender
              
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               prudent
               jealousie
               hath
               been
               so
               tender
            
             
               In
               this
               important
               case
               ,
               they
               'd
               run
               us
               down
               
            
             
               E're
               this
               ,
               (
               for
               ought
               I
               know
               )
               Miter
               and
               Crown
               .
            
          
           
             
               This
               piece
               of
               Logick
               I
               can't
               understand
               ,
            
             
               
                 No
                 Bishop
                 ,
                 if
                 no
                 ceremony
              
               ;
               and
            
             
               
                 No
                 King
              
               ,
               if
               there
               no
               
                 Lordly
                 Bishop
                 be
              
               ;
            
             
               I
               must
               confess
               they
               'r
               Parables
               to
               me
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               in
               the
               fancy
               of
               my
               jealous
               Reason
            
             
               Its
               consequence
               speaks
               little
               less
               than
               Treason
               .
            
             
               But
               be
               it
               so
               ,
               I
               never
               will
               impeach
               you
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               presume
               for
               't
               is
               in
               vain
               )
               to
               teach
               you
            
             
               what
               's
               the
               conclusion
               of
               your
               Syllogism
            
             
               (
               If
               I
               might
               urge
               this
               piece
               of
               Catechism
               )
            
             
               But
               this
               ?
               
                 no
                 ceremony
                 ,
                 then
                 no
                 King
              
               ;
            
             
               And
               what
               's
               a
               ceremony
               but
               a
               thing
            
             
               So
               adiaph'rous
               ,
               that
               his
               Lordship
               may
            
             
               
                 Pro
                 libitu
              
               ,
               impose
               or
               throw
               away
               ?
            
             
               This
               Papal
               Oracle
               in
               its
               Essaies
            
             
               Was
               practically
               known
               in
               
               Becket's
               daies
               .
            
             
               And
               is
               the
               Crown
               then
               but
               a
               ceremony
               ?
            
             
               Will
               you
               believe
               St.
               Thomas
               and
               his
               Chrony
            
             
               Who
               had
               near
               prov'd
               it
               once
               ?
               shall
               th'
               Scepter
               be
            
             
               But
               a
               poor
               Pinacle
               of
               a
               
                 Bishops
                 See
              
               ?
            
             
               I
               dread
               those
               Politicks
               that
               do
               advise
            
             
               To
               perch
               the
               Miter
               on
               State-dignities
               !
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               let
               the
               
                 Crosiers
                 staff
              
               and
               Lawn-sleeves
               lye
            
             
               Some
               Orbs
               beneath
               the
               Sphere
               of
               Majesty
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               may
               I
               now
               presume
               to
               speak
               a
               word
            
             
               To
               those
               my
               Brethren
               ,
               that
               are
               thus
               abhor'd
               ?
            
             
               Ye
               are
               the
               Salt
               ,
               Sirs
               !
               that
               hath
               lost
               its
               savour
            
             
               With
               men
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
               and
               therefore
               lost
               their
               favour
               .
            
             
               But
               like
               unsav'ury
               Salt
               ,
               though
               ye
               are
               cast
               ,
            
             
               It
               may
               be
               't
               is
               their
               mouths
               are
               out
               of
               taste
               .
            
             
               If
               so
               ,
               they
               may
               come
               or
               't
               ,
               when
               they
               have
               try'd
            
             
               That
               cellar
               which
               they
               have
               so
               magnify'd
               .
            
             
               For
               my
               part
               ,
               I
               think
               yours
               to
               be
               the
               cheaper
               ,
            
             
               And
               far
               the
               better
               too
               ,
               for
               the
               House-keeper
               .
            
             
             
               But
               sith
               't
               is
               so
               ,
               that
               out
               at
               doors
               you
               must
               ,
            
             
               And
               trampl'd
               on
               be
               ,
               both
               by
               Law
               and
               Lust
               ,
            
             
               I
               hope
               you
               will
               not
               murmur
               ,
               but
               reflect
               ,
            
             
               And
               own
               that
               Hand
               ,
               that
               doth
               these
               Heels
               direct
               .
            
             
               Although
               your
               eager
               spirits
               have
               been
               fed
            
             
               On
               those
               
                 crude
                 humours
              
               that
               the
               times
               have
               bred
               ,
            
             
               Which
               have
               dissolv'd
               your
               sweet
               consistencies
            
             
               Into
               that
               brine
               ,
               which
               now
               leaks
               at
               your
               eyes
               :
            
             
               Yet
               when
               this
               brine
               is
               boil'd
               and
               scum'd
               ,
               who
               knows
            
             
               How
               the
               good
               Steward
               may
               of
               it
               dispose
               ?
            
          
           
             
               
                 Rome
                 !
                 Rome
              
               !
               thine
               Hour
               is
               coming
               though't
               be
               long
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               Mattens
               sung
               ,
               turn
               to
               thy
               
                 Even
                 song
              
               .
            
             
               Thou
               struggl'st
               hard
               to
               grasp
               within
               thy
               wings
            
             
               The
               Churches
               Dowry
               ,
               and
               the
               Crowns
               of
               Kings
               ;
            
             
               To
               brood
               those
               Chickens
               thou
               didst
               never
               hatch
               ,
            
             
               That
               so
               thou
               maist
               thy
               prey
               at
               pleasure
               catch
               .
            
             
               Thou
               crouchest
               low
               a
               Favourite
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               And
               boastest
               highly
               of
               thy
               loyalty
               .
            
             
               But
               yet
               these
               Visards
               thou
               dissemblest
               with
               ,
            
             
               Are
               cut
               one
               inch
               too
               short
               to
               hide
               thy
               teeth
               .
            
             
               We
               can't
               forget
               thy
               love
               in
               Eighty-eight
               ,
            
             
               When
               thy
               kind
               Visit
               cast
               us
               on
               that
               streight
               .
            
