The character of a London-diurnall with severall select poems / by the same author.
         Cleveland, John, 1613-1658.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A33429 of text R6762 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing C4666). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A33429
         Wing C4666
         ESTC R6762
         11796334
         ocm 11796334
         49320
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A33429)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 49320)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 22:2)
      
       
         
           
             The character of a London-diurnall with severall select poems / by the same author.
             Cleveland, John, 1613-1658.
          
           
             This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A33429 of text R6762 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing C4666). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
           [2], 56 p.
           
             s.n.],
             [London :
             1647.
          
           
             Pages 7-56 in verse.
             Attributed to John Cleveland. Cf. BM.
             Place of publication from BM.
             Fifth ed. Cf. Morris, B. John Cleveland (1613-1658), a bibliography of his poems, D5. Wing calls this 4th [i.e. 6th] ed., 22 poems.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Political poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A33429  R6762  (Wing C4666).  civilwar no The character of a London-diurnall: vvith severall select poems: by the same author. Optima & novissima editio. Cleveland, John 1647    15743 209 0 0 0 0 0 133 F  The  rate of 133 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the F category of texts with  100 or more defects per 10,000 words. 
        2003-02 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
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        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2003-04 Olivia Bottum
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2003-04 Olivia Bottum
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2003-06 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
       
         
           THE
           CHARACTER
           OF
           A
           London-Diurnall
           :
           VVith
           severall
           select
           POEMS
           :
        
         
           By
           the
           same
           Author
           .
        
         
           Optima
           &
           novissima
           Editio
           .
        
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Yeere
           MDCXLVII
           .
        
      
    
     
       
       
       
         
           THE
           CHARACTER
           OF
           A
           London-Diurnall
           .
        
         
           A
           
             Diurnall
          
           is
           a
           puny
           Chronicle
           ,
           scarce
           pin-feather'd
           with
           the
           wings
           of
           time
           :
           It
           is
           an
           Historie
           in
           
             Sippets
             ;
          
           the
           English
           
             Iliads
          
           in
           a
           Nut-shell
           ;
           the
           
             Apocryphall
          
           Parliaments
           book
           of
           
             Macca
             bees
          
           in
           single
           sheets
           .
           It
           would
           tire
           a
           Welch-pedigree
           ,
           to
           reckon
           how
           many
           aps
           't
           is
           remov'd
           from
           an
           Annall
           :
           For
           it
           is
           of
           that
           Extract
           ;
           onely
           of
           the
           younger
           Ho●se
           ,
           like
           a
           Shrimp
           to
           a
           Lobster
           The
           
             originall
             sinner
          
           in
           this
           kind
           was
           Dutch
           ;
           
             Galliobelgicus
          
           the
           
             Protoplast
             ;
          
           and
           the
           
             moderne
             Mercuries
          
           but
           
             Hans-en-Kelders
             .
          
           The
           Countesse
           of
           
             Zealand
          
           was
           brought
           to
           bed
           of
           an
           Almanack
           ;
           as
           many
           Children
           ,
           as
           daies
           in
           the
           yeare
           .
           It
           may
           be
           the
           
             Legislative
             Lady
          
           is
           of
           that
           Linage
           ;
           so
           she
           spawnes
           the
           
             Diurnalls
             ,
          
           and
           they
           at
           
             VVestminster
             ,
          
           take
           them
           in
           Adoption
           ,
           by
           the
           names
           of
           
             Scoticus
             ,
             Civicus
             ,
             Britanicus
             .
          
           In
           the
           Frontispice
           of
           the
           old
           
             Beldame-Diurnall
             ,
          
           like
           the
           Contents
           of
           the
           Chapter
           ,
           sits
           the
           House
           of
           Commons
           judging
           the
           twelve
           Tribes
           of
           
             Israel
             ,
          
           You
           may
           call
           them
           the
           Kingdomes
           Anatomy
           before
           the
           weekly
           Kalender
           :
           For
           such
           is
           a
           
             Diurnall
             ,
          
           the
           day
           of
           the
           moneth
           ,
           with
           what
           weather
           in
           the
           Common-wealth
           .
           'T
           is
           taken
           for
           the
           Pulse
           of
           the
           Body-Politique
           ;
           and
           the
           Emperick-Divines
           of
           the
           Assembly
           ,
           those
           spirituall
           
             Dragooners
             ,
          
           thumbe
           it
           accordingly
           .
           Indeed
           it
           is
           a
           prity
           
             Synopsis
             ;
          
           and
           those
           grave
           
             Rabbies
          
           (
           though
           in
           point
           of
           
             Divinity
             )
          
           trade
           in
           no
           larger
           Authors
           .
           The
           Countrey-Carrier
           ,
           when
           he
           buyes
           it
           for
           their
           Vicar
           ,
           miscalls
           it
           the
           
             Vrinall
             :
          
           yet
           properly
           enough
           ;
           For
           it
           casts
           the
           water
           of
           the
           State
           ,
           ever
           since
           it
           staled
           blood
           .
           It
           differs
           from
           an
           
             Aulicus
             ,
          
           as
           the
           Devill
           and
           his
           Exorcist
           ;
           or
           as
           a
           black
           Witch
           doth
           from
           a
           white
           one
           ,
           whose
           office
           is
           to
           unravell
           her
           inchantments
           .
        
         
           It
           begins
           usually
           with
           an
           Ordinance
           ,
           which
           is
           a
           Law
           still-borne
           ,
           dropt
           ,
           before
           quickned
           by
           the
           Royall
           assent
           :
           'T
           is
           one
           of
           the
           Parliaments
           
           liaments
           by-blowes
           ,
           (
           Acts
           only
           being
           legitimate
           )
           and
           hath
           no
           more
           Syre
           ,
           then
           a
           Spanish
           Gennet
           ,
           that
           's
           begotten
           by
           the
           wind
           .
        
         
           Thus
           their
           
             Militia
          
           (
           like
           its
           Patron
           ,
           
             Mars
             )
          
           is
           the
           issue
           onely
           of
           the
           mother
           ,
           without
           the
           concourse
           of
           Royall
           
             Iupiter
             .
          
        
         
           Yet
           Law
           it
           is
           ,
           if
           they
           vote
           it
           ,
           though
           in
           defiance
           of
           their
           
             Fundamentalls
             ;
          
           like
           the
           old
           
             Sexton
             ,
          
           who
           swore
           his
           Clock
           went
           true
           ,
           what
           ever
           the
           Sun
           said
           to
           the
           contrary
           .
        
         
           The
           next
           
             Ingredient
          
           of
           a
           
             Diurnall
          
           is
           plots
           ,
           horrible
           plots
           ;
           which
           with
           wonderfull
           Sagacity
           it
           hunts
           dry-foot
           ,
           while
           they
           are
           yet
           in
           their
           Causes
           ,
           before
           
             Materia
             prima
          
           can
           put
           on
           her
           smock
           .
           How
           many
           such
           fits
           of
           the
           Mother
           have
           troubled
           the
           Kingdome
           ,
           and
           (
           for
           all
           Sir
           
             VValter
             Earle
          
           looks
           like
           a
           Man-Midwife
           )
           not
           yet
           delivered
           of
           so
           much
           as
           a
           Cushion
           ?
           But
           Actors
           must
           have
           their
           Properties
           ;
           And
           ,
           since
           the
           Stages
           were
           voted
           downe
           ,
           the
           onely
           Play-house
           is
           at
           
             VVestminster
             .
          
        
         
           Suteable
           to
           their
           plots
           are
           their
           Informers
           ;
           
             Skippers
          
           and
           
             Taylours
             ;
          
           Spaniells
           both
           for
           the
           Land
           and
           the
           VVater
           :
           
             Good
             conscionable
          
           Intelligence
           !
           For
           ,
           however
           
             Pym's
          
           Bill
           may
           inflame
           the
           reckoning
           ,
           the
           honest
           Vermyn
           have
           not
           so
           much
           for
           lying
           ,
           as
           the
           
             Publique
             Faith
             .
          
        
         
           Thus
           a
           zealous
           Botcher
           in
           
             Morefields
             ,
          
           while
           he
           was
           contriving
           some
           
             Quirpo-cut
          
           of
           Church-Government
           ,
           by
           the
           help
           of
           his
           out-lying
           Eares
           ,
           and
           the
           
             Otacousticon
          
           of
           the
           Spirit
           ,
           discovered
           such
           a
           plot
           ,
           that
           
             Selden
          
           intends
           to
           combate
           Antiquity
           ,
           and
           maintain
           it
           was
           a
           Taylors
           Goose
           ,
           that
           preserved
           the
           
             Capitol
             .
          
        
         
           I
           wonder
           my
           Lord
           of
           
             Canterbury
          
           is
           not
           once
           more
           all-to-betraytor'd
           for
           dealing
           with
           the
           Lions
           ,
           to
           settle
           the
           Commission
           of
           Array
           in
           the
           Tower
           .
           It
           would
           do
           well
           to
           cramp
           the
           Articles
           Dormant
           ,
           besides
           the
           opportunity
           of
           reforming
           those
           Beasts
           of
           the
           Prerogative
           ,
           and
           changing
           their
           prophaner
           names
           of
           
             Harry
          
           and
           
             Charles
             ,
          
           into
           
             Nehemiah
          
           and
           
             Eleaz●r
             .
          
        
         
           Suppose
           a
           Corne-cutter
           ,
           being
           to
           give
           little
           
             Isa●c
          
           a
           cast
           of
           his
           Office
           ,
           should
           fall
           to
           paring
           his
           Browes
           ,
           mistaking
           the
           one
           end
           for
           the
           other
           ;
           because
           he
           branches
           at
           both
           .
           This
           would
           be
           a
           plot
           ;
           and
           the
           next
           
             Diurnall
          
           would
           furnish
           you
           with
           this
           Scale
           of
           Votes
           .
        
         
           
             Resolved
          
           upon
           the
           Question
           ,
           that
           this
           Act
           of
           the
           Corncutters
           was
           an
           absolute
           Invasion
           of
           the
           Cities
           Charter
           ,
           in
           the
           
             representative
          
           Forehead
           of
           
             Isaac
             .
          
           Resolved
           ,
           that
           the
           evill
           Councellours
           about
           
           the
           Corncutter
           are
           Popishly
           affected
           ,
           and
           Enemies
           to
           the
           State
           .
           Resolved
           ,
           that
           there
           be
           a
           publike
           Thanksgiving
           for
           the
           great
           deliverance
           of
           
             Isaac's
          
           Brow-antlers
           ;
           and
           a
           solemne
           Covenant
           drawn
           up
           ,
           to
           defie
           the
           Corn-cutter
           ,
           and
           all
           his
           works
           .
        
         
           Thus
           the
           
             Quixotes
          
           of
           this
           Age
           fight
           with
           the
           Windmills
           of
           their
           own
           heads
           ;
           quell
           Monsters
           of
           their
           own
           creation
           ,
           make
           plots
           ,
           and
           then
           discover
           them
           ;
           as
           who
           fitter
           to
           unkennell
           the
           Fox
           ,
           then
           the
           Tarryer
           ,
           that
           is
           a
           part
           of
           him
           .
        
         
           In
           the
           third
           place
           march
           their
           Adventures
           ;
           the
           
             Roundheads
          
           Legend
           ,
           the
           Rebels
           Romance
           ;
           Stories
           of
           a
           larger
           size
           ,
           then
           the
           Eares
           of
           their
           Sect
           ;
           able
           to
           strangle
           the
           Beliefe
           of
           a
           
             Soli-fidian
             .
          
        
         
           I
           'le
           present
           them
           in
           their
           order
           ;
           and
           first
           ,
           as
           a
           Whiffeler
           before
           the
           show
           ,
           enter
           
             Stamford
             ,
          
           one
           that
           trod
           the
           Stage
           with
           the
           first
           ,
           travers'd
           his
           ground
           ,
           made
           a
           legge
           and
           
             Exit
             .
          
           The
           Countrey-people
           took
           him
           for
           one
           ,
           that
           by
           Order
           of
           the
           Houses
           was
           to
           dance
           a
           Morice
           through
           the
           West
           of
           
             England
             .
          
           Well
           ,
           hee
           's
           a
           nimble
           Gentleman
           ,
           set
           him
           but
           upon
           
             Bankes
          
           his
           Horse
           in
           a
           Saddle
           Rampant
           ,
           and
           it
           is
           a
           great
           question
           ,
           which
           part
           of
           the
           Centaure
           shewes
           better
           trickes
           .
        
         
           There
           was
           a
           Vote
           passing
           to
           t●●nslate
           him
           ,
           with
           all
           his
           Equipage
           into
           Monumentall-Gingerbread
           ;
           〈◊〉
           it
           was
           cross'd
           by
           the
           Female-Committee
           ,
           alleadging
           that
           the
           v●●our
           of
           his
           Image
           would
           bite
           their
           Children
           by
           the
           Tongues
           .
        
         
           This
           Cubit
           and
           an
           halfe
           of
           Commander
           ,
           by
           the
           helpe
           of
           a
           
             Diurnall
             ,
          
           routed
           his
           enemies
           fifty
           miles
           off
           :
           't
           is
           strange
           you
           'l
           say
           ,
           and
           yet
           it
           is
           generally
           believed
           ,
           he
           would
           as
           soon
           do
           it
           at
           that
           distance
           ,
           as
           nearer
           hand
           .
           Sure
           it
           was
           his
           Sword
           ,
           for
           which
           the
           weap●n-salve
           was
           invented
           :
           that
           so
           wounding
           and
           healing
           ,
           like
           loving
           
             Correlates
             ,
          
           might
           both
           work
           at
           the
           same
           removes
           .
        
         
           But
           the
           squibbe
           is
           run
           to
           the
           end
           of
           the
           Rope
           .
           Rome
           ,
           for
           the
           
             Prodigy
             of
             Valour
             ,
             Madam
             Atropos
          
           in
           breeches
           ;
           
             Wallers
          
           Knight-errantry
           :
           and
           ,
           because
           every
           
             Mountibanke
          
           must
           have
           his
           
             Z●ny
             ,
          
           throw
           him
           in
           
             Haslerigge
             ,
          
           to
           set
           off
           his
           story
           :
           these
           two
           like
           
             Bell
          
           and
           the
           
             Dragon
             ,
          
           are
           alwaies
           worshipped
           in
           the
           same
           Chapter
           :
           they
           hunt
           in
           their
           Couples
           ,
           what
           one
           doth
           at
           the
           head
           ,
           the
           other
           scores
           up
           at
           the
           heele
           .
        
         
           Thus
           they
           kill
           a
           man
           over
           and
           over
           ,
           as
           
             Hopkins
          
           and
           
             St●rnhold
          
           murder
           the
           Psalmes
           ,
           with
           another
           to
           the
           same
           ;
           one
           chimes
           all
           in
           ,
           and
           then
           the
           other
           strikes
           up
           ,
           as
           the
           Saints-Bell
           .
        
         
         
           I
           wonder
           ,
           for
           how
           many
           lives
           my
           Lord
           
             Hoptons
          
           Soule
           took
           the
           ●ease
           of
           his
           Body
           .
        
         
           First
           ,
           
             St●mford
          
           slew
           him
           :
           then
           
             Waller
          
           out-killed
           that
           halfe
           a
           ●●rre
           :
           and
           yet
           it
           is
           thought
           the
           sullen
           corps
           would
           scarce
           bleed
           ,
           were
           both
           these
           Man-slayers
           never
           so
           near
           it
           .
        
         
           The
           fame
           goes
           of
           a
           Dutch
           Heads-man
           ,
           that
           he
           would
           do
           his
           office
           with
           so
           much
           ease
           and
           dexterity
           ,
           that
           the
           Head
           after
           execution
           should
           stand
           still
           upon
           the
           shoulders
           :
           pray
           God
           Sir
           
             William
          
           be
           not
           Probationer
           for
           the
           place
           .
           For
           ,
           as
           if
           he
           had
           the
           like
           knack
           too
           ,
           most
           of
           those
           ,
           whom
           the
           
             Diurnall
          
           hath
           slain
           for
           him
           ,
           to
           us
           poore
           Mortals
           seem
           untoucht
           .
        
         
           Thus
           these
           Artificers
           of
           Death
           can
           kill
           the
           man
           ,
           without
           wounding
           the
           body
           ,
           like
           Lightning
           ,
           that
           melts
           the
           Sword
           ,
           and
           never
           singes
           the
           Scabbard
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           the
           
             William
             ,
          
           whose
           Lady
           is
           the
           
             Conquerour
             ;
          
           This
           is
           the
           Cities
           
             Champion
             ,
          
           and
           the
           
             Diurnalls
             Delight
             ;
          
           he
           ,
           that
           Cuckolds
           the
           Generall
           in
           his
           Commission
           :
           for
           ,
           he
           stalks
           with
           
             Essex
             ,
          
           and
           shoots
           under
           his
           belly
           ,
           because
           his
           Oxcellency
           himself
           is
           not
           charged
           there
           .
           Yet
           in
           all
           this
           triumph
           there
           is
           a
           whip
           and
           a
           bell
           ;
           translate
           but
           the
           Scene
           to
           
             Round-way-downe
             :
          
           Th●re
           
             Hasleriggs
          
           Lobsters
           were
           turned
           into
           Crabs
           ,
           and
           crawl'd
           backwards
           ;
           there
           poor
           Sir
           
             William
          
           ran
           to
           his
           Lady
           for
           a
           use
           of
           consolation
           .
        
         
           But
           the
           
             Diurnall
          
           is
           weary
           of
           the
           Arm
           of
           flesh
           ,
           and
           now
           begins
           an
           
             Hosanna
          
           to
           
             Cromwell
             ,
          
           one
           that
           hath
           beat
           up
           his
           Drums
           cleane
           through
           the
           Old
           Testament
           :
           you
           may
           learn
           the
           Genealogie
           of
           our
           Savio●r
           ,
           by
           the
           names
           in
           his
           Regiment
           :
           The
           Muster-master
           uses
           no
           other
           List
           ,
           then
           the
           first
           Chapter
           of
           
             Matthew
             .
          
        
         
           With
           what
           face
           can
           they
           object
           to
           the
           King
           the
           bringing
           in
           of
           Forraigners
           ,
           when
           themselves
           entertain
           such
           an
           Army
           of
           
             Hebrewes
             ?
          
           This
           
             Cromwell
          
           is
           never
           so
           valorous
           ,
           as
           when
           he
           is
           making
           Speeches
           for
           the
           Association
           ,
           which
           neverthelesse
           he
           doth
           somwhat
           ominously
           ,
           with
           his
           neck
           awry
           ,
           holding
           up
           his
           eare
           ,
           as
           if
           he
           expected
           
             Mahomets
             Pidgeon
          
           to
           come
           ,
           and
           prompt
           him
           :
           He
           should
           be
           a
           Bird
           of
           prey
           too
           ,
           ●y
           his
           bloody
           b●ake
           :
           his
           nose
           is
           able
           to
           try
           a
           young
           Eagle
           ,
           wh●ther
           she
           be
           lawfully
           begotten
           .
           But
           all
           is
           not
           Gold
           that
           glisters
           :
           What
           we
           wonder
           at
           in
           the
           rest
           of
           them
           ,
           is
           naturall
           to
           him
           ,
           to
           kill
           without
           blood-shed
           :
           For
           ,
           most
           of
           his
           Trophees
           are
           in
           ●
           Church-Window
           ;
           when
           a
           Looking-Glasse
           would
           shew
           him
           more
           Superstition
           :
           He
           is
           so
           perfect
           a
           hater
           of
           Images
           ,
           that
           he
           hath
           defaced
           
           Gods
           in
           his
           own
           Countenance
           .
           If
           he
           deale
           with
           Men
           ,
           it
           is
           when
           he
           takes
           them
           napping
           in
           an
           old
           Monument
           :
           Then
           downe
           goes
           dust
           and
           ashes
           :
           and
           the
           stoutest
           Cavalier
           is
           no
           better
           .
           Obrave
           
             Oliver
             !
          
           Times
           Voyder
           ,
           Sub-sizer
           to
           the
           Wormes
           ;
           in
           whom
           Death
           ,
           that
           formerly
           devoured
           our
           Ancestors
           ,
           now
           chewes
           the
           Cud
           :
           He
           said
           Grace
           once
           ,
           as
           if
           he
           would
           have
           fallen
           aboard
           with
           the
           Marquesse
           of
           
             Newcastle
             :
          
           Nay
           ,
           and
           the
           
             Diurnall
          
           gave
           you
           his
           Bill
           of
           Fare
           ;
           But
           it
           proved
           but
           a
           running
           Banquet
           ,
           as
           appeares
           by
           the
           Story
           .
           Beleeve
           him
           as
           he
           whistles
           to
           his
           
             Cambridge
             Teeme
          
           of
           Committee-men
           ,
           and
           he
           doth
           Wonders
           .
           But
           Holy
           men
           (
           like
           the
           
             Holy
             language
             )
          
           must
           be
           read
           backwards
           .
           They
           ri●le
           Colledges
           ,
           to
           promote
           Learning
           ;
           and
           pull
           down
           Churches
           for
           Edification
           .
           But
           Sacriledge
           is
           intailed
           upon
           him
           :
           There
           must
           be
           a
           
             Cromwell
          
           for
           Cathedralls
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           Abbeyes
           :
           A
           secure
           sinner
           ,
           whose
           offence
           carries
           its
           pardon
           in
           its
           mouth
           :
           For
           ,
           how
           can
           he
           be
           hanged
           for
           Church-robbery
           ,
           which
           gives
           it selfe
           the
           benefit
           of
           the
           Clergie
           ?
        
