On the Death of that GRAND IMPOSTOR OLIVER CROMWELL, Who died September the 3. 1658.  
SO let him die? so to his Grave be sent?  
And as his life, his death proved turbulent:  
In such loud Tempests let him end his days,  
As Witches their accursed Familiars raise.  
The Devil in a dreadful Hericane  
Approaches thus the trembling Indian  
Those happy storms, how highly should we prise  
Had they but sooner sung his Exequys,  
ere he had perfected that black Design,  
Which to this day brands the first Catiline,  
And stopped those louder cries of blood that call  
For Curses, to attend his Funeral.  
The tracing of those sanguine paths he trod  
Made Atila be styled, The Scourge of God.  
Well made this Scarlet Hypocrite his boast,  
Not in the Prince of Peace, but 
* His usual expression  Lord of Host  
Though to rejoice in numbers of 
‖ Dunbar and Worcester.  Men slain  
Suits not with 
* Termed so by his own gang.  David, but with Tamburlaine.  
Yet well were we if his immortal hate  
Had ended in the ruin of the State:  
But who the Church's Miseries shall scan,  
Will find him England's Dioclesian.  
'Twas not enough himself t'have guilty been▪  
But Jeroboam must make Israel sin:  
All must obedient be to his behests,  
Making the meanest of the People Priests;  
And Golden Calves must now be Gods to them,  
Bethel's preferred before Jerusalem:  
There must they Sacrifice and Incense burn,  
For fear the Crown to David's House return  
Who since that Heaven would not him sooner dead,  
Yet that his Hand had earlier withered.   

Printed for J. William's at the Crown in S. Paul's Churchyard. 1661.