ITER BOREALE.  
Attempting something upon the Successful and Matchless March of the Lord general GEORGE MONCK, FROM SCOTLAND, TO LONDON, The last Winter, &c.  
Veni, Vidi, Vici.  
By a Rural Pen.  
LONDON, Printed on St GEORGE'S Day, for George Thomason, at the Rose and Crown in St Paul's churchyard. 1660   

ITER BOREALE. Attempting something upon the Successful and Matchless March of the Lord general GEORGE MONCK, from Scotland to London, the last Winter.  

I.  
THe day is broke! Melpomene be gone;  
Hag of my Fancy, let me now alone:  
Nightmare my soul no more; Go take thy flight;  
Where traitors Ghosts keep an eternal night;  
Flee to Mount Caucasus, and bear thy part  
With the black Fowl that tears Prometheus' heart  
For his bold sacrilege: Go fetch the groans  
Of defunct Tyrants, with them croak thy Tones;  
Go see Allecto with her flaming whip,  
How she firks Nol, and makes old Bradshaw skip:  
Go make thyself away.— Thou shalt no more  
Choke up my Standish with the blood and gore  
Of English Tragedies: I now will choose  
The merriest of the Nine to be my Muse,  
And (come what will) I'll scribble once again:  
The brutish Sword hath cut the Nobler Vein  
Of racy Poetry. Our small drink times  
Must be contented, and take up with Rhymes.  
Thy're sorry toys from a poor Levites pack,  
Whose Living and Assessments drink no Sack.  
The Subject will excuse the Verse (I trow)  
The Ven'son's fat although the Crust be dow,   

II.  
I He who whilcom sat and sung in Cage  
My Kings & country's ruins, by the rage  
Of a rebellious Rout: Who weeping saw,  
Three goodly Kingdoms (drunk with fury) draw  
And sheathe their Swords (like three enraged Brothers)  
In one another's sides, ripping their mother's  
Belly, and tearing out her bleeding heart;  
Then jealous that their Father fain would part  
Their bloody Fray, and let them fight no more,  
Fell foul on him, and slew him at his door.  
I that have only dared to whisper Verses,  
And drop a tear (by stealth) on loyal hearses,  
I that enraged at the Times and Rump,  
Had gnawed my Goose-quill to the very stump,  
And flung that in the fire, no more to write  
But to set down poor Britain's Heraclyte;  
Now sing the triumphs of the Men of War,  
The glorious rays of the bright Northern Star,  
Created for the nonce by Heaven, to bring  
The Wisemen of three Nations to their King:  
MONCK! the great monk! That syllable outshines  
Plantagenet's bright name or Constantin's.  
'Twas at his Rising that Our Day begun,  
Be He the Morning Star to Charles our Sun:  
He took Rebellion rampant, by the Throat,  
And made the Canting Quaker change his Note  
His Hand it was that wrote (we saw no more)  
Exit Tyrannus over Lambert's door:  
Like to some subtle Lightning, so his words  
Dissolved in their Scabbards Rebels swords:  
He with success the sovereign skill hath found,  
To dress the Weapon, and so heal the Wound.  
George, and his boys (as Spirits do, they say)  
Only by Walking scare our Foes away.   

III.  
OLd Holofernes was no sooner laid,  
Before the Idols Funeral Pomp was paid,  
(Nor shall a penny ere be paid for me;  
Let Fools that trusted, his true Mourners be.)  
Richard the fourth, just peeping out of Squire,  
No fault so much as, Th' old one was his Sire;  
For men believed— though all went in his Name,  
He'd be but Tennant, till the Landlord came:  
When on a sudden (all amazed) we found  
The seven Years Babel tumbled to the ground;  
And he, poor heart, (thanks to his cunning Kin)  
Was soon in Querpo honest Dick again.  
Exit Protector.— What comes next? I trow▪  
Let the State-Hunsmen beat again.— soho  
Cries Lambert, Master of the Hounds,— Here sits  
That lusty Puss, The Good Old Cause,— whose wits  
Showed Oliver such sport; That, that (cries Vane)  
Let's put her up, and run her once again:  
She'll lead our dogs and Followers up and down,  
Whilst we match Families, and take the Crown.  
Enter th'old Members; 'Twas the Month of May  
These Maggots in the Rump began to play.  
Wallingford Anglers (though they stunk) yet thought,  
They would make baits, by which fish might be caught;  
And so it proved; They soon by Taxes made  
More money than the Holland Fishing Trade.   

