DING DUNG, OR Sr. Pitiful Parliament, On his Deathbed.  
His Pulses felt by Doctor KING, and his water cast by Doctor BISHOP.  
His last Will, and Testament, with his Death, Burial, and Epitaph.  
By Mercurius Melancholicus.  

Hast, hast, good Sexton, toll the bell;  
Even at the point of death  
Lies our most blessed Parliament,  
And scarce can draw his breath.   

Go call the Doctors; Privilege,  
Thou art his serving creature.  
Tell Doctor King, he needs must come,  
To help restore his Nature.   

Ruin Directory, hast I say,  
Call Doctor Bishop hither;  
Tell him, our dying Parliament,  
Want him, and King together.   

O Nol, O Tom, O Rainsborow,  
O Devil, Fool, and Knave.  
Come close the eyes of your Dear State,  
And lay him in the grave.   
Printed in the Year. 1648.   

Sir Pitiful Parliament on his Deathbed.  

Induction.  
Our high and mighty Parliament,  
Fell sick of late with discontent.  
The business thus, a Scotchman came,  
(Whom for his own sake) I'll not name;  
And justling him, began to say,  
Why dost thou God, and Man betray?  
And dost thy league with me forsake,  
Not suffering me for to partake;  
Of all thy glory and degree,  
Nor dost set up Presbytery:  
Be sure ere long, armed Cap a pee,  
Strict Vengeance I will take on thee.   

He gone, one Poyer, with his Mate,  
Called powel, who by happy Fate;  
Had ceased Pembroke Castle; and  
Incited all for CHARLES to stand.  
Came in and said, O cursed Devil!  
We'll make the now repent the evil,  
Thou hast these seven years put in ure;  
Yet wouldst have us to count thee pure.  
This put Sir Parliament, in dread,  
And presently, he took his bed.  
Where a sore sickness ceased upon him,  
That he despairs to shake if from him.  
And now alas, he's drawing on,  
And sinking to perdition.   Enter Mr. Vete. 
O Run, run, Mr. Privilege or we are all lost, Sir Pitiful Parliament hath taken grief, which hath so prevailed over his powers and mastered his faculties, that he is now become a mere Skelleton and lies drawing on— away with winged haste— hark how he groans— his heartstrings crack like a Cable, when the affrighted Bark breaks from the Anchor,— he yawns again,— O good man, that he that hath been so long flourishing, of such health of body and wealthy above Craessus, should now be wasted with a Scotch Feaves, and shaken to pieces, with a Welsh Ague, and fall as poor as Ir●s; O run, run good Privilege, some Aquavitae, for our sick Parliament, or all's lost.  Mr. Declaration. 
The Doctors, the Doctors, post, post, for the Doctors, do you two, stand here like statues to behold your sick Master surrender his Ghost; dare you be Spectators with the Devil; O Mr. Privilege, O Mr. Vote, one of you run for Doctor King, the other for Dr. Bishop, but bid the last not to appear in his Lawn sleeves; for the shape of any thing resembling Innocence, will hasten my Master's end,— run, run, for God's sake:  

