Sir John Berkenhead REVIV'D, OR A SATYR Against the late REBELLION.
LONDON, Printed for W. Benbridge, 1681.
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH REBELLION.
WHen as we liv'd in peace (GOD wot)
A King would not content us;
But we, forsooth, must hire the Scot,
To all-be-Parliament us.
Then down went King and Bishops too;
On goes the holy Wirk,
Betwixt them and the Brethren blew,
T' advance the Crown and Kirk.
But when that these had reign'd a time,
Robb'd Kirk, and sold the Crown;
A more religious sort up climbe,
And crush the Jockies down.
But now we must have Peace again,
Let none with fear be vext:
For, if without the King these raign,
Then heigh down they go next
A Peace, a Peace, the Country cries,
Or else we shall be undone:
For this brave War we thank the wise
Confiding Men of LONDON.
Sure now they may, as well as we,
Know how to value Quiet,
When th' Army comes their Guests to be,
For a Twelvemonths Cash and Diet.
Free Quarter is a tedious thing,
And so is the Excise.
None can deliver us but the King,
From this damn'd Dutch Device.
The Parliament hath serv'd seven years;
True vengeance then we see
Upon feign'd Jealousies and Fears;
For yet they are not free.
Long Peace a Plenty did beget,
And Plenty brought forth Pride;
Through Pride to Faction Men were set
In Parties to divide.
The new-form'd Priests first led the way,
And said it was no sin
By force to drive the King away,
And draw the CITY in.
The Lords and Commons they consent
To what each Rabbi saith;
And so the Catholick down went,
T' advance the public Faith.
This brought a War and Taxes on,
T' inslave a free-born People:
And now the Work is thus far gone,
Next have at Crown and Steeple.
Our wise Reformers, brave and gay,
Have ta'ne a goodly course,
To fight, to feast, to fast and pray,
And milk each honest Purse.
The Crown's Revenue goes to wrack,
While they sing Hymns and Psalms;
And rather than themselves will lack,
The King must live on Alms.
We are, the learned Synod says,
The Church of England's Nurse,
Who make them bless the Sabbath-days,
And all the week to curse.
The Plough stands still, and Trade is small;
For Goods, Lands, Towns, and Cities,
Nay, I dare say, the Devil and all,
Pays Tribute to Committees.
A Scot and Jesuit joyn'd in hand,
First taught the World to say,
That Subjects ought to have command,
And Princes to obey.
These both agreed to have no King;
The Scotchman he cries further,
No Bishop: 'tis a godly thing
States to reform by Murther.
Then th' Independent meek and sly,
Most lowly lies at lurch,
And so to put poor Jocky by,
Resolves to have no Church.
The King dethron'd! the Subjects bleed!
The Church hath no abode;
Let us conclude they 're all agreed,
That sure there is no GOD.
Our States-men (though no Lunaticks,
No Wizards, nor Buffons)
Have shewn a hundred Changeling-Tricks,
In less than three New Moons.
The Devils foot is cleft (men speak)
And so (GOD knows) are they:
The Factions rule by fits, then take
Their turnes, and run away.
They vote, vnvote, and vote with noise
What they cry'd down before,
As ready as if LONDON-Boys
Were knocking at the dore.
To day an Independ out-side;
And then a Scotch to morrow:
Thus shuffle and cut, they do divide
Our Wealth, whilst we know sorrow.
O happy▪ Treason! See how Wealth
Is made their Heaven! They swell
With Pride! and live by Blood and Stealth,
As if there were no Hell!
No Saduces but must confess,
Those Monsters which are told
In Story, are risen now no less
Prodigious then of old.
Both Cain and Judas back are come,
In Vizards most divine:
GOD bless us from a Pulpit▪ Drum,
And a Preaching Catiline.
They feed upon a Kingdoms Curse,
And prey upon a King!
The Dev'l provide a second Course,
And then a Voyder bring.
Now CHARLES, thy Conquest is compleat,
And all the World shall see,
That GOD which guides the Royal Scot,
Will thy Avenger be.
O House of Commons, House of Lords,
Amend before September:
For 'tis decreed, your Souldiers Swords
Shall then you All-dismember.
But like fair Chapmen, 'twas well done,
To give you time and day
To cast accompts; for one by one
They will you soundly pay.
The Kingdom all in pieces torn!
Your time is fairly spent;
To make your selves a very scorn,
Your King but Jack-a-Lent.