         
           But
           for
           all
           
             Cromwells
          
           Nose
           wears
           the
           Dominicall
           Letter
           ,
           yet
           compared
           with
           
             Manchester
             ,
          
           he
           is
           but
           like
           the
           
             Vigills
          
           to
           an
           Holy-day
           .
           This
           ,
           this
           ,
           is
           the
           man
           of
           God
           ;
           so
           sanctified
           a
           Thunder-bolt
           ,
           that
           
             Burrowes
          
           in
           a
           proportionable
           blasphemy
           to
           his
           
             Lords
             of
             Hosts
             ,
          
           would
           stile
           him
           the
           
             Archangell
             ,
          
           giving
           Battell
           to
           the
           Devill
           .
        
         
           Indeed
           ,
           as
           the
           Angells
           ,
           each
           of
           them
           makes
           a
           severall
           
             Species
             ;
          
           so
           every
           one
           of
           his
           Souldiers
           is
           a
           distinct
           Church
           .
           Had
           these
           Beasts
           been
           to
           enter
           the
           Arke
           ,
           it
           would
           have
           pazled
           
             Noah
          
           to
           have
           sorted
           them
           into
           paires
           .
           If
           ever
           there
           were
           a
           rope
           of
           Sand
           ,
           it
           was
           so
           many
           Sects
           twisted
           into
           an
           Association
           .
        
         
           They
           agree
           in
           nothing
           ,
           but
           that
           they
           are
           all
           
             Adamites
          
           in
           Understanding
           :
           It
           is
           the
           sign
           of
           a
           Coward
           ,
           to
           
             winke
             ,
          
           and
           
             fight
             ;
          
           yet
           all
           their
           Valour
           proceeds
           from
           their
           
             Ignorance
             .
          
        
         
           But
           I
           wonder
           whence
           their
           Generals
           purity
           proceeds
           ;
           it
           is
           not
           by
           
             Traduction
             :
          
           if
           he
           was
           begotten
           Saint
           ,
           it
           was
           by
           Equivocall
           Generation
           :
           for
           the
           Devill
           in
           the
           Father
           ,
           is
           turn'd
           Monk
           in
           the
           Son
           ;
           so
           his
           godlinesse
           is
           of
           the
           same
           Parentage
           with
           good
           Lawes
           ;
           both
           extracted
           out
           of
           bad
           Manners
           ;
           and
           would
           he
           alter
           the
           Scriptute
           ,
           as
           he
           hath
           attempted
           the
           Creed
           ,
           he
           might
           vary
           the
           Text
           ,
           and
           say
           to
           Corruption
           ,
           Thou
           art
           my
           
             Father
             .
          
        
         
           This
           is
           he
           ,
           that
           hath
           put
           out
           one
           of
           the
           Kingdoms
           eyes
           ,
           by
           clouding
           our
           Mother-University
           ,
           and
           (
           if
           the
           Scotch
           mist
           further
           prevaile
           )
           will
           extinguish
           this
           other
           :
           He
           hath
           the
           like
           quarrell
           to
           both
           ;
           because
           
           both
           are
           strung
           with
           the
           same
           
             Optick
             Nerve
             ,
             knowing
             Loyalty
             .
          
           Barbarous
           Rebell
           !
           who
           will
           be
           revengd
           upon
           all
           Learning
           ,
           because
           his
           Treason
           is
           beyond
           the
           Mercy
           of
           the
           Book
           .
        
         
           The
           
             Diurnall
          
           as
           yet
           hath
           not
           talkt
           much
           of
           his
           Victories
           :
           but
           there
           is
           the
           more
           behind
           :
           For
           the
           Knight
           must
           alwaies
           beat
           the
           Gyant
           ;
           That
           's
           resolv'd
           .
           If
           any
           thing
           fall
           out
           amisse
           ,
           which
           cannot
           be
           smothered
           ,
           the
           
             Diurnall
          
           hath
           a
           help
           at
           Maw
           ;
           It
           is
           but
           putting
           to
           Sea
           ,
           and
           taking
           a
           
             Danish
             Fleet
             ;
          
           or
           brewing
           it
           with
           some
           successe
           out
           of
           
             Ireland
             ,
          
           and
           it
           goes
           down
           merrily
           .
        
         
           There
           are
           more
           Puppets
           ,
           that
           move
           by
           the
           Wyre
           of
           a
           
             Diurnall
             ;
          
           as
           
             Brereton
          
           and
           
             Gell
             ;
          
           two
           of
           
             Mars
          
           his
           Petty-toes
           ,
           such
           snivelling
           Cowards
           ,
           that
           it
           is
           a
           favour
           to
           call
           them
           so
           ;
           was
           
             Brereton
          
           to
           fight
           with
           his
           teeth
           ,
           as
           in
           all
           other
           things
           he
           resembles
           the
           beast
           ,
           he
           would
           have
           odds
           of
           any
           man
           at
           the
           weapon
           ;
           O
           hee
           's
           a
           terrible
           slaughterman
           at
           a
           Thanks-giving
           Dinner
           ,
           had
           he
           been
           a
           
             Canniball
          
           to
           have
           eaten
           those
           that
           he
           vanquish'd
           ,
           his
           gut
           would
           have
           made
           him
           valiant
           .
        
         
           The
           greatest
           wonder
           is
           at
           
             Fairfax
             ,
          
           how
           he
           comes
           to
           be
           a
           Babe
           of
           Grace
           ?
           Certainly
           it
           is
           not
           in
           his
           personall
           ,
           but
           (
           as
           the
           
             State
             Sophies
          
           distinguish
           )
           in
           his
           Polotique
           Capacity
           ;
           regenerated
           
             ab
             extra
             ,
          
           by
           the
           zeale
           of
           the
           House
           he
           sate
           in
           ,
           as
           Chickens
           are
           hatcht
           at
           
             Grand
             Cairo
             ,
          
           by
           the
           adoption
           of
           an
           Oven
           .
        
         
           There
           is
           the
           
             Wood-Monger
          
           too
           ,
           a
           feeble
           crutch
           to
           a
           declining
           cause
           ,
           a
           new
           Branch
           of
           the
           old
           
             Oake
          
           of
           
             Reformation
             .
          
        
         
           And
           now
           I
           speak
           of
           Reformation
           ,
           
             vous
             avez
             Fox
             ,
          
           the
           Tinker
           ;
           the
           liveliest
           Embleme
           of
           it
           that
           may
           be
           ;
           For
           what
           did
           this
           Parliament
           ever
           go
           about
           to
           reforme
           ,
           but
           Tinker-wise
           ,
           in
           mending
           one
           hole
           they
           made
           three
           .
        
         
           But
           I
           have
           not
           inke
           enough
           to
           cure
           all
           the
           Tetters
           and
           Ringwormes
           of
           the
           State
           .
        
         
           I
           will
           close
           up
           all
           thus
           .
           The
           Victories
           of
           the
           Rebels
           are
           like
           the
           Magicall
           combate
           of
           
             Apuleius
             ;
          
           who
           ,
           thinking
           he
           had
           slain
           three
           of
           his
           Enemies
           ,
           found
           them
           at
           last
           ,
           but
           a
           Triumvirate
           of
           Bladders
           .
           Such
           ,
           and
           so
           empty
           ,
           are
           the
           Triumphs
           of
           a
           
             Diurnall
             :
          
           but
           so
           many
           impostumated
           Fancies
           ,
           so
           many
           Bladders
           of
           their
           own
           blowing
           .
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
       
       
         
           POEMS
           .
        
         
           
             Square-Cap
             .
          
           
             
               COme
               hither
               
                 Apollo's
              
               bouncing
               Girle
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               a
               whole
               
                 Hippocrene
              
               of
               Sherry
            
             
               Let
               's
               drink
               a
               round
               till
               our
               braines
               do
               whirle
               ,
            
             
               Tuning
               our
               pipes
               to
               make
               ourselves
               merry
               :
            
             
               A
               Cambridge-Lasse
               ,
               
                 Venus-like
              
               ,
               borne
               of
               the
               froth
            
             
               Of
               an
               old
               half-fill'd
               Jug
               of
               Barley
               broth
               ,
            
             
               She
               ,
               she
               is
               my
               Mistris
               ,
               her
               Suiters
               are
               many
               ,
            
             
               But
               shee
               'l
               have
               a
               
                 Square-cap
              
               if
               ere
               she
               have
               any
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               first
               for
               the
               Plush-sake
               the
               
                 Monmouth-cap
              
               coms
               ,
            
             
               Shaking
               his
               head
               like
               an
               empty
               bottle
               ;
            
             
               With
               his
               new-fangled
               Oath
               ,
               
                 By
                 Iupiters
                 thumbs
                 ,
              
            
             
               That
               to
               herhealth
               hee
               'l
               begin
               a
               pottle
               :
            
             
               He
               tells
               her
               that
               after
               the
               death
               of
               his
               Grannam
               ,
            
             
               He
               shall
               have
               —
               God
               knowes
               what
               
                 per
                 annum
                 :
              
            
             
               But
               still
               she
               replies
               ,
               good
               Sir
               La-bee
               ,
            
             
               If
               ever
               I
               have
               a
               man
               ,
               
                 Square-cap
              
               for
               mee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               Calot-Leather-cap
               strongly
               pleads
               ,
            
             
               And
               faine
               would
               derive
               the
               pedigree
               of
               fashion
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Antipodes
              
               weare
               their
               shoes
               on
               their
               heads
               ,
            
             
               And
               why
               may
               not
               we
               in
               their
               imitation
               ?
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               how
               this
               foot-ball
               noddle
               would
               please
               ,
            
             
               If
               it
               were
               but
               well
               tost
               on
               
                 S.
                 Thom●●
              
               his
               Lees.
            
             
               But
               still
               she
               replied
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
           
             
               Next
               comes
               the
               Puritan
               in
               a
               
                 wrought-Cap
                 ,
              
            
             
               with
               a
               long-wasted
               conscience
               towards
               a
               Sister
               ,
            
             
               And
               making
               a
               Chappell
               of
               Ease
               of
               her
               lap
               ,
            
             
               First
               he
               ●aid
               grace
               ,
               and
               then
               he
               kist
               her
               .
            
             
               Beloved
               ,
               quoth
               he
               ,
               thou
               art
               my
               Text
               ,
            
             
               Then
               falls
               he
               to
               Use
               and
               Application
               next
               :
            
             
               But
               then
               she
               replied
               ,
               your
               Text
               (
               Sir
               )
               I
               'le
               be
               ,
            
             
               For
               then
               I
               'm
               sure
               you
               'l
               ne'r
               handle
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               see
               where
               
                 Sattin-Cap
              
               scouts
               about
               ,
            
             
               And
               faine
               would
               this
               wench
               in
               his
               fellowship
               marry
               ,
            
             
               He
               told
               her
               how
               such
               a
               man
               was
               not
               put
               out
               ,
            
             
               Because
               his
               wedding
               he
               closely
               did
               carry
               .
            
             
               Hee
               'l
               purchase
               Induction
               by
               Simonie
               ,
            
             
               And
               offers
               her
               money
               her
               Incumbent
               to
               be
               .
            
             
               But
               still
               she
               replied
               ,
               god
               Sir
               La-bee
               ,
            
             
               If
               ever
               I
               have
               a
               man
               
                 Square-cap
              
               for
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Law●er's
               a
               Sophister
               by
               his
               
                 round
                 cap
                 ,
              
            
             
               Nor
               in
               their
               fallacies
               are
               they
               divided
               ;
            
             
               The
               one
               milks
               the
               pocket
               ,
               the
               other
               the
               tap
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               this
               wench
               he
               faine
               would
               have
               brided
               .
            
             
               Come
               leave
               these
               thred-bare
               Schollers
               ,
               quoth
               he
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               me
               livery
               and
               season
               of
               thee
               :
            
             
               But
               peace
               
                 Iohn-a-Nokes
                 ,
              
               and
               leave
               your
               Oration
               ,
            
             
               For
               I
               never
               will
               be
               your
               Impropriation
               .
            
             
               I
               pray
               you
               therefore
               good
               Sir
               La-bee
               ;
            
             
               For
               if
               ever
               I
               have
               a
               man
               
                 Square-cap
              
               for
               me
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Marke
             Anthony
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               as
               the
               Nightingall
               chanted
               her
               Vespers
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               wild
               Forrester
               couch'd
               on
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Venus
               invited
               me
               in
               
               th'Evening
               whispers
               ,
            
             
               Unto
               a
               fragrant
               field
               with
               Roses
               crown'd
               :
            
             
               Where
               she
               before
               had
               sent
            
             
               My
               wishes
               complement
               ,
            
             
               Unto
               my
               hearts
               content
               ,
            
             
               Plaid
               with
               me
               on
               the
               Green
               .
            
             
               Never
               Marke
               Anthony
            
             
               Dallied
               more
               wantonly
            
             
               With
               the
               faire
               Egyptian
               .
            
          
           
             
               First
               on
               her
               cherry
               cheeks
               I
               mine
               eys
               feasted
               ,
            
             
               Then
               fear
               of
               surfetting
               made
               me
               retire
               :
            
             
               Next
               on
               her
               warme
               lips
               ,
               which
               when
               I
               tasted
               ,
            
             
               My
               duller
               spirits
               made
               active
               as
               fire
               .
            
             
               Then
               we
               began
               to
               dart
            
             
               Each
               at
               anothers
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Arrowes
               that
               knew
               no
               smart
               :
            
             
               Sweet
               lips
               and
               smiles
               between
               .
            
             
               Never
               Marke
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               Wanting
               a
               glasse
               to
               plate
               her
               amber
               tresses
               ,
            
             
               Which
               like
               a
               bracelet
               rich
               decked
               mine
               arme
               ;
            
             
               Gawdier
               then
               
                 Iuno
              
               wears
               ,
               when
               as
               she
               graces
            
             
               
                 Iove
              
               with
               embraces
               more
               stately
               then
               warme
               ,
            
             
               Then
               did
               shee
               peep
               in
               mine
            
             
               Eyes
               humour
               Chrystalline
               ;
            
             
               I
               in
               her
               eyes
               was
               seen
               ,
            
             
             
               As
               if
               we
               one
               had
               been
               .
            
             
               Never
               Marke
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               Mysticall
               Grammer
               of
               amorous
               glances
               ,
            
             
               Feeling
               of
               pulses
               the
               Physick
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Rhetoricall
               cour●ings
               ,
               and
               Musicall
               Dances
               ;
            
             
               Numbring
               of
               kisses
               Arithmetick
               prove
               .
            
             
               Eyes
               like
               Astronomy
               ,
            
             
               Streight
               limb'd
               Geometry
               :
            
             
               In
               her
               hearts
               ingeny
            
             
               Our
               wits
               are
               sharp
               and
               keene
               .
            
             
               Never
               Mark
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Authours
             Mock-Song
             to
             Marke
             Anthony
             .
          
           
             
               VVHen
               as
               the
               Night-raven
               sung
               Pluto's
               Mattins
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Cerberus
              
               cried
               three
               Amens
               at
               a
               houle
               ,
            
             
               When
               night
               wandring
               Witches
               put
               on
               their
               pattins
               ,
            
             
               Midnight
               as
               dark
               as
               their
               faces
               are
               foule
               :
            
             
               Then
               did
               the
               furies
               doome
            
             
               That
               the
               night-mare
               was
               come
               ;
            
             
               Such
               a
               mis-shapen
               Groom
            
             
               Puts
               downe
               
                 Su.
                 Pomfret
              
               cleane
               .
            
             
               Never
               did
               Incubus
            
             
               Touch
               such
               a
               filthy
               Sus
               ,
            
             
               As
               this
               foule
               Gypsie
               Queane
               .
            
          
           
             
               First
               on
               her
               goosberry
               cheeks
               I
               mine
               eyes
               blasted
               ;
            
             
               Thence
               feare
               of
               vomiting
               made
               me
               retire
            
             
             
               Unto
               the
               blewer
               lips
               ,
               which
               when
               I
               tasted
               ,
            
             
               My
               spirits
               were
               duller
               then
               Dun
               in
               the
               mire
               .
            
             
               But
               then
               her
               breath
               took
               place
               ,
            
             
               Which
               went
               an
               ushers
               pace
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               way
               for
               her
               face
               ;
            
             
               You
               may
               guesse
               what
               I
               meane
               .
            
             
               Never
               did
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               Like
               Snaks
               engendring
               ,
               were
               plated
               her
               tresses
               ,
            
             
               Or
               like
               the
               ●limy
               streaks
               of
               ropy
               ale
               ;
            
             
               Uglier
               then
               Envy
               wears
               ,
               when
               she
               confesses
            
             
               Her
               head
               is
               perewigg'd
               with
               Adders
               taile
               .
            
             
               But
               as
               soone
               as
               she
               spake
               ,
            
             
               I
               heard
               a
               harsh
               Mandrake
               :
            
             
               Laugh
               not
               at
               my
               mistake
               ,
            
             
               Her
               head
               is
               Epicoene
               .
            
             
               Never
               did
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               Mysticall
               Magick
               of
               conjuring
               wrinckles
               ,
            
             
               Feeling
               of
               Pulses
               ,
               the
               Palmestry
               of
               Haggs
               ,
            
             
               Scolding
               out
               belches
               for
               Rhe●orick
               twinckles
               ;
            
             
               With
               three
               teeth
               in
               her
               head
               like
               to
               three
               gaggs
               ,
            
             
               Rainebowes
               about
               her
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               her
               nose
               weather-wise
               ;
            
             
               From
               them
               th'
               Almanack
               lies
               ,
            
             
               Frost
               ,
               Pond
               ,
               and
               Rivers
               cleane
               ,
            
             
               Never
               did
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             an
             Hermophrodite
             .
          
           
             SIr
             ,
             or
             Madame
             ,
             chuse
             you
             whether
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             twist'd
             you
             both
             together
             :
          
           
             And
             makes
             thy
             soule
             two
             garbes
             confesse
             ,
          
           
             Both
             Petticoat
             and
             Breeches
             dresse
             .
          
           
             Thus
             we
             chastise
             the
             God
             of
             
               Wine
               ,
            
          
           
             With
             water
             that
             is
             Feminine
             ,
          
           
             Untill
             the
             cooler
             Nymph
             abate
          
           
             His
             wrath
             ,
             and
             so
             concorporate
             .
          
           
             
               Adam
            
             till
             his
             rib
             was
             lost
             ,
          
           
             Had
             both
             Sexes
             thus
             ingrost
             :
          
           
             When
             Providence
             our
             Sire
             did
             cleave
             ,
          
           
             And
             out
             of
             
               Adam
            
             carved
             
               Eve
               ,
            
          
           
             Then
             did
             man
             'bout
             Wedlock
             treat
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             his
             body
             up
             compleat
             :
          
           
             Thus
             Matrimony
             speaks
             but
             
               Thee
            
          
           
             In
             a
             grave
             solemnity
             .
          
           
             For
             man
             and
             wife
             make
             but
             one
             right
          
           
             Canonicall
             
               Hermophrodite
               .
            
          
           
             Ravell
             thy
             body
             and
             I
             finde
          
           
             In
             every
             limb
             a
             double
             kinde
             .
          
           
             Who
             would
             not
             thinke
             that
             head
             a
             paire
             ,
          
           
             That
             breeds
             such
             faction
             in
             the
             haire●
          
           
             One
             halfe
             so
             churlish
             in
             the
             touch
             ,
          
           
             That
             rather
             then
             endure
             so
             much
             ,
          
           
             I
             would
             my
             tender
             limbs
             apparell
          
           
             In
             〈◊〉
             his
             nailed
             barrell
             :
          
           
             But
             the
             other
             halfe
             so
             small
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             amo●ous
             ●ithall
             ,
          
           
           
             That
             
               Cupid
            
             thinks
             each
             haire
             doth
             grow
          
           
             A
             string
             for
             his
             invis'ble
             Bow
             .
          
           
             When
             I
             looke
             babies
             in
             thine
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Here
             
               Venus
               ,
            
             there
             
               Adonis
            
             lies
             .
          
           
             And
             though
             thy
             beauty
             be
             high
             noone
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Orbe
             containes
             both
             Sun
             and
             Moone
             .
          
           
             How
             many
             melting
             kisses
             skip
          
           
             'Twixt
             thy
             Male
             and
             Female
             lip
             ?
          
           
             'Twixt
             thy
             upper
             brush
             of
             haire
          
           
             And
             thy
             nether
             beards
             dispaire
             .
          
           
             When
             thou
             speak'st
             ,
             I
             would
             not
             wrong
          
           
             Thy
             sweetnesse
             with
             a
             double
             tongue
             :
          
           
             But
             in
             every
             single
             sound
          
           
             A
             perfect
             Dialogue
             is
             found
             .
          
