A SHORT HISTORY OF THE English Rebellion.  
Compiled in VERSE, by MARCHAMONT NEDHAM, And formerly extant, in his Weekly MERCURIUS PRAGMATICUS.  
LONDON: Printed in the Year 166●.   

A SHORT HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH REBELLION.  

WHen as we lived in peace (GOD wots)  
A King would not content us;  
But we, forsooth, must hire the Scot,  
To all-be-Parliament us.   

Then down went King and Bishops too;  
On goes the holy Wirk,  
Betwixt them and the Brethren blue,  
T' advance the Crown and Kirk.   

But when that these had reigned a time,  
Robbed Kirk, and sold the Crown;  
A more religious sort up climb,  
And crush the Jockeys down.   

But now we must have Peace again,  
Let none with fear be vexed:  
For, if without the King these reign,  
Then heigh down they go next   

A Peace, a Peace, the Country cries,  
Or else we shall be undone:  
For this brave War we thank the wise  
Confiding Men of LONDON.   

Sure now they may, as well as we,  
Know how to value Quiet,  
When th' Army comes their Guests to be,  
For a Twelvemonths Cash and Diet.   

Free Quarter is a tedious thing,  
And so is the Excise.  
None can deliver us but the King,  
From this damned Dutch Device.   

The Parliament hath served seven years;  
True vengeance than we see  
Upon feigned Jealousies and Fears;  
For yet they are not free.   

Long Peace a Plenty did beget,  
And Plenty brought forth Pride;  
Through Pride to Faction Men were set  
In Parties to divide.   

The new-formed Priests first led the way,  
And said it was no sin  
By force to drive the King away,  
And draw the CITY in.   

The Lords and Commons they consent  
To what each Rabbi saith;  
And so the Catholic down went,  
T' advance the public Faith.   

This brought a War and Taxes on,  
T' enslave a freeborn People:  
And now the Work is thus far gone,  
Next have at Crown and Steeple.   

Our wise Reformers, brave and gay,  
Have ta'en a goodly course,  
To fight, to feast, to fast and pray,  
And milk each honest Purse.   

The Crown's Revenue goes to wrack,  
While they sing Hymns and Psalms;  
And rather than themselves will lack,  
The King must live on Alms.   

We are, the learned Synod says,  
The Church of England's Nurse,  
Who make them bless the Sabbath-days,  
And all the week to curse.   

The Plough stands still, and Trade is small;  
For Goods, Lands, Towns, and Cities,  
Nay, I dare say, the Devil and all,  
Pays Tribute to Committees.   

A Scot and Jesuit joined in hand,  
First taught the World to say,  
That Subjects ought to have command,  
And Princes to obey.   

These both agreed to have no King;  
The Scotchman he cries further,  
No Bishop: 'tis a godly thing  
States to reform by Murder.   

Then th' Independent meek and sly,  
Most lowly lies at lurch,  
And so to put poor Jockey by,  
Resolves to have no Church.   

The King dethroned! the Subjects bleed!  
The Church hath no abode;  
Let us conclude they be all agreed,  
That sure there is no GOD.   

Our State's men (though no Lunatics,  
No Wizards, nor Buffoons)  
Have shown a hundred Changeling-Tricks,  
In less than three New Moons.   

The Devil's foot is cleft (men speak)  
And so (GOD knows) are they:  
The Factions rule by fits, then take  
Their turns, and run away.   

They vote, unvote, and vote with noise  
What they cried down before,  
As ready as if LONDON-Boys  
Were knocking at the door.   

To day an Independ outside;  
And then a Scotch to morrow:  
Thus shuffle and cut, they do divide  
Our Wealth, whilst we know sorrow.   

O happy Treason! See how Wealth  
Is made their Heaven! They swell  
With Pride! and live by Blood and Stealth,  
As if there were no Hell!   

No Saduces but must confess,  
Those Monsters which are told  
In Story, are risen now no less  
Prodigious than of old.   

Both Cain and Judas back are come,  
In Vizards most divine:  
GOD bless us from a Pulpit-Drum,  
And a Preaching Catiline.   

They feed upon a Kingdoms Curse,  
And prey upon a King!  
The devil provide a second Course,  
And then a Voider bring.   

Now CHARLES, thy Conquest is complete,  
And all the World shall see,  
That GOD which guides the Royal Scot,  
Will thy Avenger be.   

O House of Commons, House of Lords,  
Amend before September:  
For 'tis decreed, your Soldier's Swords  
Shall then you All-dismember.   

But like fair Chapmen, 'twas well done,  
To give you time and day  
To cast accounts; for one by one  
They will you sound pay.   

