A Second Message TO Mr. WILLIAM LAUD Late Archbishop of Canterbury, now prisoner in the Tower: In the behalf of MERCURY.  
Together With a Postscript to the Author of that foolish and ridiculous Answer to MERCURY.   depiction of William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury 
Printed in the year 1641.   

A Second Message to his Grace a CANTERBURY.  
My Lord,  
OF late a letter to your Grace was sent;  
Which now I hear gives you much discontent;  
Your rage and fury waxed wondrous hot,  
And would the author curb, but yet could not,  
For want of power, which of late you had,  
Which makes you grieve to see't, makes us so glad;  
O could your lofty mind mount up again,  
You'd persecute good Christians amain;  
But stay my Lord, no thing so sure as this,  
Laud must e'er long the block or gibbet kiss:  
Therefore in vain it is for you to vex,  
For'twill but more and more your mind perplex,  
I'm sure 'twas true that he writ to your grace  
And I will justify it to your face,  
Nay all the world can justify beside,  
That all is true, and you are not belied;  
It may be you will say it was too tart,  
Remember then that you made one man smart  
With heavy punishment though'twas not he  
That did offend against your majesty,  
For he along the fields simply did walk,  
And with the Prentices he ne'er did talk,  
And yet you caused the poor man lose his life  
As tho●gh he had been causer of that strife;  
What though he were, did he deserve such death,  
As to have stopped the passage of his breath?  
Nay more than this which grieves me to relate,  
He quartered was, and hanged at each gate:  
Well'twas my Lord unjustly done I'm sure,  
And therefore fit you something should endure;  
Then be not angry at the words we writ,  
When from the dark we bring you to the light,  
For all this while in darkness you lived in,  
But in th'light you'd walked it had better been,  
And then you might in State have lived still,  
But self to ruin brought by doing ill;  
Perchance you'll not confess, but say'tis no  
Such matter as we do against you show,  
But that you think your crimes we'll aggravate,  
Because so suddenly your pulled from State;  
Alas'twas time that you from State should fall!  
For else you would have brought us under thrall:  
I dare be bold to say, your hought e'er now,  
To make all England to your altars bow,  
You took a speedy course, yea that's most true,  
And always favoured that most wicked crew,  
I mean the Papists who have ever sought,  
With wicked plots to bring our land to nought;  
But they nor all the wicked pangs in hell,  
Our blessed Gospel ever shall expel;  
For now you see to nought their plots God bring  
That they ne'er can accomplish any thing.  
For God above who sits an eyes them all,  
Even at the utmost time, makes them to fall.  
For when  gotten to the height of pride,  
Unlikely 'tis that they should long abide,  
For at the last they ever tumble down  
Toth' ground, with all their honour and renown,  
Examples far I need not go to show,  
Yourself is one, and others of your crew,  
But for all this perhaps you still will say,  
You aimed at England's good when you bore sway,  
But'tis not true my Lord I will avoucht  
For then to altars you had never crouched,  
Nor had you bowed then unto Jesus name,  
In outward adoration of the same;  
Whenas that all our best and godli'st men,  
This outward adoration do condemn,  
Nor had you then so wickedly abused,  
Such godly men as pious preaching used:  
Well than my Lord here convict of sin  
For you have done most wickedly therein  
And all your deeds continually were evil,  
Which savoured not of God but of the devil,  
Whose slave 've been this many years I'm afraid,  
And wickedly his banners have displayed;  
Now to requite your pains, he you hath brought  
Unto that woe that you would ne'er have thought,  
For if three years ago one had told you  
That you must fall and all your wicked crew,  
Tush, tush, you'd say I will not it believe,  
That till I die, mine honour I shall leave:  
But now you see your honour you have lost,  
And of your wicked projects you are crossed:  
Well then, My Lord, your misery lament,  
And God of's mercy grant you may repent.   

A POSTSCRIPT TO THOMAS HERBERT, Author of that foolish and Ridiculous answer to Mercury's Message.  
HOw now what's this laid open to our view,  
Some foolish Pamphlet of the Popish crew?  
But is't no worse, I'm sure it is no better,  
The Titles called an Answer to a Letter,  
Wherein the Author does his venom spit,  
And proves himself, dissembling Hypocrite;  
Hypocrisy he often does relate,  
But to his shame, I speak't, 'tis his own state,  
For right, for wrong, for any thing he'll be,  
For truth, for error, or Hypocrisy;  
His wits he always bends for to devise  
Some wicked thing that's nothing else but lies:  
Mark and behold his Hypocriticke str●ine,  
How he does fl●tter the bad and good disdain,  
When he gins at first he stands amazed  
But presently his lying muse he razed,  
And first the Scriptures to his own ends rests,  
And counts that worst, which all men counteth best,  
Namely, at the Name of jesus we should bow,  
Does not says he the Scripture it allow,  
〈◊〉 men of better judgement than his grace,  
D●e not expound such meaning or that place:  
B●● nowadays the Scriptures much abused,  
〈◊〉 very boy that here before it used.  
N●x● after that he talks of ten p●und bribe,  
W●tch he for want of that was c●us'd to scribe  
Ballads and Books for that is all his trade,  
And 'mongst the rest of late this answer m●de:  
But it matters no●, for no man took it well,  
But counted 'twas a wicked deed of hell,  
And for the short haired crew which he counts ill,  
It not deceived, the same's his Master WILL:  
And for his part, we know him very well,  
His long shagged locks, and tattered coat him tell,  
F●r Reputation he can have no more,  
H●e's run so deeply in the Chandler's score,  
And those sociats with whom he is partaker,  
A● best they are but wretched ballad makers.  
Indeed Tom Herbert he did wondrous well,  
That at the latter end his name did tell,  
For now 'tis told abroad that he did write  
An answer to a Letter out of spite:  
What has he got for this his wicked deed,  
But lost his name for want of taking heed,  
For ●ot a bad words in't that Author writ,  
But he does know he hath deserved it.  
And now my lines I'll leave to all men's view,  
My Muse shall cease, but he'll be paid his due.  
The Author's Answer will come forth ere long,  
And cut and flash him deep, but want him wrong,  
he'll speak the truth, and stop his mouth for ever,  
That he it answer cant, with's best endeavour;  
But if he do, I know 'twill be so lame,  
That no wise man will read it over for shame,  
My Muse to write of thee again shall rest,  
Mine own, not yours, for so I hold it best   
FINIS.