A LETTER SENT BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING FROM France, deploring his sad Estate and flight: With a discovery of the plot and conspiracy, intended By him and his adherents against England.  
Imprinted at London. 1641.   

A Letter sent by Sir John Suckling from France, Deploring his sad Estate and flight: With a discovery of the plot and conspiracy, intended by him and his adherents against England.  

1 GGoe, doleful sheet to every street  
Of London round abouta,  
And tell 'em all thy masters fall,  
That lived bravely mought-a,   

2 Sir John in fight as brave a wight,  
As the Knight of the Suna,  
Is forced to go away with woe  
And from his country runa,   

3 Unhappy stars to breed such jars,  
That England's chief Sucklin-a,  
Should prove of late the scorn of fate  
And fortunes unlucklin-a,   

4 But ye may see inconstancy  
In all things under heavena:  
When God withdraws his gracious laws  
We run at six and seven-a,   

5 Alas, alas, how things do pass?  
What boots a handsome face-a,  
A pretty Wit and legs to it  
Not seasoned well with grace-a?   

6 I that in court have made such sport  
As never yet was founda,  
And tickled all both great and small  
The Maids of honour round-a.   

7 I that did play both night and day  
And reveled here and therea,  
Had change of suits, made lays to lutes  
And blustered every wherea:   

8 I that could writ and well indite  
As 'tis to Lady's known-a,  
And bore the praise for songs and plays  
Far more than were mine ownea:   

9 I that did lend and yearly spend  
Thousands out of my purse-a,  
And gave the King a wondrous thing,  
At once a hundred horse-a,   

10 Blessed providence that kept my sense  
So well, that I fond else-a,  
Should chance to hit to have the wit.  
To keep one for my selfe-a,   

11 I that marched forth, into the North,  
And vent up hills a maina  
With sword and lance like King of France,  
And so came down againe-a.   

12 I that have done such things, the Sun  
And Moon did never seea,  
Yet now poor john a pox, upon  
The fates, is feign to flee-a.   

13 And for the brave, I used to have  
In all I wore or eate-a  
Accursed chance to spoil the dance,  
I scarce have clotheses or meate-a   

13 Can not the plot, By which I got  
Such credit in the play-a  
Aglaura bright that Persian wight,  
My roving fancy stay-a,   

15 But I must fly at things so high,  
Above me not allow'd-a?  
And I Sir John, like Ixion.  
For Juno kiss a cloud-a?   

16 Would I had burned it, when I turned it  
Out of a Comedie-a:  
There was an omen in the nomen  
(I fear of Tragedie-a,   

17 Which is at last upon me cast  
And I proclaimed a sotta  
For thinking to with English do  
As with a Persian plota   

18 But now I find with grief of mind  
What will not me availe-a,  
That plots in jest are ever best,  
When plots in earnest faile-a.   

19 Why could not I in time espy  
My error; but what's worse-a,  
Unhappy vermin must bring in Iermin  
The master of the horse-a   

20 The valiant Percy God have mercy  
‛ Upon his noble soule-a;  
Though he be wise by my advice  
Was in the plot most foule-a   

21 The witty poet (Let all know it)  
Davenant by name-a,  
In this design, that I call mine,  
I utterly disclaime-a   

22 Though he can writ, he cannot fight,  
And bravely take a forta:  
Nor can he smell a project well,  
His nose, it is to short-a.   

23 'tis true we met, in counsel set,  
And plotted here in prose-a,  
And what he wanted, it is granted,  
Abridge made of his nosea,   

24 But to impart it to his art,  
We had made pretty stuffe-a  
Not, for the plot, that we had got,  
One Poet was enough-a.   

25 Which had not fate and prying state  
Crushed in the very wombe-a,  
We had ere long by power strong,  
Made England but one tombe-a.   

26 O what a fright had bred that sight,  
When Ireland, Scotland, France-a,  
Within the wall of London all  
In several troops should prance-a.   

27 When men quartered, woman slaught●  
In heaps every wherea,  
So thick should lie, the enemy  
The very sight should scare-a.   

28 That they afraid of what they made,  
A stream of blood so high-a,  
For safety fled Should mount the dead  
And unto heaven get nigh-a.   

29 The scarlet gown and best i'th' town  
Each other would bewaile-a  
That their shut purse had brought this curse,  
That did so much prevailea.   

30 Each Alderman in his own chain,  
Being hanged up like a dog-a,  
And all the city without pity,  
Made but one bloody bog-a.   

31 The Irish Kern in battle stern  
For all their faults so foul-a:  
Pride, use, ill gain, and want of brain,  
Teaching them how to howle-a.   

32 Not longer than the fine women  
The Scots would praise and trusta:  
The wanton Dames being burnt in flames  
Far hotter than their lust-a.   

33 But too too late lament their fate,  
And misery deplore-a  
By the French knocks having got a pox,  
Worse than they had beforea.   

34 Infants unborn should scape the horn  
By being murdered thena;  
Which they were sure if life endure  
To have when they were men-a.   

35 The precise fry, that now mounts high,  
Full low we cast their Lot-a,  
And all that think it sin to drink,  
We doomed unto the pota.   

36 The Parliament is fully bend.  
To root up Bishops cleane-a,  
To raze their fort and spoil their sport  
We did intent and meane-a.   

31 With many things confusion brings  
To Kingdoms in an houra,  
To burn up tillage sack and pillage  
And handsome maids deflour-a.   

38 But Argus eye did soon espy  
What we so much did trusta.  
And to our shame and love of fame  
Our plot laid in the dusta.   

39 And had we stayed, I am afraid  
That their Briarian handa  
Had struck us dead (who now are fled)  
And seized all our land-a.   

40 But thanks to heaven, three of the seven,  
That were the plotters chiefe-a,  
Have led to France their wits a dance  
To find out a reliefe-a.   

41 But Davenant shakes and Buttons makes  
As strongly with his breech-a.  
As he ere long did with his tongue  
Make many a bombast speech-a.   

42 But yet we hope he'll scape the rope,  
That now him so doth fright-a:  
Th● Parliament being content  
That he this fact should write-a.   
I. S. K. From Paris. june, 16. 1641.  
Finis.