The Kingdom all in pieces torn!  
Your time is fairly spent;  
To make yourselves a very scorn,  
Your King but Jack-a-Lent.   

Now, now we see 'twas for the Crown  
The Houses both did fight:  
For since the Cavaliers are down,  
They put the King to flight.   

The Adjutators stern and proud,  
Said, He should have no Quarter,  
Because he is a King; and vowed  
To make the Saint a Martyr.   

Their Officers cried, Hail, O King;  
The rest made mocks and scorns;  
The Houses Vinegar did bring,  
And all did plat the Thorns.   

Thus crucified, Great CHARLES did live  
As dead, is gone away:  
For Resurrection, GOD will give  
A new cor'nation day.   

Rouse up! King Charles hath missed the snare  
Laid for his Royal Feet:  
Let th' Adjutators now take care  
Each for his Winding-sheet.   

The Army rendezvouzed are,  
And do they know not what;  
The Scots and they are like to jar:  
Let us thank GOD for that.   

The Houses know not what to think;  
The Citt's horn-madded be:  
They must be whipped until they stink:  
A joyful sight to see!   

Thus Cavaliers cast up your Caps,  
And tell the Rebels plain,  
That Charles in spite of all their traps,  
Shall shortly rule again.   

For Liberty, and Privilege,  
Religion and the King,  
We fought; But O! the Golden Wedge!  
That is the only Thing.   

There lies the Cream of all the Cause;  
Religion is but Whig;  
Pure Privilege eats up the Laws,  
And cries, For Kings a Fig.   

The Houses may a Christmas keep,  
The Countrymen a Lent,  
The Citizens (like silly sheep)  
Must fast, and be content.   

Then where is Liberty, (I pray)  
With Justice, Truth and Right?  
Sure they and Conscience fled away  
With Charles, to th' Isle of Wight.   

Gape, gape for Peace, poor Countrymen;  
The Members mean to treat:  
And we shall see fair play again,  
When they no more can cheat.   

The King shall come to Westminster,  
It may be to his Grave,  
Or of a glorious Prince must there  
Be made a Royal-Slave.   

But 'twere more wise to let him reign  
Out of his People's sight,  
For fear he should bring Peace again,  
And put them in a fright.   

Sure Martin lay in of a Clap,  
And Say himself did dote;  
The Devil too, wore a sick Cap,  
When th' Houses past this Vote,   

Come let us live, and laugh away  
The follies of this Age;  
Treason breeds care; we'll sing and play  
Like birds within a cage.   

Fetters are th' only favours now  
The Houses give (we see:)  
And since the King them wears, I vow,  
'Twere baseness to be free.   

Then let us all our sorrows drown  
In Sack and merry Glee:  
Ye Citizens of London-Town,  
What jolly Slaves are we!   

For Common-prayer, ye have Excise,  
Freequarter too is coming  
To pay you for your Mutinies,  
Feasts, Covenants, and Drumming.   

No Puritan, no Popish Priest,  
Nor Prot'stant now shall be;  
Nor Law, but to live as we list,  
'Tis Heaven thus to be free.   

Can Babylon's great King now sit  
In Counsel with our Nation,  
He were the only Man to fit  
Us with a Reformation.   

The glorious Golden-Idol than  
Might shine in each Dominion;  
Both Factions and their Brethren  
Would soon be one-opinion.   

Away, thou Pagan-Cavalier,  
This God must not be thine;  
But for the Saints at Westminster,  
Whose souls are more divine.   

Live, drink, and laugh, our Worthies may,  
And kindly take their fills;  
The Subjects must their reckon pay,  
The King must pass their Bills.   

No Princes now, but they; the Crown  
Is vanished with our Quiet;  
Nor will they let us use our own  
Devotions and Diet.   

All Plums the Prophet's Sons defy,  
And Spice-broths are too hot;  
Treason's in a December-Pye,  
And Death within the Pot.   

Christmas, farewell; thy day (I fear)  
And merry-days are done:  
So they may keep Feasts all the year,  
Our Saviour shall have none.   

O happy Nation heretofore,  
When Seas our Walls have been;  
Unhappy now we see no shore,  
But are all Sea within.   

Factions, like Billows, rage and toss,  
And Death mounts every Wave;  
Yet in this Storm we are so cross,  
We will no Pilot have.   

Just such a Tempest seized upon  
Blessed Paul, the Scripture says,  
When he had seen no Sun nor Moon,  
Nor Stars for many days.   

Our Sun and Moon no beams create,  
Our Stars dispersed we see:  
Such as was his, will be our Fate,  
We must all shipwrackt be.   

A glorious Prince this Parliament  
The King should be, did swear;  
But now we understand they meant  
In Heaven, and not here.   

