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         Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
      
       
         
           1683
        
      
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             The fanatick indulgence granted anno 1679. By Mr. Ninian Paterson.
             Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
          
           [6], 14 p.
           
             printed by David Lindsay and his partners, at the foot of Heriot's-Bridge,
             Edinburgh :
             1683.
          
           
             Latin dedication to James II (as future king) on verso of title page and at end of text.
             In verse.
             An appeal to the future king to renounce "indulgence" for Protestant dissenters, especially the Covenanters, followed by an enthusiastic welcome to Scotland.
             Copy stained.
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           James -- II, -- King of England, 1633-1701.
           Covenanters -- Controversial literature -- Early works to 1800.
           Dissenters, Religious -- Scotland -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           THE
           FANATICK
           INDULGENCE
           Granted
           ,
           ANNO
           1679.
           
           
             
               Si
               natura
               negat
               facit
               indignatio
               versum
            
             
               Qualemcunque
               potest
               .
            
             
               Juvenal
               .
               Sat.
               1.
               
            
          
           By
           M
           r.
           NINIAN
           PATERSON
           .
        
         
           EDINBVRGH
           ,
           Printed
           by
           DAVID
           LINDSAY
           and
           his
           Partners
           ,
           at
           the
           foot
           of
           Heriot's
           Bridge
           ,
           1683.
           
        
         
         
         
      
       
         
         
           Ad
           Illustrissimum
           Principem
           IACOBVM
           ALBANIAE
           Et
           Eboraci
           Ducem
           .
        
         
           
             PRinceps
             magne
             meae
             tibi
             si
             placuere
             Camoenae
             ,
          
           
             Muneris
             instat
             erit
             ,
             quod
             plac●●re
             tibi
             .
          
        
         
           
             At
             si
             displiceant
             ,
             metuendae
             praem●●
             poenae
             ,
          
           
             Damnum
             ingens
             claris
             displicuisse
             viris
             .
          
        
         
           
             Principis
             est
             laus
             summa
             tamen
             ,
             dare
             dona
             Poëtis
             ,
          
           
             Vel
             magis
             ut
             placeant
             ,
             displiceantve
             minus
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           TO
           HIS
           ROYAL
           HIGHNES
           JAMES
           Duke
           of
           ALBANIE
           .
        
         
           GReat
           Sir
           ,
           this
           Poëm
           still
           conceal'd
           have
           I
           ,
        
         
           Till
           time
           hath
           Christn'd
           it
           a
           Prophesy
           .
        
         
           Indulgence
           now
           unmasked
           ,
           strives
           to
           tryst
        
         
           With
           
             John
             of
             Leyden
          
           against
           Antichrist
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           the
           Trojan
           Horse
           ,
           wherein
           there
           lies
        
         
           Catsbie
           and
           Vaulx
           ,
           with
           new
           conspiracies
           .
        
         
           This
           the
           Shaftburian
           Crockodil
           his
           blind
        
         
           To
           lure
           Scotes
           Rogues
           to
           English
           commons
           mind
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           is
           this
           twattling
           fame
           ,
           but
           sure
           as
           death
           ,
        
         
           Witness
           where
           Welsh
           resign'd
           his
           latest
           breath
           .
        
         
           This
           Meteor
           impregnated
           the
           air
        
         
           With
           some
           to
           usurp
           the
           throne
           ,
           and
           sacred
           chair
        
         
           With
           a
           new
           faith
           ,
           but
           not
           without
           its
           works
           :
        
         
           Yet
           such
           as
           more
           beseemeth
           Iews
           and
           Turks
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           wee
           'r
           fallen
           in
           that
           dismall
           time
           ,
        
         
           Wherein
           to
           utter
           truth
           's
           an
           hainous
           crime
           .
        
         
           When
           squinteyed
           slander
           ,
           and
           hypocrisy
           ,
        
         
           In
           triumph
           bear
           away
           the
           verdant
           bay
           .
        
         
           Protect
           me
           then
           ,
           the
           galled
           Brother-hood
        
         
           Smart
           censures
           will
           reject
           ,
           thô
           wise
           and
           good
           ;
        
         
           Being
           swell'd
           with
           that
           same
           furie
           ,
           which
           before
        
         
         
           Glutted
           it self
           with
           our
           dread
           Soveraings
           Gore
           .
        
         
           Noll
           is
           reviv'd
           ,
           his
           Ghost
           drinks
           our
           ill
           health
           ,
        
         
           And
           we
           must
           once
           more
           try
           a
           common
           wealth
           ,
        
         
           No
           more
           Succession
           ,
           rather
           be
           't
           our
           fate
        
         
           To
           truckle
           under
           illegitimate
           .
        
         
           And
           then
           in
           our
           career
           ,
           each
           friend
           ,
           or
           foe
           ,
        
         
           Iust
           as
           we
           please
           ,
           wee
           'l
           call
           ,
           or
           make
           him
           so
           .
        
         
           And
           like
           an
           hurrying
           flood
           wee
           'l
           still
           increass
           ,
        
         
           And
           swell
           our
           channel
           ,
           as
           we
           mend
           our
           pace
           .
        
         
           Wee
           'l
           scorn
           
             Hobs
             Leviathan
          
           ,
           whill
           we
           play
        
         
           Our selves
           i'
           th
           Ocean
           of
           Stern
           Tyrranny
           .
        
         
           Begon
           Religion
           ,
           and
           be
           buried
           Law
           ,
        
         
           Brittain
           must
           once
           more
           turn
           Aceldama
           .
        
         
           But
           oft
           omnipotency
           lurkes
           ,
           untill
        
         
           The
           Creaturs
           Pollicy
           ,
           and
           prowess
           fail
           ;
        
         
           And
           GOD
           will
           Joseph
           press
           ,
           and
           gall
           ,
           and
           wring
           .
        
         
           E're
           he
           advance
           him
           second
           to
           the
           King.
        
         
           And
           hath
           decreed
           this
           lot
           for
           every
           man
           ,
        
         
           To
           pass
           the
           red
           Sea
           e're
           he
           taste
           Canaan
           .
        