iv.  
NOw broke in Egypt's Plagues (all in a day)  
And one more worse than theirs;— We must not pray  
To be delivered:— Their scabbed folks were free  
To scratch where it did itch;— So might not we.  
That Meteor Cromwell, though he scared, gave light;  
But wewere now covered with horrid Night:  
Our Magistracy was (like Moses Rod)  
Turned to a Serpent by the angry God.  
Poor Citizens, when trading would not do,  
Made brick without straw, & were basted too:  
Struck with the botch of Taxes and Excise;  
Servants (our very dust) were turned to lice;  
It was but turning soldiers, and they need  
Not work at all, but on their Masters feed.  
Strange caterpillars eat our pleasant things;  
And Frogs croaked in the Chambers of our Kings.  
Black bloody veins did in the Rump prevail,  
Like the Philistines hemorrhoids in the tail.  
Lightning, Hail, Fire, and Thunder Egypt had,  
And England Guns, Shot, Powder, (that's as bad)  
And that Sea-Monster Lawson (if withstood)  
Threatened to turn our Rivers into blood.  
And (Plague of all these Plagues) all these Plagues fell  
Not on an Egypt, but our Israel.   

V.  
SIck (as her heart can hold) the Nation lies,  
Filling each corner with her hideous cries;  
Sometime Rage (like a burning Fever) heats,  
Anon Dispair brings cold and clammy Sweats;  
She cannot sleep, or if she doth she dreams  
Of Rapes, Thefts, Burnings, Blood, & direful themes,  
Tosses from side to side, then by and by  
Her feet are laid there where the head did lie:  
None can come to her but bold empirics,  
Who never meant to cure her, but try tricks:  
Those very Doctors who should give her ease,  
(God help the Patient) was her worst disease.  
Th' Italian Mountebank Vane tells us sure,  
Jesuits powder will effect the cure:  
If grief but makes her swell, Martin & Nevil  
Conclude it is a spice of the King's Evil.  
Bleed her again, another cries;— And Scot  
Saith he could cure her, if 'twas— you know what:  
But giddy Harrington a whimsy found,  
To make her head (like to his brains) run round.  
Her old and wise physicians who before  
Had well nigh cured her, came again to th' door.  
But were kept out— which made her cry the more,  
Help, help, (dear Children) Oh! some pity take  
On her who bore you! Help for mercy sake!  
Oh heart! Oh head! Oh back! Oh bones! I feel  
They've poisoned me with giving too much Steel:  
Oh give me that for which I long and cry!  
Something that's sovereign, or else I die.   

VI.  
KInd Cheshire heard; And like some son that stood  
Upon the bank, straight jumped into the Flood,  
Flings out his arms, and strikes some strokes to swim,  
Booth ventured first, and Midleton with him,  
Stout Mackworth, Egerton, and thousands more,  
Threw themselves in, and left the safer shore;  
Massey (that famous Diver) and bold Brown  
Forsook his wharf,— resolving all to drow,  
Or save a sinking Kingdom:— But, O sad!  
Fearing to lose her prey, the Sea grew mad,  
Raised all her billows, and resolved her waves  
Should quickly be the bold Adventurers graves.  
Out Marches Lambert, like an Eastern wind,  
And with him all the mighty waters joined.  
The loyal swimmers bore up heads and breasts,  
Scorning to think of life or interests;  
They plied their Arms and Thighs, but all in vain;  
The furious Main beat them to shore again;  
At which the floating Island (looking back,  
Spying her loyal Lovers gone to wrack)  
Shrieked louder than before,— and thus she cries,  
" Can you ye angry Heavens, and frowning Skies,  
" Thus countenance Rebellious Mutineers,  
" Who if they durst, would be about your ears:  
" That I should sink, with Justice may accord,  
" Who let my Pilot be thrown overboard;  
" Yet 'twas not I (ye righteous heavens do know)  
" The soldiers in me needs would have it so:  
" And those who conjured up these Storms themselves,  
" And first engaged me 'mongst these Rocks & Shelves,  
" Guilty of all my woes, erect this weather,  
" Fearing to come to Land, & choosing rather  
" To sink me with themselves.— O! Cease to frown,  
" In tears (just Heavens!) behold! myself I drown:  
" Let not these proud Waves do't: Prevent my fears,  
" And let them fall together by the Ears.   

