







 
   
     
       
         Iter boreale Attempting somthing upon the successful and matchless march of the Lord Generall George Monck, from Scotland, to London, the last winter, &c. Veni, vidi, vici. By a rural pen.
         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A66003 of text R204096 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing W2132C). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
       Approx. 24 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 9 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
       
         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A66003
         Wing W2132C
         ESTC R204096
         99832401
         99832401
         36874
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A66003)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 36874)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2142:12)
      
       
         
           
             Iter boreale Attempting somthing upon the successful and matchless march of the Lord Generall George Monck, from Scotland, to London, the last winter, &c. Veni, vidi, vici. By a rural pen.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           8, 7-14 p.
           
             printed on St George's Day, for George Thomason, at the Rose and Crown in St Pauls Church-yard,
             London :
             1660.
          
           
             A rural pen = Robert Wild.
             In verse.
             Text and register are continuous despite pagination.
             Reproduction of original in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Albemarle, George Monck, -- Duke of, 1608-1670 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Great Britain -- Politics and government -- 1660-1688 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
       A66003  R204096  (Wing W2132C).  civilwar no Iter boreale. Attempting somthing upon the successful and matchless march of the Lord Generall George Monck, from Scotland, to London, the l Wild, Robert 1660    4162 1 0 0 0 0 0 2 B  The  rate of 2 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the B category of texts with fewer than 10 defects per 10,000 words. 
        2003-08 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2003-09 Apex CoVantage
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2003-12 Daniel Haig
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2003-12 Daniel Haig
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2004-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
         
           
             ITER
             BOREALE
             .
          
        
         
           Attempting
           somthing
           upon
           the
           Successful
           and
           Matchless
           March
           of
           the
           Lord
           Generall
           GEORGE
           MONCK
           ,
           FROM
           SCOTLAND
           ,
           TO
           LONDON
           ,
           The
           last
           Winter
           ,
           
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           
             Veni
             ,
             Vidi
             ,
             Vici
             .
          
        
         
           By
           a
           Rural
           Pen
           .
        
         
           
             LONDON
             ,
          
           Printed
           on
           St
           
             GEORGE'S
          
           Day
           ,
           for
           
             George
             Thomason
             ,
          
           at
           the
           
             Rose
          
           and
           
             Crown
          
           in
           St
           
             Pauls
          
           Church-Yard
           .
           1660
        
      
    
     
       
       
       
         
           
             ITER
             BOREALE
             .
          
           Attempting
           somthing
           upon
           the
           Successful
           and
           Matchless
           March
           of
           the
           Lord
           Generall
           GEORGE
           MONCK
           ,
           from
           
             Scotland
          
           to
           
             London
             ,
          
           the
           last
           Winter
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             THe
             day
             is
             broak
             !
             
               Melpomene
            
             be
             gone
             ;
          
           
             Hag
             of
             my
             Fancy
             ,
             let
             me
             now
             alone
             :
          
           
             Night-mare
             my
             soul
             no
             more
             ;
             Go
             take
             thy
             flight
             ;
          
           
             Where
             Traytors
             Ghosts
             keep
             an
             eternal
             night
             ;
          
           
             Flee
             to
             Mount
             
               Caucasus
               ,
            
             and
             bear
             thy
             part
          
           
             With
             the
             black
             Fowl
             that
             tears
             
               Prometheus
            
             heart
          
           
             For
             his
             bold
             Sacriledge
             :
             Go
             fetch
             the
             groans
          
           
             Of
             defunct
             Tyrants
             ,
             with
             them
             croke
             thy
             Tones
             ;
          
           
             Go
             see
             
               Alecto
            
             with
             her
             flaming
             whip
             ,
          
           
             How
             she
             firks
             
               Nol
               ,
            
             and
             makes
             old
             
               Bradshaw
            
             skip
             :
          
           
             Go
             make
             thy self
             away
             .
             —
             Thou
             shalt
             no
             more
          
           
             Choak
             up
             my
             Standish
             with
             the
             blood
             and
             gore
          
           
             Of
             English
             Tragedies
             :
             I
             now
             will
             chuse
          
           
             The
             merriest
             of
             the
             Nine
             to
             be
             my
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             And
             (
             come
             what
             will
             )
             I
             'll
             scribble
             once
             again
             :
          
           
             The
             brutish
             Sword
             hath
             cut
             the
             Nobler
             Vein
          
           
           
           
             Of
             racy
             Poetry
             .
             Our
             small
             drink
             times
          
           
             Must
             be
             contented
             ,
             and
             take
             up
             with
             Rhymes
             .
          
           
             Thy're
             sorry
             toys
             from
             a
             poor
             Levites
             pack
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Living
             and
             Assessments
             drink
             no
             Sack
             .
          
           
             The
             Subject
             will
             excuse
             the
             Verse
             (
             I
             trow
             )
          
           
             The
             Ven'son's
             fat
             although
             the
             Crust
             be
             dow
             ,
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             I
             He
             who
             whilcom
             sat
             and
             sung
             in
             Cage
          
           
             My
             Kings
             &
             Countries
             Ruines
             ,
             by
             the
             rage
          
           
             Of
             a
             rebellious
             Rout
             :
             Who
             weeping
             saw
             ,
          
           
             Three
             goodly
             Kingdoms
             (
             drunk
             with
             fury
             )
             draw
          
           
             And
             sheath
             their
             Swords
             (
             like
             three
             enraged
             Brothers
             )
          
           
             In
             one
             anothers
             sides
             ,
             ripping
             their
             Mothers
          
           
             Belly
             ,
             and
             tearing
             out
             her
             bleeding
             heart
             ;
          
           
             Then
             jealous
             that
             their
             Father
             fain
             would
             part
          
           
             Their
             bloody
             Fray
             ,
             and
             let
             them
             fight
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Fell
             foul
             on
             him
             ,
             and
             slew
             him
             at
             his
             dore
             .
          