         
           We
           see
           the
           Soveraign
           ,
           and
           imperial
           State
        
         
           Is
           not
           exempted
           from
           the
           common
           fate
           ,
        
         
           Nay
           Heavens
           impartial
           ,
           and
           resistless
           brow
        
         
           Frowns
           oftner
           on
           the
           Scepter
           then
           the
           plough
           :
        
         
           When
           he
           securely
           whistles
           to
           his
           teem
           .
        
         
           The
           other
           fears
           a
           tottring
           diadem
           .
        
         
           All
           my
           desire
           ,
           
             Great
             Sir
          
           ,
           is
           that
           I
           may
        
         
           Live
           like
           an
           Atome
           in
           the
           radiant
           Ray
        
         
           Of
           your
           life-giving
           heat
           ,
           and
           glorious
           light
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           crisping
           spires
           may
           make
           me
           warm
           and
           bright
           .
        
         
           Princes
           ar
           Prophets
           Guardians
           ,
           ye
           know
           ,
        
         
           Jacobus
           Rex
           was
           ,
           Aris
           excubo
           .
        
         
         
           David
           was
           Poët
           ;
           and
           King
           James
           they
           sing
           ,
        
         
           Was
           King
           of
           Poets
           ,
           and
           the
           Poëts
           King.
        
         
           And
           this
           emblazons
           most
           a
           Prince
           renown
           .
        
         
           When
           he
           with
           Muses
           Laurel
           Crowns
           his
           Crown
           .
        
         
           Poets
           and
           Prophets
           both
           inspir'd
           of
           GOD
           ,
        
         
           Were
           Kings
           Companions
           ,
           till
           our
           late
           Bownd
           rode
           :
        
         
           Where
           Reason
           and
           Religion
           did
           invade
        
         
           A
           Frantick
           passion
           ,
           and
           prevailing
           made
        
         
           That
           giddie
           furie
           ,
           that
           awaits
           the
           power
        
         
           Of
           thy
           more
           sacred
           charming
           Hellebore
           .
        
         
           And
           be
           't
           thy
           fate
           ,
           for
           to
           suppress
           this
           flamm
           ,
        
         
           And
           be
           true
           Majestie
           thy
           Anagram
           ;
        
         
           Which
           for
           thy
           Anagram
           may
           justly
           passe
           ,
           
        
         
           As
           wanting
           the
           dull
           omen
           of
           the
           
             A.
             S.
          
        
         
           And
           spite
           of
           envy
           may
           thy
           glory
           be
        
         
           Confin'd
           to
           nothing
           but
           eternity
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           FANATICK
           INDULGENCE
           ,
           ANNO
           1679.
           
        
         
           
             Juven
             .
             Sat.
             1.
             
          
           
             Sed
             si
             mora
             longior
             hortum
          
           
             
               Fanatico
               Indulget
            
             non
             illi
             deerit
             amator
             ,
          
           
             Mittentur
             braccae
             ,
             cultelli
             ,
             fraena
             ,
             flagellum
             ,
          
           
             Agmina
             sic
             veteres
             referent
             Whigimiria
             mores
             .
          
        
         
           
             Idem
             Sat.
             2.
             
          
           
             Sic
             ,
             sic
             ,
             Fanaticus
             oestro
          
           
             Percussus
             Bellona
             tuo
             pugnavit
             ,
             &
             ingens
          
           
             Abstulit
             omen
             adhuc
             clari
             magnique
             triumphi
             :
          
           
             Nam
             regem
             cepit
             :
             sic
             de
             temone
             Britanno
          
           
             Excidit
             Arviragus
             ,
             sat
             not
             a
             est
             bellua
             ,
             cerno
          
           
             Erectas
             in
             terga
             sudes
             ,
             ast
             absit
             ab
             illo
          
           
             Dedecus
             hoc
             Claverus
             ait
             .
          
        
         
           
             Sat.
             4.
             ver
             .
             124.
             
          
           
             Sic
             vetus
             indulget
             senibus
             Clementia
             porcis
             .
          
        
         
           
             Idem
             Sat.
             6.
             
          
           
             Quae
             stimulat
             vos
          
           
             Iam
             sibi
             materiam
             Ducis
             indulgentia
             quaerit
             ,
          
           
             Spes
             nulla
             ulterior
             .
          
        
         
           
             Idem
             Sat.
             7.
             
          
           
             Iramque
             animosque
             a
             crimine
             sumunt
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           THE
           FANATICK
           INDULGENCE
           .
        
         
           To
           the
           KING
           .
        
         
           
             1.
             
          
           
             INDULGENCE
             !
             thunder-clap
             !
             Medusa's
             head
             :
          
           
             Which
             makes
             us
             all
             like
             stones
             ,
             dumb
             ,
             stupified
             .
          
           
             And
             with
             amazement
             confidently
             vow
             ,
          
           
             The
             British
             isle
             it
             is
             grown
             Africk
             now
             .
          
           
             It
             s
             Crete
             ,
             its
             Crete
             ,
             this
             Island
             ,
             and
             at
             length
          
           
             Indulgence
             tells
             us
             what
             's
             the
             Labyrinth
             ;
          
           
             Not
             in
             one
             Town
             ,
             but
             all
             the
             Nation
             o're
          
           
             Ten
             thousand
             sold
             to
             feed
             the
             Minotaure
             .
          
           
             And
             which
             would
             make
             an
             heart
             of
             flint
             to
             bleed
             ,
          
           
             No
             hope
             appears
             of
             Ariadne's
             threed
             .
          
           
             Wee
             are
             in
             Monsters
             ●ertil
             ;
             after
             this
          
           
             Impossible
             ?
             incredible
             what
             is
             ?
          
           
           
             What
             is
             't
             that
             the
             Fanatick
             askes
             so
             great
          
           
             Transcends
             his
             hopes
             ,
             or
             can
             his
             wish
             defeat
             ?
          
           
             When
             wee
             thy
             Loyal
             Subjects
             looked
             for
          
           
             Some
             Halcyonian
             dayes
             ,
             
               the
               Tempests
               Roar
            
             :
          
           
             And
             to
             our
             eyes
             on
             every
             rising
             wave
             ,
          
           
             Death
             sits
             in
             Triumph
             ,
             and
             presents
             a
             grave
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             mid'st
             of
             our
             dispaires
             ,
             and
             fears
             ,
          
           
             Tears
             drowns
             our
             sighs
             ,
             and
             sighs
             dries
             up
             our
             tears
             .
          