             
               The
               poor
               Waldenses
               ,
               and
               cold
               Piedmont
            
             
               Have
               felt
               thy
               mercy
               ,
               with
               sharp
               Comments
               on
               't
               .
            
             
               Let
               
               Ireland's
               Tears
               ,
               and
               
               England's
               long
               experience
            
             
               Produce
               their
               Records
               of
               thy
               vow'd
               Allegiance
               .
            
             
               Thy
               Sacrifices
               in
               Queen
               Maries
               daies
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               faith
               and
               service
               prov'd
               so
               many
               waies
            
             
               To
               her
               Successors
               ;
               
               Faux's
               Loyalty
            
             
               In
               that
               unparallel'd
               Conspiracy
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               secret
               Hit
               at
               our
               late
               
               Soveraign's
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Which
               at
               one
               blow
               struck
               his
               three
               Kingdoms
               dead
               ;
            
             
               The
               dismal
               ashes
               of
               our
               City
               Royal
               ;
            
             
               All
               these
               bespeak
               thee
               trusty
               ,
               kind
               ,
               and
               loyal
               .
            
             
               But
               hark
               !
               in
               
               London's
               dust
               these
               coals
               that
               rest
               
            
             
               May
               sindg
               thy
               Plumes
               ,
               and
               chance
               to
               fire
               thy
               Nest.
               
            
          
           
             
               Muntzer
               no
               doubt
               had
               play'd
               the
               man
               ,
               if
               we
            
             
               Had
               better
               fee'd
               his
               sacred
               Fealty
               .
            
             
             
               Our
               happy
               War
               ,
               with
               its
               triumphant
               feats
               ;
            
             
               Our
               lingring
               Treaties
               ,
               and
               undoing
               cheats
               ;
            
             
               Our
               beggar'd
               subject
               ,
               yet
               indebted
               Prince
               ,
            
             
               Are
               of
               your
               loyal
               hearts
               clear
               evidence
               .
            
             
               Whole
               Volumes
               here
               each
               word
               doth
               comprehend
               ;
            
             
               More
               I
               could
               say
               too
               ,
               had
               I
               time
               to
               spend
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               England's
               a
               Vine
               ,
               a
               sowre
               and
               barren
               one
               ;
            
             
               Her
               Judgments
               come
               ,
               God
               seems
               to
               cut
               her
               down
               .
            
             
               Had
               I
               a
               
               Stentor's
               lungs
               ,
               I
               'd
               stretch
               them
               here
               ,
            
             
               To
               rouze
               those
               stupified
               souls
               ,
               that
               fear
            
             
               But
               what
               they
               feel
               ,
               whose
               Dreams
               are
               sweeter
               to
               'um
            
             
               Than
               Life
               or
               Gospel
               ,
               till
               their
               Dreams
               undo
               '
               um
               .
            
             
               We
               have
               undone
               our selves
               ;
               I
               'le
               say
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               For
               't
               is
               not
               words
               that
               will
               our
               
                 Paths
                 restore
              
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               sport
               enough
               for
               Gath
               and
               Askelon
               ,
            
             
               To
               see
               our
               emulous
               zeal
               to
               carry
               on
            
             
               Their
               grand
               designs
               ,
               and
               with
               what
               art
               we
               spin
            
             
               Our selves
               a
               Halter
               to
               be
               hanged
               in
               .
            
             
               What!
               hath
               their
               Curfue
               ring'd
               us
               all
               to
               bed
               ?
            
             
               Shall
               they
               that
               strike
               us
               thus
               ,
               next
               strike
               us
               dead
               ?
            
             
               Good
               God!
               what
               ails
               us
               ?
               are
               we
               all
               run
               mad
               ?
            
             
               Is
               there
               no
               sober
               party
               to
               be
               had
               ?
            
             
               O
               bring
               us
               so
               far
               to
               our selves
               ,
               as
               we
            
             
               May
               once
               devolve
               the
               care
               and
               cure
               on
               thee
               !
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               may
               a
               Bethlem
               bring
               us
               to
               our
               wits
               ,
            
             
               To
               Bethlem
               let
               us
               go
               to
               cure
               these
               Fits.
            
             
               But
               let
               it
               not
               (
               as
               some
               would
               have
               it
               )
               be
               
            
             
               The
               Bethlem
               we
               were
               in
               'bout
               Forty-three
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               for
               peace
               ,
               let
               false
               and
               bloody
               minds
            
             
               Be
               
               Cyrus-like
               ,
               rewarded
               in
               their
               kinds
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               But
               I
               'm
               condemn'd
               ,
               it
               's
               like
               ,
               by
               good
               and
               bad
               ;
            
             
               My
               Muse
               is
               peevish
               ,
               froward
               ,
               bold
               and
               mad
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               she
               's
               apt
               to
               speak
               her
               fears
               ,
               but
               so
            
             
               As
               she
               may
               timely
               caution
               
                 Friend
                 and
                 Foe
              
               .
            
             
               Let
               none
               be
               grieved
               at
               her
               sad
               Presages
               ,
            
             
               Or
               think
               her
               melancholly
               spirit
               rages
               .
            
             
               When
               times
               of
               laughter
               come
               ,
               she
               'l
               laugh
               with
               you
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               you
               sing
               ,
               she
               'l
               strike
               in
               consort
               too
               ▪
            
             
             
               But
               oh
               !
               let
               not
               her
               counsel
               be
               her
               crime
               ,
            
             
               Though
               it
               may
               seem
               to
               you
               
                 born
                 out
                 of
                 time
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               We
               know
               who
               't
               was
               that
               breath'd
               on
               
               Israel's
               bones
               ,
            
             
               He
               that
               can
               form
               him
               children
               out
               of
               stones
               .
            