           
             I
             that
             have
             only
             dar'd
             to
             whisper
             Verses
             ,
          
           
             And
             drop
             a
             tear
             (
             by
             stealth
             )
             on
             loyall
             Herses
             ,
          
           
             I
             that
             enraged
             at
             the
             
               Times
            
             and
             
               Rump
               ,
            
          
           
             Had
             gnaw'd
             my
             Goose-quill
             to
             the
             very
             stump
             ,
          
           
             And
             flung
             that
             in
             the
             fire
             ,
             no
             more
             to
             write
          
           
             But
             to
             set
             down
             poor
             
               Britains
               Heraclyte
               ;
            
          
           
             Now
             sing
             the
             tryumphs
             of
             the
             Men
             of
             War
             ,
          
           
             The
             glorious
             rayes
             of
             the
             bright
             Northern
             Star
             ,
          
           
             Created
             for
             the
             nonce
             by
             Heaven
             ,
             to
             bring
          
           
             The
             Wisemen
             of
             three
             Nations
             to
             their
             King
             :
          
           
             
               MONCK
               !
            
             the
             great
             
               Monck
               !
            
             That
             syllable
             out-shines
          
           
             
               Plantagenet's
            
             bright
             name
             or
             
               Constantin's
            
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             at
             his
             Rising
             that
             
               Our
               Day
            
             begun
             ,
          
           
             Be
             He
             the
             
               Morning
               Star
            
             to
             
               Charles
            
             our
             
               Sun
               :
            
          
           
           
             He
             took
             Rebellion
             rampant
             ,
             by
             the
             Throat
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             the
             Canting
             
               Quaker
            
             change
             his
             Note
          
           
             His
             Hand
             it
             was
             that
             wrot
             (
             we
             saw
             no
             more
             )
          
           
             
               Exit
               Tyrannus
            
             over
             
               Lambert's
            
             dore
             :
          
           
             Like
             to
             some
             subtile
             Lightning
             ,
             so
             his
             words
          
           
             Dissolved
             in
             their
             Scabbards
             Rebels
             swords
             :
          
           
             He
             with
             success
             the
             soveraign
             skill
             hath
             found
             ,
          
           
             To
             dress
             the
             Weapon
             ,
             and
             so
             heal
             the
             Wound
             .
          
           
             
               George
               ,
            
             and
             his
             Boyes
             (
             as
             Spirits
             do
             ,
             they
             say
             )
          
           
             Only
             by
             Walking
             scare
             our
             Foes
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             OLd
             
               Holofernes
            
             was
             no
             sooner
             laid
             ,
          
           
             Before
             the
             Idols
             Funeral
             Pomp
             was
             paid
             ,
          
           
             (
             Nor
             shall
             a
             penny
             ere
             be
             paid
             for
             me
             ;
          
           
             Let
             Fools
             that
             trusted
             ,
             his
             true
             Mourners
             be
             .
             )
          
           
             
               Richard
            
             the
             fourth
             ,
             just
             peeping
             out
             of
             Squire
             ,
          
           
             No
             fault
             so
             much
             as
             ,
             Th'
             old
             one
             was
             his
             Sire
             ;
          
           
             For
             men
             believ'd
             —
             though
             all
             went
             in
             his
             Name
             ,
          
           
             He
             'd
             be
             but
             Tennant
             ,
             till
             the
             Landlord
             came
             :
          
           
             When
             on
             a
             sudden
             (
             all
             amaz'd
             )
             we
             found
          
           
             The
             seven
             Years
             
               Babel
            
             tumbled
             to
             the
             ground
             ;
          
           
             And
             he
             ,
             poor
             heart
             ,
             (
             thanks
             to
             his
             cunning
             Kin
             )
          
           
             Was
             soon
             in
             
               Querpo
            
             honest
             
               Dick
            
             agen
             .
          
           
             
               Exit
               Protector
               .
            
             —
             What
             comes
             next
             ?
             I
             trow
             ▪
          
           
             Let
             the
             State-Hunsmen
             beat
             again
             .
             —
             So-ho
          
           
             Cries
             
               Lambert
               ,
            
             Master
             of
             the
             Hounds
             ,
             —
             Here
             sits
          
           
             That
             lusty
             Puss
             ,
             
               The
               Good
               Old
               Cause
               ,
            
             —
             whose
             wits
          
           
             Shew'd
             
               Oliver
            
             such
             sport
             ;
             That
             ,
             that
             (
             cries
             
               Vane
               )
            
          
           
             Let
             's
             put
             her
             up
             ,
             and
             run
             her
             once
             again
             :
          
           
             She
             'l
             lead
             our
             Doggs
             and
             Followers
             up
             and
             down
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             we
             match
             Families
             ,
             and
             take
             the
             Crown
             .
          
           
           
             Enter
             
             th'old
             Members
             ;
             'T
             was
             the
             Month
             of
             
               May
            
          
           
             These
             Maggots
             in
             the
             Rump
             began
             to
             play
             .
          
           
             
               Wallingford
            
             Anglers
             (
             though
             they
             stunk
             )
             yet
             thought
             ,
          
           
             They
             would
             make
             baits
             ,
             by
             which
             fish
             might
             be
             caught
             ;
          
           
             And
             so
             it
             prov'd
             ;
             They
             soon
             by
             Taxes
             made
          
           
             More
             money
             then
             the
             
               Holland
            
             Fishing
             Trade
             .
          
        
         
           
             IIII.
             