Now, now we see 'twas for the Crown
The Houses both did fight:
For since the Cavaliers are down,
They put the King to flight.
The Adjutators stern and proud,
Said, He should have no Quarter,
Because he is a King; and vow'd
To make the Saint a Martyr.
Their Officers cry'd, Hail, O King;
The rest made mocks and scorns;
The Houses Vinegar did bring,
And all did plat the Thorns.
Thus crucifi'd, Great CHARLES did live
As dead, is gone away:
For Resurrection, GOD will give
A new Cor'nation day.
Rouze up! King Charles hath mist the snare
Laid for his Royal Feet:
Let th' Adjutators now take care
Each for his Winding-sheet.
The Army rendezvouzed are,
And do they know not what;
The Scots and they are like to jar:
Let us thank GOD for that.
The Houses know not what to think;
The Citt's horn-madded be:
They must be whipt until they stink:
A joyful sight to see!
Thus Cavaliers cast up your Caps,
And tell the Rebels plain,
That Charles in spight of all their traps,
Shall shortly rule again.
For Liberty, and Privilege,
Religion and the King,
We fought; But O! the Golden Wedge!
That is the only Thing.
There lies the Cream of all the Cause;
Religion is but Whig;
Pure Privilege eats up the Laws,
And cries, For Kings a Fig.
The Houses may a Christmas keep,
The Countrymen a Lent,
The Citizens (like silly sheep)
Must fast, and be content.
Then where is Liberty, (I pray)
With Justice, Truth and Right?
Sure they and Conscience fled away
With Charles, to th' Isle of Wight.
Gape, gape for Peace, poor Countrymen;
The Members mean to treat:
And we shall see fair play agen,
When they no more can cheat.
The King shall come to Westminster,
It may be to his Grave,
Or of a glorious Prince must there
Be made a Royal-Slave.
But 'twere more wise to let him reign
Out of his Peoples sight,
For fear he should bring Peace again,
And put them in a fright.
Sure Martin lay in of a Clap,
And Say himself did dote;
The Devil too, wore a fick Cap,
When th' Houses past this Vote,
Come let us live, and laugh away
The follies of this Age;
Treason breeds care; we'll sing and play
Like birds within a cage.
Fetters are th' only favors now
The Houses give (we see:)
And since the King them wears, I vow,
'Twere baseness to be free.
Then let us all our sorrows drown
In Sack and merry Glee:
Ye Citizens of London▪ Town,
What jolly Slaves are we!
For Common-prayer, ye have Excise,
Free-quarter too is comming
To pay you for your Mutinies,
Feasts, Covenants, and Drumming.
No Puritan, no Popish Priest,
Nor Prot'stant now shall be;
Nor Law, but to live as we list,
'Tis Heaven thus to be free.
Could Babylons great King now sit
In Counsel with our Nation,
He were the only Man to fit
Us with a Reformation.
The glorious Golden-Idol then
Might shine in each Dominion;
Both Factions and their Brethren
Would soon be one opinion.
Away, thou Pagan-Cavalier,
This God must not be thine;
But for the Saints at Westminster,
Whose souls are more divine.
Live, drink, and laugh, our Worthies may,
And kindly take their fills;
The Subjects must their reckonings pay,
The King must pass their Bills.
No Princes now, but they; the Crown
Is vanisht with our Quiet;
Nor will they let us use our own
Devotions and Diet.
All Plums the Prophets Sons defie,
And Spice-broths are too hot;
Treason's in a December-Pye,
And Death within the Pot.
Christmas, farewel; thy day (I fear)
And merry-days are done:
So they may keep Feasts all the year,
Our Saviour shall have none.
O happy Nation heretofore,
When Seas our Walls have been;
Unhappy now we see no shore,
But are all Sea within.
Factions, like Billows, rage and toss,
And Death mounts ev'ry Wave;
Yet in this Storm we are so cross,
We will no Pilot have.
Just such a Tempest seiz'd upon
Blest Paul, the Scripture says,
When he had seen no Sun nor Moon,
Nor Stars for many days.
Our Sun and Moon no beams create,
Our Stars disperst we see:
Such as was his, will be our Fate,
We must all shipwrackt be.
A glorious Prince this Parliament
The King should be, did swear;
But now we understand they meant
In Heaven, and not here.
Let them invade the Throne, and part
His Crown, and vote his Fate;
Yet know, in each true Noble Heart,
He keeps his Chair of State.