             
               He
               that
               sav'd
               Peter
               on
               the
               raging
               Seas
            
             
               Will
               save
               his
               Church
               too
               ,
               when
               and
               how
               he
               please
               .
            
             
               Then
               be
               content
               ,
               let
               Faith
               and
               Patience
               be
            
             
               Your
               Life
               ,
               your
               Refuge
               ,
               and
               your
               Victorie
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             RIDDLE
             .
          
           
             
               THere
               was
               a
               Man
               ,
               (
               l
               've
               heard
               my
               Grandsire
               say
               )
            
             
               That
               had
               two
               Sons
               that
               in
               his
               bosom
               lay
               :
            
             
               The
               first
               was
               Bat
               ,
               a
               sober
               loving
               youth
               ,
            
             
               But
               through
               much
               weakness
               ,
               very
               slow
               of
               growth
               ;
            
             
               The
               other
               Ned
               a
               lusty
               jocund
               child
               ,
            
             
               But
               that
               he
               prov'd
               extreamly
               high
               and
               wild
            
             
               These
               grew
               together
               ;
               Ned
               was
               Father's
               Boy
               ;
            
             
               Who
               knew
               it
               well
               ,
               and
               therefore
               did
               imploy
            
             
               His
               wits
               and
               interest
               against
               his
               Brother
            
             
               To
               get
               his
               Birth-right
               :
               yea
               ,
               sware
               to
               his
               Mother
            
             
               To
               be
               his
               Guardian
               ,
               and
               as
               tender
               of
               him
            
             
               As
               she
               could
               be
               ,
               who
               did
               so
               dearly
               love
               him
               .
            
             
               So
               't
               was
               agree'd
               through
               much
               ado
               ;
               but
               Ned
            
             
               Grew
               proud
               and
               high
               ,
               which
               great
               Dissentions
               bred
               .
            
             
               In
               short
               ,
               the
               House
               fell
               into
               such
               a
               flame
            
             
               Of
               strife
               between
               the
               Master
               and
               the
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               the
               Neighbourhood
               began
               to
               ring
               ;
            
             
               Some
               wept
               to
               hear
               it
               ,
               other
               some
               did
               sing
               .
            
             
               Among
               the
               rest
               there
               was
               one
               neighbour
               Cross
               ,
            
             
               Who
               's
               alway
               wont
               to
               gain
               by
               others
               loss
               .
            
             
               This
               Cross
               (
               they
               say
               )
               had
               an
               old
               servant
               been
            
             
               Unto
               the
               House
               these
               Children
               lived
               in
               ,
            
             
               But
               justly
               long
               before
               had
               been
               cashier'd
            
             
               For
               sev'ral
               urgent
               causes
               that
               appear'd
               .
            
             
               This
               Villain
               ,
               seeing
               these
               broils
               thus
               begun
               ,
            
             
               Hopes
               now
               to
               reel
               the
               yarn
               that
               he
               had
               spun
               ▪
            
             
             
               VVorks
               with
               both
               Parties
               ,
               but
               at
               such
               a
               distance
               ,
            
             
               That
               neither
               was
               the
               neer
               for
               his
               assistance
               :
            
             
               How
               e're
               it
               was
               ,
               at
               length
               't
               was
               thus
               agreed
               ;
            
             
               Ned
               must
               away
               ,
               and
               so
               the
               House
               be
               freed
               .
            
             
               Then
               Cross
               with
               Bat
               and
               's
               Mother
               would
               collogue
               ;
            
             
               But
               they
               defie
               him
               for
               an
               arrant
               Rogue
               .
            
             
               Some
               say
               ,
               
                 Had
                 it
                 not
                 been
                 for
                 such
                 as
                 he
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 These
                 sparks
                 had
                 never
                 fir'd
                 the
                 Family
                 .
              
            
             
               Few
               of
               his
               Neighbours
               have
               a
               good
               word
               for
               him
               ;
            
             
               No
               more
               but
               Ned
               swears
               that
               he
               doth
               abhor
               him
               ▪
            
             
               Thus
               scann'd
               on
               all
               hands
               ,
               he
               must
               hide
               his
               face
               ,
            
             
               And
               act
               his
               part
               by
               those
               that
               are
               in
               place
               ;
            
             
               And
               so
               he
               did
               ,
               until
               the
               House
               did
               grow
            
             
               Too
               hot
               for
               
                 Father
                 ,
                 Ned
              
               ,
               and
               Mother
               too
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Bat
               is
               left
               alone
               ,
               shakes
               every
               limb
               ,
            
             
               For
               fear
               of
               what
               was
               now
               attending
               him
               .
            
             
               By
               secret
               Packets
               then
               he
               did
               implore
            
             
               His
               
               Father's
               powerful
               presence
               ,
               to
               restore
            
             
               His
               dving
               hopes
               :
               The
               Father
               mounts
               his
               steed
               ,
            
             
               His
               wings
               are
               impt
               with
               pity
               ,
               joy
               ,
               and
               shee
               l
               .
            
             
               But
               with
               the
               Father
               home
               comes
               busling
               Ned
               ,
            
             
               Calls
               all
               his
               own
               ,
               his
               Mother
               being
               dead
               .
            
             
               (
               Though
               Bat
               were
               promis'd
               ,
               Ned
               should
               never
               more
            
             
               Presume
               to
               set
               his
               foot
               within
               the
               door
               .
               )
            
             
               Bat
               over-joy'd
               to
               see
               his
               Father
               come
               ,
            
             
               Rings
               out
               the
               Bells
               to
               bid
               him
               welcome
               home
               .
            
