〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: OR, ENGLAND'S Passing-Bell.  Psal. 80: 3. 

Turn us O God to thee again,  
For we too long have swerved:  
'Cause thou thy face on us to shine,  
And we shall be preserved.   Quarles Eleg. 

Offended justice often strikes by turns,  
Edom beware, for thy next neighbour burns:   
LONDON, Printed in the Year M. DC. LXXIX.   

TO THE READER.  

REader, perhaps my melancholy Quill  
May dote; but let Melpom'ne weep her fill.  
Bear with her weakness, grudge not at her Tears;  
It springs not from her Envy, but her Fears:  
She is no hired Naenia; her moans  
Are like to purchase little else than stones.  
Then give her leave to mourn upon these Rocks;  
To ease her troubled heart to Stones and Stocks.  
Her sad abodings do not imprecate:  
But wish and warn thee to anticipate:  
And if there may no loyal method be  
Formed to prevent thy hangging- Destiny  
Immure thy soul within those gracious Arms,  
That may protect thee from the sirens charms.    


ENGLAND'S PASSING-BELL.  

I Am no Prophet, no, nor Prophet's Son;  
Yet dare pretend unto a Vision;  
Pretend, say I? nay, 'tis no mere pretence,  
Pretences do but juggle Conscience.   

I pray for peace, yea, I could die for't too  
A willing Sacrifice, if that would do.  
But what I do foresee, I dare foretell,  
God is now ringing ENGLAND'S Passing-Bell,  
The sound is in mine ears, the doleful Toul  
Strikes strange amazement on my trembling Soul.  
She gasps for breath, her Optic nerves are cracked.  
Eyes sunk into their holes, her spirits racked  
On fatal Tenters, and her Pulses beat  
To her oppressed soul a faint Retreat.  
Alas the day! these threatening symptoms call  
Her Friends to mind her of a Funeral.   

O thou the God of life, commiserate  
Thy foolish people's self-undone estate!  
Calm all these Paroxysms, and allay  
Those mortal heats; so will I ever pray.   

‛ Wake sottish Island! let thy ruins teach  
Thy Sons and Daughters to bewail the Breach.  
Where are thy Noah's, daniel's and jobs?  
Are these the men, that in their linsey Robes  
Chant their Devotions? th' Angels of the Choir,  
Whose very Noses threat their shirts with fire;  
Whose Bacchanalian zeal's a flame they stole  
Not from the Altar, but Maeonian coal.  
Are these the men, that with their Pipes can do  
The Counter-wonder on a jericho?  
Ah! poor bewitched Land! how long wilt be  
Before thy banished Wits return to thee?  
The Cup is in thine hand, hath touched thy lips;  
Thou wring'st thy mouth at some distasteful sips:  
Feign wouldst thou plead, enough; ay, so would I,  
Or drink it in thy stead, and for thee die.  
But what ere be the hopes that buoy thy mind,  
Unless I dream, the dregs are yet behind.  
On whose unhappy heads this Lot shall fall  
God knows, the wrathful fate doth threaten all.  
Let him that thinks he's with a Bargain blest,  
Know, the last Nail may double all the rest.   

There are some few within thee that begin  
To smite the thigh, and to confess their sin.  
Others that think it safer to compound,  
To shark and shuffle while the Cup goes round.  
But if I know aught of thy constitution,  
Or of the Products of a Revolution,  
Compose the present Frights, and 'twill appear  
The Frogs now quashed will be as bold as e'er.  
These brows of brass, these iron sinews may  
Shine like the gold, and bend like kneaded clay,  
Whilst an hot Furnace, preaching to the sense,  
Applies the terror of a Providence;  
But once withdraw the coals, and you may see  
These Metals have not lost their Property.   

But as for jonas, who's now Tarsus bound,  
Let him remember who a jonas found.  
Let Demas know too, that his present world  
Will cheat his fond love, when he shall be hurled  
By an Ejectment from that dear possession,  
That lay in right of Heaven's Sequestration.  
And judas may be sure, his treacherous Kiss  
Shall be repaid with lips as foul as his.  
Haman must also know, the Gibbets up;  
Where Mordecai should dine, there he may sup.   

'Twas not for lack of eyes the jews were grown  
So strangely blind, that nought but Babylon  
Could make them see; nor is't for lack of eyes  
I grope at noon, and fall, and cannot rise;  
But 'tis this Babylon the Mystical  
Hath blinded me; nay, which is worst of all,  
She is my mated Incubus, and hence  
I'm rid by her bewitching influence.  
O pity me, all ye that ever saw  
A Samson snared by a Delilah!   

Were Moses here, sure he would sigh with me  
For their dear sakes; whose sin and slavery  
Was once like mine: Or could I but produce  
A jeremy, his eye should be the sluice  
To weep me out a bitter Lamentation,  
And to condole a bleeding dying Nation.   