Let them invade the Throne, and part  
His Crown, and vote his Fate;  
Yet know, in each true Noble Heart,  
He keeps his Chair of State.   

Prince's may be, like other Men,  
Imprisoned, and kept under  
A while, as fire in clouds, but then  
At length appear in Thunder.   

And, as in hidden Caves the wind  
Sad tremble doth created;  
So Monarches, by their own confined,  
'Cause Earthquakes in the State.   

Farewell the Glory of our Land;  
For, now the Freeborn Blades,  
Our Lives and our Estates command,  
And ride us all like Jades.   

Faith and Religion bleeding lie,  
And Liberty grows faint:  
No Gospel, but pure Treachery,  
And Treason make the Saint.   

Oh! 'tis a heavenly Cause (I trow)  
Which first baptised the Round-head  
In Noble Strafford's Blood! but now  
Must on the Kings be founded.   

Yet know, that Kings are Gods on Earth;  
And those which pull them down,  
Shall find it is no less than Death  
To tamper with a Crown.   

'Tis true, as Harry Martin said,  
The Scots away must pack;  
The Covenant shall aside be laid,  
Like an Old Almanac.   

Come then, and buy my New, true, New,  
New Almanac most true,  
Such Accidents of State to show,  
The like no Age ere knew.   

Since that we lost our King and Laws,  
Since Jealousies and Fears,  
Since Peace, pure Truth, and this Foul Cause,  
It is full seven years.   

Poor CHARLES pursued in Forty one,  
Vnkinged in Forty seven;  
The Eighth will place him on his Throne,  
In Earth, or else in Heaven.   

Three Kingdoms brought to a fine pass,  
Whilst that our Saviour's Rule,  
The Country is become an Ass,  
The City but a Mule.   

Each University now pines,  
The Church may hang and rot;  
They banish all our true Divines,  
The Lawyers too must troth.   

Come, Sirs, more Sacks unto the Mill,  
More Taxes, more Freequarter;  
'Tis fit our Laws be your bare Will,  
And the Excise our Charter.   

God speed the Plough: plague Rooks and Crows,  
And send us years more cheap:  
For, I am sure, whoever sows,  
The Houses mean to reap.   

Money, the Soul of Man and Wit,  
But yet no Saint of mine!  
While th' Houses vote, and Synod sit,  
Thou ne'er shalt want a Shrine.   

Reforming is a dull Device,  
Dreads nought but strife and rage:  
Thou puttest us into Paradise,  
And bring'st the Golden Age.   

Thou art Religion, God, and all  
That we may call Divine:  
Thy Temple is Westminster-Hall,  
And all our Priests are thine.   

Tush, tell not us the way to Heaven,  
Thou juggling Clergy-Elf,  
That sett'st the World at six and seven's;  
Money is Heaven itself.   

Betwixt those Atheists feigned of old,  
And ours, there is no odds;  
For, both this one opinion hold,  
That Fear did first make Gods.   

Hell now is thought an idle Dream  
To fright Men from their Crimes:  
Religion but a crafty Theme,  
Made to  the Times.   

The Bible and great Babel's Whore,  
May both together burn;  
For the Religious Fit is o'er  
Now they have served their turn.   

Only, one Text may scape their hands,  
Since they have ta'en such pains,  
To lay their Lords in Iron Bands,  
And bind their Kings in Chains.   

Copernicus, thy learned skill  
We praise, since we have found  
The truth; for now doth heaven stand still  
Whilst that the Earth runs round.   

See how the Wheel of Providence  
Back Old Confusion brings!  
Cashires' us once of a Prince,  
To plague's with Petty Kings.   

They say the Saints all rule must take,  
And others must have none:  
Their Privilege it is to make  
A Footstool of the Throne.   

The Laws o'th' Land say, Charles must reign,  
And Conscience pleads his Cause:  
But Conscience is a thing most vain,  
Their Gospel eats up Laws.   

Never such Rebels have been seen,  
As since we led this Dance:  
So we may feast, let Prince and Queen  
Beg a-la-mode-de-France.   

Let Conscience pine, and cry 'tis strange,  
we'll say 'tis bravely done,  
To make the King take in Exchange  
A Dungeon for a Throne.   

Away with Justice, Laws and Fear;  
When Men resolve to rise,  
Brave Souls must scorn all Scruples where  
A Kingdom is the Prize.   

Then let us what our Labours gain  
Enjoy, and bless our Chance:  
Like Kings let's domineer and reign;  
Thus, a-la-mode-de-France.   

King and no King, was once a Play,  
Or Fable on the Stage:  
But see! it is become this day  
The Moral of our Age.   

