A Great CRY and Little WOOL OR An Answer to a Copy of Verses on the Death of the Lord General Monk.  

POOR Poet! why didst spin this thread,  
To make lies live when Monk is dead?  
What Cuckoo-spittle fills thy Trunk,  
To Trumpet up the praise of Monk?  
Why dost thou soar aloft so high?  
To mount up dirt unto the Sky?  
Why is thy Noddle grown so dull,  
To make great Cry, and little Wool?  
The Devil this Christmas hogs hath shorn;  
A Pope and Monk: what have they born?  
Poor fleeces: wher't comes to be weighed  
'Twil contradict what thou hast said.  
Did Monk cutwit crafty, and wise?  
How was it man, but all by Lies?  
Appeals he made to God on high,  
All to bear witness to a Lye.  
False Lown the Scotchman do him call  
Compound of Lies, no truth at all.  
Whence did he get this curled art,  
But from the Serpentin his heart?  
What though he turned Charles his Wain?  
The Wheels were greased he saw his gain.  
Could he again setup his Trade,  
Those Stars he might turn Retrograde.  
'Tis no new thing I hear thee tell,  
A Judas can both buy and sell.  
He Spaniel-like did fawn on Noll,  
And to the height did him extol:  
He was Nolls Butcher for to kill,  
Sir, any men, and where you will.  
How sweet did Monk live on the Rump▪  
He kissed and licked its very stump.  
To all the world he did proclaim,  
He'd set the Rump in joint again,  
Thou sayest his loss is very great  
Go seek some Fools with lies to cheat.  
One thing seems strange in thy relation,  
That one Star is a constellation.  
What thou shouldst mean I can't devise,  
Have a conjunction of lies.  
Thy skill is little in the Sky,  
Not deep in State-astronomy.  
A wand'ring Star, a Comet bright,  
Born with the wind he was so light.  
Fortune, thou sayest, made all things hit  
That Proverb fools as well doth fit.  
The blind man sometimes shoots the hare,  
And Fools sometimes the bells do wear.  
'Twas destined by divine decree:  
And was not Judas treachery?  
Which was a most prodigious Fact,  
And yet the heavens decreed that act.  
Hadst thou Divinity understood,  
Decrees alone make not things good.  
Thou sayest by good, that he grew great,  
No, no, 'twas by another Feat.  
Noll gave him first the rising ground,  
When Monk took the engagement round.  
And this was it first did the thing  
Swearing to fight against the King.  
After his rising-stock was lies  
So did great George on Horseback rise.  
Some thing thou sayest of him is true,  
And here we'll give the Devil his due.  
His valour hath been very much  
Against both Cavaliers and Dutch.  
How stout did he the Dutch oppose,  
Till he was like to lose his hose?  
An ill-bred shot salutes his Breach?  
As though brave George did lack a leech,  
To let out his Fanatic blood  
That never was, nor would be good.  
And put this on his Honour's score,  
That breach he never turned before.  
In Scotland, there he was most stout,  
Played Rex himself, to keep Charles out  
At Dundee he fought most bold  
Killing in hot blood, and in cold,  
And this made George's Serpent sting,  
Because the Scots would have their King.  
A man in Print, a man in Wax,  
Forward, and Backward, Circumflex.  
How stout would George fight, kill and slay,  
Where was most honour, and best pay,  
An ambidexter he was right;  
On any side brave George would fight.  
When lies be true, and not till then,  
Muster up George with honest men.  
Le's look now on thy Epitaph;  
Here's that will make the Devil laugh,  
And Chimbny-sweepers cry all white,  
To see a dunghill shine so bright,  
And must not the Profane draw near  
The dust of him that loved them dear?  
Is't hall owed Earth where he doth lie,  
Who also did live and so did die?  
Before he died he was turned son  
Now he is dead, here let him Rot.  
No balm, nor spice can keep sweet long  
One that whilst living stinked so strong.  
Come off good people from the breath  
And let him keep his stench of death.  
Blot out his Saintlike Epithets,  
Ann blaze his Name with Hypocrites.  
Here lies a Liar, died in Grain:  
Twice dead before, now dead agaid:  
Here let him lie till muster day,  
That he with them may have his pay.  
St. George's day no more let be,  
Fearing 't should be mistake for he.  
Take t'other George down from the Sign,  
And hang up this in's Colours fine.  
And now sad Poet, what wilt do?  
What market are thy hogs brought to?  
Judas is dead, Julian, and Brown;  
To the same Camp is Monk marched down  
Pack up thy pipes, and split thy pen,  
Cry up no more ignoble Men, 65.