With tears of blood I could sit down and mourn  
On my dear Child's most unhappy Urn▪  
Thousands of sprightly youth, whose breasts and bones  
Were richly filled, have breathed their fruitless moans  
Under that wrathful hand that did dispense  
The bloody arrows of the Pestilence.  
Sure death had never such a Table spread  
In any age, for aught we hear or read.  
How greedily he fed on rich and poor,  
As though he never meant to feast it more!  
Wit, wealth, or beauty, honour, sex or age,  
Made no distinction in his mortal rage.  
O cruel death! could not thy heart relent  
At those dear Infants that thy fury rend  
From tender mother's breasts! Could not their groans  
Have pierced thy heart, that might have pierced stones?  
Heaps upon heaps of choicest friends I saw;  
Our Glory's now become our Golgotha.  
Could not the Ancients venerable Hairs,  
(The silver Symbol of their age and cares)  
Have awed thy bold attempt? or pleaded pity,  
Who were the Eyes and Pillars of the City.  
Nor could thy sacrilegious hands forbear  
To rob our Churches of their Common-Prayer.  
Th' affrighted Levite durst not for his head,  
Appear between the Living and the Dead.  
On him (poor Soul!) thou charged'st the extent  
Of his own Law, of five miles' Banishment.  
O King of terrors great! how couldst thou quell  
The sacred virtue of his powerful spell,  
Against thy sudden stroke? or who should care  
For his forsaken Flock, whose Fleece they are?   

Now was not this enough? but must it be  
But the Praeludium to thy Tragedy?  
Whence is't, thou wert in combination found  
With Mars and Neptune, for a vantage ground?  
What! had poor Mortals overmatcht thee? or  
Hadst thou a Fit to hear the Cannons roar?  
To toss their shattered bones, and serve them in,  
As carved Messes, unto Triton's shrine?  
Or was't to prove how far thy power would do,  
To feast not only Worms, but Fishes too?  
Was ever blood so prodigally spent?  
Whole Hecatombs seemed little to present.  
Neptune himself could not but blush to see  
Thy greedy Altar's anthropophagy.  
Did not the Passing-Bell go sad enough?  
That Cannons hellish mouths must speak how rough  
And grim a Ghost thou art? for this, will I  
ne'er hope to bribe thee when I come to die.   

O Death! what is my sin, that still I hear  
Those ruthful sigh to torment my ear?  
Behold the Fatherless and Widows eyes,  
The woeful Relics of thy Sacrifice.  
Would God, say they, our dearest blood had run  
In those dear veins, from which our blood begun;  
Then had we been as happy as the dead,  
And ne'er have pined for lack of daily bread.   

Ah me! methink with grief and shame I see  
The hostile rage of the proud enemy  
Insulting on our shores, who durst not peep,  
Had they not found us in so dead a sleep.  
Then might Philistims with advantage come,  
When Sampson's shorn, and lulled with Opium.  
Oh! than who could but rend his heart to see  
Our Glory led into captivity?  
Those floating Eulwarks, and of Royal race,  
The envy of the world, that ne'er gave place  
To a superior, nor could e'er be mated  
By those of whom they were both feared and hated;  
That like a thunder, broke the thickest clouds  
Of bold assaults, and scattered all the crowds  
Of martial force, that could command their way,  
And dash their foes like pots of glass or clay.  
With what reproach and ignominious boasts  
Led they their captive prey to foreign coasts!   

Then farewell Royal Charles! yet this shall be  
Our joy and triumph still, that here is He  
By whose great name thou'rt called; let Shadows go,  
(The substance being come) sithed must be so.   

Might here my sorrows end, I'd ne'er lament  
As one undo; but ah! my Fate is bend  
To rack my guilty bones, and to devise  
New methods, that her fury may comprise  
All the sad stories of the Ages past,  
As though this scene were to us both the last.   

From Plague and Sword, my mournful eyes I roll  
On that amazing mirror, which my soul  
So trembles to behold; my Strength, my Crown,  
My Hope, my Magazeen, which now was grown  
From Troy novant, to Troy le grand, is now  
My Troy l'extinct; thus must the mighty bow  
When God will humble them, and lick the dust  
When once he smites; for sure this God is just.  
But Oh! th' unhappy day that dawn'd in Flames,  
Flames that contemned all the floods of Thames.  
What! could no Engines art nor power prevail?  
Were Samson's Foxes turned tail to tail?  
'Twas some strange God, no doubt, that should require  
So chargeable an Offering made by fire.  
London and Sodom may sit down together,  
And now condole the Ashes of each other.  
For sin they perished both, and both by Fire,  
But here's the odds; Efficients did conspire  
In different methods; that from Heaven came,  
This from beneath: a black and hellish flame,  
A spark of Fauxes Cell, infernal coals  
Matured for service in some Stygian holes.  
How did the hungry flames devour their prey!  
And lick up stones like straw! and force their way  
Through all obstructions, Nature, Art, or Might  
Haddit raised to check their desolating flight!  
With what stupendious terror did they roll  
From street to street, disdaining all control!  
As though the lungs of wide-mouthed Aeolus  
Had been in sacred Oath to drive them thus!  
What horror, think you, what distractions then  
Seized on the heart of our poor Citizen!  
What bitter cries, complaints and lamentations!  
While some bewail their own loss, some the Nations!  
Some die for very grief, and others curse  
The late indulgence of a faithful Nurse.  
Alas! no tongue nor pen can e'er express  
The Hurries, Hazards, and the sad distress.  
Was ever grief like mine! Deeps call to Deeps:  
And what one Judgement spares, the second sweeps.  
This Scald, I doubt, I shall bear in my face  
Unto my grave, with grief and sore disgrace.   

