The Bully WHIG: OR, The Poor Whores Lamentation for the Apprehending OF Sir THOMAS ARMSTRONG.  
To the Tune of, Ah! Cruel Bloody Fate! etc.  

I.  
AH! Cruel Bloody Tom!  
What canst thou hope for more,  
Than to receive the Doom  
Of all thy Crimes before?  
For all thy bold Conspiracies  
Thy Head must pay the score;  
Thy Cheats and Lies,  
Thy Box and Dice,  
Will serve thy turn no more.   

II.  
Ungrateful thankless Wretch!  
How couldst thou hope in vain  
(Without the reach of Catch)  
Thy Treasons to maintain?  
For Murders long since done and passed,  
Thou Pardons hast had store,  
And yet wouldst still  
Stab on, and kill,  
As if thou hop'dst for more.   

III.  
Yet Tom, e'er he would starve,  
More Blood resolved to've spilt;  
Thy flight did only serve  
To justify thy Gild:  
While They whose harmless Innocence  
Submit to Chains at home,  
Are each day freed,  
While Traitors bleed,  
And suffer in their room.   

IV.  
When Whigs a PLOT did Vote,  
What Peer Justice fled?  
In the FANATIC PLOT  
Tom durst not show his head.  
Now Sacred Justice rules above,  
The Guiltless are set free,  
And the Napper's napped,  
And Clapper clapped  
In his CONSPIRACY.   

V.  
Like Cain, thou hast a Mark  
Of Murder on thy Brow;  
Remote, and in the dark,  
Black Gild did still pursue:  
Nor England, Holland, France, or Spain,  
The Traitor can defend;  
He will be found  
In Fetters bound,  
To pay for't in the end.   

VI  
Tom might about the Town  
Have bullyed, huffed and roared,  
By every Venus known,  
Been for a Mars adored:  
By friendly Pimping and false Dice  
Thou mightst have longer lived,  
Hectored and shamm'd,  
And swore and gamed,  
Hadst thou no Plots contrived.   

VII.  
Tom once was Cock-a-hoop  
Of all the Huffs in Town;  
But now his Pride must stoop,  
His Courage is pulled down:  
So long his Spurs are grown, poor Tom  
Can neither fly nor fight;  
Ah Cruel Fate!  
That at this rate  
The 'Squire should foil the Knight!   

VIII.  
But now no remedy,  
It being his just Reward;  
In his own Trap, you see,  
The Tiger is ensnared:  
So may all Traitors fare, till all  
Who for their Gild did fly,  
With Bully Tom  
By timely Doom  
Like him, unpityed die.    

Sold at the Entrance into the Old-Spring-Garden, 1684.