           
             Wee
             are
             like
             Iob's
             these
             ninteen
             years
             perplext
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             distractions
             ,
             and
             destructions
             vext
             .
          
           
             And
             that
             
               (
               dread
               Sir
            
             )
             tho
             not
             so
             strange
             ,
             as
             true
             ,
          
           
             By
             Scabbs
             ,
             and
             Devils
             now
             Indulg'd
             by
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             Indulgence
             !
             Mercy
             LORD
             !
             from
             whence
             ?
             to
             whom
             ?
          
           
             From
             CHARLES
             ;
             Nay
             :
             to
             ripp
             his
             mothers
             womb
          
           
             As
             Nero
             did
             ,
             I
             'le
             nee'r
             belive't
             ;
             like
             this
          
           
             Ovid
             hath
             no
             such
             Metamorphosis
             .
          
           
             CHARLES
             both
             merciful
             and
             wise
             ,
             to
             Act
          
           
             The
             much
             deplored
             Athamas
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             To
             murder
             his
             own
             Children
             ,
             and
             to
             spare
          
           
             The
             loathsome
             vermin
             the
             *
             whole
             body
             tare
             .
          
           
             To
             set
             three
             Kingdoms
             all
             again
             in
             flamm
             ,
          
           
             And
             throw
             poor
             Meleager
             in
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             To
             please
             some
             mad
             Altheas
             :
             Acts
             like
             those
             ,
          
           
             May
             frett
             thy
             friends
             ,
             not
             satisfie
             thy
             foes
             .
          
           
             To
             lay
             the
             tittle
             ,
             
               Faith's
               Defender
            
             ,
             down
             ,
          
           
             The
             richest
             Jewel
             of
             thy
             radiant
             Crown
             .
          
           
             Strike
             Loyalty
             ,
             Law
             ,
             and
             Religion
             dumb
             ,
          
           
             To
             please
             a
             fullsome
             ,
             nastie
             ,
             hairbraind
             scum
             ,
          
           
             A
             furious
             spawn
             of
             fiends
             ,
             by
             whom
             alone
          
           
             The
             devil
             doth
             blush
             to
             see
             himself
             outdone
             .
          
           
           
             I
             mean
             their
             Master
             leaders
             ,
             the
             rest
             all
             sees
          
           
             Hes
             no
             more
             brains
             ,
             then
             sillie
             butter-flies
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             can
             act
             such
             bloody
             monstrous
             crimes
             ,
          
           
             Not
             writ
             in
             Registers
             of
             former
             times
             .
          
           
             Rebellion
             ,
             
             murder
             ,
             sacriledg
             ,
             a
             fault
          
           
             Complext
             ,
             not
             to
             be
             purg'd
             with
             fire
             ,
             nor
             salt
             !
          
           
             These
             to
             indulge
             ,
             is
             Scepter
             to
             resign
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             the
             bramble
             King
             it
             o'r
             the
             vine
             .
          
           
             O
             boundless
             mercy
             !
             Heaven
             and
             Hell
             here
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             In
             strange
             (
             how
             ?
             )
             reconcil'd
             antipathies
             .
          
           
             Base
             unrelenting
             fate
             could
             thou
             not
             spare
          
           
             Good
             
               Major
               Weir
            
             till
             now
             to
             have
             got
             a
             share
             .
          
           
             Unhappy
             Mitchel
             had
             thou
             liv'd
             so
             long
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             had
             escaped
             in
             this
             damned
             throng
             ,
          
           
             And
             had
             been
             sentenc'd
             at
             the
             Council
             Table
             ,
          
           
             The
             innocentest
             traitour
             of
             the
             Rabble
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Indulgence
             in
             the
             Hebrew
             Hamal
             is
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             Hamilton
             swears
             this
             is
             none
             of
             his
          
           
             Projecting
             ,
             or
             procuring
             ,
             or
             desire
             ;
          
           
             His
             grace
             would
             never
             kindle
             such
             a
             fire
             .
          
           
             The
             other
             great
             ,
             and
             mighty
             DUKE
             ,
             he
             vowes
          
           
             It
             came
             from
             Hell
             for
             any
             thing
             he
             knowes
             .
          
           
             The
             Legat
             ,
             men
             suspected
             most
             ,
             he
             sayes
             ,
          
           
             He
             acted
             but
             as
             stickes
             in
             puppet
             playes
             ;
          
           
             He
             acted
             being
             acted
             ,
             this
             was
             all
          
           
             His
             influence
             on
             its
             original
             .
          
           
             Avant
             then
             snake
             unto
             these
             dismall
             deeps
             ,
          
           
             Where
             every
             thing
             but
             damned
             sorrow
             sleeps
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             IIII.
             
          
           
             
               Indulgence
               is
            
             CAINS
             mark
             ,
             or
             such
             another
             ;
          
           
             No
             man
             may
             kill
             him
             that
             hath
             kill'd
             his
             Brother
             .
          
           
             And
             herein
             Cain
             was
             Scot
             :
             the
             DUKE
             like
             GOD
             ,
          
           
             Who
             sent
             the
             Traitour
             to
             the
             Land
             of
             Nod
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             confind
             him
             home
             to
             this
             his
             Nation
             ;
          
           
             A
             Land
             of
             fugitives
             and
             trepidation
             ,
          
           
             A
             Land
             wherein
             disgrace
             ,
             and
             loud
             toung'd
             shame
             ,
          
           
             Hath
             split
             the
             Trumpet
             of
             our
             former
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Either
             for
             Armes
             or
             Artes.
             Your
             Huskoes
             yield
             ,
          
           
             Ye
             Sons
             of
             Mars
             its
             cowards
             gains
             the
             field
             ,
          
           
             These
             only
             now
             the
             Acts
             of
             grace
             commands
             ,
          
           
             Because
             no
             Widow
             curst
             their
             swords
             ,
             nor
             hands
             .
          
           
             An
             Apple
             cleft
             in
             two
             is
             not
             more
             twin
             ,
          
           
             Then
             their
             Religion
             and
             their
             fights
             have
             been
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             chiefest
             properties
             lyes
             in
             their
             voice
             ,
          
           
             Like
             shearing
             of
             a
             sow
             ,
             no
             wool
             but
             noise
             :
          
           
             For
             when
             with
             Covenants
             they
             brag
             the
             starrs
             .
          