Princes may be, like other Men,
Imprisoned, and kept under
A while, as fire in clouds, but then
At length appear in Thunder.
And, as in hidden Caves the wind
Sad tremblings doth create;
So Monarchs, by their own confin'd,
Cause Earthquakes in the State.
Farewel the Glory of our Land;
For, now the Free-born Blades,
Our Lives and our Estates command,
And ride us all like Jades.
Faith and Religion bleeding lie,
And Liberty grows faint:
No Gospel, but pure Treachery,
And Treason make the Saint.
Oh! 'tis a heavenly Cause (I trow)
Which first baptiz'd the Round-head
In Noble Strafford's Blood! but now
Must on the Kings be founded.
Yet know, that Kings are Gods on Earth;
And those which pull them down,
Shall find it is no less than Death
To tamper with a Crown.
'Tis true, as Harry Martin said,
The Scots away must pack;
The Cov'nant shall aside be laid,
Like an Old Almanac.
Come then, and buy my New, true, New,
New Almanac most true,
Such Accidents of State to shew,
The like no Age ere knew.
Since that we lost our King and Laws,
Since Jealousies and Fears,
Since Peace, pure Truth, and this Foul Cause,
It is full seven years.
Poor CHARLES pursu'd in Forty one,
Ʋnking'd in Forty seven;
The Eighth will place him on his Throne,
In Earth, or else in Heaven.
Three Kingdoms brought to a fine pass,
Whilst that our Saviours Rule,
The Country is become an Ass,
The City but a Mule.
Each Ʋniversity now pines,
The Church may hang and rot;
They banish all our true Divines,
The Lawyers too must trot.
Come, Sirs, more Sacks unto the Mill,
More Taxes, more Free-quarter;
'Tis fit our Laws be your bare Will,
And the Excise our Charter.
God speed the Plough: plague Rooks and Crows,
And send us years more cheap:
For, I am sure, whoever sows,
The Houses mean to reap.
Money, the Soul of Man and Wit,
But yet no Saint of mine!
While th' Houses vote, and Synod sit,
Thou ne're shalt want a Shrine.
Reforming is a dull Device,
Dreads nought but strife and rage:
Thou putt'st us into Paradice,
And bring'st the Golden Age.
Thou art Religion, God, and all
That we may call Divine:
Thy Temple is Westminster-Hall,
And all our Priests are thine.
Tush, tell not us the way to Heav'n,
Thou juggling Clergy-Elf,
That sett'st the World at six and seven's;
Money is Heav'n it self.
Betwixt those Atheists feign'd of old,
And ours, there is no odds;
For, both this one opinion hold,
That Fear did first make Gods.
Hell now is thought an idle Dream
To fright Men from their Crimes:
Religion but a crafty Theam,
Made to Bug-bear the Times.
The Bible and great Babels Whore,
May both together burn;
For the Religious Fit is o're
Now they have serv'd their turn.
Only, one Text may scape their hands,
Since they have ta'en such pains,
To lay their Lords in Iron Bands,
And bind their Kings in Chains.
Copernicus, thy learned skill
We praise, since we have found
The truth; for now doth Hea'vn stand still
Whilst that the Earth runs round.
See how the Wheel of Providence
Back Old Confusion brings!
Cashires us once of a Prince,
To plague's with Petty Kings.
They say the Saints all rule must take,
And others must have none:
Their Privilege it is to make
A Foot-stool of the Throne.
The Laws o'th Land say, Charles must reign,
And Conscience pleads his Cause:
But Conscience is a thing most vain,
Their Gospel eats up Laws.
Never such Rebels have been seen,
As since we led this Dance:
So we may feast, let Prince and Queen
Beg a-la-mode-de-France.
Let Conscience pine, and cry 'tis strange,
Wee'll say 'tis bravely done,
To make the King take in Exchange
A Dungeon for a Throne.
Away with Justice, Laws and Fear;
When Men resolve to rise,
Brave Souls must scorn all Scruples where
A Kingdom is the Prize.
Then let us what our Labours gain
Enjoy, and bless our Chance:
Like Kings let's domineer and reign;
Thus, a-la-mode-de-France.
King and no King, was once a Play,
Or Fable on the Stage:
But see! it is become this day
The Moral of our Age.
Newcastle was the first best Scene,
Then Holmby, Hampton-Court;
Next, from a Palace to a Den
Translated, to make sport.