          
           
             NOw
             broke
             in
             
               Aegypts
            
             Plagues
             (
             all
             in
             a
             day
             )
          
           
             And
             one
             more
             worse
             then
             theirs
             ;
             —
             We
             must
             not
             pray
          
           
             To
             be
             deliver'd
             :
             —
             Their
             scabb'd
             folks
             were
             free
          
           
             To
             scratch
             where
             it
             did
             itch
             ;
             —
             So
             might
             not
             we
             .
          
           
             That
             Meteor
             
               Cromwell
               ,
            
             though
             he
             scar'd
             ,
             gave
             light
             ;
          
           
             But
             wewere
             now
             cover'd
             with
             horrid
             Night
             :
          
           
             Our
             Magistracy
             was
             (
             like
             
               Moses
            
             Rod
             )
          
           
             Turn'd
             to
             a
             Serpent
             by
             the
             angry
             God
             .
          
           
             Poor
             Citizens
             ,
             when
             trading
             would
             not
             do
             ,
          
           
             Made
             brick
             without
             straw
             ,
             &
             were
             basted
             too
             :
          
           
             Struck
             with
             the
             botch
             of
             Taxes
             and
             Excise
             ;
          
           
             Servants
             (
             our
             very
             dust
             )
             were
             turn'd
             to
             lice
             ;
          
           
             It
             was
             but
             turning
             Souldiers
             ,
             and
             they
             need
          
           
             Not
             work
             at
             all
             ,
             but
             on
             their
             Masters
             feed
             .
          
           
             Strang
             Catterpillers
             eat
             our
             pleasant
             things
             ;
          
           
             And
             Frogs
             croakt
             in
             the
             Chambers
             of
             our
             Kings
             .
          
           
             Black
             bloody
             veins
             did
             in
             the
             Rump
             prevail
             ,
          
           
             Lik
             the
             Philistims
             Emrods
             in
             the
             Tayle
             .
          
           
             Lightning
             ,
             Hail
             ,
             Fire
             ,
             and
             Thunder
             
               Aegypt
            
             had
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               England
            
             Guns
             ,
             Shot
             ,
             Powder
             ,
             (
             that
             's
             as
             bad
             )
          
           
             And
             that
             Sea-Monster
             
               Lawson
            
             (
             if
             withstood
             )
          
           
             Threatned
             to
             turn
             our
             Rivers
             into
             blood
             .
          
           
             And
             (
             Plague
             of
             all
             these
             Plagues
             )
             all
             these
             Plagues
             fell
          
           
             Not
             on
             an
             
               Aegypt
               ,
            
             but
             our
             
               Israel
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             SIck
             (
             as
             her
             heart
             can
             hold
             )
             the
             Nation
             lies
             ,
          
           
             Filling
             each
             corner
             with
             her
             hideous
             cries
             ;
          
           
             Sometime
             Rage
             (
             like
             a
             burning
             Fever
             )
             heats
             ,
          
           
             Anon
             Dispair
             brings
             cold
             and
             clammy
             Sweats
             ;
          
           
             She
             cannot
             sleep
             ,
             or
             if
             she
             doth
             she
             dreams
          
           
             Of
             Rapes
             ,
             Thefts
             ,
             Burnings
             ,
             Blood
             ,
             &
             direfull
             Theames
             ,
          
           
             Tosses
             from
             side
             to
             side
             ,
             then
             by
             and
             by
          
           
             Her
             feet
             are
             laid
             there
             where
             the
             head
             did
             lie
             :
          
           
             None
             can
             come
             to
             her
             but
             bold
             Empiricks
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             never
             meant
             to
             cure
             her
             ,
             but
             try
             tricks
             :
          
           
             Those
             very
             Doctors
             who
             should
             give
             her
             ease
             ,
          
           
             (
             God
             help
             the
             Patient
             )
             was
             her
             worst
             disease
             .
          
           
             Th'
             Italian
             Mountebank
             
               Vane
            
             tels
             us
             sure
             ,
          
           
             Jesuites
             powder
             will
             effect
             the
             cure
             :
          
           
             If
             grief
             but
             makes
             her
             swell
             ,
             
               Martin
            
             &
             
               Nevil
            
          
           
             Conclude
             it
             is
             a
             spice
             of
             the
             Kings
             Evil
             .
          
           
             Bleed
             her
             again
             ,
             another
             cries
             ;
             —
             And
             
               Scot
            
          
           
             Saith
             he
             could
             cure
             her
             ,
             if
             't
             was
             —
             you
             know
             what
             :
          
           
             But
             giddy
             
               Harrington
            
             a
             whimsey
             found
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             her
             head
             (
             like
             to
             his
             brains
             )
             run
             round
             .
          
           
             Her
             old
             and
             wise
             Phisitians
             who
             before
          
           
             Had
             well
             nigh
             cur'd
             her
             ,
             came
             again
             to
             th'
             dore
             .
          
           
             But
             were
             kept
             out
             —
             which
             made
             her
             cry
             the
             more
             ,
          
           
             Help
             ,
             help
             ,
             
               (
               dear
               Children
               )
            
             Oh!
             some
             pitty
             take
          
           
             On
             her
             who
             bore
             you
             !
             Help
             for
             mercy
             sake
             !
          
           
             Oh
             heart
             !
             Oh
             head
             !
             Oh
             back
             !
             Oh
             bones
             !
             I
             feel
          
           
             They
             've
             poyson'd
             me
             with
             giving
             too
             much
             Steel
             :
          
           
             Oh
             give
             me
             that
             for
             which
             I
             long
             and
             cry
             !
          
           
             Something
             that
             's
             
               Soveraign
               ,
            
             or
             else
             I
             dye
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             VI
             .
          