           
             Thy
             breasts
             distinguish
             one
             another
             ;
          
           
             This
             the
             ●ister
             ,
             that
             the
             brother
             .
          
           
             When
             thou
             joyn'st
             hands
             ,
             my
             eare
             still
             fancies
          
           
             The
             Nup●iall
             sound
             ,
             I
             
               Iohn
            
             take
             
               Frances
               :
            
          
           
             Feele
             but
             the
             difference
             ,
             soft
             ,
             and
             rough
             ;
          
           
             This
             a
             Gantlet
             ,
             that
             a
             Muffe
             :
          
           
             Had
             sly
             
               Ulysses
               ,
            
             at
             the
             sacke
          
           
             Of
             
               Troy
               ,
            
             brought
             thee
             his
             Pedlers
             pack
             ,
          
           
             And
             weapons
             too
             to
             know
             
               Achilles
            
          
           
             From
             King
             
               〈◊〉
               Phillis
               ,
            
          
           
             His
             plot
             had
             fail'd
             ;
             this
             hand
             would
             feele
          
           
             The
             Needle
             ,
             that
             the
             warlike
             steele
             .
          
           
             VVhen
             Musick
             doth
             thy
             pace
             advance
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             right
             legge
             takes
             thy
             left
             to
             dance
             .
          
           
             Nor
             is
             't
             a
             Galliard
             danc'd
             by
             one
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             mix●
             dance
             ,
             though
             alone
             :
          
           
             Thus
             every
             he●eroclite
             part
          
           
             Changes
             gender
             ,
             but
             thy
             heart
             .
          
           
           
             Nay
             those
             which
             modest
             can
             meane
             ,
          
           
             And
             dare
             not
             speak
             ,
             are
             Epicoene
             ;
          
           
             That
             Gamester
             needs
             must
             overcome
             ,
          
           
             That
             can
             play
             both
             Tib
             and
             Tom.
             
          
           
             Thus
             did
             Natures
             mintage
             vary
             ,
          
           
             Coyning
             thee
             a
             
               Philip
               and
               Mary
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Authors
             Hermaphrodite
             ,
             made
             after
             M.
             Randolphs
             death
             ,
             yet
             inserted
             into
             his
             Poems
             .
          
           
             PRobleme
             of
             Sexes
             ;
             must
             thou
             likewise
             be
          
           
             As
             disputable
             in
             thy
             Pedigree
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             Twins-in-one
             ,
             in
             whom
             Dame
             Nature
             tries
          
           
             To
             throw
             lesse
             then
             Aumes-ace
             upon
             two
             Dice
             :
          
           
             Wer
             't
             thou
             serv'd
             up
             two
             in
             one
             dish
             ,
             the
             rather
          
           
             To
             split
             thy
             Sire
             into
             a
             double
             father
             ?
          
           
             True
             ,
             the
             worlds
             scales
             are
             even
             :
             what
             the
             maine
          
           
             In
             one
             place
             gets
             ,
             another
             quits
             againe
             .
          
           
             Nature
             lost
             one
             by
             thee
             ,
             and
             therefore
             must
          
           
             Slice
             one
             in
             two
             ,
             to
             keep
             her
             number
             just
             :
          
           
             Plurality
             of
             livings
             is
             thy
             state
             ,
          
           
             And
             therefore
             mine
             must
             be
             impropriate
             .
          
           
             For
             ,
             since
             the
             child
             is
             mine
             ,
             and
             yet
             the
             claime
          
           
             Is
             intercepted
             by
             anothers
             name
             ,
          
           
             Never
             did
             steeple
             carry
             double
             truer
             ,
          
           
             His
             is
             the
             Donative
             ,
             and
             mine
             the
             Cure
             .
          
           
             Then
             say
             my
             Muse
             (
             and
             without
             more
             dispute
             )
          
           
             Who
             't
             is
             that
             fame
             doth
             superinstitute
             .
          
           
           
             The
             
               Theban
            
             Wittall
             ,
             when
             he
             once
             descries
             ,
          
           
             
               Iove
            
             is
             his
             rivall
             ,
             falls
             to
             sacrifice
             :
          
           
             That
             name
             hath
             tipt
             his
             hornes
             :
             see
             ,
             on
             his
             knees
             ,
          
           
             A
             health
             to
             Hans-en-Keldar
             
               Hercules
               .
            
          
           
             Nay
             sublunary
             Cuckolds
             are
             content
          
           
             To
             entertaine
             their
             Fate
             with
             complement
             :
          
           
             And
             shall
             not
             he
             be
             proud
             ,
             whom
             
               Randolph
            
             daignes
          
           
             To
             quarter
             with
             his
             Muse
             both
             Armes
             and
             Braines
             ?
          
           
             Gramercy
             Gossip
             ;
             I
             rejoyce
             to
             see
          
           
             
             Shee'th
             got
             a
             leap
             of
             such
             a
             Barbarie
             .
          
           
             Talk
             not
             of
             hornes
             ,
             hornes
             are
             the
             Poets
             Crest
             :
          
           
             For
             since
             the
             Muses
             left
             their
             former
             nest
             ,
          
           
             To
             found
             a
             Nunnery
             in
             
               Randolphs
            
             quill
             ,
          
           
             Cuckold
             
               Pernassus
            
             is
             a
             forked
             hill
             .
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             I
             've
             wak't
             his
             dust
             ,
             his
             Marble
             stirs
             ,
          
           
             And
             brings
             the
             wormes
             for
             his
             Compurgators
             .
          
           
             Can
             Ghost
             have
             naturall
             sonnes
             ?
             say
             
               Ogg
               ,
            
             is
             't
             meet
             ,
          
           
             Penance
             beare
             date
             after
             the
             winding-sheet
             ?
          
           
             Were
             it
             a
             
               Phoenix
            
             (
             as
             the
             double
             kinde
          
           
             May
             seem
             to
             prove
             ,
             being
             there
             's
             two
             combin'd
             )
          
           
             It
             would
             disclaime
             my
             right
             :
             and
             that
             it
             were
          
           
             The
             lawfull
             Issue
             of
             his
             ashes
             ,
             sweare
             .
          
           
             But
             was
             he
             dead
             ?
             did
             not
             his
             soule
             translate
          
           
             Her selfe
             into
             a
             shop
             of
             lesser
             rate
             ?
          
           
             Or
             break
             up
             house
             ,
             like
             an
             expensive
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             That
             gives
             his
             purse
             a
             sob
             ,
             and
             lives
             at
             board
             ?
          
           
             Let
             old
             
               Pythagoras
            
             but
             play
             the
             Pimp
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             there
             's
             hopes
             't
             may
             prove
             his
             bastard
             imp
             .
          
           
             But
             I
             'me
             prophane
             ;
             For
             grant
             the
             world
             had
             one
             ,
          
           
             With
             whom
             he
             might
             contract
             an
             union
             ,
          
           
             They
             two
             were
             one
             :
             yet
             like
             an
             Eagle
             spread
             ,
          
           
             I'
             th
             body
             joyn'd
             ,
             but
             parted
             in
             the
             head
             .
          
           
           
             For
             you
             my
             brat
             ,
             that
             pose
             the
             Porph'ry
             Chaire
             ,
          
           
             Pope
             
               Iohn
               ,
            
             or
             
               Ioan
               ,
            
             or
             whatsoere
             you
             are
             ,
          
           
             You
             are
             a
             nephew
             ;
             Grieve
             not
             at
             your
             state
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             world
             is
             illegitimate
             .
          
           
             Man
             ca●not
             get
             a
             man
             ,
             unlesse
             the
             Sun
          
           
             Club
             to
             the
             act
             of
             generation
             .
          
           
             The
             sun
             and
             man
             get
             man
             ;
             thus
             
               Tom
            
             and
             I
          
           
             Are
             the
             joynt
             fathers
             of
             thy
             Poetry
             .
          
           
             For
             since
             (
             b●est
             shade
             )
             this
             Verse
             is
             Male
             ,
             but
             mine
          
           
             O
             ●h
             weaker
             〈◊〉
             ,
             a
             Fancy
             Foeminine
             :
          
           
             〈…〉
             the
             child
             ,
             and
             yet
             commit
             no
             slaughter
             ,
          
           
             Sword●
             shall
             〈◊〉
             be
             thy
             Son
             ,
             and
             yet
             my
             Daughter
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             Phillis
             walking
             in
             a
             morning
             before
             Sun-rising
             .
          
           
             THe
             sluggish
             morn
             as
             yet
             undrest
             ,
          
           
             My
             
               Phyllis
            
             brake
             from
             out
             her
             East
             ;
          
           
             As
             if
             shee
             'd
             made
             a
             match
             to
             run
          
           
             With
             
               Venus
               ,
            
             Usher
             to
             the
             Sun
             .
          
           
             The
             trees
             ,
             like
             Yeomen
             of
             her
             Guard
             ,
          
           
             Serving
             more
             for
             pomp
             ,
             then
             〈◊〉
             ,
          
           
             Rank'd
             on
             each
             side
             with
             loyall
             duty
             ,
          
           
             Weave
             branches
             to
             inclose
             her
             beau●y
             .
          
           
             The
             Plants
             ,
             whose
             luxury
             was
             lopt
             ,
          
           
             Or
             age
             with
             crutches
             underpropt
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             wooden
             carkases
             are
             growne
          
           
             To
             be
             but
             coffi●s
             of
             their
             owne
             ;
          
           
             Revive
             ,
             and
             at
             her
             generall
             dole
          
           
             Each
             receives
             his
             ancient
             soule
             .
          
           
           
             The
             winged
             Choristers
             began
          
           
             To
             chi●p
             their
             Mattins
             :
             and
             the
             Fan
          
           
             Of
             whistling
             winds
             ,
             like
             Organs
             ,
             plai'd
             ,
          
           
             Untill
             their
             Voluntaries
             made
          
           
             The
             wakened
             earth
             in
             odours
             rise
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             her
             morning-Sacrifice
             .
          
           
             The
             flowers
             ,
             call'd
             out
             of
             their
             beds
             ,
          
           
             Start
             ,
             and
             raise
             up
             their
             drowsie
             heads
             :
          
           
             And
             he
             that
             for
             their
             colour
             seeks
             ,
          
           
             May
             find
             it
             vaulting
             in
             her
             cheeks
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Roses
             mix
             :
             no
             civill
             war
          
           
             Between
             her
             
               York
            
             and
             
               Lancaster
               .
            
          
           
             The
             Marigold
             ,
             whose
             Courtiers
             face
          
           
             Ecchoes
             the
             Sun
             ,
             and
             doth
             unlace
          
           
             Her
             at
             his
             rise
             ,
             at
             his
             full
             stop
          
           
             Packs
             ,
             and
             shuts
             up
             her
             gawdy
             shop
             ;
          
           
             Mistakes
             here
             ●ue
             ,
             and
             doth
             display
             .
          
           
             Thus
             
               Phyllis
            
             antidates
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             These
             miracles
             had
             cramp't
             the
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             Who
             thinking
             that
             his
             kingdom
             's
             won
             ,
          
           
             Powders
             with
             light
             his
             frizled
             locks
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             what
             Saint
             his
             lustre
             mocks
             .
          
           
             The
             trembling
             leaves
             through
             which
             he
             plaid
             ,
          
           
             Dapling
             the
             walk
             with
             light
             and
             shade
             ,
          
           
             Like
             lattice-windowes
             ,
             give
             the
             spie
          
           
             Room
             but
             to
             peep
             with
             halfe
             an
             eye
             ;
          
           
             Least
             her
             full
             Orb
             his
             sight
             should
             dim
             ,
          
           
             And
             bids
             us
             all
             good-night
             in
             him
             ,
          
           
             Till
             she
             would
             spend
             a
             gentle
             ray
             ,
          
           
             To
             force
             us
             a
             new-fashion'd
             day
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             religious
             Palsie's
             this
          
           
             Which
             makes
             the
             boughs
             divest
             their
             bliss
             ?
          
           
           
             And
             that
             they
             might
             her
             foot-steps
             strawe
             ,
          
           
             Drop
             their
             leaves
             with
             shivering
             awe
             .
          
           
             
               Phillis
            
             perceives
             ,
             and
             (
             least
             her
             stay
          
           
             Should
             wed
             October
             unto
             May
             ;
          
           
             And
             as
             her
             beauty
             caus'd
             a
             Spring
             ,
          
           
             Devotion
             might
             an
             Autumne
             bring
             )
          
           
             With-drew
             her
             〈◊〉
             ,
             yet
             made
             no
             night
             ,
          
           
             But
             left
             the
             Sun
             her
             Curat●
             light
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             a
             Miser
             that
             made
             a
             great
             feast
             ,
             and
             the
             next
             day
             dyed
             for
             griefe
             .
          
           
             NOr
             'scapes
             he
             so
             :
             our
             dinner
             was
             so
             good
             ,
          
           
             My
             liquorish
             Muse
             cannot
             but
             chew
             the
             cood
             :
          
           
             And
             what
             delight
             she
             tooke
             i'
             th'
             invitation
             ,
          
           
             Strives
             to
             tast
             o're
             againe
             in
             this
             relation
             .
          
           
             After
             a
             tedious
             Grace
             in
             
               Hopkins
            
             r●●hme
             ,
          
           
             Not
             for
             devotion
             ,
             but
             to
             take
             up
             time
             ,
          
           
             March't
             the
             train'd-band
             of
             dishes
             usher'd
             there
             ,
          
           
             To
             shew
             their
             postures
             ,
             and
             then
             
               As
               they
               were
               .
            
          
           
             For
             he
             invites
             no
             teeth
             ,
             perchance
             the
             eye
          
           
             He
             will
             afford
             the
             Lovers
             gluttony
             ;
          
           
             This
             is
             a
             Feast
             ,
             a
             muster
             ,
             not
             a
             fight
             ;
          
           
             Our
             weapons
             not
             for
             servie
             ,
             but
             for
             fight
             .
          
           
             But
             are
             we
             Tantaliz'd
             ?
             is
             all
             this
             meat
          
           
             Cook'd
             by
             a
             Limner
             ,
             for
             to
             view
             ,
             not
             eat
             ?
          
           
             Th'
             Astrologers
             keep
             such
             
               Houses
            
             when
             they
             sup
          
           
             On
             joynts
             of
             
               ●aurus
               ,
            
             or
             their
             heavenly
             Tup
             .
          
           
             Whatever
             feasts
             he
             made
             are
             su●'d
             up
             here
             ,
          
           
             His
             table
             vyes
             not
             standing
             with
             his
             cheare
             .
          
           
           
             His
             Churchings
             ,
             Christ'nings
             ,
             in
             this
             Meale
             are
             all
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             transcrib'd
             ,
             but
             i'
             th
             Originall
             .
          
           
             Christmas
             is
             no
             Feast
             movable
             :
             for
             loe
          
           
             The
             selfe-same
             dinner
             was
             ten
             yeares
             agoe
             :
          
           
             'T
             will
             be
             immortall
             if
             it
             longer
             stay
             ,
          
           
             The
             Gods
             will
             eat
             it
             for
             
               Am●rosia
               .
            
          
           
             But
             stay
             awhile
             ;
             unlesse
             my
             whinyard
             faile
             ,
          
           
             Or
             it
             inc●●nted
             ,
             I
             'le
             cut
             off
             
             th'intaile
             .
          
           
             
               Sa●nt
               George
               〈◊〉
               England
            
             then
             :
             have
             at
             the
             mutton
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             first
             cut
             calls
             me
             〈…〉
             gl●tto●
             :
          
           
             What
             
               d●ax
            
             with
             ●is
             anger
             quodl'd
             〈◊〉
          
           
             Killing
             a
             sheep
             thought
             〈…〉
             slaine
             :
          
           
             The
             〈…〉
             ;
             wounding
             his
             rost
             ,
          
           
             I
             〈…〉
             up
             mine
             host
             .
          
           
             Such
             〈◊〉
             is
             with
             〈…〉
          
           
             Makes
             him
             an
             Eunuch
             ,
             whe●
             it
             carves
             his
             〈◊〉
             .
          
           
             Cut
             a
             Goose-leg
             ,
             and
             the
             poore
             so●le
             for
             moane
          
           
             Turnes
             Creeple
             too
             ,
             a●d
             after
             stands
             on
             one
             .
          
           
             Have
             you
             not
             〈…〉
          
           
             A
             
               Lan●aster
            
             Grand
             〈◊〉
             will
             report
             ?
          
           
             The
             souldier
             with
             his
             Morg●y
             watcht
             the
             Mill
             ,
          
           
             The
             Cats
             they
             came
             to
             feast
             when
             lust●e
             
               Will
            
          
           
             Whips
             off
             great
             Pusses
             leg
             ,
             〈◊〉
             by
             so●e
             charme
          
           
             Proves
             the
             next
             day
             such
             an
             old
             wom●ns
             arme
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             so
             with
             him
             ,
             whoe
             cark●se
             never
             '
             ●capes
             ,
          
           
             But
             still
             we
             slash
             him
             in
             a
             thousand
             sh●●es
             .
          
           
             Our
             serving-men
             like
             Spaniells
             range●●o
             spring
          
           
             The
             fowle
             which
             he
             hath
             clockt
             〈…〉
             his
             wing
             .
          
           
             Should
             he
             on
             Widgeo●
             ,
             or
             on
             Woodcock
             feed
             ,
          
           
             It
             were
             
               (
               Thyestes-like
            
             )
             on
             his
             owne
             breed
             .
          
           
             To
             porke
             he
             pleads
             a
             supersti●n
             d●e
             ,
          
           
             But
             not
             a
             mouth
             is
             muzled
             by
             the
             ●ew
             .
          
           
           
             Sawces
             we
             should
             have
             none
             had
             he
             his
             wish
             ,
          
           
             The
             Oranges
             i'
             th
             margent
             of
             the
             dish
          
           
             He
             with
             such
             Hucsters
             tells
             them
             o're
             and
             o're
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             
               Hesperian
            
             Dragon
             never
             watcht
             them
             more
             .
          
           
             But
             being
             eaten
             now
             into
             dispaire
             ,
          
           
             Having
             nought
             else
             to
             doe
             ,
             he
             falls
             to
             prayer
             :
          
           
             As
             thou
             did'st
             once
             put
             on
             the
             forme
             of
             Bull
             ,
          
           
             And
             turn'st
             thy
             
               lo
            
             to
             a
             lovely
             Mull
             ,
          
           
             Defend
             my
             rump
             great
             
               love
               ;
            
             grant
             this
             poor
             beefe
          
           
             May
             live
             to
             comfort
             me
             in
             all
             this
             griefe
             .
          
           
             But
             no
             
               Amen
            
             was
             said
             :
             See
             ,
             ●ee
             it
             comes
             ,
          
           
             Draw
             boyes
             ,
             let
             Trumpets
             sound
             &
             strike
             up
             Drums
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             his
             blood
             doth
             with
             the
             gravie
             swim
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             trencher
             has
             a
             limb
             of
             him
             .
          
           
             The
             Ven'sons
             now
             in
             view
             ,
             our
             Hounds
             spend
             deeper
             ,
          
           
             Strange
             Deer
             ,
             which
             in
             the
             Pasty
             hath
             a
             Keeper
          
           
             Stricter
             then
             in
             the
             Park
             ,
             making
             his
             guest
          
           
             (
             As
             he
             had
             stoln
             't
             alive
             )
             to
             steale
             it
             drest
             :
          
           
             The
             scent
             was
             hot
             ;
             and
             we
             pursuing
             faster
             ,
          
           
             Then
             
               Ovids
            
             pack
             of
             dogs
             e're
             chas'd
             their
             Master
             ,
          
           
             A
             double
             prey
             at
             once
             may
             seize
             upon
             ,
          
           
             
               Actaeon
            
             and
             his
             case
             of
             Venison
             :
          
           
             Thus
             was
             he
             torne
             alive
             .
             To
             vex
             him
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Death
             serves
             him
             up
             now
             as
             a
             second
             coorse
             .
          
           
             Should
             we
             ,
             like
             
               Thratians
               ,
            
             our
             dead
             bodies
             eat
             ,
          
           
             He
             would
             have
             liv'd
             only
             to
             save
             his
             meat
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             young
             Man
             to
             an
             old
             Woman
             Courting
             him
             .
          
           
             PEace
             Beldam
             
               Eve
               ;
            
             surcease
             thy
             suit
             :
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             temptation
             in
             such
             fruit
             .
          
           
             No
             rotten
             Medlers
             ,
             whil'st
             there
             be
          
           
             Whole
             Orchards
             in
             Virginitie
             .
          
           
             Thy
             stock
             is
             too
             much
             out
             of
             date
          
           
             For
             tender
             plants
             t'
             inoculate
             .
          
           
             A
             match
             with
             thee
             thy
             bridegroome
             feares
          
           
             Would
             be
             thought
             Int'rest
             in
             his
             years
             ,
          
           
             Which
             when
             compar'd
             to
             thine
             ,
             become
          
           
             Odd
             money
             to
             thy
             Grandam
             summe
             .
          