Newcastle was the first best Scene,  
Then Holmby, Hampton-Court;  
Next, from a Palace to a Den  
Translated, to make sport.   

Each State-Buffoon a part did take;  
Some played the Fool, some Knave;  
But still the Plot was laid to make  
Their King a Royal Slave.   

Brave Actors! we admire your skill;  
Your Play none understands;  
Yet make an Exit when you will,  
We all shall clap our hands.   

At Westminster two wondrous Beasts  
This day are to be seen,  
Called Liberty and Privilege,  
(GOD save the King and Queen)   

Say, Monsters strange, what kin are ye  
To Tigers or the Lion?  
For shame boast not your Pedigree  
From the sweet Sons of Zion.   

This Liberty first whelped the Cause;  
The Cause then lay at lurch,  
To gull the City, damn the Laws,  
And quite cashier the Church.   

But Privilege (O monstrous Thing!)  
Eats up poor Cavaliers,  
Feeds on the Gentry and the King;  
But next have at the Peers.   

Once more the Kingdom lies at Stake,  
No matter then who wins;  
Two Schismatics the Wagers make,  
And now the Game gins.   

The Scots and Sects, two Godly Cheats,  
Debar both Ace and Sice:  
To rook each other with fine Feats,  
They both bring in false Dice.   

The first throws for the Covenant,  
Next who shall rule and sway:  
For Jockey now doth swear and rant,  
He'll have no more soul play.   

The Sectaries cried, Have at all,  
When first the Dice were thrown;  
But rather than the Scots shall brawl,  
They'll part stakes in the Crown.   

The Devil's reign is short, though fierce;  
Then let our Music sound;  
The Drawers all the Hogsheads pierce,  
And make the Healths go round.   

Here's a Health to the King in Sack,  
To the Houses in Small-Beer;  
In Vinegar to th' crabbed Pack  
Of Priests at Westminster   

Next, to revive our fainting States,  
Fill out some Aqua vitae:  
'Twere pity on the Bridge such Pates  
Should meet in a Committee.   

Let's water th' Royal Plants with Tears  
Of rich, divine Canary:  
Drink on, Cav'liers, t' all Loyal Peers;  
Then end with Charles and Mary.   

Full forty thousand Scots, by Vote,  
Must visit us e'er long:  
Brave Army sure! when every Scot  
Is forty thousand strong!   

Though th' Houses have deserved these plagues,  
GOD keep our Nation free:  
Like Egypt, let not us, by Rags  
And Vermin conquered be.   

For shame, for shame, call home your King,  
With Honour let him treat:  
His Nature is without a sting;  
His Motto, To forget.   

Return, return, Disloyal Crew  
Of Men forsworn: if not,  
Rather than thus we'll stoop to you,  
We'll Idolise the Scot   

Come, Mahomet, thy Turn is next;  
Now Gospel's out of date:  
The Alcoran may prove Good Text  
In our new Turkish-State.   

Thou dost unto thy Priests allow  
The sin of full four Wives:  
Ours scarce will be content with now  
Five Live, and nine Lives.   

Thy Saints and ours are all alike;  
Their Virtues flow from Vice:  
No Bliss they do believe, and seek  
But an Earthly Paradise.   

A Heaven on Earth they hope to gain,  
But we do know full well,  
Can they their glorious ends attain,  
This Kingdom must be Hell.   

From Prison now return the King,  
The Queen and Prince from France;  
For Chosen Charles the Welsh-men sing,  
And stoutly lead the Dance.   

The Scotch-Bag-Pipes, the Pulpit-Drums  
And Priests sound high and big:  
Once more the Cause and Covenant comes  
To shows a Scotish Jig   

The Irish will a Voyage take,  
To join their force in one;  
And whilst they frisk a Galliard, make  
The Houses sing, O Hone.   

Three Kingdoms thus must dance the Hay;  
But ere the Members run,  
We'll see they shall the Music pay,  
And then the Dance is done.   

Seven years by phrentic Votes and Fits,  
Our Worthies bore command;  
Then did they run out of their Wits,  
But now out of the Land.   

No more shall they the City ride  
Like a fine Golden Ass;  
The Navy's rigged with Wind and Tide,  
They stay but for a Pass.   

But if they linger long behind,  
And keep their King in Bands,  
I'll undertake it shall be signed  
By a hundred thousand Hands.   

For prosperous Gales then on the Deep;  
Let their Priests prate and pray  
By Order, and at Margaret's keep  
An Humiliation-day.   

The Factious now each other rout  
With Jealousies and Fear:  
The Independents face about,  
The rest cry, A● you were.   