           
             KInd
             
               Cheshire
            
             heard
             ;
             And
             like
             some
             son
             that
             stood
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Banck
             ,
             straight
             jump'd
             into
             the
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             Flings
             out
             his
             arms
             ,
             and
             strikes
             some
             strokes
             to
             swim
             ,
          
           
             
               Booth
            
             ventur'd
             first
             ,
             and
             
               Midleton
            
             with
             him
             ,
          
           
             Stout
             
               Mackworth
               ,
               Egerton
               ,
            
             and
             thousands
             more
             ,
          
           
             Threw
             themselves
             in
             ,
             and
             left
             the
             safer
             shore
             ;
          
           
             
               Massey
            
             (
             that
             famous
             Diver
             )
             and
             bold
             
               Brown
            
          
           
             Forsook
             his
             wharfe
             ,
             —
             resolving
             all
             to
             drow
             ,
          
           
             Or
             save
             a
             sinking
             Kingdom
             :
             —
             But
             ,
             O
             sad
             !
          
           
             Fearing
             to
             lose
             her
             prey
             ,
             the
             Sea
             grew
             mad
             ,
          
           
             Rais'd
             all
             her
             billowes
             ,
             and
             resolv'd
             her
             waves
          
           
             Should
             quickly
             be
             the
             bold
             Adventurers
             graves
             .
          
           
             Out
             Marches
             
               Lambert
               ,
            
             like
             an
             Eastern
             wind
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             him
             all
             the
             mighty
             waters
             joyn'd
             .
          
           
             The
             loyal
             swimmers
             bore
             up
             heads
             and
             breasts
             ,
          
           
             Scorning
             to
             think
             of
             life
             or
             interests
             ;
          
           
             They
             ply'd
             their
             Arms
             and
             Thighs
             ,
             but
             all
             in
             vain
             ;
          
           
             The
             furious
             Main
             beat
             them
             to
             shore
             again
             ;
          
           
             At
             which
             the
             floating
             Island
             (
             looking
             back
             ,
          
           
             Spying
             her
             loyal
             Lovers
             gone
             to
             wrack
             )
          
           
             Shriekt
             lowder
             then
             before
             ,
             —
             and
             thus
             she
             cries
             ,
          
           
             "
             Can
             you
             ye
             angry
             Heavens
             ,
             and
             frowning
             Skies
             ,
          
           
             "
             Thus
             countenance
             Rebellious
             Mutineers
             ,
          
           
             "
             VVho
             if
             they
             durst
             ,
             would
             be
             about
             your
             ears
             :
          
           
             "
             That
             I
             should
             sink
             ,
             with
             Justice
             may
             accord
             ,
          
           
             "
             VVho
             let
             my
             Pilot
             be
             thrown
             over-board
             ;
          
           
             "
             Yet
             't
             was
             not
             I
             (
             ye
             righteous
             heavens
             do
             know
             )
          
           
             "
             The
             Souldiers
             in
             me
             needs
             would
             have
             it
             so
             :
          
           
             "
             And
             those
             who
             conjur'd
             up
             these
             Storms
             themselves
             ,
          
           
             "
             And
             first
             engag'd
             me
             'mongst
             these
             Rocks
             &
             Shelves
             ,
          
           
           
             "
             Guilty
             of
             all
             my
             woes
             ,
             erect
             this
             weather
             ,
          
           
             "
             Fearing
             to
             come
             to
             Land
             ,
             &
             chusing
             rather
          
           
             "
             To
             sink
             me
             with
             themselves
             .
             —
             O!
             Cease
             to
             frown
             ,
          
           
             "
             In
             tears
             (
             just
             Heavens
             !
             )
             behold
             !
             my self
             I
             drown
             :
          
           
             "
             Let
             not
             these
             proud
             Waves
             do
             't
             :
             Prevent
             my
             fears
             ,
          
           
             "
             And
             let
             them
             fall
             together
             by
             the
             Ears
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             HEaven
             heard
             ,
             &
             struck
             th'
             insulting
             Army
             mad
             ,
          
           
             Drunk
             with
             their
             
               Cheshire
            
             Tryumps
             ,
             straight
             they
          
           
             NewLights
             appear'd
             ;
             And
             new
             Rosolves
             they
             take
             ,
             had
          
           
             A
             Single
             Person
             once
             again
             to
             make
             .
          
           
             Who
             shall
             be
             he
             ?
             Oh!
             
               Lambert
               ,
            
             without
             Rub
             ,
          
           
             The
             fittest
             Divel
             to
             be
             
               Belzebub
               .
            
          
           
             He
             ,
             the
             fierce
             Friend
             ,
             cast
             out
             o'
             th'
             house
             before
             ,
          
           
             Return'd
             ,
             &
             threw
             the
             House
             now
             out
             of
             dore
             :
          
           
             A
             Legion
             then
             he
             rais'd
             of
             Armed
             Sprights
             ,
          
           
             Elves
             ,
             Goblins
             ,
             Fairies
             ,
             Quakers
             ,
             &
             new
             Lights
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             his
             under-Divels
             ;
             with
             this
             rest
          
           
             He
             Soul
             and
             Body
             (
             Church
             and
             State
             )
             possest
             :
          
           
             Who
             though
             they
             fill'd
             all
             Countries
             ,
             Towns
             ,
             &
             Rooms
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             (
             like
             that
             Fiend
             that
             did
             frequent
             the
             Tombs
             )
          
           
             Churches
             ,
             and
             Sacred
             Ground
             they
             haunted
             most
             ,
          
           
             No
             Chappel
             was
             at
             ease
             from
             some
             such
             Ghost
             .
          
           
             The
             Priests
             ordain'd
             to
             Exorcise
             those
             Elves
             ,
          
           
             Were
             Voted
             Divels
             ,
             and
             cast
             out
             themselves
             :
          
           
             Bible
             ,
             or
             Alchoron
             ,
             all
             's
             one
             to
             them
             ,
          
           
             Religion
             serves
             but
             for
             a
             Stratagem
             :
          
           
             The
             holy
             Charms
             these
             Adders
             did
             not
             heed
             ,
          
           
             Churches
             themselves
             did
             Sanctuary
             need
             .
          