           
             Can
             Wedlocke
             know
             so
             great
             a
             curse
          
           
             As
             putting
             husbands
             out
             to
             Nurse
             ?
          
           
             How
             
               Pond
            
             and
             
               Rivers
            
             would
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             And
             cry
             new
             Almanacks
             for
             our
             sake
             ?
          
           
             Time
             sure
             hath
             wheel'd
             about
             his
             yeare
             ,
          
           
             December
             
               meeting
            
             laniveere
             .
          
           
             The
             Aegyptian
             Serpent
             figures
             time
             ,
          
           
             And
             stript
             ,
             returnes
             unto
             his
             Prime
             :
          
           
             If
             my
             affection
             thou
             would'st
             win
             ,
          
           
             First
             cast
             thy
             Hieroglyphick
             skin
             .
          
           
             My
             moderne
             lips
             know
             not
             (
             alack
             )
          
           
             The
             old
             Religion
             of
             thy
             smack
             .
          
           
             I
             count
             that
             primitive
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             As
             out
             of
             fashion
             as
             thy
             face
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             so
             long
             't
             is
             since
             thy
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Fornication
             's
             Classicall
             .
          
           
             Our
             sports
             will
             differ
             :
             thou
             may'st
             play
             ,
          
           
             
               Leer●
               ,
            
             and
             I
             
               Alphonso
            
             way
             .
          
           
           
             I
             'me
             no
             Translator
             ;
             have
             no
             veine
          
           
             To
             turn
             a
             woman
             young
             againe
             :
          
           
             Unlesse
             you
             'l
             grant
             the
             Tailor's
             due
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             forebodies
             be
             new
             :
          
           
             I
             love
             to
             weare
             cloaths
             that
             are
             flush
             ,
          
           
             Not
             prefacing
             old
             rags
             with
             plush
             :
          
           
             Like
             Aldermen
             ,
             or
             Monster-Sheriffs
             ,
          
           
             With
             Canvas
             Backs
             ,
             and
             velvet
             Sleeves
             .
          
           
             And
             just
             such
             discord
             there
             would
             be
          
           
             Betwixt
             thy
             Skeleton
             and
             me
             .
          
           
             Go
             study
             Salve
             and
             Treacle
             ,
             ply
          
           
             Your
             tenants
             leg
             ,
             or
             his
             sore
             eye
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             Matrons
             purchase
             credit
             ,
             thank
          
           
             Six
             penni-worth
             of
             Mountebank
             .
          
           
             Or
             chew
             thy
             cood
             on
             some
             delight
          
           
             Thou
             takest
             in
             thy
             
               Eighty
               Eight
               .
            
          
           
             Or
             be
             but
             bedrid
             once
             ,
             and
             then
          
           
             Thou
             'lt
             dream
             thy
             youthfull
             sins
             agen
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             thou
             needs
             wilt
             be
             my
             Spouse
             ,
          
           
             First
             hearken
             ,
             and
             attend
             my
             Vowes
             .
          
           
             "
             When
             
               Aet●na's
            
             fires
             shall
             undergo
          
           
             "
             The
             penance
             of
             the
             
               Alps
            
             in
             snow
             ,
          
           
             "
             When
             
               Sol
            
             at
             one
             blast
             of
             his
             horne
          
           
             "
             Posts
             from
             the
             
               C●ab
            
             to
             
               Capricorne
               ,
            
          
           
             "
             When
             th'
             Heavens
             shuffle
             all
             in
             one
             ,
          
           
             "
             The
             Torrid
             with
             the
             Frozen
             
               zone
               ;
            
          
           
             "
             When
             all
             these
             contradictions
             meet
             ,
          
           
             "
             Then
             
               (
               Sybill
               )
            
             thou
             and
             I
             will
             greet
             .
          
           
             "
             For
             all
             these
             similies
             do
             hold
          
           
             "
             n
             my
             young
             heat
             and
             thy
             dull
             cold
             ;
          
           
             "
             Then
             if
             a
             Feaver
             be
             so
             good
          
           
             "
             A
             Pimp
             ,
             as
             to
             inflame
             thy
             blood
             ,
          
           
           
             
               Hymen
            
             shall
             twist
             thee
             ,
             and
             thy
             Page
             ,
          
           
             The
             distinct
             Tropicks
             of
             Mans
             age
             .
          
           
             Well
             (
             Madam
             Time
             )
             be
             ever
             bald
             ,
          
           
             I
             le
             not
             thy
             periwig
             be
             cal'd
             .
          
           
             I
             le
             never
             be
             ,
             '
             stead
             of
             a
             Lover
             ,
          
           
             An
             aged
             ●hronicles
             new
             cover
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Mrs.
             K.
             T.
             who
             askt
             him
             why
             hee
             was
             dumb
             .
          
           
             
               STay
               ,
               should
               I
               answer
               (
               Lady
               )
               then
            
             
               In
               vaine
               would
               be
               your
               question
               .
            
             
               Should
               I
               be
               dumb
               ,
               why
               then
               againe
            
             
               Your
               asking
               me
               would
               be
               in
               vaine
               .
            
             
               Silence
               nor
               speech
               (
               on
               neither
               hand
               )
            
             
               Can
               satisfie
               this
               strange
               demand
               .
            
             
               Yet
               since
               your
               will
               throwes
               me
               upon
            
             
               This
               wished
               contradiction
               ,
            
             
               I
               le
               tell
               you
               how
               I
               did
               become
            
             
               So
               strangely
               (
               as
               you
               heare
               me
               )
               dumb
               .
            
             
               Ask
               but
               the
               chap-falne
               Puritan
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               zeale
               that
               tongue-ties
               that
               good
               man
               :
            
             
               For
               heat
               of
               conscience
               ,
               all
               men
               hold
               ,
            
             
               Is
               
               th'onely
               way
               to
               catch
               that
               cold
               .
            
             
               How
               should
               loves
               zealot
               then
               forbear
            
             
               To
               be
               your
               silenc'd
               Minister
               ?
            
             
               Nay
               your
               religion
               which
               doth
               grant
            
             
               A
               worship
               due
               to
               you
               my
               Saint
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               counts
               it
               that
               devotion
               wrong
            
             
               That
               does
               it
               in
               the
               vulgar
               tongue
               .
            
             
             
               My
               ruder
               words
               would
               give
               offence
            
             
               To
               such
               an
               hallow'd
               excellence
               ;
            
             
               As
               
               th'English
               Dialect
               would
               vary
            
             
               The
               goodnesse
               of
               an
               
                 Ave
                 Mary
                 .
              
            
             
               How
               can
               I
               speak
               ,
               that
               twice
               am
               checkt
            
             
               By
               this
               and
               that
               religious
               Sect
               ?
            
             
               Still
               dumb
               ,
               and
               in
               your
               face
               I
               spie
            
             
               Still
               cause
               ,
               and
               still
               Divinitie
               .
            
             
               As
               soon
               as
               blest
               wit●
               your
               salute
               ,
            
             
               My
               manners
               taught
               me
               to
               be
               mute
               :
            
             
               For
               ,
               least
               they
               cancell
               all
               the
               blisse
            
             
               You
               sign'd
               with
               so
               divine
               a
               kisse
               ,
            
             
               The
               lips
               you
               seal
               must
               needs
               consent
            
             
               Unto
               the
               tongues
               imprisonment
               .
            
             
               My
               tongue
               in
               hold
               ,
               my
               voice
               doth
               rise
            
             
               (
               With
               a
               strange
               
                 E●la
                 )
              
               to
               my
               eyes
               ;
            
             
               Where
               it
               gets
               Baile
               ,
               and
               in
               that
               sense
            
             
               Begins
               a
               new-found
               Eloquence
               .
            
             
               Oh
               listen
               with
               attentive
               sight
            
             
               To
               what
               my
               pratling
               eyes
               indite
               .
            
             
               Or
               (
               Lady
               )
               since
               't
               is
               in
               your
               choice
               ,
            
             
               To
               give
               ,
               or
               to
               suspend
               my
               voice
               ,
            
             
               With
               the
               same
               key
               set
               ope
               the
               doore
            
             
               Wherewith
               you
               lockt
               it
               fast
               before
               ;
            
             
               Kisse
               once
               againe
               ,
               and
               when
               you
               thus
            
             
               Have
               doubly
               been
               miraculous
               ,
            
             
               My
               Muse
               shall
               write
               with
               Handmaids
               duty
            
             
               The
               Golden
               Legend
               of
               your
               Beauty
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               whom
               his
               dumbnesse
               now
               confines
               ,
            
             
               But
               meanes
               to
               speak
               the
               rest
               by
               signes
               .
            
          
           
             I.
             C.
             
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             faire
             Nimph
             scorning
             a
             black
             Boy
             Courting
             her
             .
          
           
             
               Nimph
               .
            
             
               STand
               off
               ,
               and
               let
               me
               take
               the
               aire
               ;
            
             
               Why
               should
               the
               smoak
               pursue
               the
               faire
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               My
               face
               is
               smoak
               ,
               thence
               may
               be
               guest
            
             
               What
               flames
               within
               have
               scorch'd
               my
               brest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nymph
               .
            
             
               The
               flame
               of
               love
               I
               cannot
               view
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               dark
               Lanterne
               of
               thy
               hue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               And
               yet
               this
               Lanterne
               keeps
               loves
               Taper
            
             
               Surer
               then
               yours
               ,
               that
               's
               of
               white
               paper
               .
            
             
               Whatever
               Midnight
               hath
               been
               here
               ,
            
             
               The
               Moon-shine
               of
               your
               light
               can
               cleare
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nymph
               .
            
             
               My
               Moon
               of
               an
               Eclipse
               is
               'fraid
               ,
            
             
               If
               thou
               should'st
               interpose
               thy
               shade
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Yet
               one
               thing
               (
               sweet-heart
               )
               I
               will
               ask
               ,
            
             
               Buy
               me
               for
               a
               new
               false
               Mask
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nymph
               .
            
             
               Yes
               :
               but
               my
               bargaine
               shall
               be
               this
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               throw
               my
               Mask
               off
               when
               I
               kisse
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Our
               curl'd
               embraces
               shall
               delight
            
             
               To
               checquer
               limbs
               with
               black
               ,
               and
               white
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nymph
               .
            
             
               Thy
               ink
               ,
               my
               paper
               ,
               make
               me
               guesse
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Nuptiall
               bed
               will
               make
               a
               Presse
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               our
               sports
               ,
               if
               any
               came
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               read
               a
               wanton
               Epigram
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Why
               should
               my
               Black
               thy
               love
               impaire
               ?
            
             
               Let
               the
               dark
               shop
               commend
               thy
               ware
               :
            
             
               Or
               if
               thy
               love
               from
               black
               forbeares
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               strive
               to
               w●sh
               it
               off
               with
               teares
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nymph
               .
            
             
               Spare
               fruitlesse
               teares
               ,
               since
               thou
               must
               needs
            
             
               Still
               weare
               about
               thee
               mourning
               weeds
               :
            
             
             
               Teares
               can
               no
               more
               affection
               win
               ,
            
             
               Then
               wash
               thy
               Aethiopian
               skin
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             death
             of
             M.
             King
             drowned
             in
             the
             Irish
             Seas
             .
          
           
             I
             Like
             not
             teares
             in
             tune
             ,
             nor
             will
             prize
          
           
             His
             ar●●ficiall
             grief
             that
             scanns
             his
             eyes
             :
          
           
             〈◊〉
             weep
             down
             pious
             beads
             ;
             but
             why
             should
             I
          
           
             Con●ine
             them
             to
             the
             Muses
             Rosarie
             ?
          
           
             I
             am
             no
             Poet
             ,
             here
             my
             pen's
             the
             spout
          
           
             Where
             the
             raine-water
             of
             my
             eyes
             runs
             out
             ,
          
           
             In
             pitie
             of
             that
             name
             ,
             whose
             fate
             we
             see
          
           
             Thus
             copied
             out
             in
             griefs
             Hydrographie
             .
          
           
             The
             Muses
             are
             not
             Mermaids
             ,
             though
             upon
          
           
             Thy
             death
             the
             Ocean
             might
             turn
             
               Helicon
               .
            
          
           
             The
             Sea
             's
             too
             rough
             for
             verse
             ;
             who
             rimes
             upon
             't
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               X●●xes
               ,
            
             str●ves
             to
             fetter
             th'
             
               Hellespont
               .
            
          
           
             My
             teares
             will
             keep
             no
             channells
             ,
             know
             no
             lawes
          
           
             To
             guide
             their
             streams
             ,
             but
             like
             the
             waves
             ,
             this
             cause
          
           
             Runs
             with
             disturbance
             ,
             till
             they
             swallow
             me
             ,
          
           
             As
             a
             description
             of
             his
             miserie
             .
          
           
             But
             can
             his
             spacious
             vertues
             finde
             a
             grave
          
           
             Within
             th'
             impostu●'d
             bubble
             of
             a
             wave
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             learning
             if
             we
             sound
             ,
             we
             must
             confesse
          
           
             The
             Sea
             but
             shallow
             ,
             and
             him
             bottomlesse
             ?
          
           
             Could
             not
             the
             winds
             ,
             to
             countermand
             thy
             death
             ,
          
           
             W●●
             their
             whole
             Chard
             of
             lungs
             ,
             redeem
             thy
             breath
             ?
          
           
             Or
             some
             new
             Island
             in
             thy
             rescue
             peepe
             ,
          
           
             To
             heave
             thy
             resurrection
             from
             the
             deep
             ?
          
           
           
             That
             so
             the
             world
             might
             see
             thy
             safety
             wrought
          
           
             With
             no
             lesse
             miracle
             then
             thy selfe
             :
             Most
             thought
          
           
             The
             famous
             
               Stagyrite
               ,
            
             which
             in
             his
             life
          
           
             Had
             Nature
             as
             familiar
             as
             his
             wife
             ,
          
           
             Bequeath'd
             his
             widdow
             to
             survive
             with
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Queene-Dowager
             of
             all
             Philosophie
             ,
          
           
             An
             ominous
             legacy
             ,
             that
             did
             portend
          
           
             Thy
             fat●
             ,
             and
             predcessors
             second
             end
             .
          
           
             Some
             have
             affi●m'd
             that
             what
             on
             earth
             we
             finde
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sea
             can
             parallell
             for
             shape
             and
             kinde
             .
          
           
             Books
             ,
             A●ts
             ,
             and
             〈◊〉
             were
             wanting
             ,
             but
             in
             thee
          
           
             
               Neptune
            
             hath
             got
             an
             Universitie
             .
          
           
             Wee
             'l
             dive
             no
             more
             for
             pearle
             ,
             we
             hope
             to
             see
          
           
             Thy
             sacred
             reliques
             of
             mortalitie
             .
          
           
             Wee
             'l
             welcome
             storms
             ,
             and
             make
             the
             Sea-man
             prize
          
           
             His
             shipwrack
             now
             ,
             more
             then
             his
             merchandize
             .
          
           
             He
             shall
             embrace
             the
             w●ves
             ,
             and
             to
             ●y
             tombe
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             a
             royaller
             Exchange
             shall
             come
             .
          
           
             What
             can
             we
             now
             expect
             ?
             Water
             and
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             Both
             Elements
             of
             ruine
             ,
             do
             conspire
             ;
          
           
             And
             that
             resolves
             us
             which
             doth
             us
             compound
             ,
          
           
             One
             Vatican
             was
             barnt
             ,
             another
             dr●wn'd
             .
          
           
             VVe
             of
             the
             Gowne
             ou●
             L●braries
             must
             tosse
             ,
          
           
             To
             understand
             the
             great
             〈◊〉
             of
             our
             losse
             ;
          
           
             Be
             pupills
             to
             our
             griefe
             ,
             and
             so
             much
             grow
          
           
             In
             learning
             ,
             as
             our
             sorrow●s
             overfl●w
          
           
             VVhen
             we
             have●
             fill'd
             t●e
             R●●d●ets
             of
             our
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             VVee
             'l
             send
             it
             forth
             ,
             and
             ven●
             such
             ●●egies
             :
          
           
             So
             that
             our
             teares
             shall
             〈…〉
             ,
          
           
             VVe
             floating
             Islands
             ,
             living
             〈◊〉
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Dialogue
             between
             two
             Zealots
             ,
             upon
             the
             &c.
             in
             the
             Oath
             .
          
           
             SIr
             
               Roger
               ,
            
             from
             a
             zealous
             piece
             of
             Freeze
             ,
          
           
             Rais'd
             to
             a
             Vicar
             of
             the
             Childrens
             threes
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             yearly
             Audit
             may
             ,
             by
             strict
             accompt
             ,
          
           
             To
             twenty
             Nobles
             ,
             and
             his
             Vailes
             amount
             ;
          
           
             Fed
             on
             the
             Common
             of
             the
             femal
             charity
             ,
          
           
             Untill
             the
             Scots
             can
             bring
             about
             their
             parity
             ;
          
           
             So
             shotten
             ,
             that
             his
             soul
             ,
             like
             to
             himselfe
             ,
          
           
             Walks
             but
             in
             
               Querpo
               :
            
             This
             same
             Clergie
             Elfe
             ,
          
           
             Encount'ring
             with
             a
             Brother
             of
             the
             Cloth
             ,
          
           
             Fell
             presently
             to
             Cudglels
             with
             the
             Oath
             .
          
           
             The
             Quarrel
             was
             a
             strange
             mis-shapen
             Monster
             ,
          
           
             
               &c.
               
            
             (
             God
             blesse
             us
             )
             which
             they
             conster
             ,
          
           
             The
             Brand
             upon
             the
             buttock
             of
             the
             Beast
             ,
          
           
             The
             Dragons
             taile
             ti'd
             on
             a
             knot
             ,
             a
             neast
          
           
             Of
             young
             
               Apocryphaes
               ,
            
             the
             fashion
          
           
             Of
             a
             new
             mentall
             Reservation
             .
          
           
             While
             
               Roger
            
             thus
             divides
             the
             Text
             ,
             the
             other
          
           
             Winks
             and
             expounds
             ,
             saying
             ,
             my
             pious
             Brother
          
           
             Hearken
             with
             reverence
             ;
             for
             the
             point
             is
             nice
             ,
          
           
             I
             never
             read
             on
             't
             ,
             but
             I
             fasted
             twice
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             by
             Revelation
             ,
             know
             it
             better
          
           
             Then
             all
             the
             learn'd
             Idolaters
             o'
             th
             Letter
             .
          
           
             With
             that
             he
             swell'd
             ,
             and
             fell
             upon
             the
             Theame
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Great
             
               Goliah
            
             with
             his
             Weavers
             beame
             :
          
           
             I
             say
             to
             thee
             
               &c.
            
             thou
             li'st
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             art
             the
             curled
             locke
             of
             Antichrist
             :
          
           
             Rubbish
             of
             
               Babell
               ,
            
             for
             who
             will
             not
             say
          
           
             Tongues
             were
             confounded
             in
             
               &
               c.
               ?
            
          
           
           
             Who
             sweares
             
               &c.
            
             sweares
             more
             oathes
             at
             once
          
           
             Then
             
               Cerberus
            
             out
             of
             his
             Triple
             Sconce
             .
          
           
             Who
             viewes
             it
             well
             ,
             with
             the
             same
             eye
             beholds
          
           
             The
             old
             halfe
             Serpent
             in
             his
             numerous
             foulds
             .
          
           
             Accurst
             
               &c.
            
             thou
             ,
             for
             now
             I
             scent
          
           
             What
             lately
             the
             prodigious
             Oysters
             meant
             .
          
           
             Oh
             
               Booker
               ,
               Booker
               ,
            
             how
             cam'st
             thou
             to
             lack
          
           
             This
             sign
             in
             thy
             Prophetick
             Almanack
             ?
          
           
             It
             's
             the
             dark
             Vault
             wherein
             
             th'infernall
             plot
          
           
             Of
             powder
             'gainst
             the
             State
             was
             first
             begot
             .
          
           
             Per●●e
             the
             Oath
             ,
             and
             you
             shall
             soon
             descry
             it
          
           
             By
             all
             the
             Father
             
               Garnets
            
             that
             stand
             by
             it
             .
          
           
             Gainst
             whom
             the
             Church
             ,
             whereof
             I
             am
             a
             Member
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             keep
             another
             fifth
             day
             of
             November
             .
          
           
             Yet
             here
             's
             not
             all
             ,
             I
             cannot
             halfe
             untruss
          
           
             
               &c.
            
             it
             's
             so
             abominous
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Trojan
            
             Nag
             was
             not
             so
             fully
             lin'd
             ,
          
           
             Unrip
             
               &c.
            
             and
             you
             shall
             finde
          
           
             
               Og
            
             the
             great
             Commissary
             ,
             and
             which
             is
             worse
             ,
          
           
             
             Th'Apparatour
             upon
             his
             skew-bald
             Horse
             .
          
           
             Then
             (
             finally
             my
             Babe
             of
             Grace
             )
             forbeare
             ,
          
           
             
               &c.
            
             will
             be
             too
             farre
             to
             sweare
             :
          
           
             For
             't
             is
             (
             to
             speake
             i●
             a
             familiar
             stile
             )
          
           
             A
             Yorkshire
             Wea-bit
             ,
             longer
             then
             a
             mile
             .
          