             
               Ned
               makes
               some
               offers
               to
               capitulate
               ;
            
             
               Being
               forc'd
               thereto
               ,
               but
               after
               some
               debate
               ,
            
             
               The
               bus'ness
               comes
               to
               this
               ,
               poor
               Bat
               must
               be
            
             
               What
               Ned
               will
               have
               him
               ,
               nay
               ,
               for
               ought
               I
               see
            
             
               He
               'd
               rather
               that
               he
               might
               not
               be
               at
               all
               ,
            
             
               
                 Poor
                 love
              
               ,
               you
               'l
               say
               ,
               
                 and
                 but
                 this
                 brother
                 all
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Father
               being
               griev'd
               to
               see
               this
               strife
            
             
               Between
               his
               Children
               ,
               looks
               him
               out
               a
               Wife
            
             
               To
               rule
               the
               stubborn
               lads
               ;
               the
               
                 Mother
                 law
              
            
             
               Takes
               Bat
               in
               hand
               ,
               and
               swears
               she
               'l
               whip
               him
               raw
               .
            
             
               The
               
               Bed's
               prepar'd
               ,
               where
               both
               these
               
               Boy
               's
               must
               lye
               ,
            
             
               To
               lull
               them
               into
               Uniformity
               .
            
             
               Ned
               leaps
               in
               first
               ,
               and
               with
               him
               Spot
               his
               Cur
               ,
            
             
               He
               puts
               off
               ne're
               a
               
                 Rag
                 ,
                 Cloak
                 ,
                 Boots
              
               ,
               nor
               Spur.
            
             
             
               Poor
               Bat
               would
               fain
               lye
               down
               too
               by
               his
               Brother
               :
            
             
               He
               shuts
               in
               one
               foot
               now
               ,
               and
               then
               the
               other
               ;
            
             
               Intreats
               for
               room
               ,
               but
               Ned
               begins
               to
               thunder
               ,
            
             
               That
               if
               he
               would
               lye
               there
               ,
               he
               must
               lye
               under
               .
            
             
               
                 Hard
                 terms
              
               ,
               you
               'l
               say
               ,
               but
               melancholly
               Bat
            
             
               (
               Had
               that
               been
               all
               )
               would
               scarce
               have
               stuck
               at
               that
               ,
            
             
               But
               through
               disorders
               and
               excess
               in
               drink
               ,
            
             
               (
               Which
               was
               his
               life
               )
               his
               very
               skin
               did
               stink
               ;
            
             
               His
               clothes
               were
               all
               with
               mire
               and
               vomit
               drest
               ,
            
             
               That
               Bat
               crys
               out
               ,
               Sure
               Ned
               !
               
                 th'
                 hast
                 foul'd
                 thy
                 Nest.
              
            
             
               Is
               this
               the
               fashion
               thou
               intend'st
               to
               lye
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Dog
               may
               like
               it
               well
               ,
               but
               so
               can't
               I.
            
             
               But
               weeps
               ,
               and
               bids
               
                 Good
                 night
              
               ,
               and
               looks
               about
            
             
               For
               some
               dark
               corner
               ,
               where
               to
               cry
               it
               out
               .
            
             
               But
               
               Ned
               's
               offended
               thus
               to
               hear
               him
               roar
               ,
            
             
               And
               bid's
               his
               Mother
               turn
               him
               out
               at
               door
               .
            
             
               Now
               Bat
               must
               wander
               ;
               yet
               I
               've
               heard
               him
               say
               ,
            
             
               That
               while
               he
               lives
               he
               'l
               do
               no
               worse
               than
               pray
            
             
               For
               
                 Father
                 ,
                 Mother
              
               ,
               and
               for
               Ned
               ,
               all
               three
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               the
               rest
               of
               his
               dear
               Family
               .
            
          
           
             
               Where
               's
               Cross
               this
               while
               ?
               has
               he
               been
               idle
               ?
               no
               :
            
             
               He
               hands
               his
               fails
               as
               every
               wind
               doth
               blow
               .
            
             
               When
               Ned
               was
               come
               ,
               thought
               he
               ,
               
                 There
                 's
                 none
                 that
                 can
              
            
             
               
                 Be
                 so
                 well
                 spar
                 ▪
                 d
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 his
                 Gentleman
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 I
                 ;
                 by
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 one
                 trick
                 more
                 ,
                 I
                 know
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 shall
                 be
                 chosen
                 for
                 his
              
               Bed
               fellow
               ;
            
             
               
                 Then
                 Art
                 shall
                 fail
                 me
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 be
                 not
                 sed
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 few
                 days
                 more
              
               ,
               Cross
               
                 is
                 as
                 good
                 as
              
               Ned.
            
             
               And
               to
               this
               end
               ,
               he
               first
               accuses
               Bat
            
             
               Of
               Frenzv
               ,
               Murder
               ,
               Theft
               ,
               and
               who
               knows
               what
               !
            
             
               Which
               Ned
               lik'd
               well
               ;
               on
               whose
               report
               it
               was
            
             
               (
               Some
               say
               )
               that
               
               Bat's
               Ejectment
               came
               to
               pass
               .
            
             
               Howe're
               it
               was
               ,
               it
               seems
               that
               Ned
               and
               Cross
            
             
               Were
               well
               enough
               agreed
               ,
               though
               't
               were
               too
               gross
            
             
               To
               hold
               an
               open
               correspondencie
            
             
               Which
               might
               to
               their
               Designes
               destructive
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               These
               Tragedies
               premis'd
               ,
               Cross
               thinks
               he
               may
            
             
               Begin
               to
               scrape
               ,
               and
               make
               some
               fresh
               Essay
            
             
               To
               prove
               his
               loyalty
               ;
               but
               some
               cry
               out
               ,
            
             
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 a
                 Thief
              
               ;
               others
               reply
               ,
               
                 no
                 doubt
              
            
             
             
               
                 But
                 we
                 may
                 trust
                 him
                 now
                 ;
                 he
                 has
                 been
                 try'd
                 ,
              
            
             
               'T
               is
               Bat
               '
               
                 s
                 the
                 greater
                 Thief
              
               ,
               Cross
               
                 is
                 be-ly'd
              
               .
            