And now, if Plague and Sword, and Fire want do  
To melt the heart, and let the captive go;  
I dread the thoughts of some impendent scourge, 
☞   
More like to be a Poison than a Purge.  
Good God avert whatever it may be;  
Avenge not on us our Iniquity.  
Sin has gone big; but ah! we knew it not:  
She's now in Travel, and her reckonings out;  
The fore springs come, which threatens what may be  
The Birth, if God permit Deliverie.  
Lord strangle thou the Monster in the womb,  
And let the Mother's bowels be its Tomb.   

But if my wand'ring Muse should chance to fly  
Within the compass of that Royal eye,  
Whose very Aspect gives her life or death,  
And for whose sake this Die she ventureth;  
She will confess 'tis bold to soar so high,  
To trip on Crowns; the beams of Majesty  
May shine too hot for such Icarian wings,  
And melt the Copper of her feeble strings.  
She has no wanton nor prestigious Lyrics  
To fawn on Kings with flattering Panegyrics.  
But her true loyal heart she'll ne'er betray,  
Though she can't vent it in the Courtier's way.  
Nor will she e'er bethink her sworn Allegiance,  
Or boggle at her duty of obedience;  
Although the Persians have contrived their snare,  
And made it criminal if found at Prayer.   

Pardon, dread sovereign, if some rambling fit  
Transport her honest zeal, and so commit  
A sin Poetical; Her Pegasus  
Is Saddle-galled, and therefore hobbles thus.  
She god's eccentrick; hence it is she hovers  
On every Pinnacle that hope discovers;  
Under these gracious wings my Dove may find  
Protection, if propitiously inclined.  
I hate those Tongues, whose morsels make them loyal,  
To serve their Interest on the Favour Royal.  
I only wish their Lips may never show  
Those bloody Teeth that just within them grow.  
Nor that those Hooded Moths may ever sit  
So near the Crown as to dishonour it.  
I'll ever pray the King may know his Friends,  
And fully understand his Flatterers ends.   

The Kingdom groans, although her King be come!  
Why! what's the matter? sure he's welcome home.  
Alas! she's sick, and of some strange disease,  
Which neither Kings nor Parliaments can ease,  
Until that God, whom th' Atheist doth contemn,  
Do purge the Blood of our jerusalem.  
I'll say no more here, but God save the King,  
From whom, or whatsoever may mischief bring!   

And what if I let lose my scribbling Fancy,  
To give a piece of her poor Chronomancie  
Unto her Honourable Senate, who  
If God incline their hearts, great things may do.  
O Sirs! ye are our wise Physicians, and  
Ye have the sickest Nation now in hand  
That e'er had men: The first step to a cure  
Is to know the cause of what we do endure.  
The cause is complicated both in Civil  
And Spiritual respects; a twisted evil,  
Deep Labyrinths we're in; our strong foundations  
Do shake and tremble; dismal Desolations  
Seem to attend us: Lord! avert this cup,  
And let thy bloody Enemies drink it up.  
Ye're our Physicians, Sirs! Oh! cast the state  
Of your sick Patient, and prevent that Fate  
Her Enemies threaten, and her fears suggest,  
And all Posterities shall call you blest.   

O cast abroad your wise and prudent eyes,  
And pity, pity England's miseries.  
Let not the Canaanite reproach and laugh  
To see us breaking of that Golden staff  
On our own Shoulders, which might else have been  
Our Rod to rule, and reins to hold them in.  
Our costly Pills indeed have purged the Purse,  
But our disease is growing worse and worse.   

Poor England's hour is come! a Trinity  
Of wrestling interests in her bowels lie.  
Two Opposites might happy Union know,  
If well concentered in some Tertio.  
Three Contradictories will never be  
Espoused in a fair consistency.  
Those that consult the peace and good of State,  
I think (as case stands) must accommmodate.  
Sirs! pity those poor hearts that cannot see  
With any other eyes than those that be  
Their own; some squeamish stomaches turn at Cheese,  
Which I won't give for all our Coquus Fees.  
Were all confined to one Dish, and no other,  
You'd poison me with what you feed my brother.  
When you can pair all Bodies to one stature,  
And club the Elements into one nature,  
And make all faces of the same complexion,  
(which will scarce be even at the Resurrection)  
Then may you find all Consciences agreed  
In nice Punctilios, and our judgements freed  
From acquaint Ideas, which not understood,  
Have bred us this dissenting Brotherhood.   

Religion is that Primum Mobile  
Of States and Kingdoms, yea, their interests be  
Moved in their Politic Circungyrations,  
Upon this golden Pole, the soul of Nations.  
Lord! so coordinate each gliding Sphere,  
As that their motions may not interfere.   

Two parallel lines are never like to greet,  
Till Capricorn with sultry Cancer meet.  
If each would stoop to other, you might see  
Our Tabernacl's handsome Canopy.  
Our First is up; where are the Builders now?  
Come! shut the Roof, and let the Rafters bow.  
Is it impossible such storms should rise  
From Hell or Rome, as may convince our eyes?  
Our Walls will tumble if they want a Cover;  
Why! 'tis but mud, though it be varnished over.  
All ope' at top? nay, every Thief may enter,  
And scale our naked Walls; who's mad to venture  
His Life and Fortunes on such Guards, and let  
His jewels hazard such a Cabinet?  
Well! in this naked case, I'll pray, I'll sing  
To him that is both Walls and Covering.   