Each State-Buffoon a part did take;
Some plaid the Fool, some Knave;
But still the Plot was laid to make
Their King a Royal Slave.
Brave Actors! we admire your skill;
Your Play none understands;
Yet make an Exit when you will,
We all shall clap our hands.
At Westminster two wond'rous Beasts
This day are to be seen,
March 14. 1648▪
Call'd Liberty and Privilege,
(GOD save the King and Queen)
Say▪ Monsters strange, what kin are ye
To Tygers or the Lion?
For shame boast not your Pedigree
From the sweet Sons of Zion.
This Libertie first whelpt the Cause;
The Cause then lay at lurch,
To gull the City, damn the Laws,
And quite cashire the Church.
But Privilege (O monstrous Thing!)
Eats up poor Cavaliers,
Feeds on the Gentry and the King;
But next have at the Peers.
Once more the Kingdom lies at Stake,
No matter then who wins;
Two Schismaticks the Wagers make,
And now the Game begins.
The Scots and Sects, two Godly Cheats,
Debar both Ace and Sice:
To rook each other with fine Feats,
They both bring in false Dice.
The first throws for the Covenant,
Next who shall rule and sway:
For Jocky now doth swear and rant,
He'll have no more soul play.
The Sectaries cry'd, Have at all,
When first the Dice were thrown;
But rather than the Scots shall brawl,
They 'll part stakes in the Crown.
The Devils reign is short, though fierce;
Then let our Music▪ found;
The Drawers all the Hogsheads pierce,
And make the Healths go round.
Here's a Health to the King in Sack,
To the Houses in Small-Beer;
In Vineger to th' crabbed Pack
Of Priests at Westminster
Next, to revive our fainting States,
Fill out some Aqua vitae:
'Twere pity on the Bridge such Pates
Should meet in a Committee.
Let's water th' Royal Plants with Tears
Of rich, divine Canary:
Drink on, Cav'liers, t' all Loyal Peers;
Then end with Charles and Mary.
Full forty thousand Scots, by Vote,
Must visit us e're long:
Brave Army sure! when ev'ry Scot
Is forty thousand strong!
Though th' Houses have deserv'd these plagues,
GOD keep our Nation free:
Like Egypt, let not us, by Rags
And Vermin conquer'd be.
For shame, for shame, call home your King,
With Honour let him treat:
His Nature is without a sting;
His Motto, To forget.
Return, return, Disloyal Crue
Of Men forsworn: if not,
Rather than thus we'll stoop to you,
We'll Idolize the Scot.
Come, Mahomet, thy Turn is next;
Now Gospel's out of date:
The Alcoran may prove Good Text
In our new Turkish-State.
Thou dost unto thy Priests allow
The sin of full four Wives:
Ours scarce will be content with now
Five Livings, and nine Lives.
Thy Saints and ours are all alike;
Their Vertues flow from Vice:
No Bliss they do believe, and seek
But an Earthly Paradice.
A Heav'n on Earth they hope to gain,
But we do know full well,
Could they their glorious ends attain,
This Kingdom must be Hell.
From Prison now return the King,
The Queen and Prince from France;
For Chosen Charles the Welsh-men sing,
And stoutly lead the Dance.
The Scotch-Bag-Pipes, the Pulpit-Drums
And Priests sound high and big:
Once more the Cause and Cov'nant comes
To shew's a Scotish Jig
The Irish will a Voyage take,
To join their force in one;
And whilst they frisk a Galliard, make
The Houses sing, O Hone.
Three Kingdoms thus must dance the Hay;
But ere the Members run,
We'll see they shall the Music pay,
And then the Dance is done.
Seven years by phrentic Votes and Fits,
Our Worthies bore command;
Then did they run out of their Wits,
But now out of the Land.
No more shall they the City ride
Like a fine Golden Ass;
The Navy's rigg'd with Wind and Tide,
They stay but for a Pass.
But if they linger long behind,
And keep their King in Bands,
I'll undertake it shall be sign'd
By a hundred thousand Hands.
For prosp'rous Gales then on the Deep;
Let their Priests prate and pray
By Order, and at Margarets keep
An Humiliation-day.
The Factious now each other rout
With Jealousies and Fear:
The Independents face about,
The rest cry, As you were.
The Presbyters put forth their Horns
To guard their Goods and Homes;
The She-Militia likewise scorns
Their Cocks should lose their Combs.
