O YES, O YES, I DO CRY,  
THE BISHOPS BRIDLES WILL YOU BUY.   

SInce Bishop's first began to ride  
in state, so near the Crown,  
They have been aye puffed up with pride,  
and road with great renown:  
But GOD hath pulled these Prelates down,  
in spite of Spain and Pope;  
So shall their next Eclipse be soon  
in England seen I hope.   

They thought their Saddles had been sure,  
when they began to sit,  
They did not care for Church, nor Cure,  
their Grandeur was so great:  
Their Curpals was so closely knit,  
they would not take a tie;  
Their Bridle bore so strong a bit,  
great marvel 't was to see.   

The Snaffles served them, I have seen,  
they road not far abroad:  
First from a Doctor to a Dean,  
they bore the Bishops rod.  
They cared not for contempt of GOD,  
nor Church, nor Commonweal,  
That all this Land was overlode,  
while fortune turned their wheel.   

Their Snaffles shortly they forsook,  
for weakness to command,  
And then a Thrawner-bit they took,  
for to overthrow the Land:  
They never spared us spur nor wand,  
which long we did endure;  
They held not right the Bridle-hand,  
their Saddles were not sure.   

And then a Chaunter-bit they choosed,  
as Chancellor of estate,  
That none before, but one had used,  
which broke on Striveling gate:  
They did for dignity debate,  
for none durst them control,  
They would be Temporal lords of late,  
which they may now condole.   

Then for a French-bit longed they fast,  
which curbed proud Curfour kind,  
Which they from Lambeth got at last,  
it was the Pope's propine;  
And mounted them so to their mind,  
in all their riding gear:  
But than began they to decline,  
and built up Babel here.   

But now that Bit their best delight,  
is broken with the rest:  
And so their Horse have cast them quite,  
which cannot be redressed.  
The Gallowes-bit would bide them best,  
if Reins they be not rotten;  
The Saints of GOD whom they suppressed,  
this glorious day have gotten.   

Since they their horse and harness Sold,  
come buy their Bridles here,  
That afterwards it may be told,  
who bought their Riding-geere.  
For this hath been a fatal year,  
for Prelates in this part,  
Then let these Romish Rogues retire,  
and seek some other art.   

Let NOVA SCOTIA keep them now,  
they're fittest for that place,  
For GOD and Man, could not allow  
to spare them longer space.  
Their dignities brought them disgrace,  
with damnable disdain;  
Since Scotland rooted out that race,  
let them not grow again:   

But now brave England be thou bend,  
to banish all that brood  
And make your Lambeth Lad repent,  
that never yet did good;  
But shamefully hath sought the blood  
of sakelesse Saints of GOD,  
Relieve your Lincoln, better loved,  
and set him safe abroad.   

And as for Ireland's odious name,  
that hath endured so long,  
Their Tyranny shall end with shame,  
albeit their state be strong;  
For GOD will sure revenge their wrong,  
their Villainy so vile,  
The heaven hath heard their sorrowing Song,  
and sighing all this while.   

So let the Devil go Bishop them,  
as he hath done before,  
For never Man shall worship them  
in any Kingdom more:  
For Scotland that they crossed so sore,  
shall now with gladness sing,  
And bless him did our state restore,  
that was our Gracious King.    

THE PROPHECY O 〈…〉 OLD SIBYLLA, WHICH SECRETLY ●●E TOLD TOM MILLA.  
When Scotland's hundreth and ninth unconquered King.  
The sixteen hundred, thirty and ninth year,  
Into his age of thirty nine shall Reign,  
Then shall the Papal overthrow appear,  
Which all the Arts of Europe shall admire:  
For Scotland shall that blessed work begin,  
Then shall the Whore of Babel, we had here,  
Be banished quite, which Bishops did bring in.  
Then thou brave England which was led so blind,  
By their perverse Episcopapall Pride,  
And Ireland's shameless Superstitious sin,  
Shall be suppressed, wh● cruelly have cried;  
So that that Sacred Prophetess Sibylla,  
Shall shortly come to pass she tells TOM MILLA;  
And TOM tells me, and I must tell't again,  
Through Scotland, England, Ireland, Fance and Spain.  
Composed by TOM (A. S.) MIL●● 〈…〉 d me, And Printed new at Pomadie.