Alas! poor London! who can see thine Ashes,  
And not sit down and score those angry lashes  
Thy righteous Judge hath in just wrath inflicted  
For that whereof thou hadst been long convicted?  
Thy Prophets were not dumb, but thou wert deaf:  
They warned in season; but thy unbelief  
Was warning-proof: like knotty crooked wood,  
They ruled and hewed thee for a common good,  
Until their hearts did ache, and arms did tyre;  
At last thou art condemned to the Fire.  
Thou couldst outface the frowns of Pestilence.  
Daring provoked Justice to commence  
In hotter Plagues: That Cup is filled thee now,  
That hath abashed thy proud and shameless brow▪   

Old Sodom was in our young London found,  
Yea, more than Sodom did in her abound,  
And now if any will of London hear,  
To Sodom he may go, and find her there.   

In thee was found the blood of Martyrs, yea,  
The murdered blood of Royal Majesty.  
Oaths, Drunk'ness, Lust, and ravenous Oppression,  
Pride and Deceit, the spots of high Profession.  
In thee was found the woman jezebel,  
With those infernal Locusts that compel  
Her Proselytes to commit Fornication;  
Which were sad Omens of thy Desolation.   

And now, my Daughter, may we come to treat  
With that poor Rag that's left? or art too great  
Yet to incline thy stubborn ear? Remember  
In Sixty-six thou hadst a hot September.  
He that thy Remnant, like a smoking Brand,  
Then snatched out of the fire, with the same hand  
Can crush what he hath saved; nay, look thou to it,  
Lest perad venture he indeed may do it.   

True Penitentials might have prevented  
That fearful breach that's now in vain lamented.  
The Buckets of thine eyes had checked the Flames,  
If well applied, 'fore all the Powers of Thames.  
But Epimetheus doth but aggravate  
And rake the wound▪ by being wise too late.  
Yet for the future, if thou wilt be wise,  
And re-espoused, thus I do advise.   

Thine Ashes steeped in penitent tears may  
Make thee a Lie to wash thy shame away.  
Thou hast been in the smoke, (and wash thou must);  
Both in the smoke of Fire, and smoke of Lust.  
Wash therefore, make thee clean, and thou shalt be  
As in the days of thy Virginity.  
Thy Bricks are fallen, wilt thou change them for  
The Hewn Stone? and turn the Sycomore  
Into the Cedar? yea, and be it so!  
And let thine Ashes to a Phoenix grow!  
But yet I doubt, thy pregnant hopes may prove  
A Babel's project, unless God above  
Unite thy Languages, and undertake  
Both to begin, and a full end to make:  
Be both thy Builder, and thy Cornerstone,  
And raise thee in a Model of his own.  
Lord! rear thy London's Walls, and purge her blood,  
And let her know thou hast chastised for good.  
Make her thy Zion, thine Emanuel's Land,  
And let her Ruins be under thine hand.   

The World is God's great Wheel, his Providence  
The hand that turns it; its intelligence,  
The Wheel's in motion; but the rising side  
Will still pursue their chase, till they bestride  
The whole Circumference; and then beginning  
To take their turn again they fall a whining;  
Complain of Envy, Pride, Revenge, Oppression,  
Which just before was but their own ambition.  
Rebeccah's Twins! we catch each others heel,  
And ne'er observe the Dog that's in the wheel.  
Lord! shall we e'er have wit enough to know  
To poise ourselves in Aequilibrio?   

Sure God hath set his Ministers for Lights  
In a blind, giddy world; the Rechabites  
Of an apostate age; but sure I am,  
There are too many of the seed of Cham,  
Yet can Canonical Adoption lurch,  
And so are naturalised Sons of the Church.   

The Clergy's God's inheritance; but these  
Are Pliny's Infects, Worms that spoil the Bees,  
Those sweet industrious creatures; Aesop's Dogs,  
That starve the Ox, but will not touch the Hogs,  
Whose blushing Carbuncles, and purple faces,  
Are no Crown jewels, nor the Church's Graces.  
Will a debauched Clergy ere invest  
Your Cause with an applauded Interest  
In sober minds? Will a sulphureous zeal,  
In things confessed indifferent, ever heal  
Our dismal breaches? or what! do you hope  
To make us your Peace-offering to the Pope?  
But I have better thoughts; yet pray take heed  
Lest you and we both offered be indeed.  
While we contend for shadows, there are those  
That will their greedy clutches interpose,  
And seize that Morsel, which preserved, might be  
The Medium of our Correspondency.  
What! are we Arctic and Antarctic? must  
The Mother separate the Babes she nursed?  
Did one womb bore us? and what! are we now  
No nearer kin at all, than I, and thou?  
Sirs! is't not bold enough to set your Post  
By Gods? to introduce a ragged Host  
Of Ceremonies, borrowed of that Groom,  
(For the most part) that keeps his Stall at Rome?  
But would you back to Egypt shuffle too,  
In hopes to feast it on their fleshpots? you  
May chance to change your wood for worse Timber;  
Nay, there's a Red Sea too, as I remember,  
'Twixt us and them, where Pharaoh and his Host  
Were buried once: although his restless Ghost  
Still haunt our shores, and with his Magic strive  
To serve his Capias on's, Dead or alive.   

