THE Commons Petition OF Long Afflicted England, TO THE chief CHANCELLOR OF HEAVEN, AND only judge OF EARTH.  
With His Gracious answer thereto.  
Published by C. I. for the Benefit of all True affected CHRISTIANS.  
LONDON, Printed for John Hammond. 1642.   

The humble Petition of the poor distressed Commons of long afflicted ENGLAND.  
IF bleeding souls, dejected hearts, find grace,  
Thou all-disposer, turn not back thy face  
From us thy Supplicants, thrice 3 Suns have worn  
Their Summer suits, since we began to mourn:  
Egypt's ten plagues we have endured thrice told,  
Since blessed Eliza was with Saints enrolled.  
Thy Messengers of wrath their viols pour  
Each day upon our heads, nay every hour  
Plagues beget plagues, and fruitful vengeance grows,  
As if there were no end set to our woes.  
Have our black sins, good God, raised such a cloud  
Twixt us and heaven, that cries, though ne'er so loud,  
Can get no passage to thy mercy Seat?  
Are our iniquities good God, so great,  
So infinite, as neither groans nor tears  
Can entrance get? Remember but the years  
Of our afflictions: then forget, we crave,  
Our sins, and bury them in deepest grave  
Of dark oblivion, hide them in the side  
Of our Redeemer; O let them be tied  
In chains, that they may never rise again,  
Let us no longer sue and cry in vain:  
Let these our supplications; this complaint,  
Tendered by our late sovereign, now thy Saint,  
At last find grace: was't not we humbly pray,  
Enough at first thou tookst that Queen away?  
Was not that Dove, that Lamb of innocence,  
Sufficient sacrifice for our offence?  
Oh no, our sins out-●●'d her, and our crimes  
Did threaten to outlive the last of times.  
Thou didst remove her, that she might not see  
The sad beginnings of our misery.  
Had Egypt thicker darkness than had we  
When clearest eyes at midday could not see?  
Unwholesome mists, strange fogs, rumours of wars,  
Evil portending Comets, blazing stars,  
Prodigious births and most unnatural seasons,  
Spurning Philosophers quite beyond their reasons.  
Frightiug the silly poor, the rich dehorting,  
To leave their downy beds where they lay snorting.  
Heaven in combust on seems, the sky in arms,  
The stars beat drums, the sky doth sound Alarms,  
The air hath often bloody colours spread,  
And all to rouse us from the lazy bed  
Of base security, yet nought will fright us,  
Till we were robbed of that did most delight us,  
Henry our joy: Henry whose every limb  
Thteatned to conquer death, and not death him.  
Henry our pride, yea even Henry the blessed,  
In whom great Britain set up all her rest.  
Who had not in that one an ample share?  
What subject had not rather lost his heir?  
What tender mother did not wish that Dart  
Had glanced from him, and struck her darlings heart?  
All they which virtuous were, all which were good,  
Turned their watery eyes to streams of blood.  
But needs must thine anointed leave the city  
Before it be destroyed, such is thy pity,  
And such thy goodness: Are there yet full ten  
Is there good Lord, a numberless of men,  
Whose innocence may slack thy kindled ire,  
And keep this Sodom-britain from the fire.  
Of thy just ones, is there not yet a soul  
Whose uprightness hath power to control  
Thy heaved-up-hand of justice? if there be,  
For his or her sake cause thy clemency  
To waken mercy, let thy justice slumber,  
And save the greater for thy lesser number.  
For his or her sake, we do humbly pray,  
Respite of time give us a longer day,  
And then enabled by your grace and favour,  
we'll purchase pardon by our good endeavour.  
Plague famine, darkness, inundations,  
Wars we have endured, and Innovations,  
With expectation of the worst can follow  
By Popish Prelates, that have hearts most hollow,  
Their Plots discovered, even with fear and horror,  
Makes us to sleep with care, and wake with terror.  
Nor are we all this while from venom free,  
The Catterpillar hangs on every Tree.  
Lousy promoters, Monopoly-mongers.  
A crew of upstart rascals, whose fierce hungers  
Can ne'er be satisfied, a sort of slaves,  
Far more unsatiate than are Whores or Graves,  
And do more mischief than Egyptian flies,  
That with their buzzing, blind the people's eyes;  
Yet at the last, God hath us comfort sent  
In the bright sunshine of our Parliament,  
Which may dispel the misty fogs of error,  
And turn our cloudy day into fair weather.  