             
               But
               most
               affirm
               ,
               that
               
               Bat's
               the
               honest
               man
               ;
            
             
               And
               
               Cross's
               cringing
               is
               but
               to
               trepan
               .
            
             
               These
               were
               shrewd
               rubs
               ,
               at
               last
               ,
               in
               the
               smooth
               Run
            
             
               Of
               
               Cross's
               hopes
               ;
               but
               what
               is
               thus
               begun
            
             
               Can't
               linger
               now
               ,
               for
               when
               the
               Ulcer's
               gone
            
             
               Unto
               a
               rotten
               Suppuration
               ,
            
             
               It
               struggles
               hard
               for
               vent
               ,
               and
               so
               did
               this
               ,
            
             
               Resolving
               to
               attempt
               it
               ,
               
                 Hit
                 or
                 miss
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               First
               ,
               he
               engag'd
               th'
               unhappy
               Family
            
             
               In
               an
               unlucky
               brawl
               ,
               with
               two
               or
               three
            
             
               Of
               their
               malignant
               Neighbours
               ;
               some
               say
               't
               was
            
             
               The
               Ghost
               of
               an
               old
               grudg
               reviv'd
               ,
               a
               mass
            
             
               Of
               scurrilous
               reproaches
               ,
               and
               such
               things
            
             
               As
               soon
               produc'd
               these
               bloody
               Quarrellings
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               which
               did
               these
               furious
               feuds
               advance
            
             
               (
               Most
               say
               )
               was
               claim
               to
               an
               Inheritance
               .
            
             
               However
               't
               were
               ,
               Cross
               serves
               his
               Interests
               here
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               boasts
               it
               too
               ,
               that
               he
               had
               brew'd
               the
               Beer
            
             
               Wherewith
               he
               hop
               ▪
               d
               shortly
               to
               entertain
            
             
               Such
               other
               Friends
               as
               once
               came
               out
               of
               Spain
               .
            
             
               Most
               of
               the
               Family
               were
               griev'd
               to
               see
            
             
               This
               cursed
               
               Villain
               's
               pride
               and
               treachery
               ▪
            
             
               It
               were
               too
               sad
               and
               tedious
               to
               tell
            
             
               All
               those
               defeats
               and
               mischiefs
               that
               befell
            
             
               This
               poor
               divided
               House
               ,
               how
               Mogonde
               swagger'd
               .
            
             
               And
               sharkt
               and
               robb'd
               ,
               till
               both
               were
               almost
               beggar'd
               ;
            
             
               The
               Stables
               plunder'd
               ,
               and
               the
               Garners
               fir'd
            
             
               By
               such
               Accomplices
               as
               Cross
               had
               hir'd
               .
            
             
               And
               is
               't
               not
               strange
               ,
               that
               such
               a
               Rogue
               as
               he
            
             
               Should
               thus
               bewitch
               so
               brave
               a
               Family
               !
            
             
               Well!
               Ned
               may
               know
               ,
               if
               ever
               he
               be
               wise
               ,
            
             
               What
               clouds
               they
               are
               that
               thus
               be-night
               his
               eyes
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Bill
             of
             Request
             .
          
           
             
               THere
               is
               a
               Woman
               (
               Sir
               )
               and
               she
               a
               Friend
            
             
               That
               lyes
               in
               Travell
               ,
               and
               is
               like
               to
               end
            
             
               Her
               own
               life
               and
               her
               Babes
               at
               once
               ;
               her
               case
            
             
               Is
               often
               spread
               before
               the
               Throne
               of
               Grace
               ;
            
             
               Her
               Midwives
               also
               have
               almost
               undone
               her
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               her
               worse
               than
               when
               they
               first
               began
               her
               ▪
            
             
               'T
               will
               cost
               her
               bitter
               Throws
               (
               poor
               Heart
               )
               I
               doubt
               ,
            
             
               If
               ever
               she
               have
               strength
               to
               weather't
               out
               .
            
             
               Your
               Prayers
               are
               desir'd
               for
               such
               an
               one
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               would
               mind
               her
               case
               before
               the
               Throne
               .
            
             
               Pray
               give
               this
               Bill
               to
               one
               that
               is
               devout
            
             
               Among
               the
               Priests
               ,
               if
               you
               can
               find
               him
               out
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ROMANZI
             .
          
           
             
               'T
               Was
               when
               the
               Heaven
               's
               winged
               Charioteer
            
             
               Was
               swiftly
               racing
               in
               his
               high
               carier
            
             
               Through
               Cancer's
               hot
               Ascendent
               ,
               whose
               fierce
               beams
            
             
               Exhal'd
               from
               parched
               Earth
               those
               sweating
               steams
            
             
               Which
               left
               her
               surface
               ,
               (
               like
               a
               Niobe
            
             
               Bak't
               to
               a
               crust
               )
               curst
               with
               an
               Atrophie
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               ,
               besides
               the
               Torrid
               Influence
            
             
               Of
               Aestive
               Rays
               ,
               the
               dire
               malevolence
            
             
               Of
               three
               Coelestial
               Heroes
               did
               conspire
            
             
               In
               their
               Trine-aspect
               ,
               to
               incense
               the
               fire
               .
            