The Presbyters put forth their Horns  
To guard their Goods and Homes;  
The She-Militia likewise scorns  
Their Cocks should lose their Combs.   

Then toll (I pray) the Passing-Bell  
For our new State-Committee:  
These monstrous Votes, which made them swell,  
Are cowed down by the City.   

Sweet John-a-Nokes and John-a-Styles,  
And worshipful Jack-Straws,  
Of both the Juntoes, leave your Wiles,  
And give's our King and Laws.   

Betwixt two thiefs our Saviour once  
Suffered for us, and died:  
So 'twixt two thievish Factions  
Our King is crucified.   

Caesar, not Christ, the ancient Jews  
Paid tribute of their Treasure;  
Our Jews no King but Christ will choose,  
And rob, and cry down Caesar.   

Now, for the King the zealous Kirk  
'Gainst th' Independent bleats,  
When as (alas!) their only wirk  
Is to renew old Cheats.   

If they can sit, vote what they list,  
And crush the new States down,  
Then up go They, but neither Christ  
Nor King, shall have his own.   

The Pox, the Plague, and each Disease,  
Are cured, though they invade us:  
But never look for Health and Peace,  
If once presbytery jade us.   

When every Priest becomes a Pope,  
Then Tinkers and Sowgelder's  
May, if they can but 'scape the Rope,  
Be Princes and Lay-Elders.   

If once the Kirk-men pitch their Tents  
Without our Assembly-Asses,  
Synods will eat up Parliaments,  
Courts be devoured by Classes.   

Look to't, ye Gentry, else be Slaves  
To Slaves that can't abide ye:  
Though ye have been cowed down by Knaves,  
Oh! let not Fools now ride ye.   

But seven years (of a thousand 'tis)  
Our Saints must Rulers be:  
So they shall lose in years of bliss,  
Nine hundred ninety three.   

No more than let those Rabbis trust  
Unto the Revelation;  
For their Interpreter is Lust,  
And Pride makes Application.   

Religion but a Packhorse is,  
To carry on Designs;  
The Bible like a Juggler's Box,  
Used by our State-Divines.   

Texts are tormented one by one,  
Like Votes, now here, now there:  
Thus Hocuspocus is outdone  
By them at Westminster.   

The Banes are asked, the Marriage next  
Goes forward in the City:  
For now the Match is made betwixt  
Them and the State-Committee.   

Thou Strumpet (London) tell not us  
Of Babel any more;  
If from thy King thou partest thus,  
Thou art the greater Whore.   

Thy Bags their Portion now are meant,  
As well as Crown and Church;  
But when that all is gone and spent,  
They'll leave thee in the lurch.   

Thou Bawd of Treason, then for all  
Thy cursed Fornication,  
Thou and thy Priestly Panders shall  
Be Carted through the Nation.   

The Market's made; the King shall treat,  
(They say) and buy his own:  
But is not this a very Cheat.  
To set the price, a Crown?   

Alas! the Members run by rote,  
And show us many a Feat:  
Thus all the year they'll vote, unvote,  
For Money,  and Meat.   

'Tis fit that they uphold their Trades,  
What ere Malignants speak:  
So they can thrive, the City-Jades  
Their Backs and Necks may break.   

Poor, What d' lack? small gains can show,  
With many an empty Shelf:  
The House spoils Shops; 'tis Ay and No,  
That brings in all the Pelf.   

Rebellion makes our Nation bleed  
With fresh Alarms (we see:)  
But yet it is not well agreed  
Who must the Rebel be.   

The Round-head first the Rebel was,  
(If truth be in the Laws)  
Till Treason did for Gospel pass,  
To bolster up the Cause.   

The thriving Cause with high disdain,  
In Fortune's full Career,  
Throws Rebel in the face again  
Of King and Cavalier.   

Thus Prosperous mischief makes it good  
Against all Law and Reason:  
Not to spill Royal, Loyal Blood,  
But, to be conquered is Treason.   

Five months ago, our mighty States  
Were pleased to vote No King;  
But two months since, to act new Cheats,  
Their Votes the Changes ring.   

'Tis time the Bells of Westminster  
Chime Backwards, and retire  
To quench the Flame, when as we hear  
The Kingdom's all on fire   

But yet (it seems) they make a stand,  
And cry it is no matter:  
What need they care for Fire on Land,  
Whose Journey lies by Water?   

GOD send them Ships, fair Winds and Ti●●●  
With Passage quick and good;  
Or else I fear (to scourge our pride)  
They'll swim through Seas of Blood.   

The Holy War goes on apace,  
Yet brings the Saints no Pay:  
In triumph now they ne'er say Grace,  
But only Fast and Pray.   

