The Sense of the Oxford-Iunto, Concerning the late Treaty; wherein the several Reasons are delivered, why they could not conclude a Peace with the Parliament: And Published for the Satisfaction of the whole Kingdom.  

GIve ear (beloved Countrymen)  
Who long so much for Peace,  
And guess a Treaty th' only means  
The Kingdom to release:  
Be not mistaken thus to think;  
For we were sent so fare  
As Uxbridge, but to swear and drink,  
And not to end the War.   

Through our dissembling Impudence  
Your hearts (we know) were full  
Of Joy, and did us true believe,  
Whereas we meant to Gull:  
What though the Kingdom bleeding lie,  
Yet Peace is out of season,  
And that Bugbear we do defy  
For many a weighty reason.   

First, I'll no Peace, says Rupert;  
Good Uncle, do not think,  
That I can leave your Kingdom so  
While there is any chincke:  
You know for Plunder I did come  
With Germane tag and rag;  
And I'll have more ere I go home.  
Again unto the Hague.   

Do (Brother) do, says Maurice,  
I like the Humour dear,  
And could contented be to have  
The War last many a year:  
Let's keep us still on English ground,  
And for ourselves create  
Possessions of as large a bound,  
As the Palatinate.   

Then from his Pen starts Digby,  
And cries it was Princely spoken,  
Since hope there was that France would send  
Ten thousand for a token  
Besides, the Gallant Irish vow  
To pawn their Praying Beads,  
Rather than we should yield them now  
A Peace, to lose our Heads.   

'Tis true (my Son) quoth Bristol,  
Then writ a Declaration  
Of our late Treating, which we'll send  
To cheat each foreign Nation:  
For we must make the world believe,  
None more for Peace requested  
Than we, or else they'll laugh in sleeve,  
And we shall be detested.   

But Brother mine, says Cottington,  
I am Lord Treasurer;  
Yet not one Penny can produce  
For to maintain the War:  
And now the tottering State of Spain  
Can spare us no relief,  
I live to bear the Bag in vain,  
And may die like a Thief.   

Fie, fie my Lord, than Winchester  
Bids him not to despair,  
And cheers him with large Rodomonts,  
Much like a Wise man's Heir:  
I'll do my best to keep off Peace,  
And stoutly put all Care by;  
For if from Basin they me chase,  
I'll run to my Lord of Derby.   

Derby, He will do any thing,  
So they the War prolong,  
If that his Countess give him leave;  
For she at home's most strong:  
But if that Latham yielded be,  
And they escape well can,  
Her, and these two Wits, you may see  
Reign in the I'll of Man.   

And I, Lord Paulet, would be glad  
To have the War still spun out,  
Because I know from Basing-house  
The Fool at length will run out:  
Then there to have Command in chief  
I'm sure will be my fate;  
And like a good brotherly Thief,  
Beg him and his Estate.   

'Tis a good Christian act (my Lord)  
I Hopton do allow it;  
For I was once esteemed a Saint,  
As all the World does know it:  
And for this Name more War I'll wage,  
Till I it gain from Rome;  
So Traitors shall a Pilgrimage  
Make yearly to my Tomb.   

And I, Duke Lennox, will contend,  
As long as I do live,  
With Papists how to raise and stretch  
The King's Prerogative:  
Then I may rage's and domineer  
Over my Countrymen,  
Or else I shall be shamed t'appear  
In Scotland ere again.   

A fig (my Lord) says Capel,  
The Scots we soon will beat;  
However, let us go and seem  
As if we meant to Treat:  
They cut my Woods, both Branch and Boughs,  
My Timber all is fallen,  
As if they were to roast the Cows  
Which ever I have stolen.   

And I (quoth Kingston) am undone,  
Except we fight it out;  
Because for Bishops I did plead,  
The Vulgar will me flout:  
Besides, my Father money lent  
Unto the King great store;  
Unless we slave the Parliament,  
I ne'er shall see it more.   

Who would not fight, cries Dunsmore,  
An Earl to be enstiled?  
To lose a Lordship, Hatton says,  
Would make a Courtter wild:  
Culpepper, he grows hot i'th' mouth,  
Damns Peace, as if he meant,  
Rather than not to be a Lord,  
Fight to be King of Kent.   

Sir Nicholas, he to treat will go,  
But swears he shall miscarry;  
The very thought of Peace will spoil  
Him for a Secretary.  
He with them thus conditions then,  
That if they stay the longer,  
For him to choose some other man  
Of constitution stronger.   

