Balaams' Ass, OR THE CITY-FAST FOR Cursing the KING: and Blessing OLIVER.  
With the People's SPEECH to their Independent Drivers.  
And the Ass' Sacrifice, or good speed to OLIVER.   printer's or publisher's device 
July 13th Printed in the Year 1649.   

BALAAMS' ASS: OR, The City-Fast, for Cursing the KING: And Blessing OLIVER.  
WHether for gain, will our blind Prophets ride?  
Whether will Lucre carry them, and Pride?  
They'll ride o'er Angels, Curse, do any thing:  
Curse not (says God) yes, they will curse the King;  
Not in their heart, in that close corner, no,  
They will begin to God, and Face him too.  
As if they'nd Ormond Exorcise by Spells,  
They'll raise his siege with Books, new Lights, & Bells  
Goodwin will preach down Batteries, and spout  
Out his hold-forths, that Dublin may hold out.  
Peter's has changed his Tub, and though much spent  
Will show his gift for Pox, and parliament.  
How lean the Saint looks with his Rogueries!  
HE has been with Rahab entertaining Spies:  
How he wheezes against Rupert! his blue lips  
Show, that his straits do vex him more than ships.  
The Prophet sure hath sprung a Leak; good daughter  
Help for to stop him shot, twixt wind, and water.  
Hark how th' Enchanters do conjure? 'tis Spell:  
The text is Gods the comment is from Hell.  
So witches say the Pater Noster; (Strong  
Carill, and Bond do not, I do them wrong,)  
They cannot say that prayer, that strikes them dumb  
To think of Gods, or any Kingdom come.  
Look how they wrack the Scriptures as their faces,  
Mount Rosse and Ormond are their Common-places  
These two are called Jabin and Sisera,  
And Lambert's wife the Jael of the day,  
Crumwell must drive the Nail, It follows, (mark  
Beloved Foresters of your New-Parke,)  
The filthy Swedes, and Danes that 'gainst you sight,  
They are the Hagarens and Moabite,  
Oneal is Og, Clanrickard Sihon grim,  
Dillon and Tass the sons or Anakim,  
Rupert is Hiram, who in Shittini wood  
Plunders our Merchants for our Solomon's good,  
Not to be too profain in verse, (as those  
Who stand three hours prophaner far in prose)  
This leventh of July's Most absurdly spent,  
T'abuse God's will in either Testament,  
To drive an Ass, (These Prophets drive the Ass  
The People) 'gainst the Angel in the Pass.  
IT would make a Beast to speak: A word or twain  
Suffer good Balaams from your Ass I pray.  

Balaams' Ass. Or, The People's speech to their Independent drivers.  

HAve I not served you now these full seven years  
Have I not pricked to all you said, these Ears,  
These most attentive Lugs? and have not I  
Drawn you the Dunces out of poverty,  
The mire of Conventicles? that you dare,  
Appear in public, with your Parlour ware,  
Do you not eat by me, is not your Silk  
Your stipend, diet, All of Ass' milk?  
How have you squeezed my teats, O covetous Brood  
You draw not milk, now, but the very blood:  
Was ever such an Ass (though well to pass,  
Pembroke himself is not a hunger Ass,)  
The Prophet road this Ass, so do you me,  
Now Jockey Saints, late for Presbytery.  
But now since that the Angel of the Land  
Stands with his Book, not sword in his just hand,  
Showing my follies, and cries Ass return;  
O how my angry Balaams furies burn!  
How they do switch and goad the Tutored Beast!  
Holding forth Swords and Muskets at my breast,  
And drive me on, through that mild Angel's word,  
Upon another, with a flaming Sword.   

I see thee (blessed Angel) and thy book,  
And will not on, but on thy sufferings look!  
When I was fat, I winced against thy power,  
Now lean and lank, I curse that wanton hour.  
Impute not to the Ass, (unless it be  
Before enlightened by thy Book, and Thee)  
His bold adventures: But when Lion-like,  
For those offences, just Revenge shall strike.  
Then let that Lion the false Prophets stay,  
But let thy cozened Ass escape away.    

The Ass' Sacrifice, Or, Good speed to Oliver.  

Whether by Land, or Sea, thy Army go,  
Like Earth as Corah, Seas, as Pharo know;  
And though our Albion shores are white, we would  
Have them made Rubicon with your own blood.  
Such faith as to your King you showed, find ye:  
Be all the Elements your Enemy.  
May you be beat by shot, you scorn, your lot  
Be it to fall by your late beaten Scot  
That in the blood of this high cozening Saint,  
They may yet purge their cheating Covenant,  
But if from Chester you for Ireland go,  
let the divided waves your black graves show.  
And foaming Rupert like a Mercury,  
Drive your proud Souls to their just destiny.  
Or, if you land in Ireland; Be it true,  
Ireland all Vermin kills, and proved in you.   

O for a clap of Thunder to applaud  
The wish! Revenge for Charles, Strafford, & Laud  
Revenge for Capel, Lucas, Lifle, and when  
You're shipped; let the Sea Roar a shrill   
Amen.    
FINIS.