A SALT tear: OR, The weeping Onion, AT THE Lamentable funeral of Dr. DORISLAUS.  

WHat though Lamented? Cursed; & the High Tree  
Of Fifty Cubits was Just Destiny  
(Though a deplored one) of that Agent drew  
The Articles against the Holy Jew,  
Good Mordicai; which by quaint-curious Art,  
Should have contrived the Queen Her share o'th' smart.  
But Providence said, No; And HESTER taught,  
Proud HAMAN to a Bloody Banquet brought.  
Our upstart Haman's had a Feast: Who'll bring  
Them, for Digestions fake, to take a swing.   

2.  
DORISLAUS! Art' Lamented? So was he  
Who was more Dives▪ than the State made thee.  
If thou chance meet with Him; Lift up thine eyes,  
And see where CHARLES in Abraham's bosom lies.  
O for a Messenger the House to tell  
And all the merry Commoners, of Hell.  
How LENTHAL looks! How WHITLOCK pales his face,  
Who caught one seal, and lost that seal of Grace!  
O how damned BRADSHAW quivers as he comes!  
And FAIRFAX groans! And CRUMWELL bites his thumbs!   

3  
Egypt, no doubt, was hid in double black,  
When that last Wonder, and grand Land-Sea wrack  
Was poured on Pharaoh and his Host; when Waves  
Revenged the Insolence of Murderous Slaves,  
Pharaoh must drown; so it doth Providence Please.  
We have a MOSES too, is heir o'th' Seas  
Heavens will a Party in that Element make:  
Your kingsale Projects do not always take.   

4  
The Wife of SISERA did no doubt bewail,  
Sisera's Face; yet the canonised nail  
And Hammer of stout Jael and the Song  
Of Deborah showed Heaven smiled, and went along.  
A Kenite did the fact: it was not Lot  
For perjured English, But a gallant Scot.  
'Tis a good Omen: That, as They pulled down  
The FIRST, they shall set on the second Crown  
Let our deluded Citizens invite,  
Hug, kiss, and lick the Cursed Canaanite:  
What though their Chariots be of Iron? we may  
See them lie grovelling, like lost Sisera.   

5  
Now Pray observe the pomp, the Persons, State  
That did attend This Alien Reprobate:  
Here, went Lieutenant general Crocodile,  
And's cubs, bred of the Slime of our Rich Nile:  
Who weep before they kill, and whose False tears  
Trickle from bloodshed eyes of Murderers.  
Poor Island! they have made a Nile of Thee,  
We cannot find thy HEAD, which fain we'd see.   

6.  
Next march a train of Ravenous wolves, whose jaws  
Yet owze with th' blood of slaughtered King and Laws:  
These are close Mourners; These the kingdom's gull:  
True Wolves, that never Howl, till they are full.  
These are the Beasts of Prey, whose sharp Fang Tears  
Not Cavies now, but th' harmless Levellers;  
By whom they rose unto this greatness: We,  
We are distasted, well as Monarchy.   

7.  
Close unto these, in grave Deportment March  
The City Changelings in Thanksgiving starch,  
A sort of Whelps, Taught by that wolvish kind;  
Who if one howled, straight the whole kennel whined.  
These, at the Whip of cunning oliver,  
Do Feast, or else drop a dissembling Tear.  
All these attend their AGENTS funeral;  
This Honor's but a Trap, the States fly call,  
To get another throat cut, but in vain;  
Dorislaw cries from Hell;  
'TWILL BE NO GAIN.    

Printed in the year. 1649: June 18th.