The last Petition we most humbly crave,  
Is; They one heart one mind may have.   

A gracious answer from our Blessed Mediator, &c.  
YOur bold Petitions, mortals I have seen,  
And find it full of passion, full of spleen:  
Prayers that enter heaven, and gain a hearing,  
Are winged with Charity: heers no appearing  
With supplications fraught with ire, or gall:  
I do confess (Poor souls) the truth of all,  
And wish a period to your miseries,  
But first your infinie iniquities  
Must have an end: Alas you must begin  
To love fair virtue, as you have done sin,  
You must redeem what's lost, and know,  
As heaven hath ever been to vengeance slow,  
So by degrees is grace and mercy won,  
Eyes that be full with gazing at the Sun,  
Increase their grief: If you would mercy gain,  
From unjust actions, you must then refrain:  
How dares a wretched servant once require  
From his just Master either grace or hire;  
You must put off the shoes, with which you trod  
The way of sin, ere you discourse with God.  
Give me but ground for Comme●●●●ions,  
Encouragement, and then your supplications  
I shall receive: I left you rich, 'tis true,  
And proud withal; You feared none, all feared you:  
You were so far from fear, that you denied  
To pay him fear, that gave you cause of pride:  
You must be humbled, heaven ever punished yet  
All kind of rankness with an opposite:  
He that will surfeit ere he gain his health,  
Must strictly fast. Had you sat still in wealth,  
You never would have bowed your stubborn knee  
Unto your great Creator, heaven or me.  
I will not grieve your troubled souls too much,  
Yet gently your ingratitudes i'll touch,  
And that you may the better know your errors,  
I shall unto your memory call favours.  
By you forgot, unthankfully forgotten,  
My favours by you buried are, and rotten:  
It is no ostentation to relate  
Courtesies done to such as are ingrate;  
I found you humbled like a scattered flock,  
Your very souls beaten against the Rock  
Of Ignorance and Superstition,  
Just in the way to follow to perdition,  
I paid the shepherd, and the Pilot too,  
And got nor lamb, nor flock, nor fleece more than my due;  
Where I never exacted from the common store,  
Though all alike were Rich, alike were poor  
For mine and thine, they are such things,  
As scarcely known twixt Subjects and their Kings.  
Princes like the sun, should from the floods exhale  
The wealth they raise: then in a shower let fall  
In every place, as they see cause, a share,  
And not consume them in the worthless air;  
Their full Exchequers should like Conduits be,  
Open to all, but to the poor most free.  
And subjects should, like fields, be full of springs,  
That naturally still fall toward their Kings.  
The commonwealth should always be in motion,  
Seas flow to brooks, and brooks should fall to th'ocean  
Such royal and such loyal community,  
Keep Kings and subjects still in unity.  
I cannot say I grieve, this place is free  
From passion, as from iniquity.  
But yet I must, since Scotland with it join,  
England's Exchequer is no better coin.  
Sure there's false play, I fear the younger brother  
Is grown too wise, too crafty for the other.  
It is an ill made marriage where the Bride  
Spends faster than the husband can provide.  
Princes are God's on earth, and subjects eyes  
Upon their actions must not stand like spies.  
It is a dangerous and ungodly thing  
To pry into the Chamber of a King.  
The ark of State is sanctified, and must  
Be only touched by such are put in trust.  
But you expect an answer to your petition;  
Then know, poor souls, 'tis given me in commission  
From heavens great King, to tell you all that's past  
To what's to come, is but a spark or blast.  
Your sorrows yet (alas) like womens' throws,  
Do go and come: but there must follow woes  
Ere England be delivered, it will make  
Your very entrails bleed, your souls to quake.  
The days will come, when 〈◊〉 men will 〈◊〉  
And children wish they never had been borne.  
The sword will eat what plague hath over-split  
And fire consume what famine hath not ripped.  
The gospel's Sun will lose his glorious light,  
And ignorance as dark as blackest night,  
Will spread her sable wings about this I'll,  
And Babylon's proud Whore once more defile  
Albion's white cliffs with her infectious breath,  
Except I shield you that have conquered death.  
Repent, forsake your sin, and stop my ire,  
And save your Sodom-d from the fire.  
FINIS.