           
             Unto
             their
             heels
             they
             do
             commend
             ther
             warrs
             .
          
           
             Just
             as
             the
             forced
             air
             below
             ,
             doth
             fall
          
           
             In
             noise
             and
             loathsom
             stink
             ,
             and
             there
             is
             all
             .
          
           
             They
             are
             no
             witches
             ,
             tho
             their
             exercise
          
           
             Are
             parallels
             ,
             murders
             and
             Tragedies
             .
          
           
             They
             'r
             alwayes
             grumbling
             ,
             cruel
             ,
             furious
             ,
          
           
             Ill
             looking
             ,
             spiteful
             ,
             and
             malitious
             ,
          
           
             Blood-thristy
             Tigers
             ,
             never
             pleas'd
             but
             when
          
           
             They
             swill
             like
             Leeches
             in
             the
             blood
             of
             men
             .
          
           
             Their
             Baptism
             they
             renounce
             ,
             or
             do
             as
             much
             ;
          
           
             They
             need
             no
             Devils
             each
             of
             them
             is
             such
             :
          
           
             For
             being
             baptized
             to
             the
             Trinitie
             ,
          
           
             They
             dare
             sit
             mute
             to
             the
             doxologie
             .
          
           
             They
             dare
             not
             sing
             ,
             what
             they
             dare
             say
             ,
             like
             those
          
           
           
             Despise
             in
             verse
             what
             they
             commend
             in
             prose
             .
          
           
             They
             to
             their
             souls
             in
             consciencious
             care
          
           
             Preferr
             their
             babling
             to
             our
             Saviours
             prayer
             .
          
           
             And
             take
             their
             grounds
             of
             fighting
             from
             the
             word
             ,
          
           
             Because
             our
             Saviour
             said
             put
             up
             thy
             sword
             .
          
           
             Just
             like
             that
             wylie
             Jesuits
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             That
             of
             Saint
             Peter
             did
             salt
             Peter
             make
             .
          
           
             They
             say
             a
             Bishops
             office
             is
             for
             a
             Turk
             ,
          
           
             Because
             Saint
             Paul
             did
             call
             it
             a
             good
             work
             .
          
           
             It
             brings
             damnation
             for
             to
             resist
             ,
          
           
             Saint
             Paul
             did
             say
             ,
             they
             say
             its
             the
             cause
             of
             Christ.
          
           
             Strange
             Estredg
             consciences
             that
             quick
             devours
          
           
             Great
             Camel-truths
             ,
             fir'd
             with
             gnat-Metaphors
             .
          
           
             Be
             subject
             all
             for
             conscience
             sake
             ;
             these
             Heroes
          
           
             Can
             swallow
             that
             ,
             and
             fight
             at
             
               curse
               ye
               Meroz
            
             .
          
           
             But
             as
             of
             faith
             ,
             and
             manhood
             ,
             they
             are
             outted
             ,
          
           
             Their
             learning
             too
             it
             mightily
             is
             doubted
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Logick's
             out
             of
             date
             ,
             for
             they
             do
             know
          
           
             No
             Syllogisme
             ,
             but
             in
             Fer●o
             .
          
           
             And
             when
             their
             courage
             with
             their
             powder
             's
             spent
             ,
          
           
             Indulgence
             closeth
             all
             in
             Celarent
             .
          
           
             They
             'r
             puddle-rithmers
             too
             ,
             they
             dare
             we
             see
          
           
             Discharge
             their
             bumbast
             at
             our
             Poësie
             .
          
           
             And
             it
             s
             reported
             that
             they
             largely
             share
          
           
             In
             glistring
             Guinies
             ,
             for
             their
             Paltrie
             ware
             .
          
           
             The
             famine
             in
             Samaria
             we
             see
          
           
             Makes
             slimie
             sordid
             doves
             dung
             sell
             so
             hie
             ,
             
          
           
             They
             gave
             (
             in
             ghuest
             accompt
             )
             when
             wanting
             bread
             ,
          
           
             Near
             ten
             pound
             Sterling
             for
             an
             Asses
             head
             .
          
           
             (
             Had
             all
             our
             whiggs
             been
             there
             ,
             from
             rear
             to
             van
             ,
          
           
             They
             had
             happ't
             headless
             every
             mortal
             man
             )
          
           
           
             Muse
             burn
             thy
             bayes
             ,
             gold
             and
             the
             laurell
             now
          
           
             Is
             onely
             given
             to
             the
             thick
             brained
             crew
             .
          
           
             Empiricks
             let
             alone
             ,
             your
             market
             fall's
             ,
          
           
             The
             Revenues
             of
             Close-stools
             and
             Urinals
             .
          
           
             We
             need
             no
             potions
             to
             our
             paunch
             ,
             nor
             purse
             ;
          
           
             Trai●ours
             indulg'd
             ,
             will
             gratis
             murder
             us
             .
          
           
             Close
             up
             the
             Muses
             Courts
             ,
             the
             Colleges
             ,
          
           
             A
             living
             vatican
             ,
             each
             Fanatick
             is
             .
          
           
             Baronius
             and
             Bellarmin
             ingrost
             ,
          
           
             Their
             first
             two
             syllables
             in
             his
             brains
             have
             lost
             .
          
           
             Our
             Musickes
             all
             in
             discords
             :
             acts
             of
             grace
          
           
             Hath
             highest
             trebl's
             joyn'd
             with
             lowest
             base
             .
          
           
             We
             croak
             like
             Ravens
             ,
             and
             we
             screech
             like
             Rats
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             one
             SHARP
             we
             have
             ten
             thousand
             flats
             .
          
           
             Out
             notes
             so
             dissonant
             will
             nee'r
             agree
          
           
             In
             Church
             ,
             nor
             State
             ,
             to
             make
             an
             Harmonie
             .
          
           
             Our
             Kirk's
             a
             new
             Benjotral
             ,
             which
             we
             call
          
           
             Nor
             Presbiterian
             ,
             nor
             Episcopal
             .
          
           
             All
             tend
             to
             the
             old
             chaos
             ,
             our
             very
             Laws
          
           
             Are
             all
             ingulphed
             in
             the
             good
             old
             cause
             .
          
