AN EPITAPH UPON THE Solemn League and Covenant. Condemned to be burnt by the Common Hangman.  

SO young? and must thou, like an old Witch, burn?  
And none but Gregory celebrate thine Urn?  
Thou art, though old enough, scarce yet adult,  
And infancy sometimes reprieves a mulct.  
But juster Laws, here, no demurs allow,  
Nor hadst thou benefit of thy Clergy now.  
Alas, good Covenant! but most forlorn,  
For thou art damned; some, as yet, but forsworn.  
Before, thou wast but tinder for the pipe,  
Guarded Pye-bottomes, or some worse thing wipe.  
In Bonesires, now, Comrades with pitch and tar,  
Yet, didst live, with Nols' Nose, a Salamander.  
Thou 'rt water proof, if tears could drowned, thou ne'er  
Hadst lived to see this Clymacterick year.  
This fiery Furnace proves thee, if unsmutcht  
With flames, thou 'rt Saint; Imposture, if thou 'rt touched.  
Oh for some juice of onions! or some Quack  
With Mountebank receipts to screen thy wrack!  
Has ne'er a zealous Cheat, now, some (left) shift?  
No help at maw? to save at a dead lift?  
What? ne'er a Scottish mist to damp thy bl●ze?  
No Exorcist? for aid thy Sire to ra●se?  
No Charm in Goggle-eye? no canting tone?  
To fence thee from these flames? alas! there's none.  
My Bennyson go with thee, and that Scot  
That brooding hatched thee in his Rebel plot.  
May cleaveland's Plagues light on thee, till, poor fool,  
This sheet do preach thee to thy Penance stool.  
Shall England with a Scot Priest ridden be?  
No, train your Meggye's to your Cavalry.  
Pit●y your Cheverran lungs, ride with a Hanck,  
Take a sob with your Halties, or your Brancks.  
You have rid us almost out of breath, but now  
The Reasty jade does her old burden throw.  
The Scot was England's sit-fast, but, now, when  
Will you (dismounted thus) get up again?  
If e'er you do— but Heavens forbid the evil!  
For, Horse a beggar, he'll ride to the Devil.  
Your long Grace cannot cater a Dinner now,  
We are uncheated, feed on Poddillow,  
Your Sowins, and your long-kale, the time's come  
That Scots must keep Lent all the year at home.  
Chemists, from the gross flesh, the Spirits call,  
But, Scots to get flesh, are spiritual.  
Magisher Artis venture, th' Covenant  
Was th' issue of your hungry weambs and want:  
So, this just Execution will become  
To Jockye, Sacrilege and Martyrdom.  
You coined this League for Cash, this Judas kiss  
Was the damned Prologue of your avarice;  
Thus Curs do bite and fawn at the same season,  
The Scotch Hail master spells in English, treason.  
And alarums us, as those that knew Argyle,  
Stood on their Guard when he begun to smile.  
We now shall hear each snivelling John an●Oak  
Whining, the cause! thus Toads, when hungry, croak.  
Your long-wind sermon tones is ventriloquy,  
'Tis famine opes the yawning mou●h of Jockye.  
I wrong you not, sure now, you humbled are,  
Before, no Prelate, Proud, like Presbyter.  
I do believe you do Repent and Fast,  
Good reason, for the Possets do not last,  
And the back-sliding sisterhood does now,  
Weary of Rochet-Jack, the Courtier woo.  
No Bodkins, now, nor thimbles, as of old,  
Culled charity, like water heat, most cold.  
The Prentice-rabble that did club of late  
For this League, now, its Doom, do antedate.  
Thou wast, poor sheet, the only Vestery  
Our Heteroclite Sects did all agree  
To shroud them with, these fig-leaves cast away,  
The●'le be no Adamites, so naked as they.  
Oh Brethren of New-England! cross the Main,  
Come and rethump the Pulpits o'er again:  
We be, as you were, when Hugh came first, some reason  
To bopeep with a Text, to guise a treason.  
But, hold, sure your inventi●n's barren, cheats  
In juggling never use (discovered) feats:  
Except they do remove their stage, to try  
For fresh acceptance in new Company▪  
The Knapperdolling 's (thus) in Germany  
Unmasked, to England and to Scotland fly.  
And, here, their forgeries, again, retrieved,  
Their next flight for New England is believed,  
Scarce Cicatrihed, yet are the Germane Scars,  
These sad mementoes of Phanatique wars:  
Yet, Britain's ulcer's, still malignant be,  
But Cancers are best cured with cautery,   

May our Rebellious Leprosies at last  
Be expiated with this Holocaust.   By E. H  

LONDON, Printed for Philemon Stephens the younger, at the King's Arms over against Middle-Temple Gate in Fleetstreet. 1661.