Are Egypt's Leeks such Dishes! let me tell ye,  
Their Tale of Bricks may chance to fill your belly!   

Sirs! you that bear so stiff from Scylla, may  
In a Charybdis cast yourselves away.  
'Twill vex you sure (yet help it while you can)  
When you are placed behind the Veteran.  
Turn Capuchins then, if your guts will bear it;  
Though you have won it, let your Lord-Danes wear it.  
Your Rubric, Articles, and Canon-Law,  
You may set back with the Apocrypha.  
Some Mendicancy of unbounded Order  
May be your Monitor, and my Recorder.  
Nay, were it not for our Faith's Great Defender,  
Whose prudent jealousy hath been so tender  
In this important case, they'd run us down 
☜   
ere this, (for aught I know) Mitre and Crown.   

This piece of Logic I can't understand,  
No Bishop, if no ceremony; and  
No King, if there no Lordly Bishop be;  
I must confess they're Parables to me.  
Nay, in the fancy of my jealous Reason  
Its consequence speaks little less than Treason.  
But be it so, I never will impeach you,  
Nor yet presume for 'tis in vain) to teach you  
what's the conclusion of your Syllogism  
(If I might urge this piece of Catechism)  
But this? no ceremony, than no King;  
And what's a ceremony but a thing  
So adiaph'rous, that his Lordship may  
Pro libitu, impose or throw away?  
This Papal Oracle in its Essays  
Was practically known in Becket's days.  
And is the Crown then but a ceremony?  
Will you believe St. Thomas and his Chrony  
Who had near proved it once? shall th' Sceptre be  
But a poor Pinnacle of a Bishops See?  
I dread those Politics that do advise  
To perch the Mitre on State-dignities!  
Nay, let the Crosiers staff and Lawn-sleeves lie  
Some Orbs beneath the Sphere of Majesty.   

And may I now presume to speak a word  
To those my Brethren, that are thus abhorred?  
Ye are the Salt, Sirs! that hath lost its savour  
With men, at least, and therefore lost their favour.  
But like unsav'ury Salt, though ye are cast,  
It may be 'tis their mouths are out of taste.  
If so, they may come or't, when they have tried  
That cellar which they have so magnified.  
For my part, I think yours to be the cheaper,  
And far the better too, for the Housekeeper.  
But sith 'tis so, that out at doors you must,  
And trampled on be, both by Law and Lust,  
I hope you will not murmur, but reflect,  
And own that Hand, that doth these Heels direct.  
Although your eager spirits have been fed  
On those crude humours that the times have bred,  
Which have dissolved your sweet consistencies  
Into that brine, which now leaks at your eyes:  
Yet when this brine is boiled and scummed, who knows  
How the good Steward may of it dispose?   

Rome! Rome! thine Hour is coming thought be long;  
Thy Matins sung, turn to thy Even song.  
Thou struggl'st hard to grasp within thy wings  
The Church's Dowry, and the Crowns of Kings;  
To brood those Chickens thou didst never hatch,  
That so thou mayst thy prey at pleasure catch.  
Thou crouchest low a Favourite to be,  
And boastest highly of thy loyalty.  
But yet these Vizards thou dissemblest with,  
Are cut one inch too short to hide thy teeth.  
We can't forget thy love in Eighty-eight,  
When thy kind Visit cast us on that straight.  
The poor Waldenses, and cold Piedmont  
Have felt thy mercy, with sharp Comments on't.  
Let Ireland's Tears, and England's long experience  
Produce their Records of thy vowed Allegiance.  
Thy Sacrifices in Queen Mary's days;  
Thy faith and service proved so many ways  
To her Successors; Fauxes Loyalty  
In that unparallelled Conspiracy;  
Thy secret Hit at our late Sovereign's Head,  
Which at one blow struck his three Kingdoms dead;  
The dismal ashes of our City Royal;  
All these bespeak thee trusty, kind, and loyal.  
But hark! in London's dust these coals that rest 
☞   
May sindg thy Plumes, and chance to fire thy Nest.   

Muntzer no doubt had played the man, if we  
Had better feed his sacred Fealty.  
Our happy War, with its triumphant feats;  
Our lingering Treaties, and undoing cheats;  
Our beggared subject, yet indebted Prince,  
Are of your loyal hearts clear evidence.  
Whole Volumes here each word doth comprehend;  
More I could say too, had I time to spend.   