           
             No
             wonder
             ,
             Traitours
             make
             monopoly
          
           
             Of
             the
             embalmed
             Name
             of
             honesty
             ;
          
           
             And
             will
             admit
             no
             honest
             man
             but
             him
             ,
          
           
             Dare
             call
             a
             Bishop
             Antichristian
             limm
             :
          
           
             No
             honest
             man
             if
             not
             of
             their
             opinion
             ,
          
           
             Altho
             he
             were
             almighties
             dearest
             minion
             .
          
           
             Saint
             Paul
             himself
             they
             scorn
             to
             call
             him
             Saint
             ,
          
           
             Because
             he
             never
             took
             their
             Covenant
             .
          
           
             Yea
             from
             fool-hatred
             of
             the
             Organs
             they
          
           
             Made
             poor
             bagpypes
             sing
             dumb
             ,
             and
             out
             of
             play
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Indulgences
             ar
             Popish
             things
             ,
             then
             why
          
           
             Should
             they
             be
             fancied
             by
             such
             Saints
             as
             they
             ?
          
           
             Since
             their
             foundation
             fails
             them
             ;
             for
             it
             s
             known
          
           
             That
             neither
             Saints
             ,
             nor
             merits
             they
             can
             own
             .
          
           
             And
             too
             ,
             for
             which
             I
             verily
             am
             sorie
             ,
          
           
             They
             are
             not
             yet
             come
             to
             their
             Purgatorie
             .
          
           
             Besides
             Indulgences
             they
             have
             no
             place
             ,
             
          
           
             If
             men
             be
             not
             into
             the
             state
             of
             grace
             ,
          
           
             And
             they
             the
             very
             name
             of
             grace
             think
             vile
             ,
          
           
             Because
             it
             sometimes
             is
             a
             Bishops
             stile
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             the
             case
             is
             stated
             amongst
             all
             ,
          
           
             Treason
             indulg'd
             makes
             all
             sins
             venial
             .
          
           
             May
             not
             the
             Papist
             say
             what
             need
             of
             Rome
          
           
             For
             Pardons
             now
             ,
             since
             CHARLES
             is
             Pope
             at
             home
             .
          
           
             Had
             Luthers
             minde
             run
             parallel
             with
             his
             ,
          
           
             No
             strife
             had
             been
             about
             Indulgences
             .
          
           
             Martin
             had
             still
             been
             Monk
             ,
             nor
             had
             he
             yet
          
           
             In
             genial
             sheet
             protested
             with
             his
             Kate.
          
           
             But
             yet
             to
             Pardon
             those
             ,
             by
             Pardons
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Is
             Heavens
             dire
             vengeance
             ,
             and
             Earths
             heavy
             curse
             .
          
           
             Saw
             ye
             an
             Ape
             ,
             that
             a
             purgation
             took
             ,
          
           
             Before
             these
             news
             so
             did
             our
             Whigmares
             look
             .
          
           
             Now
             like
             a
             Passenger
             that
             scapt
             a
             grave
          
           
             In
             the
             sweld
             womb
             of
             an
             impostum'd
             wave
             ;
          
           
             They
             knock
             the
             Starrs
             with
             their
             advanced
             head
             ,
          
           
             As
             Phaeton
             when
             he
             the
             reins
             did
             guid
             .
          
           
             With
             that
             same
             success
             too
             ,
             the
             world
             they
             'l
             fire
             ,
          
           
             By
             guiding
             ill
             ,
             what
             they
             did
             ill
             desire
             .
          
           
             For
             they
             repent
             not
             what
             they
             late
             have
             done
             ,
          
           
             Vowing
             the
             second
             part
             of
             that
             same
             tune
             .
          
           
           
             Clearing
             both
             throats
             and
             pypes
             ;
             it
             s
             not
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             A
             well
             payed
             spring
             ought
             to
             be
             played
             again
             .
          
           
             If
             ancient
             Sages
             saws
             with
             you
             have
             credite
             ,
          
           
             To
             spare
             a
             vice
             ,
             it
             is
             the
             way
             to
             spread
             it
             .
          
           
             Tame
             mercie
             is
             the
             breast
             that
             suckls
             vice
             ,
          
           
             Till
             hydra
             like
             her
             heads
             she
             multiplies
             .
          
           
             In
             sparing
             thieves
             and
             murderers
             ,
             all
             see
             ,
          
           
             A
             privat
             favour
             's
             
               publicque
               injurie
            
             .
          
           
             Should
             pitie
             spare
             ,
             and
             let
             the
             gangren
             spread
             ,
          
           
             Until
             the
             bodies
             wholly
             putrified
             ?
          
           
             What
             Surgeon
             would
             do
             this
             ,
             but
             he
             that
             's
             mad
             ?
          
           
             He
             's
             cruel
             to
             the
             good
             who
             spares
             the
             bad
             .
          
           
             Cause
             feed
             them
             fatt
             ,
             and
             give
             them
             flesh
             and
             wine
             ,
          
           
             Bring
             in
             a
             water
             pipe
             to
             wash
             the
             Swine
             .
          
           
             Cause
             light
             the
             Western
             lamp
             ,
             which
             when
             it
             died
             ,
          
           
             Was
             ay
             with
             fire
             and
             sacrifice
             supplied
          
           
             Give
             them
             a
             power
             rebellions
             trump
             to
             blow
             ,
             
          
           
             In
             that
             same
             breath
             forbid
             them
             to
             do
             so
             .
          
           
             Give
             them
             all
             Kirkes
             ,
             reward
             them
             for
             their
             flight
             ,
          
           
             Encourage
             them
             to
             such
             another
             fight
             .
          
           
             When
             all
             is
             done
             ,
             let
             the
             whole
             world
             view
             ,
          
           
             They
             only
             hold
             Kirk
             Government
             of
             you
             .
          
           
             O
             Power
             (
             I
             l'e
             not
             blaspheme
             )
             beyond
             divine
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             meer
             contradictions
             so
             combine
             ;
          
           
             Things
             so
             discordant
             meekly
             to
             agree
             ,
          
           
             The
             Presbiterians
             and
             Monarchie
             .
          
