A Parallel of TIMES: Or a Memento to the whigs.  

O horrible murder  
But lo a Charge is drain a day is set  
The silent lamb is br●ught, the wolves are met;  
And where's the Slaughterhouse? Whitehall must be,  
Latlely his Palace, now his calvary  
And now ye Senators i● this the thing.  
So oft declared is this our glorious King?  
Religion vails herself ●●d mourns that she  
Is forced to own such Horrid Villainy.   
WHat dare not England's Monsters had they power?  
What did they not, when with a Sanguine Shower  
The Nations were bedued? The Dog-stars heat  
Had put Three Kingdoms in a Bloody Sweat.  
Then was the Time when Murder knew no bound,  
Death and Destruction every where were found.  
Fate's boding Omens still presaging Grief,  
Widows and Orphans cries had no relief:  
The Hell-inspired Hounds had scented Blood,  
And could not be by force of Law withstood.  

No Sacred Ties had awe enough to bind  
Those whom Religion's ruin were designed,  
By Hell's dire darkness who with them had joined,   

If possible t'unhinge the mighty Frame  
Of Brittain's Empire, and eclipse the name  
Of her Great Monarch whom the Trump of fame   
Renders Immortal here; whilst he above  
Triumphs in Glory and his Maker's Love.  

Law and Religion were pretences made  
To mount the Rebels, till they both betrayed,  
And in their Sovereign's Wounds them bleeding laid.   
No less than Royal Blood must seal their crimes,  
Murders were sports in those dire dismal times,  
Infamous Canters who ne'er uttered sense,  
With England's great affairs durst then dispense:  
And judge of those who had the Care of Souls,  
The Reverend Clergy, each vile wretch controls.  
Reason was staggered, Learning tumbled down,  
When the backed Rabble once had braved the Crown.  
When the black Tribe had Treason made no sin,  
And let destruction like a deluge in,  
By pulling up the Sluices of the State,  
Which the long bellowing Surges did rebate;  
And all into disordered ruin set,  
Whilst they in troubled Waters cast their Net:  
Fishers of Men in one sense termed they are,  
Who did men's Lives and Fortunes both ensnare.  

Then England groaned in see her Breast so red,  
With Blood of her dea● dying Children shed,  
By Murdering Villains that her face o'erspread.   
‛ Judgement was turned to Wormwood in that day,  
‛ Nor Truth nor Justice challenged any sway:  
'Twas the devouring Sword they made their Law,  
Which Gold or Blood from Loyalist must draw.  
The Children Banished, and the Father Slain  
Did not suffice: Their rage to all his Train  

Of Nobles did the Monsters soon extend,  
As if with him Nobility must end;  
'Twas Treason then to be their Sovereign's Friend.   
The basest of all Mankind mounted high  
By this mad Rout, fill all with Tyranny:  
In every place Death and Oppression raves,  
All were enslaved to the worst of Slaves:  
Unless those mighty Souls who scorned to be  
Connivers at his horrid Villainy;  
But with a brave disde●in contemned his rage,  
To Heaven ascending from the Crimson Stage,  
To meet their Royal Master in that bliss,  
Which has no end but endless happiness.  
But thanks kind Heave the Storm at length gave way,  
The gloomy Clouds gave back, long absent Day  
Rose glorious to refre●● our drooping Isle,  
And made the mournful Nation once more smile.  
The best of Kings did ●avour to that earth,  
Rendered thrice happy by his Reign and Birth:  
Before whose Face the conscious Rebels fly,  
Not daring to behold that Majesty  
In whom Afronts might justly kindle Ire,  
Fierce as a Whirlwind or devouring Fire,  
To overwhelm or drive them from that Earth,  
Which is polluted only by their birth:  
But see Heaven's Pattern— All that's good and great,  
A King whose Mercy stays the wheel of Fate;  
He pities those that thirsted for his Blood,  
And will not add to the too Crimson Flood.  
But what avails Royal trancendent Grace  
Where black Ingratitude has fixed her place?  
Unless to warm the Monsters, till they grow  
Impious as that dire Snake found in the Snow;  
For they no sooner found deaths terror past,  
But from their holes without a blush they hast:  
And Croak aloud, their practices renew,  
Rant at their Rulers, and would Rule them too.  
The many-headed Monster they revive,  
And it, like Jehu, furiously they drive:  
Once more a madding, no ways left untried  
To find a Saddle Monarchy to Ride.  
How with Petitions, how with Juries packed,  
Have they the Bosoms of the people Sacked,  

To know the strength of Faction, how it grows?  
What Loyalist was safe, when they supposed  
The giddy multitude had with them closed?   
To such stupendious Insolency grown,  
Their black mouths spared not to asperse the Throne.  
At Regal Power they did presume to strike,  
And durst a Damned Association like.  
What Shoals of Evidence like Locust swarmed,  
With Stings as sharp as Fellest Scorpions Armed,  
Who must Infallible be deemed, till they  
The dire Dark Mischief of the whigs bewray?  

But then the Scene is changed; none must believe  
They can speak Truth: And then the busy Sheriff  
Must us with Ignoramus undeceive.   

These and a Thousand more their projects are,  
Who would our Lives and Fortunes once more share;  
And where their Will their Pow r they'd no Man spare.   
Then let the Royal Martyrs Fall remain  
Fresh in our minds, the Shambles of the slain  
Who guiltless fell; yet let's forgive that score,  
Pardon what's past; But never Trust them more.  
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed, by J. Grantham, in the Year, MDCLXXXIII.