Cromwell's panegyric.  
SHall Presbyterian bells ring Cromwel's praise,  
While we stand still and do no trophies raise  
Unto his lasting name? Then may we be  
Hung like the bells in our dependency.  
Well may his Nose, that is dominical,  
Take pepper in't, to see no Pen at all  
Stir to applaud his merits, who hath lent  
Such valour, to erect a monument  
Of lasting praise; whose name shall never die,  
While England has a Church, or Monarchy.  
He whom the laurelled Army home did bring  
Riding triumphant o'er his conquered King,  
He is the general's cipher now; and when  
he's joined to him, he makes that one a Ten.  
The kingdom's Saint; England no more shall stir  
To cry St. George, but now St. Oliver.  
He's the realm's ensign; and who goes to wring  
His Nose, is forced to cry, God save the King.  
He that can rout an Army with his name,  
And take a City, ere he views the same:  
His soldiers may want bread, but ne'er shall fear  
(While he's their General,) the want of Beer;  
No Wonder they wore bays, his Brewing-fat  
(Helicon-like) make Poets laureate:  
When brains in those Castalian liquours swim,  
We sing no Heathenish Peän, but a hymn;  
And that by th' Spirit too, for who can choose  
But sing Hosanna to this King of Jews?  
Tremble you Scotish zealots, you that han't  
Freed any Conscience from your Covenant:  
That for those bald Appellatives of Cause,  
Religion, and the fundamental laws,  
Have pulled the old Episcopacy down,  
And as the mitre, so you'll serve the crown.  
You that have made the Cap to th' Bonnet veil,  
And made the Head a servant to the tail.  
And you cursed spawn of Publicans, that sit  
In every County, as a plague to it;  
That with your yeomen Sequestrating Knaves,  
Have made whole Counties beggarly, and slaves.  
You Synod, that have sat so long to know  
Whether we must believe in God, or no;  
You that have torn the Church, and sat t' impair  
The Ten commandments, the Creed, the Prayer;  
And made your honours pull down heaven's glory,  
While you set up that calf, your Directory:  
We shall no wicked jesuits-eared Elders want,  
This Army's built of Churches Militant:  
These are new Tribes of Levi; for they be  
Clergy, yet of no university.  
Pull down your Crests; for every bird shall gather,  
From your usurping back, a stolen feather.  
Your Great Lay Levite Prynne, whose margin tires  
The patient Reader, while he blots whole quires,  
Nay reams with Treason; and with nonsense too,  
To justify what ere you say or do:  
Whose circumcised ears are hardly grown  
Ripe for another Persecution:  
He must to Scotland for another pair;  
For he will lose these, if he tarry here.  
Burges that Reverend Presbydeane of Paul's,  
Must (with his Poundage) leave his Cure of Souls,  
And into Scotland trot, that he may pick  
Out of that Kirk, a nicknamed bishopric.  
And Calamy must now resign his place,  
Because Scalpellum has cut through the Case;  
The Protean Hollis, that will never burn,  
Must here or'at Tyburn take another turn.  
And Will the conqueror in a Scottish dance  
Must lead his running Army into France.  
Or he and Stapleton among those Crews  
In Holland build a Synagogue of Jews,  
And spread Rebellion; Great Alexander  
Fears not a Pillory, like this Commander.  
And Bedlam John, that at his Clerks so raves,  
Using them not like servants, but like slaves.  
He that so freely railed against his Prince,  
Called him dissembling subtle Knave, and since  
Has stilled the whole Army Bankrupts; said, that none  
Of their Estates were equal to his own:  
He that was by a strong ambition led  
To set himself upon the city's head:  
But when he has restored his both-side fees,  
he'll be as poor, or they as rich as he's.  
And that still-gaping Tophet Goldsmiths Hall,  
With all his Furies, shall to ruin fall.  
we'll be no more gulled by that Popish story,  
But shall reach heaven without that Purgatory:  
What honour does he merit, what renown  
By whom all these oppressions are pulled down.  
And such a Government is like to be  
In Church and State, as eye did never see:  
Magicians hold, he'll set up Common Prayer;  
Looking in's face, they find the rubric there.  
His Name shall never die, by fire nor flood,  
But in Church-windows stand, where pictures stood:  
And if his soul loathing that house of clay,  
Shall to another kingdom march away,  
Under some Barnes floor his bones shall lie,  
Who Churches did, and Monuments defy:  
Where the rude Thrasher, with much knocking on,  
Shall wake him at the Resurrection.  

And on his Grave since there must be no Stone,  
Shall stand this Epitaph; That he has none.   
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}   

Printed in the year 1647.