England's a Vine, a sour and barren one;  
Her Judgements come, God seems to cut her down.  
Had I a Stentor's lungs, I'd stretch them here,  
To rouse those stupefied souls, that fear  
But what they feel, whose Dreams are sweeter to 'em  
Than Life or Gospel, till their Dreams undo 'um.  
We have undone ourselves; I'll say no more,  
For 'tis not words that will our Paths restore.  
'Tis sport enough for Gath and Askelon,  
To see our emulous zeal to carry on  
Their grand designs, and with what art we spin  
Ourselves a Halter to be hanged in.  
What! hath their Curfue ringed us all to bed?  
Shall they that strike us thus, next strike us dead?  
Good God what ails us? are we all run mad?  
Is there no sober party to be had?  
O bring us so far to ourselves, as we  
May once devolve the care and cure on thee!  
Nay, may a Bethlem bring us to our wits,  
To Bethlem let us go to cure these Fits.  
But let it not (as some would have it) be 
☜   
The Bethlem we were in 'bout Forty-three.  
I am for peace, let false and bloody minds  
Be Cyrus-like, rewarded in their kinds▪   

But I'm condemned, it's like, by good and bad;  
My Muse is peevish, froward, bold and mad.  
'Tis true, she's apt to speak her fears, but so  
As she may timely caution Friend and Foe.  
Let none be grieved at her sad Presages,  
Or think her melancholy spirit rages.  
When times of laughter come, she'll laugh with you;  
And when you sing, she'll strike in consort too▪  
But oh! let not her counsel be her crime,  
Though it may seem to you born out of time.   

We know who 'twas that breathed on Israel's bones,  
He that can form him children out of stones.  
He that saved Peter on the raging Seas  
Will save his Church too, when and how he please.  
Then be content, let Faith and Patience be  
Your Life, your Refuge, and your Victory.    

The RIDDLE.  

THere was a Man, (l've heard my Grandsire say)  
That had two Sons that in his bosom lay:  
The first was Bat, a sober loving youth,  
But through much weakness, very slow of growth;  
The other Ned a lusty jocund child,  
But that he proved extremely high and wild  
These grew together; Ned was Father's Boy;  
Who knew it well, and therefore did employ  
His wits and interest against his Brother  
To get his Birthright: yea, swore to his Mother  
To be his Guardian, and as tender of him  
As she could be, who did so dearly love him.  
So 'twas agreed through much ado; but Ned  
Grew proud and high, which great Dissensions bred.  
In short, the House fell into such a flame  
Of strife between the Master and the Dame,  
That all the Neighbourhood began to ring;  
Some wept to hear it, other some did sing.  
Among the rest there was one neighbour Cross,  
Who's always wont to gain by others loss.  
This Cross (they say) had an old servant been  
Unto the House these Children lived in,  
But justly long before had been cashiered  
For several urgent causes that appeared.  
This Villain, seeing these broils thus begun,  
Hopes now to reel the yarn that he had spun▪  
Works with both Parties, but at such a distance,  
That neither was the near for his assistance:  
How e'er it was, at length 'twas thus agreed;  
Ned must away, and so the House be freed.  
Then Cross with Bat and's Mother would collogue;  
But they defy him for an arrant Rogue.  
Some say, Had it not been for such as he,  
These sparks had never fired the Family.  
Few of his Neighbours have a good word for him;  
No more but Ned swears that he doth abhor him▪  
Thus scanned on all hands, he must hide his face,  
And act his part by those that are in place;  
And so he did, until the House did grow  
Too hot for Father, Ned, and Mother too.  
Thus Bat is left alone, shakes every limb,  
For fear of what was now attending him.  
By secret Packets than he did implore  
His Father's powerful presence, to restore  
His dving hopes: The Father mounts his steed,  
His wings are imped with pity, joy, and she'd.  
But with the Father home comes bustling Ned,  
Calls all his own, his Mother being dead.  
(Though Bat were promised, Ned should never more  
Presume to set his foot within the door.)  
Bat overjoyed to see his Father come,  
Rings out the Bells to bid him welcome home.  
Ned makes some offers to capitulate;  
Being forced thereto, but after some debate,  
The business comes to this, poor Bat must be  
What Ned will have him, nay, for aught I see  
He'd rather that he might not be at all,  
Poor love, you'll say, and but this brother all.   

The Father being grieved to see this strife  
Between his Children, looks him out a Wife  
To rule the stubborn lads; the Mother law  
Takes Bat in hand, and swears she'll whip him raw.  
The Bed's prepared, where both these BoysBoys must lie,  
To lull them into Uniformity.  
Ned leaps in first, and with him Spot his Cur,  
He puts off ne'er a Rag, Cloak, Boots, nor Spur.  
Poor Bat would fain lie down too by his Brother:  
He shuts in one foot now, and then the other;  
Entreats for room, but Ned begins to thunder,  
That if he would lie there, he must lie under.  
Hard terms, you'll say, but melancholy Bat  
(Had that been all) would scarce have stuck at that,  
But through disorders and excess in drink,  
(Which was his life) his very skin did stink;  
His clothes were all with mire and vomit dressed,  
That Bat cries out, Sure Ned! thoust fouled thy Nest.  
Is this the fashion thou intend'st to lie?  
Thy Dog may like it well, but so can't I  
But weeps, and bids Good night, and looks about  
For some dark corner, where to cry it out.  
But Ned's offended thus to hear him roar,  
And bids his Mother turn him out at door.  
Now Bat must wander; yet I've heard him say,  
That while he lives he'll do no worse than pray  
For Father, Mother, and for Ned, all three,  
And for the rest of his dear Family.   

