A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES: A CROWNE FOR CROMWELL: A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.
You may sing this to the Tune of
faine I would.
1
Cromwell in the throne.
SO, so, the deed is done,
the Royall head is severd
As I meant, when I first begunne
and strongly have indeavord.
Now Charles the 1. is tumbled down,
the second, I not feare:
I graspe the Septer, weare the Crown,
nor for Jehovah care.
2
K. Charles in his Coffin.
Thinkst thou base slave, though in my grave,
Like other men I lie:
my sparkling fame and Royall Name
can (as thou wishest) die.
Know Caatiffe, in my sonne I live
(the black Prince calld by some)
And he shall ample vengeance give
to those that did me doome.
3
The people in the Pit.
Supprest, deprest, involvd in woes,
great
Charles thy people be
Basely deceivd with specious showes,
by those that murtherd thee.
We are inslavd to Tyrants hests,
who have our freedome wonne:
Our fainting hopes, now ownly rests
on thy succeeding sonne.
4
Cromwell on the throne.
(Base vulgar) know the more you stirre
the more your woes increase,
Your rashnesse will your hopes deter:
(tis we) must give you peace.
Black
Charles a Traytor is proclaimd
unto our dignity:
He dies (if ere by us hees gaind)
without all remidie.
5
K. Charles in his Coffin.
Thrice perjurd Villaine, didst not thou
and thy degenerate traine,
By mankinds saviours body, vow
to me thy Soveraigne,
To make me the most glorious King
that ere ore England raignd:
that
me and
mine in
every thing
by you, should be
maintaind.
6
The people in the pit.
Sweet Prince, O let us pardon crave
of thy beloved
shade,
Tis we that brought thee, to the
grave,
thou wert by us
betraid.
We
did beleeve, twas
reformation,
these
Monsters did desire:
Not
knowing, that thy
degradation
and
death, should be our
hire.
7
Cromwell on the throne,
Ye
sick braind fools, whose wit doth lie
in your small
guts; could you
Imagine our
conspiracy,
did
claime no other
due
But for to spend
our dearest
bloods,
to make
Rascalians flee,
No, we fought
for your lives and goods,
and for a
Monarchie.
8
K. Charles in his Coffin.
But theres a
thunderer above,
who though he winke
a while,
Is not
with your
black deeds in love:
he
hates your
damned guile.
And though a
time you
pearce upon
the top of
fortunes wheele,
You shortly unto
Acharon,
(drunke with your crimes) shall
reele.
9
The people in the pit.
Meanetime
(thou glory of the
earth)
we
languishing doe
die:
Excise doth give
free-quarter birth
while
Souldiers multiply.
Our
lives we forfeit every
day,
our
money cuts our
throats:
The
Lawes are taken
cleane away,
or shrunke to
Traytors votes.
10
Cromwell on the throne.
Like patient
Mules resolve to
beare
what
ere we shall
impose,
Your
lives and
goods you
need not
feare
weel prove your
friends not
foes.
We
(the Elected ones must guide
a
thousand years this land,
You
must be props unto our
pride,
and
Slaves to our command.
11
K. Charles in his coffin.
But you may
faile of your faire hopes,
if
Fates, propitious
be
And yeeld
your loathed lives in
Ropes,
to
vengeance and to
me.
When
as the Swedes and
Irish joyne,
the
Cambrian and the
Scot,
Do with the
Danes, &
French combine
then look unto your lot.
12
The people in the pit.
Our wrongs hath arm'd us with such strength
so sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
we might finde intermission,
And have but
halfe we had before,
ere these
Mechanicks swaid
To our
revenge, knee deepe in gore
we would not feare to wade.
13
Cromwell in the throne.
In vaine
(fond people) doe you
grutch,
and
tacitely repine.
For why, my
skill and
strength is such,
both
Poles of heaven are mine.
Your
hands and
purses both
coherd,
to raise us to this
height:
You must protect, those you have
reard
or
sinke beneath their
weight.
14
K. Charles in his coffin.
Singing with
Angels, neere the
throne,
of the
Almighty three:
I sit and
know perdition.
(base
Cromwell) waites on thee
And on thy
vile associates:
twelve moneths shall full conclude
Your power; thus
speake the powerfull Fates,
then vades your
interlude.
15
The people in the pit.
Yea powerfull
Fates, haste, haste, the time
the most
auspicious day,
On which these
monsters of our
clime,
to
hell must
poste away.
Meanetime so
pare their sharpned
clawes
and so impare their
stings,
We may no more fight for the
Cause,
nor other
novell things.
FINIS.