           
             Then
             
               Roger
            
             was
             inspir'd
             ,
             and
             by
             Gods-diggers
             ,
          
           
             Hee
             'l
             sweare
             in
             words
             at
             large
             ,
             and
             not
             in
             figures
             .
          
           
             Now
             by
             this
             drink
             ,
             which
             he
             takes
             off
             ,
             as
             loth
          
           
             To
             leave
             
               &c.
            
             in
             his
             liquid
             Oath
             .
          
           
             His
             brother
             pledg'd
             him
             ,
             and
             that
             bloody
             wine
             ,
          
           
             He
             swea●s
             shall
             ●eale
             the
             Synods
             
               Cataline
               .
            
          
           
             So
             they
             drunke
             on
             ,
             not
             offering
             to
             part
          
           
             Till
             they
             had
             quite
             sworne
             out
             
             th'eleventh
             quart
             :
          
           
           
             While
             all
             t●at
             saw
             and
             heard
             them
             joyntly
             pray
             ,
          
           
             〈…〉
             ●ribe
             were
             all
             
               &c.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Smectymnuus
             ,
             or
             the
             Club-Divines
             .
          
           
             
               SMectymnuus
               ?
            
             The
             Goblin
             makes
             me
             start
             :
          
           
             I'
             th'
             Name
             of
             Rabbi
             
               Abraham
               ,
            
             what
             art
             ?
          
           
             〈◊〉
             ?
             or
             
               ●rabick
               ?
            
             or
             
               Welsh
               ?
            
             what
             skilt
             ?
          
           
             Ap
             all
             the
             Bricklayers
             that
             
               Babell
            
             built
             .
          
           
             ●ome
             Conjurer
             translate
             ,
             and
             let
             me
             know
             it
             :
          
           
             'Till
             then
             't
             is
             fit
             for
             a
             West-Saxon
             Poet
             .
          
           
             But
             doe
             the
             Brother-hood
             then
             play
             their
             prizes
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Mummers
             in
             Religion
             with
             disguises
             ?
          
           
             Out-brave
             us
             with
             a
             name
             in
             Rank
             and
             File
             ,
          
           
             A
             Name
             which
             if
             't
             were
             train'd
             would
             spread
             a
             mile
             ?
          
           
             The
             Saints
             Monopolie
             ,
             the
             zealous
             Cluster
             ,
          
           
             Which
             like
             a
             Porcupine
             presents
             a
             Muster
             ,
          
           
             And
             shoots
             his
             quills
             at
             Bishops
             and
             their
             Sees
             ,
          
           
             A
             devout
             litter
             of
             young
             
               Maccabees
               .
            
          
           
             Thus
             Jack-of-all-trades
             hath
             devoutly
             showne
             ,
          
           
             The
             twelve
             Apostles
             on
             a
             Cherry-stone
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Faction
             's
             All-a-Mode
             in
             Treasons
             fashion
             ;
          
           
             Now
             we
             have
             Heresie
             by
             Complication
             .
          
           
             Like
             to
             
               Don-Quixots
            
             Rosary
             of
             Slaves
          
           
             Strung
             on
             a
             chaine
             ;
             A
             Murnivall
             of
             Knaves
          
           
             Packt
             in
             a
             Trick
             ;
             like
             Gypsies
             when
             they
             ride
             ,
          
           
             Or
             like
             Colleagues
             which
             sit
             all
             of
             a
             side
             :
          
           
             So
             the
             vaine
             Satyrists
             stand
             all
             a
             row
             ,
          
           
             As
             hollow
             teeth
             upon
             a
             Lute-string
             show
             .
          
           
             Th'
             
               Italian
            
             Monster
             pregnent
             with
             his
             Brother
             ,
          
           
             Natures
             
               Diaeresis
               ,
            
             halfe
             one
             another
             ,
          
           
           
             He
             ,
             with
             his
             little
             Sides-man
             
               Lazarus
               ,
            
          
           
             Must
             both
             give
             way
             unto
             
               Smectym●uus
               .
            
          
           
             Next
             〈…〉
             is
             
               Smec's
               ;
            
             for
             loe
             his
             side
          
           
             Into
             a
             ●ive-fold
             
               Lazar's
            
             multipli'd
             .
          
           
             Under
             each
             a●me
             there
             's
             tuckt
             a
             double
             Gizzard
             ,
          
           
             Five
             faces
             lu●ke
             under
             one
             single
             vizzard
             .
          
           
             The
             Whore
             of
             
               Babylon
            
             left
             these
             brats
             behind
             ,
          
           
             Heires
             of
             Confusion
             by
             
               Gavell-kind
               .
            
          
           
             I
             think
             
               Pythagoras's
            
             soule
             is
             rambl'd
             hither
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             change
             of
             Rayment
             on
             together
             :
          
           
             
               Sm●c
            
             is
             her
             generall
             Wardrobe
             ,
             shee
             'l
             not
             dare
          
           
             To
             think
             of
             them
             as
             of
             a
             thorough-fare
             ;
          
           
             He
             stops
             the
             Gossopping
             Dame
             ;
             alone
             he
             is
          
           
             The
             Purlew
             of
             a
             
               Metempsuchosis
               .
            
          
           
             Like
             a
             Scotch
             Marke
             ,
             where
             the
             more
             modest
             sense
          
           
             Checks
             the
             loud
             phrase
             ,
             &
             shrinks
             to
             thirteen
             pence
             :
          
           
             Like
             to
             an
             
               Ignis
               fatuus
               ,
            
             whose
             flame
          
           
             Though
             sometimes
             tripartite
             ,
             joynes
             in
             the
             same
             :
          
           
             Like
             to
             nine
             Taylors
             ,
             who
             if
             rightly
             spelled
             ,
          
           
             Into
             one
             man
             ,
             are
             monosyllabled
             .
          
           
             Short-handed
             zeale
             in
             one
             hath
             cramped
             many
             ,
          
           
             Like
             to
             the
             Decalogue
             in
             a
             single
             penny
             .
          
           
             See
             ,
             see
             ,
             how
             close
             the
             Curs
             hunt
             under
             a
             sheet
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             they
             sp●nt
             in
             Quire
             ,
             and
             scan'd
             their
             feet
             ;
          
           
             One
             Cure
             and
             five
             Incumbents
             leap
             a
             Truss
             ,
          
           
             The
             title
             sure
             must
             be
             litigious
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Sadduces
            
             would
             raise
             a
             question
             ,
          
           
             Who
             must
             be
             
               Smec
            
             at
             th'
             Resurrection
             .
          
           
             Who
             cook'd
             them
             up
             together
             ,
             were
             to
             blame
             ,
          
           
             Had
             they
             but
             w●re-drawn
             ,
             and
             spun
             out
             their
             name
             ,
          
           
             'T
             would
             make
             another
             Prencices
             Petition
          
           
             Against
             the
             Bishops
             and
             their
             Superstition
             .
          
           
           
             
               Robson
            
             and
             
               French
            
             (
             that
             count
             from
             five
             to
             five
             ,
          
           
             As
             farre
             as
             nature
             fingers
             did
             contrive
             ,
          
           
             She
             saw
             they
             would
             be
             Sessers
             ;
             that
             's
             the
             cause
          
           
             She
             cleft
             their
             hoof
             into
             so
             many
             clawes
             )
          
           
             May
             tire
             their
             Carret-bunch
             ,
             yet
             ne're
             agree
          
           
             To
             rate
             
               Smectymnuus
            
             for
             Polemonie
             .
          
           
             
               Galigula
               ,
            
             whose
             pride
             was
             Mankinds
             Baile
             ,
          
           
             As
             who
             disdain'd
             to
             murder
             by
             retaile
             ,
          
           
             Wishing
             the
             world
             had
             but
             one
             generall
             Neck
             ,
          
           
             His
             gl●tton
             blade
             might
             have
             found
             game
             in
             
               Smec
               .
            
          
           
             No
             Eccho
             can
             improve
             the
             Author
             more
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             lungs
             payes
             use
             on
             use
             to
             halfe
             a
             score
             .
          
           
             No
             Fellon
             is
             more
             letter'd
             ,
             though
             the
             brand
          
           
             Both
             superscribes
             his
             shoulder
             and
             his
             hand
             .
          
           
             Some
             Welch-man
             was
             his
             Godfather
             ;
             for
             he
          
           
             Weares
             in
             his
             name
             his
             Genealogie
             .
          
           
             The
             Banes
             are
             askt
             ,
             would
             but
             the
             time
             give
             way
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             
               Smectymnuus
               ,
            
             and
             
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             The
             Guests
             invited
             by
             a
             friendly
             Summons
             ,
          
           
             Should
             be
             the
             Convocation
             ,
             and
             the
             Commons
             .
          
           
             The
             Priest
             to
             tie
             these
             Foxes
             tails
             together
             ,
          
           
             
               Moseley
               ,
            
             or
             
               Sancta
               Clara
               ,
            
             chuse
             you
             whether
             .
          
           
             See
             ,
             what
             an
             off-spring
             every
             one
             expects
             ?
          
           
             What
             strange
             pluralities
             of
             Men
             and
             Sects
             ?
          
           
             One
             sayes
             ,
             hee
             'l
             get
             a
             Vestery
             ;
             another
          
           
             Is
             for
             a
             Synod
             :
             Bet
             upon
             the
             Mother
             .
          
           
             Faith
             cry
             
               S.
               George
               ,
            
             let
             them
             go
             to
             't
             ,
             and
             stickle
             ,
          
           
             Whether
             a
             Conclave
             ,
             or
             a
             Conventicle
             .
          
           
             Thus
             might
             Religions
             caterwaule
             ,
             and
             spight
             ,
          
           
             Which
             uses
             to
             divorce
             ,
             might
             once
             unite
             .
          
           
             But
             their
             crosse
             fortunes
             interdict
             their
             trade
             ;
          
           
             The
             Groome
             is
             Rampant
             ,
             but
             the
             Bride
             displai'd
             .
          
           
           
             My
             task
             is
             done
             ;
             all
             my
             hee-Goats
             are
             milkt
             ;
          
           
             So
             many
             Cards
             i'
             th
             stock
             ,
             and
             yet
             be
             bilkt
             ?
          
           
             I
             could
             by
             Letters
             now
             untwist
             the
             rable
             ,
          
           
             Whip
             
               Smec
            
             from
             Constable
             to
             Constable
             .
          
           
             But
             there
             I
             leave
             you
             to
             another
             dressing
             ,
          
           
             Onely
             kneel
             downe
             ,
             and
             take
             your
             Fathers
             blessing
             .
          
           
             May
             the
             
               Queen-Mother
            
             justifie
             your
             fears
             ,
          
           
             And
             stretch
             her
             Patent
             to
             your
             leather-ears
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Mixt
             Assembly
             .
          
           
             FLeabitten
             Synod
             :
             an
             Assembly
             brew'd
          
           
             Of
             Clerks
             and
             Elders
             
               ana
               ,
            
             like
             the
             rude
          
           
             Chaos
             of
             Presbyt'ry
             ,
             where
             Lay-men
             guide
          
           
             With
             the
             ●ame
             Woolpack
             Clergie
             by
             their
             side
             .
          
           
             Who
             askt
             the
             Banes
             'twixt
             these
             discolour'd
             Mates
             ?
          
           
             A
             strange
             
               Grottesco
            
             this
             ,
             the
             Church
             and
             States
          
           
             (
             Most
             divine
             tick-tack
             )
             in
             a
             pye-bald
             crew
             ,
          
           
             To
             serve
             as
             table-men
             of
             divers
             hue
             .
          
           
             She
             that
             conceiv'd
             an
             
               Aethiopian
            
             heire
          
           
             By
             picture
             ,
             when
             the
             parents
             both
             were
             faire
             ,
          
           
             At
             sight
             of
             you
             had
             borne
             a
             dappl'd
             son
             ,
          
           
             You
             checquering
             her
             imagination
             .
          
           
             Had
             
               Iacobs
            
             flock
             but
             seen
             you
             sit
             ,
             the
             dams
          
           
             Had
             brought
             forth
             speckled
             and
             ringstreaked
             lambs
             .
          
           
             Like
             an
             Impropriators
             Motley
             kind
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             Scarlet
             Coat
             is
             with
             a
             Cassock
             lin'd
             .
          
           
             Like
             the
             Lay-thiese
             in
             a
             Canonick
             weed
             ,
          
           
             Sure
             of
             his
             Clergie
             e're
             he
             did
             the
             deed
             ,
          
           
             Like
             
               Royston
            
             Crowes
             who
             are
             (
             as
             I
             may
             say
             )
          
           
             Friers
             of
             both
             the
             Orders
             
               Black
            
             and
             
               Gray
               .
            
          
           
           
             S●
             mixt
             they
             are
             ,
             one
             knowes
             not
             whether
             's
             thicker
             ,
          
           
             A
             Layre
             of
             Burgesse
             ,
             or
             a
             Layre
             of
             Vicar
             .
          
           
             Have
             they
             usurp'd
             what
             Royall
             
               Iudah
            
             had
             ?
          
           
             And
             now
             must
             
               Levi
            
             too
             part
             stakes
             with
             
               God
               ?
            
          
           
             The
             Scepter
             and
             the
             Crosier
             are
             the
             Crutches
             ,
          
           
             Which
             if
             not
             trusted
             in
             their
             pious
             Clutches
             ,
          
           
             Will
             saile
             the
             Criple-State
             .
             And
             were
             't
             not
             pity
          
           
             But
             both
             should
             serve
             the
             yardwand
             of
             the
             City
             ?
          
           
             That
             
               Isau
            
             might
             stroke
             his
             beard
             ,
             and
             sit
          
           
             Judge
             of
             〈◊〉
             and
             
               Elegerit
               .
            
          
           
             Oh
             that
             they
             were
             in
             chalk
             and
             charcole
             drawne
             !
          
           
             The
             Misselany
             Satyr
             ,
             and
             the
             Fawne
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             
             th'Adulteries
             of
             twisted
             nature
          
           
             B●t
             faintly
             represent
             this
             ridling
             feature
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             M●mbers
             being
             not
             Tallies
             ,
             they
             'l
             not
             own
          
           
             Their
             fellows
             at
             the
             Resurrection
             .
          
           
             Strange
             Scarler
             Doctors
             these
             ,
             they
             'l
             passe
             in
             Story
          
           
             For
             sinners
             halfe
             refin'd
             in
             Purgatory
             ;
          
           
             Or
             parboyl'd
             L●bsters
             ,
             where
             there
             joyntly
             rules
          
           
             The
             fading
             Sables
             and
             the
             coming
             Gules
             .
          
           
             The
             flea
             that
             
               Faistaff●
            
             damn'd
             ,
             thus
             lewdly
             showes
          
           
             Tormented
             in
             the
             flames
             of
             
               Bardolphs
            
             Nose
             .
          
           
             Like
             him
             that
             wore
             the
             Dialogue
             of
             Cloaks
             ,
          
           
             This
             shoulder
             
               〈◊〉
               a
               Styles
               ,
            
             that
             
               Iohn
               a
               Noaks
               .
            
          
           
             Like
             Je●es
             and
             Christians
             in
             a
             ship
             together
             ,
          
           
             With
             an
             old
             Ne●k
             verse
             to
             distinguish
             either
             .
          
           
             Like
             their
             intended
             Discipline
             to
             boot
             ,
          
           
             Or
             whatsoe're
             hath
             neither
             head
             nor
             foot
             :
          
           
             Such
             may
             these
             stript-stuffe
             hangings
             seem
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             Sacriledge
             matcht
             with
             Codpeece
             Symonie
             ;
          
           
             Be
             sick
             and
             d●eam
             a
             little
             ,
             you
             may
             then
          
           
             Phansie
             these
             Linsie-Woolsie
             Vestry-men
             .
          
           
           
             Forbeare
             good
             
               Pembroke
               ,
            
             be
             not
             over-daring
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Company
             may
             chance
             to
             spoile
             thy
             swearing
             :
          
           
             And
             these
             Drum-Major
             oaths
             of
             Bulke
             unruly
             ,
          
           
             May
             dwindle
             to
             a
             feeble
             
               By
               my
               truly
               .
            
          
           
             He
             that
             the
             noble
             
               Percyes
            
             bloud
             inherits
             ,
          
           
             Will
             he
             strike
             up
             a
             
               Hotspur
            
             of
             the
             spirits
             ?
          
           
             Hee
             'l
             f●ght
             the
             
               Obadiahs
            
             out
             of
             tune
             ,
          
           
             With
             his
             u●circumcised
             
               Algernoon
               .
            
          
           
             A
             name
             so
             stubborne
             ,
             't
             is
             not
             to
             be
             scan'd
          
           
             By
             him
             in
             
               Gath
            
             with
             the
             six
             finger'd
             hand
             .
          
           
             See
             ,
             they
             obey
             the
             Magick
             of
             my
             words
             .
          
           
             
               Presto
               ;
            
             they
             re
             gone
             .
             And
             now
             the
             House
             of
             Lords
          
           
             Looks
             like
             〈◊〉
             wither'd
             face
             of
             an
             old
             hagg
             ,
          
           
             But
             with
             three
             teeth
             like
             to
             a
             triple
             gagg
             .
          
           
             A
             Jig
             ,
             a
             Ji●
             :
             And
             in
             this
             antick
             dance
          
           
             
               Fielding
               ,
            
             and
             doxy
             
               Marshall
            
             first
             advance
             .
          
           
             
               Twiss
            
             blowes
             the
             Scotch
             pipes
             ,
             and
             the
             loving
             brase
          
           
             Puts
             on
             the
             traces
             ,
             and
             treads
             ●inque-a-pace
             .
          
           
             Then
             
               Say
               and
               Seale
            
             must
             his
             old
             Hamstrings
             supple
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             and
             ru●pl'd
             
               Palmer
            
             make
             a
             couple
             .
          
           
             
               Palmer's
            
             a
             fruitfull
             girle
             ,
             if
             hee
             'l
             unfold
             her
             ,
          
           
             The
             Midwife
             may
             finde
             worke
             about
             her
             shoulder
             ,
          
           
             Kimbolton
             
               that
               rebellious
            
             Boanerges
             ,
          
           
             Must
             be
             content
             to
             saddle
             Doctor
             
               Burges
               .
            
          
           
             If
             
               Burges
            
             get
             a
             clap
             ,
             't
             is
             ne're
             the
             worse
             ,
          
           
             But
             the
             fift
             time
             of
             his
             Cmpurgators
             .
          
           
             
               Nol
               Bowles
            
             is
             coy
             ;
             good
             sadnesse
             cannot
             dance
          
           
             But
             in
             obedience
             to
             the
             Ordinance
             ,
          
           
             Her
             
               Wharton
            
             wheels
             about
             till
             
               Mumping
               Lidy
               ,
            
          
           
             Like
             the
             full
             Moon
             ,
             hath
             made
             his
             Lordship
             giddy
             .
          
           
             
               Pym
            
             and
             the
             
               Members
            
             must
             their
             giblets
             levy
          
           
             T'
             incounter
             Madam
             
               Smec
               ,
            
             that
             single
             Bevy
             .
          
           
           
             If
             they
             two
             truck
             together
             ,
             't
             will
             not
             be
          
           
             A
             Child-birth
             ,
             but
             a
             Goale-deliverie
             .
          
           
             Thus
             every
             
               Gibeline
            
             hath
             got
             his
             
               Guelph
               ,
            
          
           
             But
             
               Selden
               ,
            
             hee
             's
             a
             Galliard
             by
             himself
             ,
          
           
             And
             well
             may
             be
             ;
             there
             's
             more
             Divines
             in
             him
          
           
             Then
             in
             all
             this
             their
             Jewish
             
               Sanhedrim
               :
            
          
           
             Whose
             Canons
             in
             the
             forge
             shall
             then
             beare
             date
             ,
          
           
             When
             Mules
             their
             Cosin-Germanes
             generate
             .
          
           
             Thus
             
               Moses
            
             Law
             is
             violated
             now
             ,
          
           
             The
             Oxe
             and
             Asse
             go
             yok'd
             in
             the
             same
             plough
             .
          
           
             Resigne
             thy
             Coach-box
             
               Twisse
               ;
               Brook's
            
             Preacher
             ,
             he
          
           
             Would
             sort
             the
             beasts
             with
             more
             conformitie
             .
          
           
             Water
             &
             earth
             make
             but
             one
             Globe
             ,
             a
             Roundhead
          
           
             Is
             Clergy-Lay
             
               Party-per-pale
            
             compounded
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Kings
             Disguise
             .
          
           
             ANd
             why
             so
             coffin'd
             to
             this
             vile
             disguise
             ?
          
           
             Which
             who
             but
             sees
             ,
             blasphemes
             thee
             with
             his
             eyes
             .
          
           
             My
             twins
             of
             light
             within
             their
             pent-house
             shrink
             ,
          
           
             And
             hold
             it
             their
             allegeance
             to
             wink
             .
          