They many an hungry Conquest get,  
But not Thanksgiving Dinners:  
The City knows they scorn to eat  
With Publicans and Sinners.   

The Members cannot spare one Meal;  
Their Bags lie sealed in Town:  
What though they broke the King's great Seal,  
They'll not undo their own?   

The Country bids them starve, or hang,  
They'll be no more kept under:  
The Cavaliers will sound bang  
Them all, and spoil their Plunder.   

Reformation, thou Stalking-Horse  
Of our Hip-shotten State,  
Th' Appendix of the Public Purse,  
And Midwife of our Fate!   

'Twas Thou, and Beldam-Conscience first,  
That set the world a madding;  
And you yourselves, like Cain accursed,  
Have ever since been gadding.   

Pox take th' unlucky Cause, for me,  
It is a Wild Vagary;  
The Bane of Boon Society:  
For that first raised Canary.   

Poor Sinners now must snap a crust;  
Ye deadly seven, farewell:  
For since y'are all Excised, we must  
Pay dear to purchase Hell.   

What, though the Factions are agreed  
The Kingdom still to cheat?  
Do what they can, it is decreed  
The King shall come and treat.   

Come from the Dungeon to the Throne,  
(Great Charles) and quell the rage  
Of th' Iron world; with Thee alone  
Revives the Golden Age.   

Those very Saints, which joyed thy Fall,  
And said thy day was done,  
Will now like Persian-Pagans, all  
Adore the Rising Sun.   

No more wrapped up in Clouds remain,  
Secluded from the Nation:  
May Thou and Thine shine bright, and reign  
A Glorious Constellation.   

It is decreed (Great Prince) thy Fate  
Shall check their damned Plots;  
Though London jade it for the State,  
And bandies at the Scots.   

The Presbyters now fain would ride,  
And show us t' other Feat;  
Therefore to quell the Saints high pride,  
They say the King shall treat.   

Were he in their hands, the Town's their own,  
The Houses too must work,  
To vote the Independents down,  
And mount the Rascal Kirk.   

Away, ye juggling, paltry Crew  
Of well-affected Knaves;  
Rather than free your sovereign, you  
Yourselves will live like Slaves.   

Stand to it, ye Lords, we'll stand to you,  
And clip the Commons wings:  
Let not the Lev'ling Rascal-Crew,  
Thus domineer like Kings.   

The Lower is the upper-house,  
And hath been so seven years:  
Your Votes they value not a Louse,  
Ye Antichristian Peers.   

They give you many a Rattling Peal,  
And bait you one by one;  
For should a Treaty take, their Zeal  
And Saintships are undone.   

My Lords, of Gotam, not of Greece,  
Your Wisdoms I shall sing;  
And sell you all for pence apiece,  
If you reject your King.   

No Camel like the LONDON breed,  
To drudge, pray, pay, and feast;  
In Body, and in Purse to bleed:  
O 'tis a patiented Beast!   

If you'll needs pray, pray stay at home;  
Tell GOD your sad condition:  
'Tis Popish to the Saints to come  
And put up your Petition.   

This wondrous Idol of the States,  
The Stomach hath of Bell:  
Like Moloch it Mankind doth eat,  
And quick devours like Hell.   

As th' Horseleech (Give) it ever cries,  
And rages like the Dragon;  
As the old Serpent it is wise:  
But it must fall like Dagon.   

Would you know why the Plague hath ceased  
These last seven years now spent?  
Because GOD knows no greater Pest  
Than this same Parliament.   

How many thousands hath it swept  
Of Bodies, Souls, and Gold!  
King, Church, and People, (none except)  
Have all been bought and sold.   

Our merry Pipes, for Trumpets shrill;  
Our Tabers changed to Drums:  
Princes are braved by Jac and Gill,  
What Tilers, and Tom Thumbs.   

'Tis time those Bags, which caused the War,  
Should make the War to cease;  
For the State's Music is to jar,  
But our best Musick's Peace.   

Now shall the King enjoy his own;  
And that new Virtue, Treason,  
Whereby the Saints do claim the Crown,  
Be baffled with high Reason.   

Great CHARLES, thy Virtues I desire,  
Not solomon's, nor his Stores;  
For who can tell most to admire  
His Wisdom or his Whores?   

His Vices so eclipsed his Grace,  
That wranglers cannot tell,  
Whether as yet they may him place  
In Heaven, or in Hell.   

But all that was in him Divine,  
And more, to Thee is given;  
That where so many Grace's shine,  
A Prison must be Heaven.   

Another Blow! will not the Scot,  
And Loyal English do?  
Sure, Jove himself is of the Plot,  
An Independent too.   