Then toll (I pray) the Passing-Bell
For our new State-Committee:
These monstrous Votes, which made them swell,
Are cow'd down by the City.
Sweet John-a-Nokes and John-a-Styles,
And worshipful Jack-Straws,
Of both the Junto's, leave your Wiles,
And give's our King and Laws.
Betwixt two thieves our Saviour once
Suffer'd for us, and di'd:
So 'twixt two thievish Factions
Our King is crucifi'd.
Caesar, not Christ, the ancient Jews
Paid tribute of their Treasure;
Our Jews no King but Christ will chuse,
And rob, and cry down Caesar.
Now, for the King the zealous Kirk
'Gainst th' Independent bleats,
When as (alass!) their only wirk
Is to renew old Cheats.
If they can sit, vote what they list,
And crush the new States down,
Then up go They, but neither Christ
Nor King, shall have his own.
The Pox, the Plague, and each Disease,
Are cur'd, though they invade us:
But never look for Health and Peace,
If once Presbyt'ry jade us.
When ev'ry Priest becomes a Pope,
Then Tinkers and Sow-gelders
May, if they can but 'scape the Rope,
Be Princes and Lay-Elders.
If once the Kirk-men pitch their Tents
Without our Assembly-Asses,
Synods will eat up Parliaments,
Courts be devour'd by Classes.
Look to't, ye Gentry, else be Slaves
To Slaves that can't abide ye:
Though ye have been cow'd down by Knaves,
Oh! let not Fools now ride ye.
But sev'n years (of a thousand 'tis)
Our Saints must Rulers be:
So they shall lose in years of bliss,
Nine hundred ninety three.
No more then let those Rabbies trust
Unto the Revelation;
For their Interpreter is Lust,
And Pride makes Application.
Religion but a Pack-horse is,
To carry on Designes;
The Bible like a Juglers Box,
Us'd by our State-Divines.
Texts are tormented one by one,
Like Votes, now here, now there:
Thus Hocus-Pocus is out-done
By them at Westminster.
The Banes are askt, the Marriage next
Goes forward in the City:
For now the Match is made betwixt
Them and the State-Committee.
Thou Strumpet (London) tell not us
Of Babel any more;
If from thy King thou partest thus,
Thou art the greater Whore.
Thy Bags their Portion now are meant,
As well as Crown and Church;
But when that all is gone and spent,
They'll leave thee in the lurch.
Thou Bawd of Treason, then for all
Thy cursed Fornication,
Thou and thy Priestly Panders shall
Be Carted through the Nation.
The Market's made; the King shall treat,
(They say) and buy his own:
But is not this a very Cheat.
To set the price, a Crown?
Alas! the Members run by rote,
And shew us many a Feat:
Thus all the year they'll vote, unvote,
For Money, Cloaths and Meat.
'Tis fit that they uphold their Trades,
What ere Malignants speak:
So they can thrive, the City-Jades
Their Backs and Necks may break.
Poor, What d' lack? small gains can show,
With many an empty Shelf:
The House spoils Shops; 'tis Aye and No,
That brings in all the Pelf.
Rebellion makes our Nation bleed
With fresh Alarms (we see:)
But yet it is not well agreed
Who must the Rebel be.
The Round-head first the Rebel was,
(If truth be in the Laws)
Till Treason did for Gospel pass,
To bolster up the Cause.
The thriving Cause with high disdain,
In Fortunes full Career,
Throws Rebel in the face again
Of King and Cavalier.
Thus Prosp'rous mischief makes it good
Against all Law and Reason:
Not to spill Royal, Loyal Blood,
But, to be conquer'd 's Treason.
Five months ago, our mighty States
June 20. 1648.
Were pleas'd to vote No King;
But two months since, to act new Cheats,
Their Votes the Changes ring.
'Tis time the Bells of Westminster
Chime Backwards, and retire
To quench the Flame, when as we hear
The Kingdom's all on fire
But yet (it seems) they make a stand,
And cry it is no matter:
What need they care for Fire on Land,
Whose Journey lies by Water?
GOD send them Ships, fair Winds and Ti [...]
With Passage quick and good;
Or else I fear (to scourge our pride)
They'll swim through Seas of Blood.
The Holy War goes on apace,
Yet brings the Saints no Pay:
In triumph now they ne're say Grace,
But only Fast and Pray.