Where's Cross this while? has he been idle? no:  
He hands his fails as every wind doth blow.  
When Ned was come, thought he, There's none that can  
Be so well spar▪ d, to be his Gentleman  
As I; by this, and one trick more, I know  
I shall be chosen for his Bed fellow;  
Then Art shall fail me, if it be not said,  
In few days more, Cross is as good as Ned.  
And to this end, he first accuses Bat  
Of Frenzv, Murder, Theft, and who knows what!  
Which Ned liked well; on whose report it was  
(Some say) that Bat's Ejectment came to pass.  
Howe'er it was, it seems that Ned and Cross  
Were well enough agreed, though 'twere too gross  
To hold an open correspondency  
Which might to their Designs destructive be.   

These Tragedies premised, Cross thinks he may  
Begin to scrape, and make some fresh Essay  
To prove his loyalty; but some cry out,  
Nay, he's a Thief; others reply, no doubt  
But we may trust him now; he has been tried,  
'Tis Bat ' s the greater Thief, Cross is belied.  
But most affirm, that Bat's the honest man;  
And Cross' cringing is but to trepan.  
These were shrewd rubs, at last, in the smooth Run  
Of Cross' hopes; but what is thus begun  
Can't linger now, for when the Ulcer's gone  
Unto a rotten Suppuration,  
It struggles hard for vent, and so did this,  
Resolving to attempt it, Hit or miss.   

First, he engaged th' unhappy Family  
In an unlucky brawl, with two or three  
Of their malignant Neighbours; some say 'twas  
The Ghost of an old grudge revived, a mass  
Of scurrilous reproaches, and such things  
As soon produced these bloody quarrelings;  
But that which did these furious feuds advance  
(Most say) was claim to an Inheritance.  
However 'twere, Cross serves his Interests here;  
Nay, boasts it too, that he had brewed the Beer  
Wherewith he hop▪ d shortly to entertain  
Such other Friends as once came out of Spain.  
Most of the Family were grieved to see  
This cursed Villain's pride and treachery▪  
It were too sad and tedious to tell  
All those defeats and mischiefs that befell  
This poor divided House, how Mogonde swaggered.  
And sharkt and robbed, till both were almost beggared;  
The Stables plundered, and the Garners fired  
By such Accomplices as Cross had hired.  
And is't not strange, that such a Rogue as he  
Should thus bewitch so brave a Family!  
Well! Ned may know, if ever he be wise,  
What clouds they are that thus benight his eyes.    

The Bill of Request.  

THere is a Woman (Sir) and she a Friend  
That lies in Travel, and is like to end  
Her own life and her Babes at once; her case  
Is often spread before the Throne of Grace;  
Her Midwives also have almost undone her,  
And left her worse than when they first began her▪  
'Twill cost her bitter Throws (poor Heart) I doubt,  
If ever she have strength to weathered out.  
Your Prayers are desired for such an one,  
That you would mind her case before the Throne.  
Pray give this Bill to one that is devout  
Among the Priests, if you can find him out.    

ROMANZI.  

'TWas when the Heaven's winged Charioteer  
Was swiftly racing in his high carrier  
Through Cancer's hot Ascendent, whose fierce beams  
Exhaled from parched Earth those sweeting steams  
Which left her surface, (like a Niobe  
Baked to a crust) cursed with an Atrophy.  
And when, besides the Torrid Influence  
Of Aestive Rays, the dire malevolence  
Of three Celestial Heroes did conspire  
In their Trine-aspect, to incense the fire.  
That I descending from the lofty brow  
Of a steep Hill, where just beneath did grow  
A shady Grove, which the fair Dryads  
Had lately chosen for their Chap'l of ease;  
And fast by, Neptune combed his powdered Locks  
In the course teeth of sharp and craggy Rocks.  
I heard (methought) the sighs of deep despair  
From off the Grove, refract the gentle air.  
At these strange Echoes being moved, I stood  
Amuz'd a while, at length drew to the Wood;  
Where the first words that met my ear, were these,  
After a sigh: Ay! they do what they please!  
Would ever mwn, that were not worse than mad,  
(Yea, maugre all those cautions we have had)  
Have done as we have done? but 'tis too late,  
Now that the steed is gone, to shut the Gate.  
To whom replied another, with an Oath,  
Nay now, no doubt, but we shall thrive forsooth▪  
Our Enemies we have thrice quite overthrown,  
And forced their mourning Widows to atone  
Our Grace and Favour; men could ne'er have done  
More bravely, and have won what we have won.  
Old Noll the Tyrant would have gnashed to see  
The rich successes of his Enemy  
In his old Field, recounting what it cost him,  
You do what we have done; yea, what it lost him  
In not improving what his Tyranny  
Had gained, when he had brought them on the knee.  
But what! we could not choose but prosper thus,  
While God and man did so encourage us.  
Indeed the Oracle spoke plain, methought,  
But that we deemed it as a thing of nought,  
An accident in London' s first Oblation,  
Whose Gifts and whose Devotions acceptation  
Was witnessed by fire; I think she may  
Expound the Omen now without a Key.  
Provisions we had store, but wisely cooked;  
Great wages too, but that 'tis most of't booked.  
Such care our Commissaries had, it's said  
Our very Powder-casks were ballasted.  
In short, most honestly 'twas rigged and man'd,  
Like to go through what e'er we took in hand.   

Well, well, Marinus! said the other, you  
Can jest it out, as you are wont to do.   

jest! said Marinus, could I get my Pay,  
It were a jest indeed, the merriest day  
That I, or my poor wife and babes have seen  
Since the first hour that we divorced have been.  
I would redeem their Pledge, and set them free  
From thy contentious, Parish-charitie.   