        
         
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             THe
             Churches
             Patrimony
             and
             rich
             store
             ,
          
           
             Alas
             !
             was
             swallowed
             many
             yeares
             before
             :
          
           
           
             
               Bishops
            
             and
             
               Deans
            
             we
             fed
             upon
             before
             ,
          
           
             They
             were
             the
             
               Ribs
            
             and
             
               Surloyns
            
             of
             the
             Whore
             :
          
           
             Now
             let
             her
             Legs
             (
             the
             Priests
             )
             go
             to
             the
             Pot
             ,
          
           
             (
             They
             have
             the
             
               Pop's
               eye
            
             in
             them
             )
             spare
             them
             not
             :
          
           
             We
             have
             fat
             Benefices
             yet
             to
             ear
             ,
          
           
             
               (
               Bell
               ,
            
             and
             our
             
               Dragon-Army
            
             must
             have
             meat
             )
          
           
             Let
             us
             devour
             her
             Limb-meal
             ,
             great
             &
             samll
             ,
          
           
             Tythe
             Calves
             ,
             Geese
             ,
             Pigs
             ,
             the
             Pettitoes
             &
             all
             :
          
           
             A
             Vicaridge
             in
             Sippets
             ,
             though
             it
             be
          
           
             But
             small
             ,
             will
             serve
             a
             squeamish
             Sectary
             .
          
           
             Though
             Universities
             we
             cann't
             endure
             ,
          
           
             Ther
             's
             no
             false
             Latine
             in
             their
             Lands
             (
             be
             sure
             .
             )
          
           
             Give
             
               Oxford
            
             to
             our
             Horse
             ,
             and
             let
             the
             Foot
          
           
             Take
             
               Cambridge
            
             for
             their
             booty
             ,
             and
             fall
             to
             't
             .
          
           
             
               Christ-Church
            
             I
             'll
             have
             (
             cries
             
               Vane
               )
               Disbrow
            
             swops
          
           
             At
             
               Trinity
               ;
               King
               's
            
             is
             for
             
               Berry's
            
             chops
             ;
          
           
             
               Kelsey
               ,
            
             take
             
               Corpus
               Chrifii
               ;
               All-Souls
               ,
               Packer
               ;
            
          
           
             Carve
             
               Creed
               ,
            
             St
             
               Iohn's
               ;
               New
               Colledge
               ,
            
             leave
             to
             
               Hacker
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Fleetwood
            
             cries
             ,
             
               Weeping
               Maudlin
            
             shall
             be
             mine
             ,
          
           
             Her
             tears
             I
             'll
             drink
             insteed
             of
             Muscadine
             :
          
           
             The
             smaller
             
               Halls
            
             and
             
               Houses
            
             scarce
             are
             big
          
           
             Enough
             to
             make
             one
             dish
             for
             
               Hesilrig
               ;
            
          
           
             We
             must
             be
             sure'to
             stop
             his
             mouth
             ,
             though
             wide
          
           
             Else
             all
             our
             Fat
             will
             bei'th
             '
             fire
             (
             they
             cry'd
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             we
             have
             done
             these
             ,
             we
             'l
             not
             be
             quiet
          
           
             Lordships
             ,
             and
             Landlords
             Rents
             shall
             be
             our
             diet
             .
          
           
             Thus
             talk'd
             this
             jolly
             crew
             ,
             but
             still
             mine
             Host
          
           
             
               Lambret
               ,
            
             resolves
             that
             he
             will
             rule
             the
             Rost
             .
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             BUt
             hark
             !
             Me
             thinks
             I
             hear
             old
             
               Boreas
            
             blow
             ,
          
           
             What
             mean
             the
             North
             winds
             that
             they
             bluster
             so
             ?
          
           
             More
             storms
             from
             that
             black
             nook
             ?
             Forbear
             !
             (
             bold
             
               Scot
               )
            
          
           
             Let
             not
             
               Dunbar
            
             and
             
               Worcester
            
             be
             forgot
             :
          
           
           
             What
             ?
             Would
             you
             chasser
             w'
             us
             for
             one
             
               Charls
            
             more
             ?
          
           
             The
             price
             of
             Kings
             is
             fall'n
             ,
             give
             the
             Trade
             o're
             .
          
           
             And
             is
             the
             price
             of
             Kings
             and
             Kingdoms
             too
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Laws
             ,
             Lives
             ,
             Oaths
             ,
             Souls
             ,
             grown
             so
             low
             with
             you
             ?
          
           
             Perfidious
             Hypocrites
             !
             Monsters
             of
             men
             !
          
           
             (
             Cries
             the
             good
             
               Monck
               )
            
             We
             'll
             raise
             their
             price
             agen
             .
          
           
             Heaven
             said
             
               Amen
               ;
            
             and
             breath'd
             upon
             that
             spark
             ;
          
           
             That
             spark
             (
             preserv'd
             alive
             i'
             th'
             cold
             and
             dark
             )
          
           
             First
             kindled
             and
             enflam'd
             the
             Brittish
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             And
             turn'd
             it
             all
             to
             Bonfires
             ,
             in
             a
             while
             :
          
           
             He
             and
             his
             fewel
             was
             so
             small
             ,
             no
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             Proud
             
               Lambart
            
             thought
             to
             tread
             ,
             or
             piss
             thē
             out
             .
          