Is he a King, and will he see  
Rebels assault the Crown?  
Had they but hands to reach, 'tis he  
Should next resign his own.   

Is he a God? and shall this Tribe  
Go on as they begin?  
Atheists will say, They do him bribe  
For Privilege to sin   

If these be Saints, 'tis vain indeed  
To think there's Good or Evil:  
The World will soon be of this Creed,  
No God, no King, no Devil.   

Of all those Monsters which we read  
In Afric, Ind, or Nile,  
None like to those now lately bred  
Within this wretched Isle.   

The Cannibal, the Tiger fell,  
Crocodile and Sycophant;  
The Turk, the Jew, and Infidel,  
Make up an English Saint.   

By these were Lisle and Lucas crowned;  
Two Worlds, both great and good:  
For Men, Art, Arms, were all here drowned  
I'th' Deluge of their blood.   

The Trump of Fame's too low and weak,  
That of the General Doom  
Is only fit their praise to speak,  
The World to be their Tomb.   

The Treaty holds; and some men are  
Convinced the Wars will cease:  
Fond Folk! To think the Men of War  
Will e'er endure a Peace.   

Go, bid the Scot quit English Ground,  
The Swede the Germane Air;  
Holland obey the Spanish Crown,  
The Pope leave Peter's Chair.   

Woe the great Statesman to his Grave,  
Preach Gospel to the Jews;  
To Turks, that Mahomet's a Knave,  
Platonic Love to Stews.   

Let Citizens loathe sacred things,  
Presbyters pride and ease;  
When these are done, make Saints love Kings,  
And then we may have Peace.   

See in what glory CHARLES now sits,  
With Truth to conquer Treason;  
And prove he is the King of Wits,  
The World, Himself, and Reason.   

Angels bear witness GOD looks down,  
The Graces too attend;  
Sure none but Devils than will frown  
Upon a blessed end.   

Ten hundred thousand Loyal Hearts,  
All bleeding at his Fate;  
As many Wishes from all parts  
Fly round his Chair of State.   

Come then, ye dirty Sainted Elves,  
Worse than Church-window paint:  
By this fair Glass abhor yourselves,  
Learn here to be a Saint.   

The King the four great Bills must pass,  
And none but Saints be free:  
Th' Irish and Cavaliers (alas!)  
Must th' only Rebels be.   

New Lords, new Laws, new Saints are we;  
Religion's in a fine pickle,  
When 'tis resolved the Church shall be  
A Three-years Conventicle.   

Militia too, they needs must gain,  
Those pretty carnal Tools:  
For Paul's old Weapons they disdain,  
As fit for none but Fools.   

Thus Royal CHARLES lets to Lease,  
Lays Sword and Sceptre down,  
To show he values Us and Peace  
Above a glorious Crown.   

Give me the Dragon's Gall for Ink,  
His sting to be my Pen,  
To blast the Scot, and make him stink  
Worse than the Dregs of men.   

See now the Reformation-Wirk,  
For which they made us bleed,  
Is to cashier King, Church and Kirk,  
On this and that side Tweed.   

Let them with Egypt's plagues be crossed,  
Yet still find new and worse;  
And since I have Jobs patience lost,  
Give me his skill to curse.   

At Home and Hell may they e'er dwell;  
And for quick passage thither,  
As they have juggled all full well,  
So may they hang together.   

Let me be Turk, or any thing,  
But a Scotch Calvinist:  
First he damned Bishops; next, his King;  
Now he cashires his Christ.   

Good faith, Sir, they the Pulpit bang,  
But let their Gospel down;  
For, the old Saviour needs must gang  
Now a new one's come to town.   

The Saints, whom once their mouths did curse,  
Dear Brethren are, and Friends:  
Which proves their Zeal a Stalking-Horse  
For Knavish-godly ends.   

Then rail no more at Antichrist,  
But learn ye to be civil:  
And since ye have King Cromwell kissed,  
Shake hands too with the Devil.   

Since they have damned all Saints of old,  
No new shall be for me:  
Like Jews, they worship Gods of Gold,  
Their King they crucify.   

Were he the King of Kings, his Crown  
Can not be safe from Foes:  
Like Jesuits, they no Gospel own,  
But Murder and Depose.   

Like Turks, their Heaven lies all in Sense,  
In Wenches, Tarts and Jelly:  
No Hell they fear, when parted hence;  
They serve no God, but Belly.   

All this, and more, (by Jove) is true,  
If they the Treaty cease,  
To juggle with the Lev'lling Crew  
That cry, No King, No Peace.   

No Lord, no Knight, no Gentleman,  
For Honours now are Crimes:  
The Saints will form us (if they can)  
All to the primitive times.   