           
             Oh
             for
             a
             State-distinction
             to
             arraigne
          
           
             
               Charles
            
             of
             high
             Treason
             'gainst
             my
             Soveraigne
             .
          
           
             What
             an
             Usurper
             to
             his
             Prince
             is
             wont
             ,
          
           
             Cloyster
             and
             shave
             him
             ,
             he
             himselfe
             hath
             don
             't
             .
          
           
             His
             muffled
             fabrick
             speaks
             him
             a
             recluse
             ,
          
           
             His
             ruines
             prove
             it
             a
             religious
             house
             .
          
           
             The
             Sun
             hath
             mew'd
             his
             beams
             from
             off
             his
             lamp
             ,
          
           
             And
             Majesty
             defac'd
             the
             Royall
             stamp
             .
          
           
             Is
             't
             not
             enough
             thy
             Dignity
             's
             in
             thrall
             ,
          
           
             But
             thou'lt
             transcribe
             it
             in
             thy
             shape
             and
             all
             ?
          
           
           
             As
             if
             thy
             Blacks
             were
             of
             too
             faint
             a
             dye
             ,
          
           
             Without
             the
             tincture
             of
             Tautologie
             .
          
           
             Flay
             an
             Egyptian
             for
             his
             Cassock
             skin
             ,
          
           
             Spun
             of
             his
             Countreys
             darknesse
             ,
             lin't
             within
          
           
             With
             Presbyterian
             budge
             ,
             that
             drowsie
             trance
             ,
          
           
             The
             Synods
             sable
             ,
             foggie
             ignorance
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             bodily
             nor
             ghostly
             Negro
             could
          
           
             Rough-cast
             thy
             figure
             in
             a
             sadder
             mould
             :
          
           
             That
             privie-chamber
             of
             thy
             shape
             would
             be
          
           
             But
             the
             Close-mourner
             to
             thy
             Royaltie
             .
          
           
             Then
             break
             the
             circle
             of
             thy
             Taylors
             spell
             ,
          
           
             A
             Pearle
             within
             a
             rugged
             Oyster-shell
             .
          
           
             Heaven
             ,
             which
             the
             Minster
             of
             thy
             Person
             owns
             ,
          
           
             Will
             fine
             thee
             for
             Dilapidations
             .
          
           
             Like
             to
             a
             martyr'd
             Abbeys
             courser
             doome
             ,
          
           
             Devoutly
             alter'd
             to
             a
             Pigeon
             roome
             :
          
           
             Or
             like
             the
             Colledge
             ,
             by
             the
             changeling
             rabble
             ,
          
           
             
               Manchesters
            
             Elves
             ,
             transform'd
             into
             a
             Stable
             .
          
           
             Or
             ,
             if
             there
             be
             a
             prophanation
             higher
             ,
          
           
             Such
             is
             the
             sacriledge
             of
             this
             attire
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             
             th'art
             halfe
             depos'd
             ,
             thou
             look'st
             like
             one
          
           
             Whose
             looks
             are
             under
             Sequestration
             :
          
           
             Whose
             Renegado
             form
             ,
             at
             the
             first
             glance
             ,
          
           
             Shewes
             like
             the
             selfe-denying
             Ordinance
             .
          
           
             Angell
             of
             light
             ,
             und
             darknesse
             too
             ,
             I
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             Inspir'd
             within
             ,
             and
             yet
             posses'd
             without
             .
          
           
             Majestick
             twilight
             in
             the
             state
             of
             grace
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             with
             an
             excommunicated
             face
             .
          
           
             
               Charles
            
             and
             his
             Mask
             are
             of
             a
             different
             mint
             ,
          
           
             A
             Psalme
             of
             mercy
             in
             a
             miscreant
             print
             .
          
           
             The
             Sun
             wears
             Midnight
             ,
             Day
             is
             beetle-brow'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Lightning
             is
             in
             Keldar
             of
             a
             cloud
             .
          
           
           
             〈…〉
             of
             fate
             !
          
           
             〈…〉
             Eagle
             shrunk
             into
             a
             Bat
             ?
          
           
             〈…〉
             what
             Magick
             vapour
             can
             it
             be
          
           
             That
             shri●ks
             his
             rayes
             to
             this
             Apostasie
             ?
          
           
             It
             is
             no
             subtile
             film
             of
             〈◊〉
             ayre
             ,
          
           
             No
             Go●-web
             vizard
             ,
             such
             as
             Ladies
             weare
             ,
          
           
             When
             th●●
             are
             veil'd
             ,
             on
             purpose
             to
             be
             seen
             .
          
           
             Doubling
             their
             lustre
             by
             their
             vanquisht
             skreen
             :
          
           
             Nor
             the
             false
             scabberd
             of
             a
             Princes
             tough
          
           
             Me●all
             ,
             and
             three-pil'd
             darknesse
             ,
             like
             the
             
               *
            
             slough
          
           
             Of
             an
             imprisoned
             flame
             ,
             't
             is
             
               Faux
            
             in
             grain●
             ,
          
           
             Dark
             〈◊〉
             to
             our
             high
             Meridian
             .
          
           
             Hell
             belcht
             the
             damp
             ,
             the
             
               Warwick-Castle
            
             Vote
          
           
             Rang
             
               Britains
            
             Curfeu
             ,
             so
             our
             light
             went
             out
             .
          
           
             Thy
             visage
             is
             not
             legible
             ,
             the
             letters
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             Lords
             name
             ,
             writ
             in
             fantastick
             fetters
             :
          
           
             Cloaths
             where
             a
             Switzer
             might
             be
             buried
             quick
             ,
          
           
             Sure
             they
             would
             fit
             the
             Body
             Politick
             .
          
           
             False
             beard
             ,
             enough
             to
             fit
             a
             stages
             plot
             ,
          
           
             For
             that
             's
             the
             ambush
             of
             their
             wit
             ,
             God
             wot
             .
          
           
             Nay
             all
             his
             properties
             so
             strange
             appeare
             ,
          
           
             Y'
             are
             not
             i'
             th'
             presence
             ,
             though
             the
             King
             be
             there
             .
          
           
             A
             Libell
             is
             his
             dresse
             ,
             a
             garb
             uncouth
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             the
             
               *
            
             
               Hue
            
             and
             
               Cry
            
             once
             purg'd
             at
             mouth
             .
          
           
             Scribling
             Assasinate
             ,
             thy
             lines
             a●●est
          
           
             An
             eare-mark
             due
             ;
             Cub
             of
             the
             blatant
             Beast
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             breath
             before
             't
             is
             syllabled
             for
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Is
             blasphemy
             unfledg'd
             ,
             a
             callow
             curse
             .
          
           
             The
             Laplanders
             ,
             when
             they
             would
             ●ell
             a
             wind
          
           
             Wafting
             to
             hell
             ,
             bag
             up
             thy
             phrase
             and
             bind
          
           
             It
             to
             the
             Barque
             ,
             which
             at
             the
             voyage
             end
          
           
             Shifts
             Poop
             ,
             and
             brings
             the
             Collick
             in
             the
             fiend
             .
          
           
           
             It
             to
             the
             barque
             ,
             which
             at
             the
             voyage
             end
          
           
             Shifts
             Poop
             ,
             and
             breeds
             the
             Collick
             in
             the
             fiend
             .
          
           
             But
             I
             'le
             not
             dub
             thee
             with
             a
             glorious
             scar
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             sink
             thy
             Skuller
             with
             a
             Man
             of
             War
             .
          
           
             The
             black-mouth'd
             
               Siquis
               ,
            
             and
             this
             slandering
             suite
             ,
          
           
             Both
             do
             alike
             in
             picture
             execute
             .
          
           
             But
             since
             w'
             are
             all
             call'd
             Papist
             ,
             why
             not
             dare
          
           
             Devotion
             to
             the
             rags
             thus
             consecrate
             .
          
           
             As
             Temples
             use
             to
             have
             their
             Porches
             wrought
          
           
             With
             Sphynxes
             ,
             creatures
             of
             an
             antick
             draught
             ,
          
           
             And
             puzling
             Pourtraitures
             ,
             to
             shew
             that
             there
          
           
             Riddles
             inhabited
             ,
             the
             like
             is
             here
             .
          
           
             The
             black
             offender
             ,
             should
             he
             weare
             his
             fin
          
           
             For
             penance
             ,
             could
             not
             have
             a
             darker
             skin
             .
          
           
             But
             pardon
             Sir
             ,
             since
             I
             presume
             to
             be
          
           
             Clarke
             of
             this
             Closet
             to
             Your
             Majestie
             :
          
           
             Methinks
             in
             this
             your
             darke
             mysterious
             dresse
          
           
             I
             see
             the
             Gospell
             coucht
             in
             Parables
             .
          
           
             The
             second
             view
             ,
             my
             pur-blind
             fancy
             wipes
             ,
          
           
             And
             shewes
             Religion
             in
             its
             dusky
             types
             .
          
           
             Such
             a
             Text
             Royall
             ,
             so
             obscure
             a
             shade
          
           
             Was
             
               Solomon
            
             in
             Proverbs
             all
             array'd
             .
          
           
             Now
             all
             ye
             brats
             of
             this
             expounding
             age
             ,
          
           
             To
             whom
             the
             Spirit
             is
             in
             pupill
             age
             ;
          
           
             You
             that
             damne
             more
             then
             ever
             
               Sampson
            
             slew
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             engine
             ,
             the
             same
             jaw-bone
             too
             :
          
           
             How
             is
             't
             
               Charles
            
             'scapes
             your
             Inquisition
             free
             ,
          
           
             Since
             bound
             up
             in
             the
             Bibles
             Liverie
             ?
          
           
             Hence
             Cabinet-untrussers
             ,
             Picklocks
             hence
             ,
          
           
             You
             that
             dim
             Jewells
             with
             your
             
               Bristoll-sense
            
             :
          
           
             And
             Characters
             ,
             like
             Witches
             ,
             so
             torment
             ,
          
           
             Till
             they
             confesse
             a
             guilt
             ,
             though
             innocent
             .
          
           
           
             Keyes
             for
             this
             Cypher
             you
             can
             never
             get
             ,
          
           
             None
             but
             S.
             
               Peters
            
             opes
             this
             Cabinet
             .
          
           
             This
             Cabinet
             ,
             whose
             aspect
             would
             benight
          
           
             Critick
             spectators
             with
             redundant
             light
             .
          
           
             A
             Prince
             most
             seen
             ,
             is
             least
             :
             What
             Scriptures
             call
          
           
             The
             Revelation
             ,
             is
             most
             mysticall
             .
          
           
             Mount
             then
             thou
             shadow
             royall
             ,
             and
             with
             haste
             ,
          
           
             Advance
             thy
             morning
             star
             ,
             
               Charles's
            
             overcast
             .
          
           
             May
             thy
             strange
             journey
             contradictions
             twist
             ,
          
           
             And
             force
             faire
             weather
             from
             a
             Scottish
             mist
             .
          
           
             Heavens
             Confessors
             are
             pos'd
             ,
             those
             star-ey'd
             Sages
          
           
             To
             interpret
             an
             Ecclipse
             ,
             thus
             riding
             stages
             .
          
           
             Thus
             
               Israel-like
            
             he
             travels
             with
             a
             cloud
             ,
          
           
             Both
             as
             a
             Conduct
             to
             him
             ,
             and
             a
             shroud
             .
          
           
             But
             oh
             !
             he
             goes
             to
             
               Gibeon
               ,
            
             and
             renewes
          
           
             A
             league
             with
             mouldy
             bread
             ,
             and
             clouted
             shooes
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Rebell
             Scot
             .
          
           
             HOw
             !
             Providence
             !
             and
             yet
             a
             Scottish
             crew
             !
          
           
             Then
             Madam
             nature
             wears
             black
             patches
             too
             .
          
           
             What
             ?
             shall
             our
             Nation
             be
             in
             bondage
             thus
          
           
             Unto
             a
             Land
             that
             truckles
             under
             us
             ?
          
           
             Ring
             the
             bells
             backward
             ;
             I
             am
             all
             on
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Not
             all
             the
             buckets
             in
             a
             Country
             Quire
          
           
             Shall
             quench
             my
             rage
             .
             A
             Poet
             should
             be
             fear'd
          
           
             Whe●
             angry
             ,
             like
             a
             Comets
             flaming
             beard
             .
          
           
             And
             where
             's
             the
             Stoick
             ?
             can
             his
             wrath
             appease
          
           
             To
             see
             his
             Countrey
             sick
             of
             
               Pym's
            
             disease
          
           
             By
             Scotch
             invasion
             ?
             to
             be
             made
             a
             prey
          
           
             To
             such
             Pig-wiggin
             
               Mirmidons
            
             as
             they
             ?
          
           
           
             But
             that
             there
             's
             cha●me
             in
             verse
             ,
             I
             will
             not
             quote
          
           
             The
             name
             of
             
               Scot
               ,
            
             without
             an
             Antidote
             ;
          
           
             Unlesse
             my
             head
             were
             red
             ,
             that
             I
             might
             brew
          
           
             Invention
             there
             that
             might
             be
             poyson
             too
             .
          
           
             Were
             I
             a
             drowsie
             Judge
             whose
             dismall
             Note
          
           
             Disg●●geth
             halters
             ,
             as
             a
             Juglers
             throat
          
           
             Doth
             ribbands
             :
             could
             I
             (
             in
             Sir
             Emp'ricks
             tone
             )
          
           
             Speake
             Pills
             in
             phrase
             ,
             and
             quack
             destruction
             :
          
           
             Or
             roare
             like
             
               Marshall
               ,
            
             that
             
               Gen●vah-Bull
            
             ,
          
           
             Hell
             and
             damnation
             a
             Pulpit
             full
             :
          
           
             Yet
             to
             expresse
             a
             
               Scot
               ,
            
             to
             play
             that
             prize
             ,
          
           
             Not
             all
             those
             mouth-Grandoes
             can
             suffice
             .
          
           
             Before
             a
             
               Scot
            
             can
             properly
             be
             curst
             ,
          
           
             I
             must
             (
             like
             
               Hocus
               )
            
             swallow
             daggers
             first
             .
          
           
             Come
             keen
             
               lambicks
               ,
            
             with
             your
             Badgers
             feet
             ,
          
           
             And
             Badger-like
             ,
             bite
             till
             your
             teeth
             do
             meet
             .
          
           
             Help
             ye
             tart
             Satyrists
             ,
             to
             imp
             my
             rage
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             Scorpions
             that
             should
             whip
             this
             age
             .
          
           
             
               Scots
            
             are
             like
             Witches
             ;
             do
             but
             whe●
             your
             pen
             ,
          
           
             Scratch
             til
             the
             blood
             come
             ;
             they
             'l
             not
             hurt
             you
             then
             .
          
           
             Now
             as
             the
             Martyrs
             were
             inforc'd
             to
             take
          
           
             The
             shapes
             of
             beasts
             ,
             like
             hypocrites
             ,
             at
             stake
             ,
          
           
             I
             'le
             bait
             my
             
               Scot
            
             so
             ;
             yet
             not
             cheat
             your
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             A
             
               Scot
            
             within
             a
             beast
             is
             no
             disguise
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             let
             
               Ireland
            
             brag
             ,
             her
             〈◊〉
             Nation
          
           
             Fosters
             no
             Venome
             ,
             since
             the
             Scots
             Plantation
             :
          
           
             Nor
             can
             ours
             feign'd
             Antiquity
             maintaine
             ;
          
           
             Since
             they
             came
             in
             ,
             
               England
            
             hath
             Wolves
             againe
             .
          
           
             The
             Scot
             that
             kept
             the
             Tower
             might
             have
             showne
          
           
             (
             Within
             the
             gra●e
             of
             his
             〈◊〉
             ●rest
             alone
             )
          
           
             The
             〈…〉
             Panther
             ;
             and
             ingrost
          
           
             What
             all
             those
             wild
             Collegiats
             had
             cost
          
           
           
             The
             honest
             High-shoes
             ,
             in
             their
             Termly
             Fees
             ,
          
           
             First
             to
             the
             salvage
             Lawyer
             ,
             next
             to
             these
             .
          
           
             Nature
             her selfe
             doth
             Scotch-men
             beasts
             confesse
             ,
          
           
             Making
             their
             Countrey
             such
             a
             wildernesse
             :
          
           
             A
             Land
             ,
             that
             brings
             in
             question
             and
             suspense
          
           
             Gods
             omnipresence
             ,
             but
             that
             CHARLS
             came
             thence
             .
          
           
             But
             that
             
               Montrosse
            
             and
             
               Crawfords
            
             loyall
             Band
          
           
             Atton'd
             their
             sins
             ,
             and
             christ'ned
             halfe
             the
             Land
             :
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             all
             the
             Nation
             hath
             these
             spots
             ;
          
           
             There
             is
             a
             Church
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             
               Kirk
            
             of
             Scots
             :
          
           
             As
             in
             a
             picture
             ,
             where
             the
             squinting
             paint
          
           
             Shewes
             Fiend
             on
             this
             side
             ,
             and
             on
             that
             side
             Saint
             .
          
           
             He
             that
             saw
             hell
             in
             's
             melancholie
             dreame
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             twilight
             of
             his
             Fanc●e's
             theame
             ,
          
           
             Scar●d
             from
             his
             sins
             ,
             repented
             in
             a
             fright
             ,
          
           
             Had
             he
             view'd
             ●cotland
             ,
             had
             ●urn'd
             Proselite
             .
          
           
             A
             Land
             ,
             where
             one
             may
             pray
             with
             curst
             intent
             ,
          
           
             O
             may
             they
             never
             suffer
             banishment
             !
          
           
             Had
             
               Cain
            
             beene
             
               Scot
               ,
            
             God
             would
             have
             chang'd
             his
             doome
             ,
          
           
             Not
             forc'd
             him
             wander
             ,
             but
             confin'd
             him
             home
             .
          
           
             Like
             Jewes
             they
             spread
             ,
             and
             as
             Infection
             flie
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             Devill
             had
             Ubiquitie
             .
          
           
             Hence
             't
             is
             ,
             they
             live
             at
             Rovers
             ;
             and
             defie
          
           
             This
             or
             that
             place
             ,
             Rags
             of
             Geographie
             .
          
           
             They
             're
             Citizens
             o'
             th
             World
             ;
             they
             're
             all
             in
             all
             ,
          
           
             Scotland's
             a
             Nation
             Epidemicall
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             they
             ramble
             not
             ,
             to
             learne
             the
             Mode
          
           
             How
             to
             be
             drest
             ,
             or
             how
             to
             lisp
             abroad
             ,
          
           
             To
             returne
             knowing
             in
             the
             Spanish
             shrug
             ,
          
           
             Or
             which
             of
             the
             Dutch
             States
             a
             double
             Jug
          
           
             Resembles
             most
             ,
             in
             Belly
             ,
             or
             in
             Beard
             :
          
           
             The
             Card
             by
             which
             the
             Travellers
             are
             steard
             .
          
           
           
             No
             ;
             the
             
               Scots-Errant
            
             fight
             ,
             and
             fight
             to
             eat
             ;
             their
             Estrich
             stomacks
             make
             their
             swords
             their
             meat
             .
          
           
             Nature
             with
             Scots
             as
             Tooth-drawers
             hath
             dealt
             ,
          
           
             Who
             use
             to
             hang
             their
             teeth
             upon
             their
             Belt.
             
          
           
             Yet
             wonder
             not
             at
             this
             their
             happy
             choice
             ;
          
           
             The
             Serpent's
             fatall
             still
             to
             
               Paradise
               .
            
          
           
             Sure
             
               England
            
             hath
             the
             Hemerods
             ,
             and
             these
          
           
             On
             the
             North
             Posterne
             of
             the
             patient
             seize
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Leeches
             :
             thus
             they
             physically
             thirst
          
           
             After
             our
             blood
             ,
             but
             in
             the
             cure
             shall
             burst
             .
          
           
             Let
             them
             not
             thinke
             to
             make
             us
             run
             o'
             th
             score
             ,
          
           
             To
             purchase
             Villanage
             ,
             as
             once
             before
             ,
          
           
             When
             an
             Act
             past
             ,
             to
             stroake
             them
             on
             the
             head
             ,
          
           
             Call
             them
             good
             Subjects
             ,
             buy
             them
             Ginger-bread
             .
          
           
             Nor
             gold
             ,
             nor
             Acts
             of
             Grace
             ;
             't
             is
             steel
             must
             tame
          
           
             The
             stubborne
             
               Scot
               :
            
             A
             Prince
             that
             would
             reclaime
          
           
             Rebells
             by
             yeelding
             ,
             doth
             like
             him
             ,
             (
             or
             worse
             )
          
           
             Who
             sadled
             his
             owne
             back
             to
             shame
             his
             horse
             .
          
           
             Was
             it
             for
             this
             you
             left
             your
             leaner
             soyle
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             to
             lard
             Israel
             with
             Aegypts
             spoyle
             ?
          
           
             They
             are
             the
             Gospells
             Life-guard
             ;
             but
             for
             them
             ,
          
           
             The
             Garrison
             of
             new
             Jerusalem
             ,
          
           
             What
             would
             the
             Brethren
             do
             ?
             the
             Cause
             the
             cause
             !
          