VII.  
HEaven heard, & struck th' insulting Army mad,  
Drunk with their Cheshire Tryumps, straight they  
NewLights appeared; And new Rosolves they take, had  
A Single Person once again to make.  
Who shall be he? Oh! Lambert, without Rub,  
The fittest devil to be Belzebub.  
He, the fierce Friend, cast out o' th' house before,  
Returned, & threw the House now out of door:  
A Legion than he raised of Armed Sprights,  
Elves, Goblins, Fairies, Quakers, & new Lights,  
To be his under-Divels; with this rest  
He Soul and Body (Church and State) possessed:  
Who though they filled all Countries, Towns, & Rooms,  
Yet (like that Fiend that did frequent the Tombs)  
Churches, and Sacred Ground they haunted most,  
No chapel was at ease from some such Ghost.  
The Priests ordained to Exorcise those Elves,  
Were Voted devils, and cast out themselves:  
Bible, or Alchoron, all's one to them,  
Religion serves but for a Stratagem:  
The holy Charms these Adders did not heed,  
Churches themselves did Sanctuary need.   

VIII.  
THe church's Patrimony and rich store,  
Alas! was swallowed many years before:  
Bishops and Deans we fed upon before,  
They were the Ribs and sirloins of the Whore:  
Now let her Legs (the Priests) go to the Pot,  
(They have the Pop's eye in them) spare them not:  
We have fat Benefices yet to ear,  
(Bell, and our Dragon-Army must have meat)  
Let us devour her Limb-meal, great & samll,  
Tithe Calves, Geese, Pigs, the Pettitoes & all:  
A vicarage in Sippets, though it be  
But small, will serve a squeamish Sectary.  
Though Universities we can't endure,  
there's no false Latin in their Lands (be sure.)  
Give Oxford to our Horse, and let the Foot  
Take Cambridge for their booty, and fall to't.  
Christ-Church I'll have (cries Vane) Disbrow swops  
At Trinity; King's is for Berry's chops;  
Kelsey, take Corpus Chrifii; All-Souls, Packer;  
Carve Creed, St John's; New college, leave to Hacker;  
Fleetwood cries, Weeping Maudlin shall be mine,  
Her tears I'll drink instead of Muscadine:  
The smaller Halls and Houses scarce are big  
Enough to make one dish for Hesilrig;  
We must be sure'to stop his mouth, though wide  
Else all our Fat will bei'th ' fire (they cried:  
And when we have done these, we'll not be quiet  
Lordships, and Landlords Rents shall be our diet.  
Thus talked this jolly crew, but still mine Host  
Lambret, resolves that he will rule the roast.   