           
             The
             Covenant
             ,
             and
             the
             alledgeance
             oath
             ,
          
           
             Bear-chaff
             and
             butter
             ,
             makes
             a
             choaking
             broath
             .
          
           
             No
             longer
             then
             ,
             this
             Prophesie
             is
             hid
             ,
          
           
             The
             Leopard
             must
             lie
             down
             with
             the
             kid
             .
          
           
             Then
             wheel
             about
             ,
             and
             as
             at
             first
             ye
             were
             ,
          
           
           
             The
             Court
             commands
             the
             haughtie
             Presbiter
             .
          
           
             Auspicious
             peace
             clapps
             her
             triumphant
             wings
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             the
             Presbiterians
             Cause
             and
             Kings
             .
          
           
             That
             
               valiant
               heel
            
             runs
             from
             it self
             at
             last
             ,
          
           
             That
             lately
             ran
             from
             Bothwel-bridge
             so
             fast
             .
          
           
             Yet
             who
             should
             challenge
             those
             the
             King
             will
             cocker
          
           
             *
             Stay
             ,
             stay
             ,
             &
             then
             take
             up
             that
             ewe
             and
             yoak
             her
             .
          
           
             A
             companie
             of
             bloody
             mutineers
             ,
          
           
             Who
             alwayes
             set
             both
             Church
             and
             State
             by
             th'
             ears
             .
          
           
             The
             Planets
             ,
             if
             we
             trust
             the
             Astrologer
             ,
          
           
             At
             their
             wretcht
             birth
             were
             all
             irregular
             ;
          
           
             A
             tribe
             that
             would
             that
             learned
             Greek
             compel
          
           
             To
             bring
             Metempsychosis
             too
             from
             hell
             .
             
          
           
             Changing
             like
             weather
             Cocks
             ,
             still
             at
             the
             flight
          
           
             Like
             Metra
             daughter
             to
             the
             hungrie
             wight
             .
          
           
             Still
             skittish
             finding
             fault
             with
             that
             ,
             with
             this
             ,
          
           
             Making
             the
             Bible
             Metamorphosis
             .
          
           
             The
             Hieroglyphicks
             of
             all
             ill
             ;
             no
             less
          
           
             Then
             the
             perfection
             of
             all
             wickedness
             .
          
           
             For
             if
             uncleanness
             ,
             lyes
             ,
             and
             murders
             be
          
           
             The
             Devils
             markes
             ,
             they
             're
             Devils
             more
             then
             he
             .
          
           
             Sleep
             Pluto
             ,
             sleep
             ,
             thou
             has
             no
             more
             to
             do
             ,
          
           
             Wher
             's
             one
             of
             those
             ther
             's
             hell
             and
             Legion
             too
             .
          
           
             All
             coxcomb
             ,
             motly
             clowns
             ,
             yet
             could
             invent
          
           
             A
             way
             to
             Heaven
             called
             Kirk
             Government
             .
          
           
             Where
             
               Major
               Wier
            
             ,
             who
             galls
             their
             memories
             ,
          
           
             Is
             now
             call'd
             Maximus
             ,
             and
             bears
             the
             keyes
             .
          
           
             They
             'r
             Dan
             and
             Bethels
             Calfs
             ,
             yet
             whom
             before
          
           
             Ladyes
             not
             on
             their
             face
             prostrate
             adore
             .
          
           
             These
             she-Fanaticks
             worst
             of
             Papists
             be
          
           
           
             If
             creature
             worship
             be
             worst
             Poperie
             .
          
           
             Yet
             since
             Sharp's
             slain
             ,
             Justice
             may
             fall
             asleep
             ,
          
           
             And
             her
             revengful
             sword
             in
             scabbard
             keep
             ,
          
           
             And
             it
             may
             be
             Astrea's
             gainful
             trade
             ,
          
           
             To
             use
             her
             ballance
             now
             ,
             more
             then
             her
             blade
             .
          
           
             Or
             since
             correction
             makes
             the
             rabble
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Its
             gallantrie
             to
             let
             them
             take
             their
             course
             .
          
           
             So
             Lybian
             Lyons
             in
             ther
             high
             wrought
             rage
          
           
             With
             Bulls
             and
             Panthers
             only
             will
             engage
             .
          
           
             While
             the
             dull
             snail
             ,
             and
             painted
             butterflie
          
           
             Glides
             through
             the
             Air
             ,
             or
             craw'ls
             securely
             by
             .
          
           
             We
             fear
             not
             then
             the
             Caledonian
             Boar
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             Tangier
             his
             wanscot
             faced
             Moor.
          
           
             For
             such
             Indulgence
             ,
             were
             he
             nee'r
             so
             wild
             ,
          
           
             Would
             make
             a
             Tyger
             ,
             or
             a
             Panther
             mild
             .
          
           
             How
             many
             have
             severe
             proceedings
             ended
             ?
          
           
             Whom
             such
             indulgence
             might
             perhaps
             amended
             .
          
           
             
               If
               Iove
               dart
               thunder
               still
               when
               men
               revolt
            
          
           
             
               He
               quickly
               would
               not
               leave
               himself
               a
               bolt
               .
            
             
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             Indulgence
             ,
             if
             an
             Act
             of
             Pollicie
             ,
          
           
             It
             s
             deep
             as
             hell
             ,
             or
             as
             the
             heavens
             it's
             hie
             .
          
           
             To
             gather
             altogither
             in
             a
             train
             ,
          
           
             And
             Iehu
             and
             Baals
             Priests
             to
             Act
             again
             .
          
           
             Or
             else
             it
             's
             like
             to
             JESUS
             who
             did
             call
          
           
             From
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             pardoned
             a
             slaughtering
             Saul
             .
          
           
             Amen
             ,
             good
             LORD
             ;
             but
             let
             us
             never
             see
             ,
          
           
             Our
             King
             accurst
             for
             letting
             Syria
             free
             .
          
           
             Me
             thinks
             ,
             I
             saw
             our
             trembling
             Kirk
             for
             life
             .
          
           
             Panting
             like
             Isaack
             underneath
             the
             knife
             :
          
           
           
             And
             heard
             Heavens
             cry
             ,
             CHARLES
             withdraw
             that
             blow
             ,
          
           
             Let
             not
             these
             ramms
             caught
             in
             the
             thickets
             go
             .
          