           
             But
             
               George
            
             was
             wary
             ;
             —
             His
             cause
             did
             require
          
           
             A
             Pillar
             of
             a
             Cloud
             as
             well
             as
             Fire
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             not
             his
             safest
             course
             to
             flame
             ,
             but
             smoak
             ;
          
           
             His
             Enemies
             he
             will
             not
             burn
             ,
             but
             choak
             :
          
           
             Smal
             Fires
             must
             not
             blaze
             out
             ,
             lest
             by
             their
             light
          
           
             They
             shew
             their
             weakness
             ,
             and
             their
             Foes
             invite
             :
          
           
             But
             Furnaces
             the
             stroutest
             Mettals
             melt
          
           
             (
             And
             so
             did
             He
             )
             by
             fire
             not
             seen
             but
             felt
             :
          
           
             Dark-Lanthorn
             Language
             ,
             and
             his
             peep-boe
             play
             ,
          
           
             
               Will-E-Wispt
               Lambert's
            
             New-Lights
             out
             o'
             th'
             way
             .
          
           
             
               George
               ,
            
             and
             his
             Boys
             ,
             those
             thousand
             (
             Ostrange
             thing
             )
          
           
             Of
             
               Snipes
            
             and
             
               Woodcocks
               ,
            
             took
             by
             Lowbelling
             .
          
           
             His
             few
             Scotch-Coal
             kindled
             with
             English
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Made
             
               Lambert's
            
             great
             
               Newcastle
            
             heaps
             expire
             .
          
        
         
           
             X.
             
          
           
             
               SCotland
               ,
            
             (
             though
             poor
             ,
             and
             peevish
             )
             was
             content
          
           
             To
             keep
             the
             Peace
             ,
             and
             (
             O
             rare
             !
             )
             mony
             lent
             ;
          
           
             But
             yet
             the
             blessing
             of
             their
             Kirk
             was
             more
             ;
          
           
             
               George
            
             had
             that
             too
             ;
             and
             with
             this
             slender
             store
          
           
             He
             &
             his
             Mirmidons
             advance
             —
             Kind
             Heaven
          
           
             Prepar'd
             a
             frost
             to
             make
             their
             march
             more
             even
             ,
          
           
           
             Easie
             ,
             and
             safe
             ;
             it
             may
             be
             said
             That
             year
          
           
             Of
             th'
             High-ways
             ,
             Heaven
             it self
             was
             Overfeer
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             
               November
            
             ground
             as
             hard
             as
             
               May
               ;
            
          
           
             White
             as
             their
             Innocence
             ,
             so
             was
             their
             way
             :
          
           
             The
             Clouds
             came
             down
             in
             feather-beds
             ,
             to
             greet
          
           
             Him
             and
             his
             Army
             ,
             and
             to
             kiss
             their
             feet
             .
          
           
             The
             Frost
             and
             foes
             both
             came
             and
             went
             together
             ,
          
           
             Both
             thaw'd
             away
             ,
             and
             vanish'd
             God
             knows
             whither
             .
          
           
             Whole
             Countries
             crowded
             in
             to
             see
             this
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             Ready
             to
             cast
             their
             bodies
             down
             ,
             to
             mend
          
           
             His
             Road
             to
             
               Westminster
               ;
            
             and
             still
             they
             shout
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             hold
             of
             th'
             
               Rump
               ,
            
             and
             pull
             the
             
               Monster
            
             out
             :
          
           
             A
             new
             one
             ,
             or
             a
             whole
             one
             
               (
               Good
               my
               Lord
               )
            
          
           
             And
             to
             this
             cry
             the
             Island
             did
             accord
             .
          
           
             The
             Eccho
             of
             the
             Irish
             hollow
             ground
          
           
             Heard
             
               England
               ,
            
             &
             her
             language
             did
             rebound
             .
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             
               PResto
               —
               Iack
               Lambert
               ,
            
             and
             his
             Sprights
             are
             gone
          
           
             To
             dance
             a
             Jigg
             with
             's
             brother
             
               Oberon
               :
            
          
           
             
               George
            
             made
             him
             ,
             and
             his
             cut-throats
             of
             our
             lives
             ,
          
           
             Swallow
             their
             Swords
             ,
             as
             JugIers
             do
             their
             Knives
             .
          
           
             And
             Carter
             
               Disborough
            
             to
             wish
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             He
             now
             were
             Waggoner
             to
             
               Charls
            
             his
             Wain
             .
          
           
             The
             Conquerour
             is
             now
             come
             into
             th'
             South
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             warm
             Air
             is
             made
             hot
             by
             every
             mouth
             ;
          
           
             Breathing
             his
             wellcome
             ,
             and
             in
             spight
             of
             
               Scot
               ,
            
          
           
             Crying
             ,
             —
             
               The
               whole
               child
            
             (
             Sir
             )
             
               divide
               it
               not
               .
            
          
           
             The
             Rump
             begins
             to
             stink
             ;
             Alas
             !
             (
             cry
             they
             )
          
           
             W'
             have
             rais'd
             a
             Divil
             which
             we
             cannot
             lay
             ;
          
           
             I
             like
             him
             not
             —
             His
             belly
             is
             so
             big
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             a
             King
             in
             't
             ,
             cryes
             furious
             
               Hesilrig
               ,
            
          
           
             Let
             's
             brib
             Him
             (
             they
             cry
             all
             )
             Carve
             him
             a
             share
          
           
             Of
             our
             stoln
             Venison
             .
             —
             Varlet
             ,
             forbear
             ,
          
           
           
             In
             vain
             you
             put
             your
             Lime-twiggs
             to
             his
             Hands
          
           
             Gorge
             Monck
             
               is
               for
               the
               King
               ,
               not
               for
               his
               Lands
               .
            