They many an hungry Conquest get,
But not Thanksgiving Dinners:
The City knows they scorn to eat
With Publicans and Sinners.
The Members cannot spare one Meal;
Their Bags lie seal'd in Town:
What though they broke the Kings great Seal,
They'll not undo their own?
The Country bids them starve, or hang,
They'll be no more kept under:
The Cavaliers will soundly bang
Them all, and spoil their Plunder.
Reformation, thou Stalking-Horse
Of our Hip-shotten State,
Th' Appendix of the Public Purse,
And Midwife of our Fate!
'Twas Thou, and Beldam-Conscience first,
That set the world a madding;
And you your selves, like Cain accurst,
Have ever since been gadding.
Pox take th' unlucky Cause, for me,
It is a Wild Vagary;
The Bane of Boon Society:
For that first rais'd Canary.
Poor Sinners now must snap a crust;
Ye deadly sev'n, farewel:
For since y'are all Excis'd, we must
Pay dear to purchase Hell.
What, though the Factions are agreed
The Kingdom still to cheat?
Do what they can, it is decreed
The King shall come and treat.
Come from the Dungeon to the Throne,
(Great Charles) and quell the rage
Of th' Iron world; with Thee alone
Revives the Golden Age.
Those very Saints, which joy'd thy Fall,
And said thy day was done,
Will now like Persian-Pagans, all
Adore the Rising Sun.
No more wrapt up in Clouds remain,
Secluded from the Nation:
May Thou and Thine shine bright, and reign
A Glorious Constellation.
It is decreed (Great Prince) thy Fate
Shall check their damned Plots;
Though London jade it for the State,
And bandies at the Scots.
The Presbyters now fain would ride,
And shew us t' other Feat;
Therefore to quell the Saints high pride,
They say the King shall treat.
Were he in their hands, the Town's their own,
The Houses too must work,
To vote the Independents down,
And mount the Rascal Kirk.
Away, ye juggling, paltry Crew
Of well-affected Knaves;
Rather than free your Sov'raign, you
Your selves will live like Slaves.
Stand to 't, ye Lords, we'll stand to you,
And clip the Commons wings:
Let not the Lev'ling Rascal-Crew,
Thus domineer like Kings.
The Lower is the Ʋpper-House,
And hath been so seven years:
Your Votes they value not a Lowse,
Ye Antichristian Peers.
They give you many a Ratling Peal,
And bait you one by one;
For should a Treaty take, their Zeal
And Saintships are undone.
My Lords, of Gotam, not of Greece,
Your Wisdoms I shall sing;
And sell you all for pence apiece,
If you reject your King.
No Camel like the LONDON breed,
To drudge, pray, pay, and feast;
In Body, and in Purse to bleed:
O 'tis a patient Beast!
If you'll needs pray, pray stay at home;
Tell GOD your sad condition:
'Tis Popish to the Saints to come
And put up your Petition.
This wondrous Idol of the States,
The Stomach hath of Bell:
Like Moloch it Mankind doth eat,
And quick devours like Hell.
As th' Horse-Leech (Give) it ever cries,
And rages like the Dragon;
As the old Serpent it is wise:
But it must fall like Dagon.
Would you know why the Plauge hath ceas't
These last sev'n years now spent?
Because GOD knows no greater Pest
Than this same Parliament.
1648.
How many thousands hath it swept
Of Bodies, Souls, and Gold!
King, Church, and People, (none except)
Have all been bought and sold.
Our merry Pipes, for Trumpets shrill;
Our Tabers chang'd to Drums:
Princes are brav'd by Jac and Gill,
Wat Tilers, and Tom Thums.
'Tis time those Bags, which caus'd the War,
Should make the War to cease;
For the States Music is to jar,
But our best Musick's Peace.
Now shall the King enjoy his own;
And that new Vertue, Treason,
Whereby the Saints do claim the Crown,
Be baffled with high Reason.
Great CHARLES, thy Vertues I desire,
Not Solomons, nor his Stores;
For who can tell most to admire
His Wisdom or his Whores?
His Vices so eclips'd his Grace,
That wranglers cannot tell,
Whether as yet they may him place
In Heaven, or in Hell.
But all that was in him Divine,
And more, to Thee is giv'n;
That where so many Graces shine,
A Prison must be Heav'n.
Another Blow! will not the Scot,
And Loyal English do?
Sure, Jove himself is of the Plot,
An Independent too.
