ΙΠΠ-ΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣ: OR, AN Ironical Expostulation WITH DEATH and FATE, For the Loss of The late Lord Mayor of LONDON; Who on Friday October 27. 1648. expired together with his Office; and both He and his Bay-Horse died o'th' Sullens.  
Whereunto is annexed an Epitaph both on Mayor and Horse.  
Also a Dialogicall brief Discourse held Octob. 29 between Col. Rainsborough and Charon, at their Meeting.  
Composed by Philanar and Misostratus, two London-Apprentices once encountered last year for their Loyalty.  Si Cato reddatur, Caesarianus erit. Martial. 
Printed, Anno exulantis Monarchiae 8. Anno Domini 1648.   

ΙΠΠ-ΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣ: OR, An Ironical Expostulation with Death and Fate, for the loss of the late Lord Mayor of London.  

FOrtune, thou art a Whore; and Death, thou art  
('Tis to be feared) a Cavalier in Heart:  
You, that so formal stand with Scythe and Glass,  
Think not in private with our Lord to pass,  
Was there but one choice piece? one dainty bit,  
And your lean ugly Jaws must fall on it?  
Were there not Dray-men, Butchers, plump and fat,  
But you must pick a Weasle out, a Rat?  
Was it you took a liking to the Elf,  
For his Complexion, 'twas so like yourself?  
Or for your Ease, left a more weighty pack  
Should in the transportation break your back?  
Was it you found him grating of a scuil  
Which you might call your own, you did him cull?  
Or that his sovereign 
* He was a Druggist in Bucklers Berry.  Drugs restored a Brother,  
That through an Hurdle sucked (you'll say) his Mother?  
Was it you came before his Plots were ripe,  
And he refused to ask you, smoke a Pipe?  
If none of these, why then so hasty, Death?  
What, not afford a Lord Mayor two day's breath?  
When the Potato-Pies, and Capons were  
Bought, and in readiness to end the year?  
If 'twas his lot to die, well; else 'twas base,  
To cull a Magistrate for's Chain, or Mace.  
This was plain Tyranny, we cannot blame  
Him for an Independent, when you came.  
Restore him to us; sure 'twas a mistake,  
King Noll and's Kindred else will make you quake.  
Was it for this he did so long oppose  
Monarchy, and Princes, to be led by th' Nose,  
And shown in Pluto's Court, with O yes! here  
Comes my Lord Mayre and's Horse; provide 'em cheer?  
Was it for this he became Pimp, to th' State,  
And to admit their Army opened the Gate?  
While in Triumphant manner they bestrid  
London, like George on Horseback, as they rid?  
Was it for preservation of the flock,  
So many o'th' wicked he condemned to th' Block?  
And with his sword of Power cut in two  
What neither Law nor Justice e'er could do?  
O Death! thou art ungrateful; he has sent  
More to thee in one year then th' Plague or Lent.  
By Proclamations, by Collections too  
'Gainst th' Common Enemy what e'er would do.  
I say again, restore, or we'll appeal  
And have you put down Traitor under seal.  
Say Mr. Speaker, is't not Treason scanned,  
For Death t' arrest a Member under hand  
And without th' Houses leave?— I know 'tis so,  
You'll find it— Caroli Vicesimo.  
Is't not against an Order lately made,  
All Members to be free, their debts unpaid?  
Did they not pitch upon a day, to wit,  
Doomsday i'th' Afternoon to think on it?  
But all this will not do: he's gone to tell  
Hampden and Brooks, and Pym the News in Hell.  
How there is Peace (God bless us) coming on  
(That Antichristian brat of Babylon)  
When 'tis against his Conscience to submit  
Or have a finger in restoring it.  
Would not the world cry shame, 
Mr. Warner.  should he accord  
Who in his Name has War, and's Arms the sword?  
he's gone to tell them of a certain thing  
Coming to London, whom men call the King:  
Whose Sceptre will outsway, and bring in thrall  
Th'established Government anarchical.  
And with his Radiant lustre quite dispel  
What for these seven years has been hatched in Hell.   

Yet let none say he's broke or run away,  
But (as the wiser call't) he did convey  
Himself into a Church, in policy,  
Where he was sure none would suspect him lie.  
No clamorous Bell pronounce his fall, no Gun,  
He was no Warrior, nor no Whittington.  
(Only the jovial Butchers (in the Stocks)  
Gave him a dismal peal with cleaver-knocks.)  
Let him sans Common-Prayer in silence pass,  
Be buried with the burial of an Ass.  
So farewell horse and man, dead and forgot,  
Both infamous let both together rot.   