           
             But
             since
             it
             s
             done
             ,
             Heavens
             pardon
             all
             offence
          
           
             In
             pities
             ,
             or
             in
             Policies
             pretence
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             we
             thought
             Policy
             should
             taught
             you
             rather
             ,
          
           
             
               To
               Indulge
               them
               as
               they
               indulg'd
               your
               Father
               :
            
          
           
             Or
             ,
             as
             he
             did
             ,
             we
             fear
             ,
             too
             late
             yee
             'l
             see
             .
          
           
             There
             are
             extreams
             of
             gracious
             Clemencie
             .
          
           
             Since
             none
             may
             say
             what
             doest
             thou
             ,
             I
             take
             leave
             ,
          
           
             Indulgeo
             seldom
             hes
             the
             accusative
             .
          
        
         
           
             Mollis
             illa
             educatio
             quam
             indulgentiam
             vocamus
             ,
             nervos
             omnes
             ,
             &
             mentis
             ,
             &
             corporis
             frangit
             .
          
           
             Quintilianus
             .
          
        
         
           
             Nimia
             principum
             clementiorum
             lenitas
             ,
             innumer
             a
             mala
             ,
             Caedes
             ,
             Latrocima
             ,
             in
             ipsorum
             ditionibus
             gignit
             ,
             adeo
             principum
             Indulgentia
             ,
             quam
             inclementia
             publicè
             nocentior
             est
             .
          
           
             Machiavellus
             de
             Principe
             ,
             cap.
             17.
             
          
        
         
           
             O
             Cruel
             ,
             and
             wicked
             Indulgence
             ,
             that
             is
             now
             found
             guilty
             of
             the
             death
             ,
             not
             only
             of
             the
             Priests
             &
             People
             ,
             but
             of
             Religion
             !
             Unjust
             mercy
             can
             never
             end
             in
             less
             then
             blood
             ;
             and
             it
             were
             well
             ,
             if
             only
             the
             body
             should
             have
             cause
             to
             complain
             of
             that
             kind
             cruelty
             .
          
           
             Halls-works
             first
             
               vol.
               lib.
            
             11.
             pag.
             967.
             
          
        
         
           
             In
             Mr.
             
               Ninian
               Paterson
            
             his
             Book
             of
             
               Epigrams
               ,
               Lib.
               3
               .
               Epi.
            
             4
             .
          
           The
           Ghost
           of
           King
           Charles
           the
           First
           ,
           is
           brought
           in
           ,
           thus
           speaking
           ,
           
             
               
                 Non
                 scelus
                 ingrati
                 populi
                 ,
                 non
                 palma
                 rebellis
                 ,
              
               
                 Me
                 non
                 ira
                 poli
                 ,
                 noxa
                 ,
                 luesve
                 soli
                 ;
              
               
                 Non
                 vis
                 foeta
                 dolis
                 ,
                 non
                 daemonis
                 aestus
                 .
                 &
                 astus
                 ,
              
               
                 Sed
                 mea
                 me
                 pietas
                 perdidit
                 ,
                 atque
                 fides
              
               
                 Esto
                 tibi
                 clemens
                 ,
                 populo
                 (
                 me
                 teste
                 )
                 rebelli
              
               
                 Impius
                 es
                 princeps
                 ,
                 qui
                 cupis
                 esse
                 pius
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Englished
                 abus
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 crimes
                 ,
                 nor
                 sucoess
                 of
                 the
                 rebell
                 crue
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 Heaven
                 vengeance
                 ,
                 nor
                 earths
                 curse
                 me
                 slew
                 ,
              
               
                 Valor
                 not
                 wiles
                 ,
                 Hells
                 craft
                 ,
                 nor
                 rage
                 annoy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Me
                 my
                 Indulgence
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 faith
                 destroy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Art
                 thou
                 a
                 pious
                 Prince
                 ,
                 learn
                 this
                 of
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Kindness
                 to
                 rebels
                 is
                 impietie
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           A
           welcome
           to
           his
           Royal
           Highness
           IAMES
           Duke
           of
           Albanie
           ,
           to
           the
           Kingdom
           of
           Scotland
           .
        
         
           
             Novr.
             24.
             1679.
             
          
        
         
           
             NOw
             ,
             now
             ,
             I
             know
             what
             made
             the
             
             Eolian
             ●lave
          
           
             Stern
             Northern
             Boreas
             lately
             so
             outbrave
          
           
             Our
             hosts
             of
             mists
             and
             clouds
             ,
             
             and
             sweep
             the
             sky
          
           
             With
             his
             swell'd
             cheeks
             ;
             to
             brush
             a
             canopy
          
           
             For
             Justice
             Princely
             Stuard
             ;
             that
             none
             may
             know
          
           
             Tempests
             above
             ,
             or
             murmurs
             here
             below
             .
          
        
         
           
             Welcome
             Great
             Sir
             ,
             welcome
             as
             was
             the
             light
          
           
             To
             Chaos
             after
             an
             eternal
             night
             :
          
           
             For
             in
             this
             distance
             from
             our
             CHARLES
             his
             wayn
             ,
          
           
             Only
             lights
             elder
             Brother
             here
             did
             raign
             .
          
           
             We
             were
             so
             dark
             ,
             and
             in
             so
             great
             a
             thrall
             ,
          
           
             Egypt
             might
             well
             boast
             our
             Original
             .
          
           
             And
             Lesly
             make
             less-ly
             ,
             who
             sayes
             we
             came
          
           
             From
             
               Scota
               Pharohs
            
             Daughter
             ;
             whence
             our
             name
             .
          
           
             And
             make
             Buchanans
             Ghost
             for
             to
             recall
          
           
             Both
             our
             
               Ius
               Regni
            
             ,
             and
             Original
             .
          
        
         
           
             Shine
             then
             upon
             our
             poor
             Cimmerian
             clime
             ,
          
           
             Make
             this
             our
             first
             of
             moneths
             ,
             of
             years
             ,
             of
             time
             ;
          
           
             All
             annals
             eternize
             this
             happy
             day
             ,
          
           
           
             Let
             it
             be
             Rubrick
             and
             an
             Epochee
          
           
             To
             all
             succeeding
             generations
             :
             Since
          
           
             THE
             BLEST
             ARRIVAL
             of
             that
             Noble
             Prince
             .
          