          
           
             When
             fair
             meanes
             would
             not
             doe
             ,
             next
             foul
             they
             try
             ,
          
           
             Vote
             him
             the
             City
             Scavenger
             (
             they
             cry
             )
          
           
             Send
             him
             to
             scowr
             their
             Streets
             —
             Well
             ,
             let
             it
             be
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Rumpships
             wants
             a
             scowring
             too
             (
             thinks
             he
             )
          
           
             That
             fonl
             House
             where
             your
             Worships
             many
             year
          
           
             Have
             laid
             your
             Tayl
             ,
             sure
             wants
             a
             Scavenger
             :
          
           
             I
             smell
             your
             Fizle
             ,
             though
             it
             make
             no
             Crack
             ,
          
           
             You
             'ld
             mount
             me
             on
             the
             Cities
             galled
             back
             ,
          
           
             In
             hope
             she
             'l
             cast
             her
             Rider
             :
             If
             I
             must
          
           
             Upon
             some
             Office
             in
             the
             Town
             be
             thrust
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             be
             their
             Sword-bearer
             -
             and
             to
             their
             Dagger
          
           
             I
             'll
             joyn
             my
             Sword
             :
             —
             Nay
             (
             goodRump
             )
             do
             not
             swagger
             :
          
           
             The
             City
             feasts
             me
             ,
             and
             as
             sure
             as
             Gun
             )
          
           
             I
             'll
             mend
             all
             
               Englands
            
             Commons
             e're
             I
             've
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             XII
             .
          
           
             ANd
             so
             He
             did
             :
             One
             Morning
             next
             his
             heart
          
           
             He
             goes
             to
             
               Westminster
               ,
            
             and
             play'd
             his
             part
             ,
          
           
             He
             vampt
             their
             Boots
             (
             which
             
               Hewson
            
             ne're
             could
             do
             )
          
           
             With
             better
             leather
             ,
             and
             made
             them
             go
             upright
             too
             .
          
           
             The
             restor'd
             Members
             
               (
               Cato
            
             like
             no
             doubt
             )
          
           
             Did
             only
             Enter
             that
             They
             might
             goe
             out
             ,
          
           
             They
             did
             not
             mean
             within
             those
             VValls
             to
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             did
             they
             like
             their
             Company
             so
             well
             :
          
           
             Yet
             Heaven
             so
             blest
             them
             ,
             that
             in
             three
             weeks
             space
          
           
             They
             gave
             both
             Church
             and
             State
             a
             better
             face
             ,
          
           
             They
             gave
             
               Booth
               ,
               Massey
               ,
               Brown
               ,
            
             some
             kinder
             lots
             ;
          
           
             The
             last
             years
             Traytors
             ,
             this
             years
             Patriots
             :
          
           
             The
             Churches
             poor
             Remainder
             they
             made
             good
             ,
          
           
             And
             wash'd
             the
             Nations
             Hands
             of
             Royal
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             a
             Parliament
             (
             they
             did
             devise
             )
          
           
             From
             its
             own
             ashes
             
               (
               Phoenix-like
            
             )
             might
             rise
             ;
          
           
           
             This
             done
             ,
             By
             
               Act
            
             and
             
               Deed
            
             that
             might
             not
             fail
             ,
          
           
             They
             past
             a
             Fine
             ,
             and
             so
             cut
             off
             
               th'
               Entail
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             XIII
             .
          
           
             LEt
             the
             Bells
             ring
             these
             Changes
             now
             from
             
               Bow
            
          
           
             Down
             to
             the
             Countrey
             Candlesticks
             below
             ,
          
           
             
               Ringers
            
             Hands
             of
             ;
             The
             Bells
             themselves
             will
             dance
          
           
             In
             memory
             of
             their
             own
             deliverance
             :
          
           
             Had
             not
             
               George
            
             shew'd
             his
             Mettle
             ,
             and
             said
             Nay
             ,
          
           
             Each
             Sectary
             had
             born
             the
             Bell
             away
             :
          
           
             Down
             with
             them
             all
             ,
             they
             'r
             Christned
             (
             cry'd
             that
             Crew
             )
          
           
             Tye
             up
             their
             Clappers
             ,
             and
             the
             Parsons
             too
             ;
          
           
             Turn
             then
             to
             Guns
             ,
             or
             sell
             them
             to
             the
             
               Dutch
               ,
            
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             hold
             (
             quoth
             
               George
               )
            
             my
             Masters
             ,
             that
             's
             too
             much
             ;
          
           
             You
             will
             not
             leap
             o're
             Steeples
             thus
             ,
             I
             hope
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             save
             the
             Bells
             ,
             but
             you
             may
             take
             the
             Rope
             .
          
           
             Thus
             lay
             Religion
             panting
             for
             her
             life
             ,
          
           
             Like
             
               Isaac
               ,
            
             bound
             under
             the
             bloody
             knife
             ;
          
           
             
               George
            
             held
             the
             falling
             Weapon
             ,
             sav'd
             the
             Lamb
             :
          
           
             Let
             
               Lambert
            
             (
             in
             the
             Briars
             )
             be
             the
             
               Ram
               .
            
          
           
             So
             lay
             the
             Royal
             Virgin
             (
             as
             't
             is
             told
             )
          
           
             When
             brave
             St
             
               George
            
             redeem'd
             her
             life
             ,
             of
             old
             .
          
           
             Oh
             that
             the
             Knaves
             that
             have
             consum'd
             our
             Land
             ,
          
           
             Had
             but
             permitted
             VVood
             enough
             to
             stand
          
           
             To
             be
             his
             Bonfires
             ;
             —
             VVe'd
             burn
             every
             stem
             ,
          
           
             And
             leave
             no
             more
             but
             Gallow-Trees
             for
             them
             :
          
        
         
           
             XIV
             .
          