XI.  
BUt hark! Me thinks I hear old Boreas' blow,  
What mean the North winds that they bluster so?  
More storms from that black nook? Forbear! (bold Scot)  
Let not Dunbar and Worcester be forgot:  
What? Would you chasser w'us for one Charles more?  
The price of Kings is fallen, give the Trade o'er.  
And is the price of Kings and Kingdoms too,  
Of Laws, Lives, Oaths, Souls, grown so low with you?  
Perfidious Hypocrites! Monsters of men!  
(Cries the good monk) We'll raise their price again.  
Heaven said Amen; and breathed upon that spark;  
That spark (Preserved alive i'th' cold and dark)  
First kindled and inflamed the British Isle,  
And turned it all to Bonfires, in a while:  
He and his fuel was so small, no doubt,  
Proud Lambart thought to tread, or piss them out.  
But George was wary;— His cause did require  
A Pillar of a Cloud as well as Fire:  
'Twas not his safest course to flame, but smoke;  
His Enemies he will not burn, but choke:  
Small Fires must not blaze out, lest by their light  
They show their weakness, and their Foes invite:  
But Furnaces the stroutest metals melt  
(And so did He) by fire not seen but felt:  
Darklanthorn Language, and his peep-boe play,  
Will-E-Wispt Lambert's New-Lights out o'th' way.  
George, and his Boys, those thousand (Ostrange thing)  
Of Snipes and Woodcocks, took by Lowbelling.  
His few Scotch-Coal kindled with English fire,  
Made Lambert's great Newcastle heaps expire.   

X.  
SCotland, (though poor, and peevish) was content  
To keep the Peace, and (O rare!) money lent;  
But yet the blessing of their Kirk was more;  
George had that too; and with this slender store  
He & his Myrmidons advance— Kind Heaven  
Prepared a frost to make their march more even,  
easy, and safe; it may be said That year  
Of th' highways, Heaven itself was Overfeer,  
And made November ground as hard as May;  
White as their Innocence, so was their way:  
The Clouds came down in featherbeds, to greet  
Him and his Army, and to kiss their feet.  
The Frost and foes both came and went together,  
Both thawed away, and vanished God knows whither.  
Whole Countries crowded in to see this Friend,  
Ready to cast their bodies down, to mend  
His Road to Westminster; and still they shout,  
Lay hold of th' Rump, and pull the Monster out:  
A new one, or a whole one (Good my Lord)  
And to this cry the Island did accord.  
The echo of the Irish hollow ground  
Heard England, & her language did rebound.   

XI.  
PResto— Jack Lambert, and his Sprights are gone  
To dance a jig with's brother Oberon:  
George made him, and his cutthroats of our lives,  
Swallow their Swords, as JugIers do their Knives.  
And Carter Disborough to wish in vain,  
He now were Waggoner to Charles his Wain.  
The conqueror is now come into th' South,  
Whose warm Air is made hot by every mouth;  
Breathing his welcome, and in spite of Scot,  
Crying,— The whole child (Sir) divide it not.  
The Rump begins to stink; Alas! (cry they)  
W'have raised a devil which we cannot lay;  
I like him not— His belly is so big,  
There's a King in't, cries furious Hesilrig,  
Let's brib Him (they cry all) Carve him a share  
Of our stolen Venison.— Varlet, forbear,  
In vain you put your Lime-twiggs to his Hands  
Gorge Monck is for the King, not for his Lands.  
When fair means would not do, next foul they try,  
Vote him the City Scavenger (they cry)  
Send him to scour their Streets— Well, let it be,  
Your Rumpships wants a scouring too (thinks he)  
That fonl House where your Worships many year  
Have laid your tail, sure wants a Scavenger:  
I smell your Fizle, though it make no Crack,  
You'd mount me on the Cities galled back,  
In hope she'll cast her Rider: If I must  
Upon some Office in the Town be thrust,  
I'll be their Sword-bearer- and to their Dagger  
I'll join my Sword:— Nay (goodRump) do not swagger:  
The City feasts me, and as sure as Gun)  
I'll mend all England's Commons e'er I've done.   

XII.  
ANd so He did: One Morning next his heart  
He goes to Westminster, and played his part,  
He vamped their Boots (which Hewson ne'er could do)  
With better leather, and made them go upright too.  
The restored Members (Cato like no doubt)  
Did only Enter that They might go out,  
They did not mean within those walls to dwell,  
Nor did they like their Company so well:  
Yet Heaven so blessed them, that in three weeks' space  
They gave both Church and State a better face,  
They gave Booth, Massey, Brown, some kinder lots;  
The last years traitors, this years' Patriots:  
The Churches poor Remainder they made good,  
And washed the Nations Hands of Royal Blood,  
And that a Parliament (they did devise)  
From its own ashes (phoenixlike) might rise;  
This done, By Act and Deed that might not fail,  
They passed a Fine, and so cut off th' Entail.   