Then up a Bench of Lawyers stand,  
And in their Judgement gave,  
'Twas fit Sir Edward Nicholas might  
His Habeas Corpus have:  
Ned Hid, and Laene, they were the chief,  
I need to name no more,  
Who for their Knighthoods stood so stiff,  
And shut Peace out of door.   

But all to fight for the known Laws,  
As Littleton maintains;  
Who strove to steal away the Seal,  
Yet got nothing for his pains:  
For when the man to Oxford came.  
They fell to swear and curse,  
And asked him if he did not shame  
To bring an empty Purse.   

But he at length in favour crept  
Among the Medley Rout,  
And is against the name of Peace  
As zealous and as stout:  
An't please your Majesty, says he,  
If wisely you will deal,  
The Ordnance still must mounted be,  
They will make good the Seal.   

And I (my Liege) says Heath, affirm  
None better can than these,  
Restore again the Chancery,  
Your Bench, or Common Pleas:  
Fight on, by Law I'll make it good,  
Pull down the Senate's pride;  
It is not fit a Treaty should  
This difference decide.   

Then spoke Armagh, if Law it be,  
I'll prove it Gospel too,  
By such a knotty Syllogism  
As no man shall undo:  
In Bishop's breasts all truth doth rest,  
Scorn Treating then, and come;  
we'll give each man a hallowed crest,  
And Consecrated drum.   

And I (quoth Duppa) do protest,  
That they which but begin  
To think of pulling Bishops down  
Commit a heinous sin:  
What a cursed thing then Treating is,  
How odious is Peace,  
Which envies Churchmen worldly bliss,  
Great honours, pride, and ease!   

And Stewart vows he'll be content  
Much rather soon to die,  
Than let his Conscience witness bear  
Unto Presbytery:  
What though it does appear more right,  
I never will confess?  
Let's Treat in show, break off, and fight,  
Upon advantages.   

But hark ye (Sirs) says Dorset,  
Do any thing you please;  
Yet for one reason I desire,  
That we might have a Peace:  
I cannot act a Soldier's part,  
Nor freezing lie in Trenches;  
But wish myself with all my heart  
At Chelsey with my Wenches.   

Zounds, a Sedan, cries Goring,  
To cage this piece of sloth;  
Dammee, but one word more of Peace,  
I'll stab him with an Oath:  
My Father was in days of yore  
A Monopolising vermin,  
But now is glad to keep the door,  
And cringe to Harry Iermin.   

That was a gallant trade at Court.  
Then said Endymion Porter,  
When Subjects pockets we could fish,  
And clip their purse strings shorter:  
But now the block runs in my mind  
When I dream of Peace in bed;  
Then ' wake, and feel, yet nothing find  
About me but my head.   

O monstrous! then cries Windebanke,  
That dreams should prove so true;  
I fear than I shall be undone  
By Peace as well as you:  
What though I am a jesuite,  
(God bless our good Queen Mary)  
Yet if the Roundheads we outfight,  
I shall still be Secretary.   

And I, Tom. Lunsford, hope to be  
Lieutenant of the Tower,  
Then I shall have the Citizens  
Again within my power:  
And like tame Slaves, I will them teach  
An iron chain to wear;  
The Ordnance also shall soon reach  
As fare as Westminster.   

But soft there (Tom) quoth Byron,  
Thou art yet but a Knight;  
For murders cool, I Lorded was,  
After the end o'th' fight:  
Then I may be Lieutenant made  
Rather than thee, I hope,  
Since I more cruel am, if not  
Prevented by a Rope.   

I fear not Ropes, says Langdale,  
Hanging to me's a jest;  
I'll venture neck at any time  
To th' weight of my thin chest:  
If Peace come, I will yield thus fare,  
And give them many thanks;  
Yet one thing by the way I bar,  
All pulling by the Shankes.   

O Lord, how dare you venture so,  
Sir Skellum Grenvile cries!  
The very thought of it doth make  
Blood in my face to rise:  
Peace is a sweet soft name to some,  
But to me it sounds like Thunder,  
More terrible than a Plymouth Drum,  
And will rob me of my Plunder.   

A Skiffe, a Skiffe, baules Dives,  
If ye talk more of Peace;  
Hells torments light on every wretch  
That prays the War might cease:  
For than my Brother George, and I,  
After the Queen must dance,  
And live on Popish Charity,  
In Italy, Spain, or France.   

You see (beloved Countrymen)  
How Peace is out of season;  
For which you have the Junto's Sense,  
And each Commander's reason:  
Then pray you do not take it ill  
W● you deceived by Treating;  
●…t you may have Peace, if you will  
But give us a sound Beating.   
FINIS.