THE Citizen's Lamentation FOR THE Lord Chancellor's Loss of the PURSE.  
LAMENT, oh London! Mother of Cities, and let thy Daughters Mourn in Sackcloth and Ashes, for thy Son, thy dearest Son, the Prodigal is over-taken in his Flight; The Lord High Chancellor of England turned Tarpolin, taken napping in a mean Bawdy-House at Wapping. What a Precipiece has he Leapt, from the Bench to the Bar; who, by our means was advanced from the Bar to the highest Bench, in so high a Sphere, that nothing but a Gibbet could Exalt him. If such a Fall be the Effects of Pride, that must be Insolence; and how Just are the Fates, that the Haughty Judge should now be brought a Criminal, even before that City over which he had so lately Insulted. Who will Proclaim this Wonder in the East, or Report it in the West? How would those poor Wretches, whom he Hanged there by Dozen, Lament, if they had but lived to see this Day? What an after Slaughter was it, when the Duumvirat of Tyrants, Kirk and His Lordship, went down to Reap the Glean of the Bloody Field; whose Voice, like a Two-edged Sword, destroyed more in cold Blood, than Absalon and all his Host had done before? What thinks your Lordship of it now? Can you as easily digest an Halter now, as you could then disgorge them? Oh 'tis a rare sight to see the deploring Wretches hang by Couples, and make Wry-Mouths one at another. Methinks, the Judge and the General would give as good Diversion; and it would much increase the Horror of their Punishment, if we could but raise the Dead to be Spectators. This is the Noose you have both so justly deserved, which the ungodly Commissary so narrowly scaped, but into which the Wicked Councillor is so justly fallen.  
And is it not a dreadful Fall (my Lords) from the Chancery-Bench, to the Traytors-Bar? From an Insulting Peer, that Ruled the Throne, to a whining Prisoner in the Tower? The Privy-Council Table, transformed into a public Scaffold; The soft Cushion, into an hard Block; The Embroidered Purse, into a Quilted Capp; and the Golden Mace, into a glittering Hatchet; the Hangman your Charnock. But he will do you Justice: Hark how he begins to Insult already in your own Terms; Ho Sir! have I catcht you? You are a Rogue, I know you Sirrah! I shall—. But Hang him! Hang him! an Haltar's too good for him, were it not to fulfil his Dream. And I should be loath to slain my Axe with his Polluted Blood, if it were not to do the Country good Service.   

LONDON, Printed for S. M. 1688.