           
             MArch
             on
             ,
             Great
             Heore
             !
             as
             thou
             hast
             begun
             ,
          
           
             And
             Crown
             our
             happiness
             before
             
             Th'ast
             done
             :
          
           
             VVe
             have
             another
             
               Charls
            
             to
             fetch
             from
             
               Spain
               ,
            
          
           
             Be
             thou
             the
             
               George
            
             to
             bring
             him
             back
             again
             :
          
           
             Then
             shalt
             thou
             be
             (
             what
             was
             deny'd
             that
             Knight
             )
          
           
             Thy
             Princes
             ,
             and
             the
             Peoples
             Favourite
             .
          
           
           
             There
             is
             no
             danger
             of
             the
             winds
             at
             all
             ,
          
           
             Unless
             together
             by
             the
             Ears
             they
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Who
             shall
             the
             honour
             have
             to
             waft
             a
             King
             ,
          
           
             And
             they
             who
             gain
             it
             ,
             while
             they
             work
             ,
             shal
             sing
             .
          
           
             Me-thinks
             I
             see
             how
             those
             tryumphant
             Gales
             ,
          
           
             Proud
             of
             the
             great
             Employment
             ,
             swel
             the
             Sails
             ;
          
           
             The
             Joyfull
             ship
             shal
             dance
             ,
             the
             Sea
             shall
             laugh
             ,
          
           
             And
             loyal
             Fish
             their
             Masters
             health
             shall
             quaff
             ;
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             
               Dolphins
            
             croud
             &
             thrust
             their
             large
          
           
             And
             scaly
             shoulders
             ,
             to
             assist
             the
             Barge
             :
          
           
             The
             peacefull
             Kingfishers
             are
             met
             togother
          
           
             About
             the
             Decks
             ,
             and
             prophesie
             calm
             weather
             ,
          
           
             Poor
             Crabs
             &
             Lobsters
             are
             gone
             down
             to
             creep
          
           
             And
             search
             for
             Pearls
             and
             Jewels
             in
             the
             deep
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             they
             have
             the
             booty
             —
             crawl
             before
          
           
             And
             leave
             them
             for
             his
             welcome
             to
             the
             Shore
             .
          
        
         
           
             XV
             .
          
           
             MEthinks
             I
             see
             how
             throngs
             of
             people
             stand
          
           
             Scarce
             patient
             till
             the
             Vessel
             come
             to
             land
             ,
          
           
             Ready
             to
             leap
             in
             ,
             and
             if
             need
             require
          
           
             With
             Tears
             of
             Joy
             to
             make
             the
             waters
             higher
             :
          
           
             But
             what
             will
             
               London
            
             do
             ?
             I
             doubt
             Old
             
               Paul
            
          
           
             With
             bowing
             to
             his
             Soveraign
             will
             fall
             .
          
           
             The
             Royall
             Lyons
             from
             the
             Tower
             shall
             roar
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             they
             see
             him
             not
             ,
             yet
             shall
             adore
             :
          
           
             The
             Conduits
             will
             be
             ravish'd
             ,
             and
             combine
          
           
             To
             turn
             their
             very
             water
             into
             wine
             :
          
           
             And
             for
             the
             Citizens
             ,
             I
             only
             pray
          
           
             They
             may
             not
             overjoy'd
             all
             dye
             that
             day
             .
          
           
             May
             we
             all
             live
             more
             loyal
             and
             more
             true
             ,
          
           
             To
             give
             to
             
               Caesar
            
             and
             to
             God
             their
             due
             .
          
           
             We
             'l
             make
             his
             Fathers
             Tomb
             with
             tears
             to
             swim
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             the
             Son
             ,
             we
             'll
             shed
             our
             blood
             for
             him
             :
          
           
           
             
               England
            
             her
             penitential
             Song
             shall
             sing
          
           
             And
             take
             heed
             how
             she
             quarrels
             with
             her
             King
             .
          
           
             If
             for
             our
             sins
             —
             Our
             Prince
             shall
             be
             misled
             ,
          
           
             We
             'll
             bite
             our
             nails
             rather
             then
             scratch
             our
             Head
             .
          
        
         
           
             XVI
             .
          
           
             ONe
             English
             
               George
            
             out-weighs
             alone
             (
             by
             odds
             )
          
           
             A
             whole
             Committee
             of
             the
             Heathen
             Gods
             ;
          
           
             Pronounce
             but
             
               Monck
               ,
            
             and
             it
             is
             all
             his
             due
             )
          
           
             He
             is
             our
             
               Mercury
               ,
               Mars
               ,
            
             and
             
               Neptune
            
             too
             .
          
           
             
               Monck
            
             (
             what
             great
             
               Xerxes
            
             could
             not
             )
             prov'd
             the
             Man
          
           
             That
             with
             a
             word
             shackled
             the
             Ocean
             ;
          
           
             He
             shall
             command
             
               Neptune
            
             himself
             to
             bring
          
           
             His
             Trident
             ,
             and
             present
             it
             to
             our
             King
             .
          
           
             Oh
             do
             it
             then
             great
             Admiral
             .
             —
             Away
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             be
             here
             against
             St
             
               George's
            
             day
             ;
          
           
             That
             
               Charls
            
             may
             weare
             His
             
               Dieu
               et
               Mondroit
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             Thou
             the
             Noble
             Garter'd
             
               Honi
               Soit
               .
            
          
           
             And
             when
             thy
             aged
             Corps
             shall
             yeild
             to
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             God
             save
             that
             soul
             that
             sav'd
             our
             
               Church
            
             and
             
               State
               :
            
          
           
             There
             thou
             shalt
             have
             a
             glorious
             Crown
             ,
             I
             know
             ,
          
           
             Who
             Crown'dst
             our
             King
             and
             Kingdoms
             here
             below
             .
          
           
             But
             who
             shall
             find
             a
             Pen
             fit
             for
             thy
             glory
             ?
          
           
             Or
             make
             Posterity
             believe
             thy
             Story
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vive
             St
             GEORGE
             .
          
        
         
      
    
    