           
             Sack
             possets
             ,
             and
             the
             Fundamentall
             Lawes
             !
          
           
             Lord
             !
             what
             a
             godly
             thing
             is
             want
             of
             shirts
             !
          
           
             How
             a
             Scotch-stamack
             ,
             and
             no
             meat
             ,
             converts
             !
          
           
             They
             wanted
             food
             ,
             and
             raiment
             ;
             so
             they
             took
          
           
             Religion
             for
             their
             Seamstresse
             ,
             and
             their
             Cook
             .
          
           
             Unmaske
             them
             well
             ;
             their
             honors
             and
             estate
             ,
          
           
             As
             well
             as
             conscience
             ,
             are
             sophisticate
             .
          
           
             Shrive
             but
             their
             Titles
             ,
             and
             their
             money
             poize
             ,
          
           
             A
             Laird
             and
             Twenty
             pence
             pronounc'd
             with
             noise
             ,
          
           
           
             When
             const●ued
             ,
             but
             for
             a
             plaine
             Yeoman
             goe
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             good
             sober
             twopence
             ;
             and
             well
             so
             .
          
           
             Hence
             then
             you
             proud
             Impostors
             ,
             get
             you
             gone
             ;
          
           
             You
             Picts
             in
             Gentry
             and
             Devotion
             :
          
           
             You
             scandalls
             to
             the
             stock
             of
             Verse
             !
             a
             race
             !
          
           
             Able
             to
             bring
             the
             Gibbet
             in
             disgrace
             !
          
           
             
               Hyp●●●olus
            
             by
             suffering
             did
             traduce
          
           
             The
             Ostracisme
             ,
             and
             sham'd
             it
             out
             of
             use
             .
          
           
             the
             Indian
             that
             Heaven
             did
             forsweare
             ,
          
           
             Because
             he
             heard
             the
             Spaniards
             were
             there
             ,
          
           
             Had
             he
             but
             knowne
             what
             Scots
             in
             hell
             had
             been
             ,
          
           
             He
             would
             
               Erasmus-like
            
             have
             hung
             betweene
             .
          
           
             My
             Muse
             hath
             done
             .
             A
             Voider
             for
             the
             nonce
             !
          
           
             I
             wrong
             the
             Devill
             ,
             should
             I
             pick
             the
             bones
             ?
          
           
             That
             dish
             is
             his
             :
             for
             when
             the
             Scots
             decease
             ,
          
           
             Hell
             ,
             like
             their
             Nation
             ,
             feeds
             on
             Barnacles
             .
          
           
             A
             Scot
             ,
             when
             from
             the
             Gallow-Tree
             got
             loose
             ,
          
           
             Drops
             into
             
               S●yx
               ,
            
             and
             turns
             a
             Solun-Go●se
             .
          
        
         
           
             Rupertismus
             .
          
           
             O
             That
             I
             could
             but
             vote
             my selfe
             a
             Poet
             !
          
           
             Or
             had
             the
             Legislative
             knack
             to
             do
             it
             :
          
           
             Or
             ,
             like
             the
             Doctors
             Militant
             ,
             could
             get
          
           
             Dub'd
             at
             adventures
             Verser
             〈◊〉
             !
          
           
             Or
             had
             I
             
               Cacus
            
             trick
             to
             make
             my
             Rimes
          
           
             Their
             owne
             Antipodes
             ,
             and
             〈◊〉
             the
             times
             :
          
           
             
               F●ces
               about
               ,
            
             sayes
             the
             
               Remonstra●●
            
             〈◊〉
             ;
          
           
             Allegeance
             is
             〈…〉
             :
          
           
             〈◊〉
             -
             Colt
             ,
             〈…〉
             Recorder
             ,
          
           
             Might
             be
             a
             〈…〉
             Order
             :
          
           
           
             Had
             I
             but
             
               Elsing's
            
             guift
             (
             that
             splay-mouth'd
             Brother
             )
          
           
             That
             declares
             one
             way
             ,
             and
             yet
             meanes
             another
             :
          
           
             Could
             I
             but
             write
             a-squint
             ;
             then
             (
             Sir
             )
             long
             since
          
           
             You
             had
             been
             sung
             ,
             
               A
               great
               and
               glorious
               Prince
               .
            
          
           
             I
             had
             observ'd
             the
             Language
             of
             the
             daies
             ;
          
           
             Blasphem'd
             you
             ;
             and
             then
             Periwigg'd
             the
             Phrase
          
           
             With
             Humble
             Service
             ,
             and
             such
             other
             Fustian
             ,
          
           
             Bels
             which
             ring
             backward
             in
             this
             great
             Combustion
             .
          
           
             I
             had
             revil'd
             you
             ;
             and
             without
             offence
             ,
          
           
             The
             Literall
             ,
             
               and
            
             Equitable
             Sence
          
           
             Would
             make
             it
             good
             :
             when
             all
             failes
             ,
             that
             will
             do
             't
             :
          
           
             Sure
             that
             distinction
             cleft
             the
             Devils
             Foot
             .
          
           
             This
             were
             my
             Dialect
             ,
             would
             your
             Highnesse
             please
          
           
             To
             read
             me
             but
             with
             Hebrew
             Spectacles
             ;
          
           
             Interpret
             Counter
             ,
             what
             is
             Crosse
             rehears'd
             :
          
           
             Libels
             are
             commendations
             ,
             when
             revers'd
             .
          
           
             Just
             as
             an
             Optique
             Glasse
             contracts
             the
             sight
          
           
             At
             one
             end
             ,
             but
             when
             turn'd
             doth
             multiply't
             .
          
           
             But
             you
             're
             inchanted
             ,
             Sir
             ;
             you
             're
             doubly
             free
          
           
             From
             the
             great
             Guns
             ,
             and
             squibbing
             Poetrie
             :
          
           
             Whom
             neither
             Bilbo
             ,
             nor
             Invention
             pierces
             ,
          
           
             Proofe
             even
             'gainst
             th'
             Artillerie
             of
             Verses
             .
          
           
             Strange
             !
             that
             the
             Muses
             cannot
             wound
             your
             Maile
             ;
          
           
             If
             not
             their
             Art
             ,
             yet
             let
             their
             Sex
             prevaile
             .
          
           
             At
             that
             knowne
             Leaguer
             ,
             where
             the
             
               Bonny
               Besses
            
          
           
             Supplyed
             the
             Bow-strings
             with
             their
             twisted
             tresses
             ,
          
           
             Your
             spels
             could
             ne're
             have
             fenc'd
             you
             :
             every
             arrow
          
           
             Had
             launc'd
             your
             noble
             breast
             ,
             &
             drunk
             the
             marrow
             :
          
           
             For
             beauty
             ,
             like
             white
             powder
             ,
             makes
             no
             noise
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             the
             silent
             Hypocrite
             destroyes
             .
          
           
             Then
             use
             the
             Nuns
             of
             
               Helicon
            
             with
             pity
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             
               Wharton
            
             tell
             his
             Gossips
             of
             the
             City
             ,
          
           
           
             That
             you
             kill
             women
             too
             ;
             nay
             maids
             :
             and
             such
          
           
             Their
             
               Generall
            
             wants
             
               Militia
            
             to
             touch
             .
          
           
             Impotent
             
               Essex
               !
            
             is
             it
             not
             a
             shame
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Common-wealth
             ,
             like
             to
             a
             
               Turkish
               Dame
               ,
            
          
           
             Should
             have
             an
             
               Eunuch-Guardian
            
             ?
             may
             she
             be
          
           
             Ravish'd
             by
             
               Charles
               ,
            
             rather
             then
             sav'd
             by
             thee
             .
          
           
             But
             why
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ,
             like
             a
             Green-sicknesse-Girle
             ,
          
           
             Feed'st
             thou
             on
             coales
             and
             dirt
             ?
             a
             Gelding-Earle
          
           
             Gives
             no
             more
             relish
             to
             thy
             Female
             Palat
             ,
          
           
             Then
             to
             that
             Asse
             did
             once
             the
             Thistle-Sallat
             .
          
           
             Then
             quit
             the
             barren
             Theme
             ;
             and
             all
             at
             once
          
           
             Thou
             and
             thy
             sisters
             ,
             like
             bright
             
               Amazons
               ,
            
          
           
             Give
             
               RUPERT
            
             an
             alarum
             ,
             
               RUPERT
               !
            
             one
          
           
             Whose
             name
             is
             wits
             Superfoetation
             .
          
           
             Makes
             fancy
             ,
             like
             Eternities
             round
             wombe
             ,
          
           
             Unite
             all
             valour
             ,
             present
             ,
             past
             ,
             to
             come
             .
          
           
             He
             ,
             who
             the
             old
             Philosophie
             controules
             ,
          
           
             That
             voted
             down
             plurality
             of
             soules
             ,
          
           
             He
             breaths
             a
             grand
             Committee
             ;
             all
             that
             were
          
           
             The
             wonders
             of
             their
             age
             ,
             constellate
             here
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             the
             elder
             sisters
             ,
             growth
             and
             sence
          
           
             (
             Souls
             Paramount
             themselves
             )
             in
             man
             commence
          
           
             But
             faculties
             of
             reasons
             Queene
             ;
             no
             more
          
           
             Are
             they
             to
             him
             who
             were
             compleat
             before
             .
          
           
             Ingredients
             of
             his
             vertue
             thread
             the
             Beads
          
           
             Of
             
               Caesar's
            
             acts
             ,
             great
             
               Pompey's
            
             ,
             and
             the
             Sweads
             :
          
           
             And
             't
             is
             a
             bracelet
             fit
             for
             
               Rupert's
            
             hand
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             that
             vast
             
               Triumvirate
            
             is
             span'd
             .
          
           
             Here
             ,
             here
             is
             Palmestry
             ;
             here
             you
             may
             read
             ,
          
           
             How
             long
             the
             world
             shall
             live
             ,
             &
             when
             't
             shall
             bleed
             .
          
           
             Whatever
             man
             winds
             up
             ,
             that
             
               RUPERT
            
             hath
             :
          
           
             For
             Nature
             rais'd
             him
             of
             the
             
               Publike
               Faith
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               Pandora's
            
             Brother
             ,
             to
             make
             up
             whose
             ●●ore
             ,
          
           
             The
             Gods
             were
             faine
             to
             run
             upon
             the
             score
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             Painters
             Brieve
             for
             〈◊〉
             ;
          
           
             
               Item
            
             an
             eye
             from
             
               Iane
               ,
            
             a
             lip
             from
             〈◊〉
          
           
             Let
             
               Isaac
            
             and
             his
             Cit'z-●lea
             off
             the
             ●lace
          
           
             That
             tips
             their
             Antlets
             for
             the
             〈…〉
             ;
          
           
             Let
             the
             zeale-twanging
             Nose
             that
             wants
             a
             ●idge
             ,
          
           
             Snuffling
             devoutly
             ,
             drop
             his
             silve●
             bridge
             :
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             and
             the
             Gossips
             spoon
             〈◊〉
             the
             summe
             ,
          
           
             Although
             poore
             
               Cal●b
            
             lose
             his
             Christ●ndome
             :
          
           
             
               Rupert
            
             out-weighs
             that
             in
             his
             Sterling-selfe
             ,
          
           
             Which
             their selfe-wants
             paies
             in
             commuting
             pelfe
             .
          
           
             Pardon
             ,
             great
             Sir
             ,
             for
             that
             ignoble
             crew
          
           
             Gaines
             ,
             when
             made
             bankrupt
             ,
             in
             the
             scales
             with
             you
             .
          
           
             As
             he
             ,
             who
             in
             his
             Character
             of
             light
          
           
             Stil'd
             it
             
               Gods
               shadow
               ,
            
             made
             it
             far
             〈…〉
          
           
             By
             an
             Ecclipse
             so
             glorious
             ,
             (
             light
             is
             ●im
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             black
             nothing
             ,
             when
             compar'd
             to
             him
             )
          
           
             So
             't
             is
             illustrious
             to
             be
             
               Ruperts
            
             Foile
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             just
             Trophee
             to
             be
             made
             his
             spoile
             .
          
           
             I
             'le
             pin
             my
             faith
             on
             the
             
               Diurnalls●●eeve
            
          
           
             Hereafter
             ,
             and
             the
             
               Guild-Hall
            
             Creed
             beleeve
             ;
          
           
             The
             Conquests
             ,
             which
             the
             Common-Councel
             hears
          
           
             With
             their
             wide
             list'ning
             mouth
             ,
             from
             the
             great
             Peers
          
           
             That
             ran
             away
             in
             triumph
             :
             such
             a
             Foe
          
           
             Can
             make
             them
             victors
             in
             their
             overthrow
             :
          
           
             Where
             providence
             and
             valour
             meet
             in
             one
             ,
          
           
             Courage
             so
             poiz'd
             with
             circumspection
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             revives
             the
             quarrell
             once
             againe
          
           
             Of
             the
             Soules
             throne
             ,
             whether
             in
             heart
             or
             braine
             ;
          
           
             And
             leaves
             it
             a
             drawne
             march
             :
             whose
             fervour
             can
          
           
             Hatch
             him
             ,
             whom
             Nature
             poach'd
             but
             halfe
             a
             Man
             ,
          
           
           
             His
             Trumpet
             like
             the
             Argells
             at
             the
             last
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             the
             soul
             rise
             by
             a
             miraculous
             blast
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             the
             Mount
             
               Athos
            
             c●rv'd
             in
             shape
             of
             man
          
           
             (
             As
             't
             was
             defin'd
             by
             the
             
               Ma●edonian
               )
            
          
           
             Whose
             right
             hand
             should
             a
             populous
             Land
             contain
             ,
          
           
             The
             left
             should
             be
             a
             Channell
             to
             the
             Maine
             :
          
           
             His
             spirit
             might
             informe
             th'
             Amphibious
             figure
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             straight-lac'd
             sweats
             for
             a
             Dominion
             bigger
             :
          
           
             The
             terrour
             of
             whose
             name
             can
             out
             of
             seven
             ,
          
           
             (
             Like
             
               Falstaffe's
            
             Buckram-men
             )
             make
             flie
             eleven
             .
          
           
             Thus
             some
             grow
             rich
             by
             breaking
             ;
             Vipers
             thus
          
           
             By
             being
             slaine
             ,
             are
             made
             more
             numerous
             .
          
           
             No
             wonder
             they
             'l
             confesse
             no
             losse
             of
             men
             ;
          
           
             For
             
               Rupert
            
             knocks'em
             ,
             till
             they
             gig
             agen
             ,
          
           
             They
             feare
             the
             Giblets
             of
             his
             traine
             ;
             they
             feare
          
           
             Even
             his
             Dog
             ,
             that
             foure-legg'd
             
               Cavaleere
               :
            
          
           
             He
             that
             devoures
             the
             scraps
             ,
             which
             
               L●ndsford
            
             makes
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Picture
             feeds
             upon
             a
             child
             in
             stakes
             :
          
           
             Who
             name
             but
             
               Charles
               ,
            
             he
             comes
             aloft
             for
             him
             ,
          
           
             But
             holds
             up
             his
             Malignant
             leg
             at
             
               Pym
               .
            
          
           
             ●Gainst
             whom
             they
             've
             severall
             Articles
             in
             souse
             ;
          
           
             First
             ,
             that
             he
             barks
             against
             the
             sense
             o'
             th
             House
             .
          
           
             
               Resolv'd
               Delinquent
               ;
            
             to
             the
             Tower
             straight
             ;
          
           
             Either
             to
             th'
             Lions
             ,
             or
             the
             Bishops
             Grate
             .
          
           
             Next
             for
             his
             ceremonious
             wag
             o'
             th
             taile
             :
          
           
             But
             there
             the
             Sisterhood
             will
             be
             his
             Baile
             ,
          
           
             At
             least
             the
             Countesse
             will
             ,
             
               Lust's
               Amsterdam
               ,
            
          
           
             That
             lets
             in
             all
             religious
             of
             the
             game
             .
          
           
             Thirdly
             ,
             he
             smells
             Intelligence
             ,
             that
             's
             better
             ,
          
           
             And
             cheaper
             too
             ,
             then
             
               Pym's
            
             from
             his
             owne
             Letter
             :
          
           
             Who
             's
             doubly
             paid
             (
             fortune
             or
             we
             the
             blinder
             ?
             )
          
           
             For
             making
             plots
             ,
             and
             then
             for
             
               Fox
            
             the
             Finder
             .
          
           
           
             Lastly
             ,
             he
             is
             a
             Devill
             without
             doubt
             ;
          
           
             For
             when
             he
             would
             lie
             downe
             ,
             he
             wheels
             about
             ;
          
           
             Makes
             circles
             ,
             and
             is
             couchant
             in
             a
             ring
             ;
          
           
             And
             therefore
             score
             up
             one
             for
             conjuring
             .
          
           
             What
             canst
             thou
             say
             ,
             thou
             wretch
             ?
             O
             quarter
             ,
             quarter
             !
          
           
             I
             'me
             but
             an
             instrument
             ,
             a
             meere
             S.
             
               Arthur
               .
            
          
           
             If
             I
             must
             hang
             ,
             ô
             let
             not
             our
             Fates
             varie
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             office
             't
             is
             alike
             to
             fetch
             and
             cary
             .
          
           
             No
             hopes
             of
             a
             reprieve
             ,
             the
             mutinous
             stir
          
           
             That
             strung
             the
             Jesuite
             ,
             will
             dispatch
             a
             cur
             .
          
           
             Were
             I
             a
             Devill
             ,
             as
             the
             Rebell
             feares
             ,
          
           
             I
             see
             the
             House
             would
             try
             me
             by
             my
             Peeres
             .
          
           
             There
             
               lowler
            
             there
             !
             ah
             
               Iowler
               !
            
             st
             !
             't
             is
             nought
          
           
             What
             e're
             the
             Accusers
             cry
             ,
             they
             're
             at
             a
             fault
             ;
          
           
             And
             
               Glyn
               ,
            
             and
             
               Maynard
            
             have
             no
             more
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             Then
             when
             the
             glorious
             
               Strafford
            
             stood
             at
             Bay
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Labells
             but
             annex'd
             to
             him
             we
             see
             ,
          
           
             Enjoy
             a
             copyhold
             of
             Victory
             .
          
           
             S.
             
               Peters
            
             sh●dow
             heal'd
             ;
             
               Ruperts
            
             is
             such
             ,
          
           
             'T
             would
             finde
             S.
             
               Peters
            
             work
             ,
             yet
             wound
             as
             much
             .
          
           
             He
             gags
             their
             guns
             ,
             defeats
             their
             dire
             intent
             ,
          
           
             The
             Cannons
             do
             but
             lisp
             and
             complement
             .
          
           
             Sure
             
               Iove
            
             descended
             in
             a
             leaden
             shower
          
           
             To
             get
             this
             
               Perseus
               :
            
             hence
             the
             fatall
             power
          
           
             Of
             shot
             is
             strangled
             :
             bullets
             thus
             alli'd
          
           
             Feare
             to
             commit
             an
             act
             of
             Paricide
             .
          
           
             Go
             on
             brave
             Prince
             ,
             and
             make
             the
             world
             confesse
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             art
             the
             greatest
             world
             ,
             and
             that
             the
             lesse
             .
          
           
             Scatter
             
             th'accumulative
             King
             ;
             untruss
          
           
             That
             five-fold
             fiend
             ,
             the
             States
             
               SMECTYMNUUS
               ;
            
          
           
             Who
             place
             Religion
             in
             their
             Velam
             ears
             ;
          
           
             As
             in
             their
             Phylacters
             the
             Jewes
             did
             theirs
             ,
          
           
           
             
               England's
            
             a
             Paradise
             ,
             (
             and
             a
             modest
             Word
             )
          
           
             Since
             guarded
             by
             a
             Cherubs
             flaming
             Sword
             .
          
           
             Your
             name
             can
             scare
             an
             Athiest
             to
             his
             prayers
             ;
          
           
             And
             cure
             the
             Chin-cough
             better
             then
             the
             Bears
             .
          
           
             Old
             
               Sybill
            
             charmes
             the
             Tooth-ach
             with
             you
             :
             Nurse
          
           
             Makes
             you
             stil
             children
             ;
             nay
             ,
             and
             the
             pond'rous
             curse
          
           
             The
             Clownes
             salute
             with
             ,
             is
             deriv'd
             from
             you
             ;
          
           
             (
             Now
             RUPERT
             take
             thee
             ,
             Rogue
             ;
             how
             dost
             thou
             do
             ?
             )
          
           
             In
             fine
             ,
             the
             name
             of
             
               Rupert
            
             thunders
             so
             ,
          
           
             
               Kimbolton's
            
             but
             a
             rumbling
             Wheel-barrow
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Epitaphium
             Thomae
             Comitis
             Straffordii
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             Exurge
             Cinis
             ,
             tuúmque
             s●lus
             qui
             potis
             es
             ,
             scribe
             Epitaphiū
             :
          
           
             Nequit
             
               Wentworthi
            
             non
             esse
             facundus
             vel
             Cinis
             ,
          
           
             Effare
             Marmor
             :
             &
             quem
             coepisti
             comprehendere
             ,
          
           
             Macte
             &
             Exprimere
             .
          
