LAMENT, oh London! Mother of Cities, and let thy Daughters Mourn in Sack-cloth and Ashes, for thy Son, thy dearest Son, the Prodigal is over-taken in his Flight; The Lord High Chancellor of England turn'd Tarpolin, taken napping in a mean Bawdy-House at Wapping. What a Precipiece has he Leapt, from the Bench to the Bar; who, by our means was ad­vanc'd from the Bar to the highest Bench, in so high a Sphere, that nothing but a Gibbet cou'd Exalt him. If such a Fall be the Effects of Pride, that must be Insolence; and how Just are the Fates, that the Haughty Judge should now be brought a Criminal, even before that City over which he had so lately Insulted. Who will Proclaim this Wonder in the East, or Report it in the West? How wou'd those poor Wretches, whom he Hang'd there by Dozens, Lament, if they had but liv'd to see this Day? What an after Slaughter was it, when the Duumvirat of Tyrants, Kirk and His Lordship, went down to Reap the Gleanings of the Bloody Field; whose Voice, like a Two-edg'd Sword, destroy'd more in cold Blood, than Absalom and all his Host had done before? What thinks your Lordship of it now? Can you as easily digest an Haltar now, as you cou'd then disgorge them? Oh 'tis a rare sight to see the deploring Wretches hang by Couples, and make Wry-Mouths one at another. Methinks, the Judge and the General wou'd give as good Diversion; and it would much increase the Horror of their Punishment, if we cou'd but raise the Dead to be Spectators. This is the Noose you have both so justly deserv'd, which the ungodly Comissary so narrowly sca­ped, but into which the Wicked Councellor is so justly fall'n.

And is it not a dreadful Fall (my Lords) from the Chancery-Bench, to the Traytors-Bar? From an Insulting Peer, that Rul'd the Throne, to a whining Pri­soner in the Tower? The Privy-Council Table, transform'd into a publick Scaf­fold; The soft Cushion, into an hard Block; The Embroider'd Purse, into a Quilted Capp; and the Golden Mace, into a glittering Hatchet; the Hang-man your Charnock. But he will do you Justice: Hark how he begins to Insult al­ready in your own Terms; Ho Sir! have I catcht you? You are a Rogue, I know you Sirrah! I shall —. But Hang him! Hang him! an Haltar's too good for him, were it not to fulfil his Dream. And I should be loath to stain my Axe with his Polluted Blood, if it were not to do the Country good Service.