             
               That
               I
               descending
               from
               the
               lofty
               brow
            
             
               Of
               a
               steep
               Hill
               ,
               where
               just
               beneath
               did
               grow
            
             
               A
               shady
               Grove
               ,
               which
               the
               fair
               Dryades
            
             
               Had
               lately
               chosen
               for
               their
               
                 Chap'l
                 of
                 ease
              
               ;
            
             
               And
               fast
               by
               ,
               Neptune
               comb'd
               his
               powder'd
               Locks
            
             
               In
               the
               course
               teeth
               of
               sharp
               and
               craggy
               Rocks
               .
            
             
               I
               heard
               (
               methought
               )
               the
               sighs
               of
               deep
               despair
            
             
               From
               off
               the
               Grove
               ,
               refract
               the
               gentle
               air
               .
            
             
               At
               these
               strange
               Eccho's
               being
               mov'd
               ,
               I
               stood
            
             
               Amuz'd
               a
               while
               ,
               at
               length
               drew
               to
               the
               Wood
               ;
            
             
             
               Where
               the
               first
               words
               that
               met
               my
               ear
               ,
               were
               these
               ,
            
             
               After
               a
               sigh
               :
               
                 Ay!
                 they
                 do
                 what
                 they
                 please
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Would
                 ever
                 men
                 ,
                 that
                 were
                 not
                 worse
                 than
                 mad
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 (
                 Yea
                 ,
                 mauger
                 all
                 those
              
               cautions
               
                 we
                 have
                 had
              
               )
            
             
               
                 Have
                 done
                 as
                 we
                 have
                 done
                 ?
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 too
                 late
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 that
                 the
                 steed
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
                 to
                 shut
                 the
                 Gate
                 .
              
            
             
               To
               whom
               reply'd
               another
               ,
               with
               an
               Oath
               ,
            
             
               
                 Nay
                 now
                 ,
                 no
                 doubt
                 ,
                 but
                 we
                 shall
                 thrive
                 forsooth
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Our
                 En'mies
                 we
                 have
                 thrice
                 quite
                 overthrown
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 forc't
                 their
                 mourning
                 Widows
                 to
                 atone
              
            
             
               Our
               Grace
               and
               Favour
               ;
               
                 men
                 could
                 ne're
                 have
                 done
              
            
             
               
                 More
                 bravely
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 won
                 what
                 we
                 have
                 won
                 .
              
            
             
               Old
               Noll
               the
               Tyrant
               
                 would
                 have
                 gnasht
                 to
                 see
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 rich
                 successes
                 of
                 his
                 Enemy
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 his
                 old
              
               Field
               ,
               
                 recounting
                 what
                 it
                 cost
                 him
              
               ,
            
             
               
                 Yo
                 do
                 what
                 we
                 have
                 done
                 ;
                 yea
                 ,
                 what
                 it
                 lost
                 him
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 not
                 improving
                 what
                 his
                 Tyrannie
              
            
             
               
                 Had
                 gain'd
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 had
                 brought
                 them
                 on
                 the
                 knee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 what
                 !
                 we
                 could
                 not
                 chuse
                 but
                 prosper
                 thus
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 While
                 God
                 and
                 man
                 did
                 so
                 encourage
                 us
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Indeed
                 the
                 Oracle
                 spake
                 plain
                 ,
                 methought
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 that
                 we
                 deem'd
                 it
                 as
                 a
                 thing
                 of
                 nought
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 accident
                 in
              
               London
               '
               
                 s
                 first
                 Oblation
              
               ,
            
             
               
                 Whose
                 Gifts
                 and
                 whose
                 Devotions
                 acceptation
              
            
             
               
                 Was
                 witnessed
                 by
                 fire
                 ;
                 I
                 think
                 she
                 may
              
            
             
               
                 Expound
                 the
              
               Omen
               
                 now
                 without
                 a
                 Key
              
               .
            
             
               
                 Provisions
                 we
                 had
                 store
                 ,
                 but
                 wisely
                 cookt
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 Great
                 wages
                 too
                 ,
                 but
                 that
                 t
                 is
                 most
                 on
                 't
                 bookt
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Such
                 care
                 our
              
               Commissaries
               
                 had
                 ,
                 it
                 's
                 sed
              
            
             
               
                 Our
                 very
                 Powder-casks
                 were
                 ballasted
              
               .
            
             
               
                 In
                 short
                 ,
                 most
                 honestly
                 't
                 was
                 rigg'd
                 and
                 man'd
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Like
                 to
                 go
                 through
                 what
                 e're
                 we
                 took
                 in
                 hand
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Well
               ,
               well
               ,
               Marinus
               !
               
                 said
                 the
                 other
              
               ,
               you
            
             
               Can
               jest
               it
               out
               ,
               as
               you
               are
               wont
               to
               do
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iest
               !
               
                 said
                 Marinus
              
               ,
               could
               I
               get
               my
               Pay
               ,
            
             
               It
               were
               a
               jest
               indeed
               ,
               the
               merriest
               day
            
             
               That
               I
               ,
               or
               my
               poor
               wife
               and
               babes
               have
               seen
            
             
               Since
               the
               first
               hour
               that
               we
               divorc't
               have
               been
               .
            
             
               I
               would
               redeem
               their
               Pledg
               ,
               and
               set
               them
               free
            
             
               From
               thy
               contentious
               ,
               Parish-charitie
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 The
                 other
                 griev'd
                 to
                 hear
                 this
                 well
                 known
                 story
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Breaks
                 this
                 Discourse
              
               :
               Where
               's
               then
               ,
               
                 says
                 he
              
               ,
               the
               glory
            
             
               Of
               your
               great
               Victories
               ?
               The
               glory
               ,
               
                 said
                 Marinus
              
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               you
               may
               see
               ,
               when
               those
               that
               undermine
               us
            
             
               Have
               done
               their
               shuffle
               and
               begin
               to
               cut
               ,
            
             
               Into
               whose
               hands
               the
               Master-Trumps
               are
               shut
               .
            
