A Case for Nol Cromwell's Nose, AND The Cure of TOM FAIRFAX's Gout.  
Both which Rebels are dead, and their deaths kept close, by the policy of our new States.  

— Ridentem'dicere verum  
Quid vetat!—   

Ask Lillie, that seditious Quack,  
And Booker, that same froth,  
Why neither in his Almanac  
Foretold Nol Cromwell's death.   

Or that Tom Fairfax and his Rout  
Should be so banged by Kent;  
He forced by his pocky Gout  
From life and Parliament.   

Poor Saints; how do your hopes decay!  
How do your Champions fall!  
Warner and Atkins whine, and say,  
We Saints must perish all.   

Skippon doth claw his scabbey breech,  
And Rolls rolls up his eyes:  
Lenthalls feet to be gone do itch;  
O there were Clavells prize.   
Printed in the Year 1648.   

A Case for Noll Cromwell's Nose; with the cure of Tom Fairfax his Gout.  
OYes! OYes! OYes!  
IF any Man, Angel or Devil can tell where the bodies of Oliver Cromwell and Tom Fairfax are now resident, you may know the one by his refulgent copper nose, which he ever kept well burnished, that so he might not be constrained to trouble the devil to light him, or grope out his way to hell, you may know the other by his smoky countenance, his mouth is drawn awry, and he looks like the picture of Doomsday, when the Planets be darkened; if any as aforesaid can bring tale or tiding, where the two Archtraytors aforesaid now are, let him bring word to the crier, and he shall be well rewarded.  
God save the King and— the Parliament.  
The Saints have lost their way to their promised Jerusalem, and they are like to reign but bare seven of those thousand years of tranquillity, which they proposed to themselves, the conceit of which, some years since so tickled their fancies, that some of them openly averred, that God by their hands would root out the wicked and ungodly ones out of the Land, and that none should survive but those elected, with whom Christ should converse in person a thousand years: and this error even the chiefest of their Rabbis have this many years confirmed unto them, and within this two months they sat upon the pinnacle of their hopes, and imagined without doubt it should be so.  
But see how these foolish Saints were frustrated of their expectation, and that worthily; for could they imagine that the foundation of that peace can stand, which is laid with dead bodies for brick, and Blood for mortar, or that their imprisoning of Christ's beloved, and his fathers Anointed our most dear and dread Sovereign, could hasten the sun of Righteousness amongst them? or that while they upheld in open Rebellion, and supported in all lust, luxury, murders and outrages, a knot of cursed Atheists (who are not ashamed to call themselves a Parliament) they should have the mountains leveled, the valleys leveled, and all things reduced to a parity? the madness of these Hypocrites, who were so besotted as to persuade themselves, of happiness in Hell, or dream of pleasures in a dungeon! they find now that blood will have vengeance, and that Rebellion must not pass unpunished: and let all the Nations of the world be warned by their example, and beware how they rise in arms for trifles: for what have these men done for the glory of God, save quite taken away all order and decency in his worship? have given life to, and revived all the pestilent and pernicious Sects of old; So that it may be said of England as of Amsterdam, if any man have lost his Religion, let him but go thither and he shall be sure to find it: what ease have they purchased to the people, unless it may be ease, to be overburthen'd and pressed even to the earth with Taxes, innumerable Assessments, so that the poor dry out for bread and nothing but lamentation is heard in the Streets: what glory have they purchased for their King, unless it be for his glory to be turned out of all he has, his lands and revenues seized on, and the majesty thereof employed to maintain war against him, to be clapped up close prisoner in a remote angle of the world, to have none about him but Rogues, who would as willingly kill him as feed themselves; and make no more scruple to give him poison, then to crack a nut: where he is utterly destitute of all comforts, save those which his pious soul administers, where he hath been abused, scoffed, yea beaten and trod upon by a damned villain his jailer Hammond, where he may sy murdered (for aught we may know) even at this present time; what have these villains gained to themselves, but even sure and certain destruction, the whole Kingdom whom they have so long and strangely abused, being every day like to rise upon them and cut their throats, as Kent, Surrey, Essex, Cornwall, Sussex, Hampshire and even the whole Nations, are now arming themselves to take strict vengeance on them: this their resolution put Oliver the Red Saint into such a fear, that he could not endure to think of living any longer, the grief which that great nosed Champion took to see things so strangely turn on the sudden, struck to his heart, which together with a wound that he received, fight against Loyal Poyer, sent him to an nother world, and hath given me occasion to write this his Elegy, and to prefix the ensuing Epitaph.  