XIII.  
LEt the Bells ring these Changes now from Bow  
Down to the country Candlesticks below,  
Ringers Hands of; The Bells themselves will dance  
In memory of their own deliverance:  
Had not George showed his Mettle, and said Nay,  
Each Sectary had born the Bell away:  
Down with them all, they're christened (Cried that Crew)  
Tie up their Clappers, and the Parsons too;  
Turn then to Guns, or sell them to the Dutch,  
Nay, hold (quoth George) my Masters, that's too much;  
You will not leap o'er Steeples thus, I hope,  
I'll save the Bells, but you may take the Rope.  
Thus lay Religion panting for her life,  
Like Isaac, bound under the bloody knife;  
George held the falling Weapon, saved the Lamb:  
Let Lambert (in the Briars) be the Ram.  
So lay the Royal Virgin (as 'tis told)  
When brave St George redeemed her life, of old.  
Oh that the Knaves that have consumed our Land,  
Had but permitted wood enough to stand  
To be his Bonfires;— weed burn every stem,  
And leave no more but Gallow-Trees for them:   

XIV.  
MArch on, Great Heore! as thou hast begun,  
And Crown our happiness before Th''ve done:  
We have another Charles to fetch from Spain,  
Be thou the George to bring him back again:  
Then shalt thou be (what was denied that Knight)  
Thy Princes, and the people's Favourite.  
There is no danger of the winds at all,  
Unless together by the Ears they fall,  
Who shall the honour have to waft a King,  
And they who gain it, while they work, shall sing.  
Methinks I see how those triumphant Gales,  
Proud of the great Employment, swell the Sails;  
The joyful ship shall dance, the Sea shall laugh,  
And loyal Fish their Master's health shall quaff;  
See how the dolphin's crowd & thrust their large  
And scaly shoulders, to assist the Barge:  
The peaceful Kingfishers are met together  
About the Decks, and prophesy calm weather,  
Poor Crabs & Lobsters are gone down to creep  
And search for Pearls and Jewels in the deep;  
And when they have the booty— crawl before  
And leave them for his welcome to the Shore.   

XV.  
MEthinks I see how throngs of people stand  
Scarce patient till the Vessel come to land,  
Ready to leap in, and if need require  
With Tears of Joy to make the waters higher:  
But what will London do? I doubt Old Paul  
With bowing to his sovereign will fall.  
The royal lions from the Tower shall roar,  
And though they see him not, yet shall adore:  
The Conduits will be ravished, and combine  
To turn their very water into wine:  
And for the Citizens, I only pray  
They may not overjoyed all die that day.  
May we all live more loyal and more true,  
To give to Caesar and to God their due.  
We'll make his father's Tomb with tears to swim,  
And for the Son, we'll shed our blood for him:  
England her penitential Song shall sing  
And take heed how she quarrels with her King.  
If for our sins— Our Prince shall be misled,  
We'll bite our nails rather than scratch our Head.   

XVI.  
ONe English George outweighs alone (by odds)  
A whole Committee of the Heathen Gods;  
Pronounce but Monck, and it is all his due)  
He is our Mercury, Mars, and Neptune too.  
Monck (what great Xerxes could not) proved the Man  
That with a word shackled the Ocean;  
He shall command Neptune himself to bring  
His Trident, and present it to our King.  
Oh do it then great Admiral.— Away,  
Let him be here against St George's day;  
That Charles may wear His Dieu et Mondroit,  
And Thou the Noble gartered Honi Soit.  
And when thy aged corpse shall yield to Fate,  
God save that soul that saved our Church and State:  
There thou shalt have a glorious Crown, I know,  
Who Crown'dst our King and Kingdoms here below.  
But who shall find a Pen fit for thy glory?  
Or make Posterity believe thy Story.   Vive St GEORGE.