             
               There
               's
               nothing
               vext
               me
               more
               than
               this
               ,
               that
               we
            
             
               Must
               thus
               adventure
               Life
               and
               Liberty
            
             
               To
               take
               a
               Prize
               ,
               which
               then
               must
               be
               conducted
            
             
               By
               us
               their
               Convoys
               ,
               as
               they
               were
               instructed
               .
            
             
               —
               Take
               you
               Monsieurs
               !
               must
               our
               Vict'ry
               make
            
             
               Courtiers
               of
               you
               ,
               and
               us
               slaves
               for
               your
               sake
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               the
               way
               to
               raise
               our
               Countrey
               credit
               ?
            
             
               And
               to
               eternalize
               his
               fame
               that
               did
               it
               !
            
          
           
             
               Hold
               !
               
                 said
                 the
                 other
              
               ,
               now
               you
               seem
               to
               rage
               ;
            
             
               Passion
               can
               hardly
               keep
               due
               Equipage
               .
            
          
           
             
               Passion
               !
               
                 quoth
                 he
              
               ,
               I
               take
               him
               for
               an
               Ass
               ,
            
             
               Or
               for
               an
               Angel
               ,
               that
               in
               such
               a
               case
            
             
               Can
               rule
               his
               Passions
               ;
               but
               I
               'le
               say
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               Sith
               I
               can't
               say
               but
               what
               was
               known
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 The
                 other
                 whom
                 by
                 his
                 discourse
                 I
                 take
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 be
                 a
                 Country-man
                 ,
                 reply
                 did
                 make
                 :
              
            
             
               It
               is
               observ'd
               ,
               
                 said
                 he
              
               ,
               though
               but
               by
               few
               ,
            
             
               We
               never
               thriv'd
               since
               that
               
                 Black
                 Bartholomew
              
               ;
            
             
               Then
               pluckt
               we
               out
               our
               Eyes
               ,
               and
               thought
               to
               see
            
             
               By
               a
               
                 Canonical
                 Ophthalmistry
              
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               we
               'r
               into
               Ditch
               ,
               who
               ever't
               were
            
             
               That
               led
               us
               thus
               :
               but
               hark
               methink
               I
               hear
            
             
               The
               Pixie
               laugh
               ;
               but
               we
               shall
               cry
               (
               I
               doubt
               ,
            
             
               Or
               something
               worse
               )
               before
               we
               scramble
               out
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ho!
               
                 said
                 Marinus
              
               ,
               if
               it
               be
               but
               so
               ,
            
             
               Turn
               something
               in
               and
               out
               ,
               and
               that
               will
               do
               .
            
          
           
             
               Turn
               something
               in
               and
               out
               !
               
                 said
                 th'
                 other
              
               ,
               ay
               ,
            
             
               Were
               that
               but
               done
               ,
               we
               might
               hit
               out
               the
               way
               .
            
             
               But
               how
               shall
               this
               be
               done
               ?
               Be
               done
               ?
               
                 said
                 he
              
               ,
            
             
               Why
               !
               't
               is
               half
               done
               already
               !
               Out
               there
               be
            
             
               Coats
               turn'd
               enough
               ;
               might
               they
               again
               turn
               In
            
             
               Body
               and
               sleeve
               ,
               our
               hopes
               might
               here
               begin
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               hath
               this
               beetle
               brow'd
               suspicion
               spy'd
            
             
               In
               them
               or
               theirs
               ,
               it
               's
               still
               so
               evil
               ey'd
               ?
            
             
             
               Since
               that
               most
               black
               and
               dreadful
               day
               of
               Bats
               ,
            
             
               
                 That
                 pip't
                 our
                 Fathers
                 off
                 to
                 bring
                 these
                 Rats
                 ?
              
            
          
           
             
               That
               's
               not
               the
               business
               ,
               
                 said
                 the
                 Country-man
              
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               still
               a
               jealous
               head
               ,
               though
               nothing
               can
            
             
               Be
               prov'd
               ;
               I
               doubt
               ,
               from
               that
               kind
               Principle
               ,
            
             
               On
               which
               Cain
               on
               his
               righteous
               Brother
               fell
               :
            
             
               They
               must
               be
               Lords
               ,
               and
               rule
               like
               Kings
               ;
               but
               not
            
             
               By
               
                 Canon
                 Law
              
               ,
               but
               by
               their
               Cannon-shot
               .
            
             
               But
               what
               !
               let
               these
               alone
               ,
               a
               few
               years
               more
            
             
               May
               this
               mad
               Priesthood
               to
               their
               wits
               restore
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               there
               's
               a
               cloud
               which
               hath
               been
               gathering
            
             
               About
               these
               six
               years
               ;
               if
               it
               chance
               to
               wring
            
             
               It self
               upon
               our
               shores
               ,
               our
               case
               may
               be
            
             
               The
               parallel
               of
               a
               sad
               Germanie
               .
            
             
               Besides
               those
               home-bred
               vipers
               which
               we
               hug
            
             
               In
               our
               own
               breasts
               ,
               where
               they
               have
               drawn
               the
               Dug
            
             
               So
               dry
               ,
               that
               now
               they
               draw
               our
               very
               blood
               :
            
             
               And
               here
               's
               the
               curse
               ;
               it
               is
               not
               understood
               .
            
             
               Not
               that
               we
               do
               bethink
               our
               
                 Sov'raign
                 Lord
              
            
             
               The
               utmost
               that
               our
               Lands
               or
               Lives
               afford
               .
            
             
               But
               when
               our
               Plough-shares
               must
               perverted
               be
            
             
               Into
               Stilletoes
               for
               an
               Enemie
               :
            
             
               This
               makes
               me
               fret
               ,
               and
               wish
               my
               limber
               goad
            
             
               (
               In
               a
               just
               call
               )
               might
               do
               as
               Shamgar's
               did
               .
            