An Elegy on the most incomparable Rebel Oliver Cromwell.  
Am I awake or dream? can it be said,  
England's Arch Traitor thus to hell is fled?  
With Strange Dilemmas, is my soul perplexed;  
On this fide murder, Treason on the next:  
My blood strives too, passion doth seize my heart,  
These both encounter, and again they part.  
Is Cromwell Dead, durst Death his eyes to close,  
Did he not tremble, to behold his nose,  
Whose raidiant splendour, (if Fame) doth not lie,  
Shone brighter, than a Comet in the Sky.  
Great cause hath Say, Martin, and Manchester,  
Fouke, roll, Ash, Scot, Weaver, and chaloner;  
To, wring their hands, and ashes for to spread,  
And like to mourners, sit down with the dead.  
Howle Warner, Gibbs, Chambers, and Renardson,  
Bide, Viner, Hall, Gaze, Kendal, Waterson,  
And all the Rabble of the Saints, whose worth  
My pen so oft, and amply hath set forth.  
Let your loud Echoes thunder in the sky,  
And curse those Fates, who caused your Nol to die.  
Who now shall rob the Church, pull windows down,  
Who now shall dare to trample on a Crown?  
Who now shall lead the Saints, by springs and fountains,  
o'er hills, through dales, by craggy rocks and mountains,  
Against fierce Poyer? who the first did dare  
Refund Rebellion to a second war.  
What Trey tor ere like Nol, that mischief sought,  
So often, and so valiantly hath fought:  
Spartacus, was a Puny, unto him.  
He acted Catiline in every limb:  
He hated God, and Charles, with all his heart,  
And to unking him used his utmost art:  
The Destinies sent him upon the earth,  
To ruin Truth, and give all errors birth:  
And yet this monster, here doth lie entombed,  
Smitten with death by God, by Fates inhumed.   

HIS EPITAPH.  
STumble not here, lest that his Ghost arise  
That here lies wrapped in lead, and do surprise  
Your senses with amazement, here lies one,  
Whom Fame doth stile PRINCE OF REBELLION,  
Heaven, forbidden he should unmentioned die  
Without an Epitaph, or obsequy.  
His gift must not anticipate his doom,  
While I have pen and ink, and paper room:  
This man, as the Ephesian Priest Erostratus  
At one act grasped at being glorivos,  
Which was for ever to extirpate Kings,  
As useless; not to be regarded things,  
From out his native Clime, and to create  
Some hundred Kings, most falsely termed a State.  
Upon his back, continually did ride,  
As on the City Ass, Treason, and pride.  
This son of Anak, would persuade his Nation,  
That cursed Rebellion, was blest Reformation.  
He died a Rebel, and a Rebel fell,  
So great, we want one him to parallel.   
Farewell Olliver Cromwell a name that hath been ever omminous to the Church: for in Henry the eights days, (you may remember) that a Cromwell was the hammer that beat down the monasteries, and religious Houses, and in the reign of our most pious Sovereign Lord, unfortunate King CHARLES, this Cromwell hath been chief active in defacing, demolishing, and levelling Churches, in persecuting, robbing and imprisoning all learned and knowing men: but enough of him whose infamy will ever last; Fairfax a perjured Rebel, who obliged himself to his Majesty at Newmarket, and afterwards took his oath in the presence of God and his King, that he would use his utmost endeavours to reinthrone him; and for that purpose would put his Army into a condition of war, in case those at Westminister should gainsay; yet afterwards by fair promises, and at the instigation of the Kings known enemies, broke his oath, and permitted his Sovereign to be carried close Prisoner to the I'll of Wight, and hath since in person fought against his friends, both in Kent and other parts of the Kingdom, but by the just judgement of God he was lately shot in the groin, of which he is since dead; so may they all perish that hate their King, which accident happy without doubt to the Kingdom, hath given me occasion to write this his Elegy, and to annex his Epitaph.  

An Elegy on the Archtraitor Thomas Fairfax.  
IS Fairfax dead? he whose ambitious soul  
Still prompted him his Sovereign to control,  
And in the face of heaven dirt to sting,  
To be the Rebel's General 'gainst his King?  
Was Fate so courteous to dismiss him hence,  
Before his head paid for his insolence?  
Was he grown great in ills, ripe for his doom,  
And must he go in peace unto his Tomb?  
This shows, the Almighty sometimes doth permit  
Traitors till death, for to persist in it:  
Most noble villain, Essex shed his horns,  
And then he died, thy Father cut his corns  
And crept into his Tomb, a boy shot thee,  
Thus by weak means, you went to hell all three:  
England behold with Rogue thou needest not vie,  
Hold, hold thy hands, they of themselves will die.   

His Epitaph.  
HEre lies Fairfax, Marble show it,  
'Tis fit that all the world should know it,  
Arch-traitor 'gainst his Sovereign Lord,  
By him, as by his God abhorred  
Prince and head of all the rout,  
Who honoured Cromwell and his Snout.  
Famous for plunders and for rapes,  
For Battles, but more for escapes;  
The people's plague, this Nations curse,  
The head of all their woes, the sowrse  
Of all their mischiefs, let him lie  
And stink unto eternity.   
Barkestead the thimble-maker also is dead, his whole company were cut almost all off at the late fight in Kent by the just judgement of God, for their murdering and pillaging those innocent men that came out of Surrey only to petition for a redress of grievances, let us but wait a while, I mean we that are aged and not fit to oppose the Rebels, and we shall see them all drop into the grave one after another, we have Gods own Word, yea his Oath, that he will confound them.  

We see then God hath ta'en our cause in hand,  
If he say no the Rebels cannot stand.   
FINIS.