           
             Candidus
             meretur
             urna
             ,
             quàm
             quod
             rubris
          
           
             Notatum
             est
             literis
             ,
             Elogium
             .
          
           
             
               Atlas
            
             Regiminis
             Monarchici
             hîc
             jacet
             lassus
             ,
          
           
             Se●unda
             Orbis
             
               Britannici
            
             intelligentia
             :
          
           
             Rex
             Politiae
             ,
             &
             Prorex
             
               Hiberniae
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Straffordii
               ,
            
             &
             Virtutum
             ,
             Comes
             :
          
           
             Mens
             
               Jovis
               ,
               Mercurii
            
             ingenium
             ,
             &
             lingua
             
               Apollinis
               ;
            
          
           
             Cui
             
               Anglia
               Hiberniam
            
             debuit
             ,
             seipsam
             
               Hibernia
               .
            
          
           
             Sydus
             Aquilonicū
             ,
             quo
             sub
             rubicundâ
             vesperâ
             occidente
             ,
          
           
             Nox
             simul
             &
             dies
             visa
             est
             :
             dextróque
             oculo
             flevit
             ,
          
           
             Laevóque
             laetata
             est
             ,
             
               Anglia
               .
            
          
           
             Theatrum
             Honoris
             ,
             itémque
             Scena
             calamitosa
             virtutis
          
           
             Actorib
             us
             ,
             morbo
             ,
             morte
             ,
             invidiâ
             ,
          
           
             Quae
             ternis
             animosa
             Regnis
             non
             vicit
             tamen
             ,
          
           
             Sed
             oppressit
             .
          
           
             Sic
             inclinavit
             Heros
             (
             non
             minus
             )
             Caput
          
           
             Belluae
             (
             vel
             sic
             )
             maltorum
             Capitum
             :
          
           
             Merces
             favoris
             Scotici
             ,
             praeter
             pecunias
             ,
          
           
             Erubuit
             ut
             tètigit
             securis
             ,
          
           
             Similem
             quippe
             nunquam
             degustavit
             sanguinem
             .
          
           
             Monstrum
             narro
             :
             fuit
             tam
             infensus
             Legibus
             ,
          
           
             Ut
             prius
             Legem
             ,
             quàm
             nata
             foret
             ,
             violavit
             :
          
           
             Hunc
             tamen
             non
             sustulit
             Lex
             ,
          
           
             Verùm
             Necessitas
             ,
             non
             habens
             Legem
             .
          
           
             Abi
             Viator
             ,
             caetera
             memorabunt
             posteri
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Additionall
           Poems
           by
           uncertain
           AUTHORS
           .
        
         
           
             The
             Scots
             Apostasie
             .
          
           
             ISt
             come
             to
             this
             ?
             what
             ?
             shal
             the
             cheeks
             of
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Stretcht
             with
             the
             breath
             of
             learned
             
               Lowdons
            
             name
             ,
          
           
             Be
             flag'd
             again
             ?
             and
             that
             great
             piece
             of
             Sence
             ,
          
           
             As
             rich
             in
             Loyalty
             ,
             as
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             Brought
             to
             the
             Test
             ,
             be
             found
             a
             trick
             of
             State
             ?
          
           
             Like
             Chymists
             tinctures
             ,
             prov'd
             adulterate
             ?
          
           
             The
             Devill
             sure
             such
             language
             did
             atchieve
             ,
          
           
             To
             cheat
             our
             un-fore-warned
             Grandam
             
               Eve
               ,
            
          
           
             As
             this
             Impostor
             found
             out
             ,
             to
             besot
          
           
             
             Th'experienc'd
             
               English
               ,
            
             to
             believe
             a
             
               Scot
               .
            
          
           
             Who
             reconcil'd
             the
             Covenants
             doubtfull
             Sence
             !
          
           
             The
             Commons
             Argument
             ,
             or
             the
             Cities
             Pence
             ?
          
           
             Or
             did
             you
             doubt
             ,
             Persistance
             in
             one
             good
          
           
             Would
             spoile
             the
             fabrick
             of
             your
             Brotherhood
             ,
          
           
             Projected
             first
             in
             such
             a
             forge
             of
             sin
             ,
          
           
             Was
             fit
             for
             the
             grand
             Devils
             hammering
             ?
          
           
             Or
             was
             't
             ambition
             ,
             that
             this
             damned
             fact
          
           
             Should
             tell
             the
             world
             you
             know
             the
             sins
             you
             act
             ?
          
           
             The
             infamie
             this
             super-treason
             brings
             ,
          
           
             Blasts
             more
             then
             murders
             of
             
               Your
               sixty
               Kings
               .
            
          
           
             A
             crime
             so
             black
             ,
             as
             being
             advis'dly
             done
             ,
          
           
             Those
             hold
             with
             this
             no
             competition
             .
          
           
             
               Kings
            
             onely
             suffer'd
             then
             ,
             in
             this
             doth
             lie
          
           
             Th'
             Assasination
             of
             
               Monarchie
               .
            
          
           
           
             Beyond
             this
             sin
             no
             one
             step
             can
             be
             trod
             ,
          
           
             If
             not
             t'
             attempt
             deposing
             of
             your
             
               C●d
               .
            
          
           
             Oh
             were
             you
             so
             〈◊〉
             ,
             that
             we
             ●ight
             see
          
           
             Heavens
             ang●y
             lighting
             〈◊〉
             your
             eares
             to
             slee
             ,
          
           
             Till
             you
             were
             ●●rivel'd
             〈◊〉
             dust
             ;
             and
             your
             cold
             Land
          
           
             Parcht
             to
             a
             drought
             ,
             beyond
             the
             
               Lybian
            
             sand
             !
          
           
             But
             't
             is
             reserv'd
             ;
             and
             till
             heaven
             plague
             you
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Be
             Objects
             of
             an
             Epidemick
             curse
             .
          
           
             First
             ,
             may
             your
             
               Brethren
               ,
            
             to
             whose
             viler
             ends
          
           
             Your
             pow'r
             hath
             bawded
             ,
             cease
             to
             count
             you
             friends
             ;
          
           
             And
             prompted
             by
             the
             dictate
             of
             their
             reason
             ,
          
           
             Reproach
             the
             Traytors
             ,
             though
             they
             hug
             the
             treason
             .
          
           
             And
             may
             their
             Jealousies
             increase
             and
             breed
             ,
          
           
             Till
             they
             confine
             your
             steps
             beyond
             the
             
               Tweed
               .
            
          
           
             In
             forraigne
             Nations
             may
             your
             loath'd
             name
             be
          
           
             A
             stigmatizing
             brand
             of
             Infamie
             ;
          
           
             Till
             forc'd
             by
             generall
             hate
             ,
             you
             cease
             to
             rome
          
           
             The
             world
             ,
             and
             for
             a
             plague
             go
             live
             at
             home
             :
          
           
             Till
             you
             resume
             your
             poverty
             ,
             and
             be
          
           
             Reduc'd
             to
             beg
             ,
             where
             none
             can
             be
             so
             free
          
           
             To
             grant
             ;
             and
             may
             your
             scabbie
             Land
             be
             all
          
           
             Translated
             to
             a
             generall
             Hospitall
             .
          
           
             Let
             not
             the
             Sun
             afford
             one
             gentle
             Ray
             ,
          
           
             To
             give
             you
             comfort
             of
             a
             Summers
             day
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             as
             a
             Guerdon
             for
             your
             traiterous
             War
             ,
          
           
             Live
             cherisht
             onely
             by
             the
             Northern
             Star
             .
          
           
             No
             Stranger
             deign
             to
             visit
             your
             rude
             Coast
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             to
             all
             ,
             but
             banisht
             Men
             ,
             as
             lost
             .
          
           
             And
             
               such
               ,
            
             in
             height'ning
             of
             
             th'infliction
             due
             ,
          
           
             Let
             provok'd
             Princes
             send
             them
             all
             to
             you
             .
          
           
             Your
             State
             a
             Chaos
             be
             ,
             where
             not
             the
             Law
             ,
          
           
             But
             Power
             ,
             your
             Lives
             and
             Liberties
             may
             awe
             .
          
           
           
             No
             Subject
             mongst
             you
             keep
             a
             quiet
             brest
             ,
          
           
             But
             each
             man
             strive
             through
             blood
             to
             be
             the
             best
             ;
          
           
             Till
             ,
             for
             those
             miseries
             on
             us
             you
             've
             brought
             ,
          
           
             By
             your
             own
             sword
             our
             just
             revenge
             be
             wrought
             .
          
           
             To
             summe
             up
             all
             —
             let
             your
             
               Religion
            
             be
             ,
          
           
             As
             your
             
               Allegiance
               ,
            
             mask'd
             hypocrisie
             :
          
           
             Untill
             ,
             when
             
               CHARLES
            
             shall
             be
             compos'd
             in
             dust
             ,
          
           
             Persum'd
             with
             epithetes
             of
             
               GOOD
            
             and
             
               IUST
               ;
            
          
           
             HE
             sav'd
             ;
             incensed
             Heaven
             may
             have
             forgot
          
           
             T'
             afford
             one
             act
             of
             mercy
             to
             a
             
               Scot
               ;
            
          
           
             Unlesse
             that
             
               Scot
            
             deny
             himselfe
             ,
             and
             do
          
           
             (
             What
             's
             easier
             farre
             )
             renounce
             his
             
               Nation
            
             too
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Epitaph
             on
             the
             Earl
             of
             Strafford
             .
          
           
             HEre
             lies
             Wise
             and
             Valiant
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             Huddled
             up
             'twixt
             Fit
             and
             Just
             :
          
           
             STRAFFORD
             ,
             who
             was
             hurried
             hence
          
           
             'Twixt
             Treason
             and
             Convenience
             .
          
           
             He
             spent
             his
             Time
             here
             in
             a
             Mist
             ;
          
           
             A
             
               Papist
               ,
            
             yet
             a
             
               Ca●vinist
               .
            
          
           
             His
             Prince's
             nearest
             Joy
             ,
             and
             Grief
             ;
          
           
             He
             had
             ,
             yet
             wanted
             all
             Reliefe
             .
          
           
             The
             Prop
             and
             Ruine
             of
             the
             State
             ;
          
           
             The
             People's
             violent
             Love
             ,
             and
             Hate
             :
          
           
             One
             in
             extreames
             lov'd
             and
             abhor'd
             .
          
           
             Riddles
             lie
             here
             ;
             or
             in
             a
             word
             ,
          
           
             Here
             lies
             Blood
             ;
             and
             let
             it
             lie
          
           
             Speechlesse
             still
             ,
             and
             never
             crie
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             Archbishop
             of
             Canterbury
             .
          
           
             I
             Need
             no
             Muse
             to
             give
             my
             passion
             vent
             ,
          
           
             He
             brewes
             his
             teares
             that
             studies
             to
             lament
             .
          
           
             Verse
             chymically
             weeps
             ;
             that
             pious
             raine
             ,
          
           
             Distill'd
             with
             Art
             ,
             is
             but
             the
             sweat
             o'
             th
             braine
             .
          
           
             Who
             ever
             sob'd
             in
             numbers
             ?
             can
             a
             groane
          
           
             Be
             quaver'd
             out
             by
             soft
             division
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             true
             ;
             for
             common
             formall
             Elegies
             ,
          
           
             Not
             
               Bushells
            
             Wells
             can
             wash
             a
             Poets
             eyes
          
           
             In
             wanton
             water-works
             :
             hee
             'l
             tune
             his
             teares
          
           
             From
             a
             
               Geneva
            
             Jig
             up
             to
             the
             Spheares
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             he
             mournes
             at
             distance
             ,
             weeps
             aloof
             ,
          
           
             Now
             that
             the
             Conduit-head
             is
             our
             own
             roof
             :
          
           
             Now
             that
             the
             fate
             is
             publike
             ,
             we
             may
             call
          
           
             It
             
               Britains
            
             Vespers
             ,
             
               Englands
            
             Funerall
             .
          
           
             Who
             hath
             a
             Pensill
             to
             expresse
             the
             Saint
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             hath
             eyes
             too
             ,
             washing
             off
             the
             paint
             ?
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             learning
             ,
             but
             what
             teares
             surround
             ,
          
           
             Like
             to
             
               Seths
            
             Pillars
             ,
             in
             the
             deluge
             drown'd
             .
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             Church
             ,
             Religion
             is
             growne
          
           
             From
             much
             of
             late
             ,
             that
             she
             's
             increast
             to
             none
             ;
          
           
             Like
             an
             hydropick
             body
             ,
             full
             of
             Rheumes
             ,
          
           
             First
             swells
             into
             a
             bubble
             ,
             then
             consumes
             .
          
           
             The
             Law
             is
             dead
             ,
             or
             cast
             into
             a
             trance
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             by
             a
             Law
             dough-bak'd
             ,
             and
             Ordinance
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Liturgie
               ,
            
             whose
             doom
             was
             voted
             next
             ,
          
           
             Died
             ,
             as
             a
             Comment
             upon
             him
             the
             Text
             .
          
           
             There
             's
             nothing
             lives
             ;
             life
             is
             (
             since
             he
             is
             gone
             )
          
           
             But
             a
             Nocturnall
             Lucubration
             .
          
           
           
             Thus
             you
             have
             seen
             deaths
             inventory
             read
          
           
             In
             the
             sum
             to●all
             —
             
               Canterburie's
               dead
               .
            
          
           
             A
             sight
             would
             make
             a
             Pagan
             to
             baptize
          
           
             Himselfe
             a
             Convert
             in
             his
             bleeding
             eyes
             .
          
           
             Would
             thaw
             the
             rabble
             that
             fierce
             beast
             of
             ours
             ,
          
           
             (
             That
             which
             
               Hyaena-like
            
             weeps
             and
             devoures
             )
          
           
             Tears
             that
             ●low
             brackish
             from
             their
             soules
             within
             ,
          
           
             Not
             to
             repent
             ,
             but
             pickle
             up
             their
             sin
          
           
             Meane
             time
             no
             squallid
             griefe
             his
             looke
             defiles
             ,
          
           
             He
             guilds
             his
             sadder
             fate
             with
             noble
             smiles
             .
          
           
             Thus
             the
             worlds
             eye
             with
             reconciled
             streames
          
           
             Shines
             in
             his
             showers
             as
             if
             he
             wept
             his
             beames
             .
          
           
             How
             could
             successe
             such
             villanies
             applaud
             ?
          
           
             The
             S●ate
             in
             
               Strafford
            
             fell
             ,
             the
             Church
             in
             
               Laud
               :
            
          
           
             The
             twins
             of
             publike
             rage
             adjudg'd
             to
             dye
             ,
          
           
             For
             Treasons
             they
             should
             act
             by
             Prophecy
             .
          
           
             The
             f●cts
             were
             done
             before
             the
             Lawes
             were
             made
             ,
          
           
             The
             trump
             turn'd
             up
             after
             the
             game
             was
             plai'd
             .
          
           
             Be
             dull
             g●eat
             spirits
             and
             forbeare
             to
             climbe
             ,
          
           
             For
             worth
             is
             sin
             ,
             and
             eminence
             a
             crime
             .
          
           
             No
             Church-man
             can
             be
             innocent
             and
             high
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             height
             makes
             
               Gran●ham
            
             steeple
             stand
             awry
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             I.
             VV.
             A.
             B.
             of
             York
             .
          
           
             
               SAy
               ,
               my
               young
               Sophister
               ,
               what
               think'st
               of
               this
               ?
            
             
               
                 Chimae●ra's
              
               reall
               ;
               
                 Ergo
                 falleris
                 .
              
            
             
               The
               Lambe
               and
               Tyger
               ,
               Fox
               and
               Goose
               agree
               ,
            
             
               And
               here
               concorp'rate
               in
               one
               Prodigie
               .
            
             
               C●ll
               an
               
                 Ha●uspex
              
               quickly
               ;
               let
               him
               get
            
             
               S●lphur
               and
               ●orches
               ,
               and
               a
               Lawrell
               wet
               ,
            
             
               To
               P●●●fie
               the
               place
               ;
               for
               sure
               the
               Harmes
            
             
               This
               Monster
               will
               produce
               ,
               transcend
               his
               Charmes
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               Na●ures
               Master-piece
               of
               error
               ,
               this
               :
            
             
               and
               redeems
               whatever
               she
               did
               amisse
               ,
            
             
               B●fore
               ,
               from
               wonder
               and
               reproach
               ;
               this
               last
            
             
               Le●i●imateth
               all
               her
               by-blowes
               past
               .
            
             
               Loe
               here
               a
               Generall
               Metropolitan
               ,
            
             
               An
               Arch-Prelat●que
               Presbyterian
               .
            
             
               Behold
               his
               pious
               Garbs
               ,
               Canonique
               Face
               ,
            
             
               A
               z●alous
               
                 Episcopo-mastix
              
               Grace
               ;
            
             
               A
               fa●●e
               blew-apron'd
               Priest
               ,
               a
               Lawn-sleev'd
               Brother
               ,
            
             
               One
               leg
               a
               Pulpu
               holds
               ,
               a
               Tub
               the
               other
               .
            
             
               Let
               's
               give
               him
               a
               fit
               name
               now
               ,
               if
               we
               can
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               
               th'apostate
               once
               more
               Christian
               .
            
             
               
                 Protaeus
              
               we
               cannot
               call
               him
               ;
               he
               put
               on
            
             
               His
               change
               of
               shapes
               by
               a
               succession
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               the
               
                 Welch
                 Weather-cock
                 ;
              
               for
               that
               we
               find
               ,
            
             
               At
               once
               doth
               only
               wait
               upon
               the
               wind
               :
            
             
               These
               speake
               him
               not
               ,
               but
               if
               you
               'l
               name
               him
               right
               ,
            
             
               Call
               him
               
                 Religions
                 He●maphrodite
                 .
              
            
             
               His
               head
               i'
               th
               sanctified
               mould
               is
               cast
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               sticks
               th'
               abominable
               Miter
               fast
               ;
            
             
               He
               still
               retaines
               the
               
                 Lordship
              
               and
               the
               
                 Grace
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               yet
               has
               got
               a
               reverend
               Elders
               place
               .
            
             
             
               Such
               acts
               must
               needs
               be
               his
               ,
               who
               did
               devise
            
             
               By
               crying
               Altars
               downe
               ,
               to
               sacrifice
            
             
               To
               private
               malice
               ;
               where
               you
               might
               have
               seen
            
             
               His
               conscience
               holocausted
               to
               his
               spleen
               .
            
             
               Unhappy
               Church
               !
               the
               Viper
               that
               did
               share
            
             
               Thy
               greatest
               honours
               helps
               to
               make
               thee
               bare
               ,
            
             
               And
               void
               of
               all
               thy
               Dignities
               and
               store
               :
            
             
               Alas
               !
               thy
               own
               Son
               proves
               the
               Forrest-boare
               .
            
             
               And
               like
               the
               Dam-destroying
               Cuckow
               ,
               he
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               thick-shell
               of
               his
               Welsh
               Pedigree
               ,
            
             
               By
               thy
               warme
               fost'ring
               bounty
               did
               divide
            
             
               And
               open
               ,
               straight
               thence
               sprung
               forth
               parricide
               :
            
             
               As
               if
               't
               was
               just
               ,
               revenge
               should
               be
               dispacht
            
             
               In
               thee
               ,
               by
               
               th'Monster
               ,
               which
               thy selfe
               hadst
               hatcht
               .
            
             
               Despaire
               not
               though
               :
               in
               
                 Wales
              
               there
               may
               be
               got
               ,
            
             
               As
               well
               as
               Lincolnshire
               ,
               an
               antidote
               ,
            
             
               'Gainst
               the
               foul'st
               venome
               he
               can
               spit
               ,
               though
               's
               head
            
             
               Were
               chang'd
               from
               subtle
               gray
               to
               poys'nous
               red
               .
            
             
               Heaven
               with
               propitious
               eyes
               will
               looke
               upon
            
             
               Our
               party
               ,
               now
               the
               cursed
               thing
               is
               gone
               ;
            
             
               And
               chastise
               Rebells
               ,
               who
               nought
               else
               did
               miss
            
             
               To
               fill
               the
               measure
               of
               their
               sins
               but
               his
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               foule
               unparallel'd
               apostasie
               ,
            
             
               Like
               to
               his
               sacred
               character
               ,
               shall
               be
            
             
               Indelible
               ;
               when
               ages
               then
               of
               late
            
             
               More
               happy
               growne
               ,
               with
               most
               impartiall
               fate
               ,
            
             
               A
               period
               to
               his
               dayes
               and
               time
               shall
               give
               ,
            
             
               He
               by
               such
               Epitaphs
               as
               this
               shall
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hee
               
                 Yorks
              
               great
               
                 Metropolitan
              
               is
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Who
               
                 Gods
                 Annointed
                 ,
              
               and
               his
               
                 Church
              
               betraid
               .
            
          
           
             THE
             END
             .
          
           
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A33429e-1820
           
             *
             〈…〉
             
          
           
             *
             〈◊〉
             .