           
             Let
             old
             men
             blesse
             their
             fates
             ,
             that
             made
             them
             last
          
           
             Till
             now
             ,
             and
             young
             men
             ,
             that
             they
             made
             such
             haste
             :
          
           
             For
             all
             dayes
             untill
             this
             ,
             had
             lost
             their
             Names
          
           
             In
             golden
             number
             ,
             since
             our
             late
             King
             JAMES
             .
          
           
             Heavens
             grant
             our
             Scotland
             once
             more
             the
             renown
             ,
             
          
           
             To
             bring
             him
             furth
             shall
             wear
             the
             British
             Crown
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             it
             's
             thought
             good
             fortune
             Lacqueys
             names
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             be
             REX
             Pacificus
             ,
             A
             JAMES
             .
          
           
             That
             so
             this
             Isle
             the
             worlds
             Epitomee
          
           
             (
             Neptuns
             inclosure
             )
             once
             more
             Gods
             may
             be
             .
          
        
         
           
             Yee
             'r
             welcome
             then
             
               Great
               Sir
            
             ,
             to
             put
             a
             date
          
           
             To
             the
             tempestuous
             tumults
             of
             our
             state
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             boiling
             billows
             to
             that
             hight
             did
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Gyants
             ,
             to
             wage
             warr
             against
             the
             skies
             .
          
           
             Ambitious
             is
             that
             raging
             foaming
             main
          
           
             Once
             more
             to
             exalt
             it self
             o're
             CHARLES
             his
             wain
             .
          
           
             But
             all
             in
             vain
             ,
             Heavens
             will
             all
             storms
             defeat
             ,
          
           
             Where
             CHARLES
             is
             Pilot
             ,
             &
             Great
             JAMES
             his
             mate
             ,
          
           
             Be
             our
             physician
             ,
             all
             our
             fears
             appease
             ,
          
           
             Calm
             Church
             distractions
             ,
             and
             cure
             states
             disease
             ,
          
           
             And
             crush
             them
             
               (
               Sir
            
             )
             for
             they
             are
             your
             worst
             friends
             ,
          
           
             Who
             turns
             their
             publick
             power
             to
             private
             ends
             .
          
           
             Ambitious
             Phaetons
             may
             they
             have
             place
             ,
          
           
             Will
             gladly
             sacrifice
             their
             Countries
             peace
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ye
             will
             see
             Royal
             sparkes
             amongst
             our
             smoak
             ,
          
           
             Wee
             'l
             be
             your
             Ivi
             ,
             if
             yee
             'l
             be
             our
             oak
             ;
          
           
             And
             faithfully
             we
             promise
             for
             our
             parts
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             we
             cannot
             give
             Crowns
             ,
             we
             will
             give
             hearts
             .
          
           
           
             Let
             English
             be
             more
             fortunate
             throughout
             ,
          
           
             Bate
             us
             that
             ace
             ,
             we
             Scots
             are
             still
             as
             stout
             .
          
           
             Nor
             power
             ,
             nor
             honour
             is
             confin'd
             to
             place
             ,
          
           
             The
             Trojans
             ruins
             rais'd
             the
             Roman
             race
             .
          
           
             Nay
             we
             have
             some
             who
             fame
             and
             honour
             breath
             .
          
           
             Dare
             gaze
             undaunton'd
             on
             the
             face
             of
             death
             ;
          
           
             Who
             to
             the
             whispers
             of
             a
             palefac't
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Or
             dreadfull
             danger
             ,
             never
             lent
             an
             ear
             .
          
           
             Whose
             purchases
             altho
             not
             great
             ,
             yet
             good
             ,
          
           
             Were
             bought
             with
             sweat
             ,
             and
             sealed
             with
             their
             blood
             .
          
           
             All
             which
             in
             camp
             ,
             or
             court
             ,
             by
             night
             ,
             or
             day
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             command
             ,
             are
             ready
             to
             obey
             .
          
           
             May
             't
             only
             please
             your
             Highness
             quash
             these
             fears
             ,
          
           
             We
             have
             conceiv'd
             from
             dalted
             Whiggimares
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             what
             e're
             these
             villains
             did
             presume
             ,
          
           
             Their
             flamm
             at
             last
             did
             only
             prove
             a
             sume
             .
          
           
             So
             may
             health
             ,
             honour
             ,
             saftie
             ,
             still
             attend
          
           
             Your
             Royal
             Highness
             to
             an
             happy
             end
             .
          
           
             And
             still
             like
             Caesars
             may
             intrancing
             blisse
          
           
             Crown
             your
             desires
             ,
             or
             else
             prevent
             your
             wis●●
          
           
             And
             be
             it
             registrate
             in
             after
             storie
             ,
          
           
             Your
             presence
             ,
             was
             our
             happiness
             ,
             and
             glory
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Ad
           Illustrissimum
           Principem
           JACOBUM
           ALBANIAE
           &
           Eboraci
           Ducem
           .
        
         
           DVX
           duce
           ubique
           DEO
           ,
           per
           te
           tua
           Scotia
           sumit
           Fracta
           ani●●s
           mores
           barbara
           ,
           pa●per
           opes
           .
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A56578-e250
           
             James
             Stuart
             
               Anagr.
               True
               Majeste
            
             ablato
             A.
             S.
             
          
        
         
           Notes for div A56578-e1590
           
             *
             Sanum
             .
          
           
             The
             Bishops
             murder
             .
          
           
             2
             Kings
             6.
             25.
             
          
           
             Vid.
             Pell
             .
             de
             Indulg
             :
             Lib.
             1.
             c.
             13.
             
          
           
             
               Lightfoots
               Temple
            
             .
             Service
             .
             c.
             9.
             
          
           
             *
             This
             was
             fulfill'd
             in
             Cameron
             ,
             and
             his
             companie
             the
             Spawn
             of
             the
             Indulgence
             .
          
           
             Pythagoras
             .
          
           
             Si
             quoties
             peccant
             b●mines
             ,
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           Notes for div A56578-e6060
           
             At
             the
             arrival
             of
             his
             R.
             Highnes
             it
             blew
             hard
             .
          
           
             The
             dutchess
             was
             reported
             with
             Child
             .
          
        
      
    
  