Brave days, when Adam was a King  
Without Crown, Lands, or Riches!  
So, stripped of Royal Robes, they'll bring  
Great CHARLES, to Fig-leave Breeches.   

Princes with Plowmen rank shall pass;  
Ladies, like the first Woman,  
Must spin, or else be turned to Grass,  
Now all things are in common.   

Thus Cov'nanting; and Levelling,  
Three Kingdoms have o'erthrown,  
And made all fellows with their King,  
A Football of the Crown.   

Tell me thou Presbyterian Ass,  
Why thou at first didst jar:  
Thy peevish Plea (No Bishops) was  
The first ground of the War.   

Next, to thy shame, thou didst combine  
With the Sectarian Routs;  
Our CHARLES should be no King of thine,  
Or but a King of Clouts.   

Both King and Bishops thus exiled,  
The Saints not yet content:  
Now with fresh flames of Zeal grow wild,  
And cry, No Parliament.   

Well may we then this Maxim prove,  
Treason no end can know,  
But levels at the Gods above,  
As well as those below.   

Hark, how for Peace the Kingdom groans,  
That warred they knew not why!  
Yield then, or else the very Stones  
Will out against you cry.   

For shame, ye Bastard-saints, give oe'r,  
Or else the world will think  
Your Mother is great Babel's Whore,  
If blood you love to drink.   

The State's grown fat with Orphan's Tears,  
Whilst Widows pine and moan;  
And tender Conscience in seven years,  
Is turned t' a heart of Stone.   

Return, hard hearts, the Treaty ends,  
Our breasts with hope do swell;  
Your Bags are full, then let's be friends,  
Or bid the World farewel.   

No Gods above, nor Gods below,  
Our Saints (I see) will own;  
Allegiance is Rebellion now,  
Treason to wear a Crown.   

Nor King nor Parliament will please,  
'Tis Gospel to rebel:  
Nay, they'll Remonstrate against Peace,  
Be it in Heaven or Hell.   

Pluto, beware, (to thee they come  
When here their work is done:)  
For they'll break lose, and beat up Drum,  
And storm thee in thy Throne.   

Then John-a Leyden, Nol, and all  
Their goblin ghostly Train,  
(Brave Rebel Saints triumphant) shall  
Begin their second Reign.   

Brave Reformation! now I see  
London's a blessed place,  
To find the Saints cheerful and free  
And nurse the Babe of Grace.   

Let yellow boys ne'er tempt their sight,  
Of Valour with the sourcis  
For the tame Slaves will never fight  
Till they have empty Purses.   

Come then, ye lousy wanton Wags  
Of sainted Chivalry,  
And free their poor condemned Bags  
That groan for Liberty.   

March on, boon Blades, here's store of Cash,  
Their King they will not pity:  
Then spur them on, and sound lash  
These Dullmen of the City.   

Dull Cuckolds! we are dainty Slaves,  
And well may be content,  
When Thirty Fools, and Twenty Knaves,  
Make up a Parliament.   

They banish all men in their Wits,  
Vote King, Lords, all Offenders;  
And authorise the phrentic Fits  
Of our longsword State-menders.   

'Tis Nol's own Brewhouse now, I swear;  
The Speaker's but his Skinker:  
Their Members are, like th' Council of War,  
Carmen Pedlars, and Tinkers.   

Fine Journey Junto! pretty Knack!  
None such in all past Ages!  
Shut shop; for, now the godly Pack  
Will next pay you your Wages.   

Gone are those Golden Days of yore,  
When Christmas was an High-day,  
Whose sports we now shall see no more;  
'Tis turned into Good-Friday.   

Now, when the King of Kings was born,  
And did salvation bring,  
They strive to crucify in scorn  
His Viceroy, and their King.   

Since th' ancient Feast they have put down,  
No new one will suffice;  
But the choice Dainties of a Crown,  
Princes in Sacrifice.   

No Powers are safe, Treason's a Tilt,  
And the mad Sainted-Elves  
Boast when the Royal Blood is spilt,  
They'll all be Kings themselves.   

Like jolly Slaves, ye goodly Knaves,  
We'll bid th' old year Adieu:  
Old Sack, and things must pass away,  
And so shall all your new.   

Now for a Noking, or a New;  
For th' old, they say, shall pack;  
The New may serve a year to view  
Like an old Almanac.   

New Houses, new; for th' old ones dote,  
And have been thrice made Plunder;  
The Saints do vote, and act by rote,  
And are a Nine-days-wonder.   

Then let us cheer, this merry New-year;  
For CHARLES shall wear the Crown:  
'Tis a damned Cause, that damns the Laws,  
And turns all up-side down.   
FINIS.