Is he a King, and will he see
Rebels assault the Crown?
Had they but hands to reach, 'tis he
Should next resign his own.
Is he a God? and shall this Tribe
Go on as they begin?
Atheists will say, They do him bribe
For Privilege to sin
If these be Saints, 'tis vain indeed
To think there's Good or Evil:
The World will soon be of this Creed,
No God, no King, no Devil.
Of all those Monsters which we read
In Afric, Inde, or Nile,
None like to those now lately bred
Within this wretched Isle.
The Cannibal, the Tygre fell,
Crocodile and Sycophant;
The Turk, the Jew, and Infidel,
Make up an English Saint.
By these were Lisle and Lucas crown'd;
Two Worlds, both great and good:
For Men, Art, Arms, were all here drown'd
I'th' Deluge of their blood.
The Trump of Fame's too low and weak,
That of the General Doom
Is only fit their praise to speak,
The World to be their Tomb.
The Treaty holds; and some men are
Convinc'd the Wars will cease:
Fond Folk! To think the Men of War
Will e're endure a Peace.
Go, bid the Scot quit English Ground,
The Swede the German Air;
Holland obey the Spanish Crown,
The Pope leave Peter's Chair.
Woo the great States-man to his Grave,
Preach Gospel to the Jews;
To Turks, that Mahomet's a Knave,
Platonic Love to Stews.
Let Citizens loath sacred things,
Presbyters pride and ease;
When these are done, make Saints love Kings,
And then we may have Peace.
See in what glory CHARLES now sits,
With Truth to conquer Treason;
And prove he is the King of Wits,
The World, Himself, and Reason.
Angels bear witness GOD looks down,
The Graces too attend;
Sure none but Devils then will frown
Upon a blessed end.
Ten hundred thousand Loyal Hearts,
All bleeding at his Fate▪
As many Wishes from all parts
Flie round his Chair of State.
Come then, ye dirty Sainted Elves,
Worse than Church▪ window paint:
By this fair Glass abhor your selves,
Learn here to be a Saint.
The King the four great Bills must pass,
And none but Saints be free:
Th' Irish and Cavaliers (alas!)
Must th' only Rebels be.
New Lords, new Laws, new Saints are we;
Religion's in a fine pickle,
When 'tis resolv'd the Church shall be
A Three-years Conventicle.
Militia too, they needs must gain,
Those pretty carnal Tools:
For Pauls old Weapons they disdain,
As fit for none but Fools.
Thus Royal CHARLES lets to Lense,
Lays Sword and Scepter down,
To shew he values Ʋs and Peace
Above a glorious Crown.
Give me the Dragons Gall for Ink,
His sting to be my Pen,
To blast the Scot, and make him stink
Worse than the Dregs of men.
See now the Reformation-Wirk,
For which they made us bleed,
Is to cashire King, Church and Kirk,
On this and that side Tweed.
Let them with Egypts plagues be crost,
Yet still find new and worse;
And since I have Jobs patience lost,
Give me his skill to curse.
At Home and Hell may they e're dwell;
And for quick passage thither,
As they have juggled all full well,
So may they hang together.
Let me be Turk, or any thing,
But a Scotch Calvinist:
First he damn'd Bishops; next, his King;
Now he cashires his Christ.
Gude faith, Sir, they the Pulpit bang,
But let their Gospel down;
For, the old Saviour needs must gang
Now a new one's come to town.
The Saints, whom once their mouths did curse,
Dear Brethren are, and Friends:
Which proves their Zeal a Stalking-Horse
For Knavish-godly ends.
Then rail no more at Antichrist,
But learn ye to be civil:
And since ye have King Cromwel kist,
Shake hands too with the Devil.
Since they have damn'd all Saints of old,
No new shall be for me:
Like Jews, they worship Gods of Gold,
Their King they crucifie.
Were he the King of Kings, his Crown
Could not be safe from Foes:
Like Jesuites, they no Gospel own,
But Murther and Depose.
Like Turks, their Heav'n lies all in Sense,
In Wenches, Tarts and Gelly:
No Hell they fear, when parted hence;
They serve no God▪ but Belly.
All this, and more, (by Jove) is true,
If they the Treaty cease,
To juggle with the Lev'lling Crew
That cry, No King, No Peace.
No Lord, no Knight, no Gentleman,
For Honours now are Crimes:
The Saints will form us (if they can)
All to the Prim'tive times.