The other grieved to hear this well known story,  
Breaks this Discourse: Where's then, says he, the glory  
Of your great Victories? The glory, said Marinus;  
Nay, you may see, when those that undermine us  
Have done their shuffle and begin to cut,  
Into whose hands the Master-Trumps are shut.  
There's nothing vexed me more than this, that we  
Must thus adventure Life and Liberty  
To take a Prize, which then must be conducted  
By us their Convoys, as they were instructed.  
— Take you Monsieurs! must our victory make  
Courtiers of you, and us slaves for your sake?  
Is this the way to raise our Country credit?  
And to eternalise his fame that did it!   

Hold! said the other, now you seem to rage;  
Passion can hardly keep due Equipage.   

Passion! quoth he, I take him for an Ass,  
Or for an Angel, that in such a case  
Can rule his Passions; but I'll say no more,  
Sith I can't say but what was known before.   

The other whom by his discourse I take  
To be a Countryman, reply did make:  
It is observed, said he, though but by few,  
We never thrived since that Black Bartholomew;  
Then plucked we out our Eyes, and thought to see  
By a Canonical Ophthalmistry.  
But now we're into Ditch, who evered were  
That led us thus: but hark methink I hear  
The Pixie laugh; but we shall cry (I doubt,  
Or something worse) before we scramble out.   

Ho! said Marinus, if it be but so,  
Turn something in and out, and that will do.   

Turn something in and out! said th' other, ay,  
Were that but done, we might hit out the way.  
But how shall this be done? Be done? said he,  
Why! 'tis half done already! Out there be  
Coats turned enough; might they again turn In  
Body and sleeve, our hopes might here begin.   

What hath this beetle browed suspicion spied  
In them or theirs, it's still so evil eyed?  
Since that most black and dreadful day of Bats,  
That piped our Fathers off to bring these Rats?   

That's not the business, said the Countryman,  
There's still a jealous head, though nothing can  
Be proved; I doubt, from that kind Principle,  
On which Cain on his righteous Brother fell:  
They must be Lords, and rule like Kings; but not  
By Canon Law, but by their Canonshot.  
But what! let these alone, a few years more  
May this mad Priesthood to their wits restore.   

But there's a cloud which hath been gathering  
About these six years; if it chance to wring  
Itself upon our shores, our case may be  
The parallel of a sad Germany.  
Besides those homebred vipers which we hug  
In our own breasts, where they have drawn the Dug  
So dry, that now they draw our very blood:  
And here's the curse; it is not understood.  
Not that we do bethink our sovereign Lord  
The utmost that our Lands or Lives afford.  
But when our Ploughshares must perverted be  
Into Stilletoes for an Enemy:  
This makes me fret, and wish my limber goad  
(In a just call) might do as Shamgar's did.  
Our Senators (they say) are in a maze;  
They stare on us, and we on them do gaze.  
But 'tis no wonder; 'twas once so with Saul;  
We fight with God, and therefore needs must fall.  
Our Foes are greedy, early, strong and wise,  
They're on their way, ere we can find our Eyes.  
Our Eyes are locked up in a Pix (they say)  
Where 'twill be hard to get without the Key.  
Lord help us! Sir our Story's like to be  
Our poor Posterities dismal Tragedy▪  
Thus we sit here, and in complaining spend  
Our wretched Hours and Thoughts, and to what   
END?   

The ECHO. 
Echo. Weep. Rome. Ay.   

THine House is foul; Lord, wilt thou sweep?  
We weep; Lord sweep; But with what Broom?  
Fast then, and throw the Shrub away.     

The POSTSCRIPT.  

READER! 'tis now almost six years twice told  
My Muse conceived; so that this Brat's born old▪  
Yet even than it had Nativity;  
But ever since hath mist Epiphany;  
I took it for still born, and buried it,  
As smothered by an Epileptic fit.  
But since that time, it seems its Ghost hath walked;  
And with some Friends familiarly talked.  
I do not know whereof it might complain;  
But this they say, they'll dig it up again  
In hopes to make the Bones and Dust to speak,  
Which so long lay in silence, and to break  
The nap of this poor Dormouse. I confess  
It's not grown out of season, more or less;  
Much of what then did look like Prophecy,  
Late actions have turned into History.  
So that to read aright, thou must begin  
Eleven years back, and think how things were then.  
Yet some things here thou'lt find, which I have reason  
Enough to think will ne'er be out of season.  
And once more may I speak but what I think,  
You'll find the bitterest cup is yet to drink.  
The Ball is up, by that the Game is out,  
Those that survive will wish for death, I doubt:  
When that cursed Fox that's now unkenneled shall  
Turn head against the Chase▪ we stand or fall.  
Ah me! methinks I see the bloody Field;  
But here's my comfort; Heaven is my shield.  
I smell the Battle, and you'll shortly see  
How you are juggled to your Destiny.   

When God shall heal the sickness of this Nation,  
And purge her Blood by an Evacuation,  
Yea, when our veins shall weep their fountains dry,  
And shed those crimson Tears, which from the eye  
Might have been better spared; then shall we know  
With what a God England hath had to do.   
FINIS.