Rejoice Apprentices, your day is come  
No more to stand in fear of Martyrdom:  
No more shall ye to Bridewell go, and pay  
For your extravagance the last Lord's day.  
Now ye may circumambulate, and see  
morefield's and Islington without a fee.  
No more henceforth shall th' Surry Cavaliers  
Go home and shake their heads without their ears.  
All troubled waters now shall to their springs  
Return, and one reign, not five hundred Kings.   

Yet all this while we err, and accuse Fate,  
When he his own end did accelerate;  
For having drunk a scruple overnight  
Of jealousies and fears, he took his flight.  
Thus Hannibal, and those heroic blades,  
Minding an easy way to get to th' Shades,  
Made use o'th' Druggist's Art, and to provide  
'Gainst future vengeance, drunk their doss, and died.    

An Epitaph on the Mayor, etc.  

Under this Tombstone lies a thing,  
Enemy both to Church and King.  
No Protestant, and yet no Papist,  
A Puritan, and yet an Atheist.  
For Magistracy a grand stickler,  
Yet a most zealous Conventickler:  
One that for Christ would live and die,  
(Yet kept no Christ-tide verily.)  
One that the Prophets slew, and took  
Th' Apostles badge from out the Book.  
One that the Rubric took away,  
And gave th' Apprentices Tuesday.  
One that did every thing amiss,  
Then riddle me, riddle me, who was this?    

An Epitaph on my Lord Mayor's Horse.  

HEre in this Oyle-Tub (Reader stand aloof)  
Lies great Bucephalus, beware his hoof;  
Who out of a good nature needs would die,  
Merely to keep his Master company.  
Bay was his name, some called him, Rosemary,  
For his victorious feats, and Chivalry:  
But if he had no name, the Bulks and Shambles  
Would speak him famous for his Christmas Gambols:  
When from an Amble to a Trot anon  
Bravely he trod down Superstition.  
For which rare service 'tis decreed he lie  
Pickled and Powdered for Posterity.  
And live by this Inscription (somewhat course)  
Down went the Popish Rites, Gramercy Horse.    

A Dialogicall brief Discourse between Rainsborough and Charon, at their meeting, Octob. 29. 1648.  Charon. 
WElcome to th' shades; hail Brother Rainsborough:  
I am a Boat-man, so were you.  
Most opportunely! See th' triumphant Mayor;  
(No less a man) is our first fare.  
Had you not come, his Honour had (by Styx)  
Fairl' in a Sculler gone t' Old Nicks.  Rainsb. 
Now he may ride in Oars— forbear; alas,  
He that you speak of may not pass.  
What will judge Rhadamant and Minos say,  
If we th' 
* Arrrested by a Knight whose son was slain in the late bickering in London.  arrested Corpse convey?  
I that on Earth was above Law, yet know  
How to conform myself below.  Charon. 
Hum! I have lost my Naula; let it go;  
Now to your business Rainsborough.  Rainsb. 
Know then, that I from th'English Coast am sent  
By th' States, to know your Government.  
And e'er the Vote pass, hence must have command,  
That the new Anarchy may stand:  
Speak Charon, speak; if Pluto think it good,  
I have already sealed it with my blood.  Charon. 
Dull Man, or Ghost; or whatsoever thou art,  
Thou thinkest to alienate my heart:  
knowst not we have a Prince; and though the Devil,  
One that abjures all you that Level?  
You that encroach, my Office to enjoy;  
Were you not once a Skippers Boy?  
By all th'infernal gods, lay by thy Spade,  
Or be suspected guilty Hell t'invade.  Rainsb. 
No more; I yield: the Government stand,  
I was but sent here underhand)  
Yet if our Agents with you here might try,  
They would put hard for Anarchy.  Charon. 
Anarchy? Hell and Furies! such a word  
Once more, and thou go'st overboard.  
Belzebub, if he knew thee at this height,  
Would have thee carbonadoed straight.  
Leave us— and yet I'll write thy Epitaph,  
Merely to make the Devil laugh.  
For, by the Rabbis leave, without control,  
'Twas not a 
* So Walker upon Tho. Rainsborough, he that from an Ironmonger became a Newes-monger, & now makes Hebrew Pot-hooks and Andirons cum privilegio.  Fire removed his pure Soul.   

Epitaph.  

WEitring in blood see here an Horseleech sprawll,  
Glutted and overcharged, yet loath to fall;  
Bred up i'th' Ocean; lately crept to th' shore,  
(Though he had all, yet covetous of more)  
Which when the wise Physician saw, his thirst  
That 'twas unsatiable, let him burst:  
So having emptied and disgorged his Maw,  
Hence through the Rubick sea he swum away.  
Fear not Coichestrian Dames, left Lucas ' rise;  
Vengeance is fully paid; Here Rainsb'rough lies.    
FINIS.