             
               Our
               Senators
               (
               they
               say
               )
               are
               in
               a
               maze
               ;
            
             
               They
               stare
               on
               us
               ,
               and
               we
               on
               them
               do
               gaze
               .
            
             
               But
               't
               is
               no
               wonder
               ;
               't
               was
               once
               so
               with
               Saul
               ;
            
             
               We
               fight
               with
               God
               ,
               and
               therefore
               needs
               must
               fall
               .
            
             
               Our
               Foes
               are
               greedy
               ,
               early
               ,
               strong
               and
               wise
               ,
            
             
               They
               're
               on
               their
               way
               ,
               e're
               we
               can
               find
               our
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Our
               Eyes
               are
               lockt
               up
               in
               a
               
                 Pix
                 (
                 they
                 say
              
               )
            
             
               Where
               't
               will
               be
               hard
               to
               get
               without
               the
               Key
               .
            
             
               Lord
               help
               us
               !
               Sir
               our
               Story
               's
               like
               to
               be
            
             
               Our
               poor
               Posterities
               dismal
               Tragedy
               ▪
            
             
               Thus
               we
               sit
               here
               ,
               and
               in
               complaining
               spend
            
             
               Our
               wretched
               Hours
               and
               Thoughts
               ,
               and
               to
               what
            
          
           
             END
             ?
          
        
         
           
             The
             ECCHO
             .
             
          
           
             
               THine
               House
               is
               foul
               ;
               Lord
               ,
               wilt
               thou
               sweep
               ?
            
             
               We
               weep
               ;
               Lord
               sweep
               ;
               But
               with
               what
               Broom
               ?
            
             
               Fast
               then
               ,
               and
               throw
               the
               Shrub
               away
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           The
           POSTSCRIPT
           .
        
         
           
             READER
             !
             't
             is
             now
             almost
             six
             years
             twice
             told
          
           
             My
             Muse
             conceiv'd
             ;
             so
             that
             this
             Brat's
             born
             old
             ▪
          
           
             Yet
             even
             then
             it
             had
             Nativity
             ;
          
           
             But
             ever
             since
             hath
             mist
             Epiphany
             ;
          
           
             I
             took
             it
             for
             
               still
               born
            
             ,
             and
             buried
             it
             ,
          
           
             As
             smother'd
             by
             an
             Epileptick
             fit
             .
          
           
             But
             since
             that
             time
             ,
             it
             seems
             its
             Ghost
             hath
             walkt
             ;
          
           
             And
             with
             some
             Friends
             familiarly
             talkt
             .
          
           
             I
             do
             not
             know
             whereof
             it
             might
             complain
             ;
          
           
             But
             this
             they
             say
             ,
             they
             'l
             dig
             it
             up
             again
          
           
             In
             hopes
             to
             make
             the
             Bones
             and
             Dust
             to
             speak
             ,
          
           
             Which
             so
             long
             lay
             in
             silence
             ,
             and
             to
             break
          
           
             The
             nap
             of
             this
             poor
             Dormouse
             .
             I
             confess
          
           
             It
             's
             not
             grown
             out
             of
             season
             ,
             more
             or
             less
             ;
          
           
             Much
             of
             what
             then
             did
             look
             like
             Prophesie
             ,
          
           
             Late
             actions
             have
             turn'd
             into
             History
             .
          
           
             So
             that
             to
             read
             aright
             ,
             thou
             must
             begin
          
           
             Eleven
             years
             back
             ,
             and
             think
             how
             things
             were
             then
             .
          
           
             Yet
             some
             things
             here
             thou'lt
             find
             ,
             which
             I
             have
             reason
          
           
             Enough
             to
             think
             will
             ne're
             be
             out
             of
             season
             .
          
           
             And
             once
             more
             may
             I
             speak
             but
             what
             I
             think
             ,
          
           
             You
             'l
             find
             the
             bitterest
             cup
             is
             yet
             to
             drink
             .
          
           
             The
             Ball
             is
             up
             ,
             by
             that
             the
             Game
             is
             out
             ,
          
           
             Those
             that
             survive
             will
             wish
             for
             death
             ,
             I
             doubt
             :
          
           
             When
             that
             curst
             Fox
             that
             's
             now
             unkennel'd
             shall
          
           
             Turn
             head
             against
             the
             
               Chase
               ▪
            
             we
             stand
             or
             fall
             .
          
           
             Ah
             me
             !
             methinks
             I
             see
             the
             bloody
             Field
             ;
          
           
             But
             here
             's
             my
             comfort
             ;
             Heaven
             is
             my
             shield
             .
          
           
             I
             smell
             the
             Battel
             ,
             and
             you
             'l
             shortly
             see
          
           
             How
             you
             are
             juggl'd
             to
             your
             Destinie
             .
          
        
         
           
             When
             God
             shall
             heal
             the
             sickness
             of
             this
             Nation
             ,
          
           
             And
             purge
             her
             Blood
             by
             an
             Evacuation
             ,
          
           
             Yea
             ,
             when
             our
             veins
             shall
             weep
             their
             fountains
             dry
             ,
          
           
             And
             shed
             those
             crimson
             Tears
             ,
             which
             from
             the
             eye
          
           
             Might
             have
             been
             better
             spar'd
             ;
             then
             shall
             we
             know
          
           
             With
             what
             a
             God
             England
             hath
             had
             
               to
               do
            
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A42738-e500
           
             ☞
             
          
           
             ☜
             
          
           
             ☞
             
          
           
             ☜
             
          
           
             Eccho
             .
             Weep
             .
             Rome
             .
             Ay.
             
          
        
      
    
  