Brave days, when Adam was a King
Without Crown, Lands, or Riches!
So, stript of Royal Robes, they'll bring
Great CHARLES, to Fig-leave Breeches.
Princes with Plowmen rank shall pass;
Ladies, like the first Woman,
Must spin, or else be turn'd to Grass,
Now all things are in common.
Thus Cov'nanting, and Levelling,
Three Kingdoms have o'rethrown,
And made all fellows with their King,
A Foot-ball of the Crown.
Tell me thou Presbyterian Ass,
Why thou at first didst jar:
Thy peevish Plea (No Bishops) was
The first ground of the War.
Next, to thy shame, thou didst combine
With the Sectarian Routs;
Our CHARLES should be no King of thine,
Or but a King of Clouts.
Both King and Bishops thus exil'd,
The Saints not yet content:
Now with fresh flames of Zeal grow wild,
And cry, No Parliament.
Well may we then this Maxime prove,
Treason no end can know,
But levels at the Gods above,
As well as those below.
Hark, how for Peace the Kingdom groans,
That warr'd they knew not why!
Yeild then, or else the very Stones
Will out against you cry.
For shame, ye Bastard-saints, give oe'r,
Or else the world will think
Your Mother is great Babels Whore,
If blood you love to drink.
The State's grown fat with Orphans Tears,
Whilst Widows pine and moan;
And tender Conscience in sev'n years,
Is turn'd t' a heart of Stone.
Return, hard hearts, the Treaty ends,
Our breasts with hope do swell;
Your Bags are full, then let's be friends,
Or bid the World farewel.
No Gods above, nor Gods below,
Our Saints (I see) will own;
Allegiance is Rebellion now,
Treason to wear a Crown.
Nor King nor Parliament will please,
'Tis Gospel to rebel:
Nay, they'll Remonstrate against Peace,
Be it in Heav'n or Hell.
Pluto, beware, (to thee they come
When here their work is done:)
For they'll break loose, and beat up Drum,
And storm thee in thy Throne.
Then John-a Leyden, Nel, and all
Their goblin ghostly Train,
(Brave Rebel Saints triumphant) shall
Begin their second Reign.
Brave Reformation! now I see
London's a blessed place,
To find the Saints chearful and free
And nurse the Babe of Grace.
Let yellow boys ne're tempt their sight,
Of Valour with the sourcis
For the tame Slaves will never fight
Till they have empty Purses.
Come then, ye lowsie wanton Wags
Of sainted Chivalry,
And free their poor condemned Bags
That groan for Liberty.
March on, boon Blades, here's store of Cash,
Their King they will not pity:
Then spur them on, and soundly lash
These Dull-men of the City.
Dull Cuckolds! we are dainty Slaves,
And well may be content,
When Thirty Fools, and Twenty Knaves,
Make up a Parliament.
They banish all men in their Wits,
Vote King, Lords, all Offenders;
And authorize the phrentic Fits
Of our long-sword State-menders.
'Tis Nol's own Brew-house now, I swear;
The Speaker's but his Skinker:
Their Members are, like th' Council of War,
Car-men Pedlers, and Tinkers.
Fine Journey Junto! prety Knack!
None such in all past Ages!
Shut shop; for, now the godly Pack
Will next pay you your Wages.
Gone are those Golden Days of yore,
When Christmas was an High-day,
Whose sports we now shall see no more;
'Tis turn'd into Good-Friday.
Now, when the King of Kings was born,
And did salvation bring,
They strive to crucifie in scorn
His Vice-Roy, and their King.
Since th' ancient Feast they have put down,
No new one will suffice;
But the choice Dainties of a Crown,
Princes in Sacrifice.
No Powers are safe, Treason's a Tilt,
And the mad Sainted-Elves
Boast when the Royal Blood is spilt,
They'll all be Kings themselves.
Like jolly Slaves, ye goodly Knaves,
We'll bid th' old year Adieu:
Old Sack, and things must pass away,
And so shall all your new.
Now for a No-King, or a New;
For th' old, they say, shall pack;
The New may serve a year to view
Like an old Almanack.
New Houses, new; for th' old ones dote,
And have been thrice made Plunder;
The Saints do vote, and act by rote,
And are a Nine-days-wonder.
Then let us chear, this merry New-year;
For CHARLES shall wear the Crown:
'Tis a damn'd Cause, that damns the Laws,
And turns all up-fide down.
FINIS.