To fetch the Doctors, Privilege, and Vote  
Are gone, they're come, and now what follows note,  
Behold Sr. Parliament, here in his bed,  
Sr. Ralph Rebellion, holding of his head:  
With all the Rabble, of his new made Creatures,  
Knowing their names, you needs must know their nature's   Mr. Rebellion. 
For Pluto's sake cheer up Sir, or else all Hell will be sorrowful, O how his temples beat, as if he were possessed with a Vertigo good Sir be comforted, the Scots are not yet coming, Prince CHARLES is yet in France, Poyer may yet be named, the Londoners are still Sir at your service, the Coxcombs are bewitched unto their ruin you yet may Rule the roast o'er King and People, why should you die yet.  Pitiful Parliament. 
O Rebellion, thy comforts come too late, my Conscience, ō my Conscience, 'tis that kills me were there no opposition, I am a man that am died o'er with blood, am guilty of an hundred thousand lives,— oh, oh,— I have for to enrich my private Cosers, undone a Nation, made ten Thousand beg, have wronged my King, that is the best of Princes, pulled down all order in the Church and State, and introduced the worst of Turkism,— oh— oh.  Rebellion. 
Conscience is merely, but an airy sound; shall fear persuade you Sir to penitence, recall your wont temper, and imagine to be as great as ever, dear Sr. without you, I that have seven years, masked with the veil of seeming Pity, been worshipped as a god shall now decline into my wont orb, and abhorred, as the worst of Devils.  Pitiful Parliament. 
I can hold out no longer, 'tis in vain for me to cheer myself, when Death's approaching, shift for thyself Rebellion, I must leave thee, I see as in a glass my Fate is cast, and that the King will have his own again; and if the words of dying men be Oracle, believe then▪ that ere Three years are accomplished, all things will be as they were seven years since, 'tis best for me to die and so escape the fury of those Lions, wait to tear me; dost thou not know the Commons of this Isle have found their error, and do now resolve to have one King, rather than forty Tyrants; seest thou not how my miseries throng about me, perceivest thou not that Heaven itself is bend to give a period to my undertake, all England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland; yea the Universe, protest to fall themselves or ruin me: Where's Mr. Covenant.  Mr. Covenant. 
Here Sr. yet with no weeping eye, do I deplore your miserable Fortune; for you have deaed with me, as some with jades, ride them of their legs, then turn them to the Commons: I have been hackney to you Sr. this seven years, have made great journeys, and yet carried double, and but of late when you were swollen with pomp, and hemmed about, with all mistaken glories, when I expected love and great preferment, you thrust me forth of doors, with scorn and obloquy, for which you now lie Cauving.  Pitiful Parliament. 
I never meant for to make thee my Rival, how ere, for to add to my own advantage, I entertained and hugged thee in my bosom, Machiavelli was my master, any thing that might help forward my cursed undertake, Oaths, Covenants, and Protestations, with or against God, all was one to me; home to thy Blue Capt brethren, both I and thee must near expect our wishes; the King, the King man, now must rule again.— Where's Mr. Plunder.  Mr. Plunder. 
Here my dear Master.  Pitiful Parliament. 
O my delicious servant, to thee I am engaged more than to all my creatures, thou hast been my supoorter all along, nor shall I leave behind me now I die, a doir, but what by thy help I have gained.  Mr. Plunder. 
Be cheerful Sir, I still am your true Trojan, give me but Warrants signed with your hand, I'll plunder all without distinction, fetch you in Money, Cattell goods and Treasure, make you Delinquents, let me make them poor, show me a Clergy man, that doth preach sound Doctrine, whose life conformable unto his words, whose Charity extends unto the poor, dares build Almshouses, whose sauciness is such that he dares pray for the King Queen and Progeny, I'll soon cease on his living and estate, and command none for to afford him secure, show me an honest harmless meaning man, who hold it best untroubled to remain, and view the fate of things and not to meddle, whose happy soul addors the golden means, and wisheth truth alone may get the better, Isle strip him of his tenements and lands, and try his patience more, than Satan jobes' or show me but a Citizen whose Chests, ring, loud with silver bells, though he be ne'er so honest and upright though he sought for Cause and Covenant; yet this vast treasure shall pronounce his doom; that he is rich shall be a heynons crime, all that he is possessed of I will rifle, to add unto your store.  Pitiful Parliament. 
Thou hast been faithful in thy undertake, but my employing thee hath been my ruin; come all at once about me, Mr. Privilege, Mr. Vote, Mr. Declaration, Mr. Rebellion, Mr. Covenant, and Mr. Plunder, my glass is almost run, I now must leave you to be the scorn and hate of after Ages; yet ere I make my Exit 'twere convenient that my last Will, and Testament, were drawn, which shall be in this form.   

THE Last Will, and Testament of Sir Pitiful Parliament.  
In the name of Lucifer, Amen.  
I Sir Pitiful Parliament, lying very sick and weak, of a disease called, the Scotch March, and Poyers resolves, do make this my last Will and Testament, in manner and form following.  
Imprimis; I give and bequeath, all my plundered householdstuff, money Plate and jewels, unto our grand Patron Plu●o, who is the God of riches, which I desire him to improve and distribute to his best advantage, either for the allurement of those wicked men, who shall after my decease have an itching fancy to pocket Reformation; and shall zealously affect to be called a Parliament, though they forfeit the Essence thereof, and instead of being the people's preservers, become their destroyers, the Plunderers of their goods, the betrayers of their Laws, and the murderers of your persons.  
Item; I give and bequeath all my Ordinances, Votes, Protestations, Declarations and Covenants, to my dearly beloved brother▪ the Master of the Ottoman Empire▪ willing and desiring my said brother, to take special notice, of their sense and meaning, to the end he may be throughly instructed, how to be more barbarous, sensual▪ and devilish in the contextures of all his Edicts then ever heretofore, & the true reason that I make my aforesaid brother, my lawful Inheritor of the aforesaid, Votes, Protestations, Declarations, and Covenants, is because I conceive they are only fit for his employment, & not to be used by any of my neighbouring states, when now at the point to departed, I hearty implore to avoid them, lest they prove as fatal, and destructive to themselves and their Nation, as they have been omminous to me and my Countrymen.  
last; for that I have not deserved, eternal happiness, but my own intellect informing that I merit the lowest and hottest place in Tartarus, I bequeath my soul to him whose assistance I have amply enjoyed these seven years, and wishing the whole world to make me their Precedent, lest they fall into the same predicament, I bid the world farewell.   

Epitath.  

Here lies a Devil, whose Angellike hue;  
Deceived the vul●r; and in all men's view,  
He was a Saint, but ere he died, 'twas found,  
He took that shape, the deadlier to wound.  
Under pretence, of pious Reformation;  
He ruin'd quite, the famous English Nation.  
And while he feigned to root out Popery;  
Eradicated Christian verity.  
Leading the people in thick fogs, and mists,  
While they like fools, obeyed base Factionists.  
He did his best to cause his King to die,  
For ever to extirpate monarchy  
While a cloud of errors dimmed God's glory▪  
The like cannot be paralleled in story.  
He fell at last the monster's Fate it was,  
To fall by those, his ends had brought to pass.  
And here he lies without a Tomb interred  
Whose name is both by God, and man abhorred.   
FINIS.