THE Pretended SAINT AND THE Profane Libertine. Well met in Prison. OR A DIALOGUE BETWEEN Robert Titchburne, AND Henry Marten, Chamber-fellows in Newgate.  
LONDON, Printed for J. Stafford 1660.   

A Dialogue between. Robert Titchburne AND Henry Marten.  Col. Mar. 
HOw now Mr. Alderman, what makes your Soul thus to Droop, your Speech methinks fails you, your Eyes are as Hollow as your Heart hath always been, you seem to be as dejected as if the Executioner were about to do his Office, and your Countenance is as Ghastly as 〈◊〉 Brethren that are turned Sur●… of the rivers Thames whose Heads are Elevated upon London Bridge.  Titch. 
Ah Coll. Marten, This is no time to jest in; can you Pray and Expostulate the reason, why our Palaces are turned into a Prison; our Noble Attendants, into jailors and his Sub-Officers; our Chains of Gold into Fetters of Iron; our place as a judge upon the Bench, to be a Prisoner at the Bar, This methinks is a sad dispensation, that the Grapes of Canaan should be thus sour, and our Glory so suddenly turned into shame.  Mart. 
Prithee Mr. Alderman don't disturb me with the repetition of that thing called Prayers; the noise of it sounds in my Ear as doleful as a passing Bell. But yet tell me what's the cause in your apprehension of these Afflictions which follow us as naturally as one Billow follows another in the unwearied Sea.  Titch. 
Ah Coll. Marten, I find your soul is not yet touched with the sense of Blood, Innocent blood, Royal Blood; the Blood of Gods Anointed of his Vicegerent here upon Earth; Blood that hath cried aloud to Heaven, and this Blood God is making inquisition for; and we gave consent to the shedding thereof, we dethroned his Royal Person from his Power and Dignity; We Usurped an Authority over him to take away his Life. And in a word the guilt hereof lies so heavy upon my spirit, as that I cannot screw or wind up my Soul higher than this sad dejection wherein you behold me.  Mar. 
Pish Alderman Titchburne, I'll tell you, had you still road like a Jackanapes on Horseback as you did when you were Lord Maior of London; and had a few Red-Coats to have Leveled their Muskets against all that would not obey your commands, and had the punishing of Alehouse keepers that would not conform to good Orders; and were you now again contriving a New market place for the Herb Women that formerly sat in Cheapside; and were you again to be Dubbed one of Oliver Cromwell's Knights, and be Honoured with the Title of one of his Mushroom Lords. Or lastly were the Committee of Safety sitting again, and you but entertained one of the Members thereof; you'd Cut off the King's Head again, you'd call the desire of a Personal Treaty with the King, a Traitorous Engagement; you'd betray the Counsels of the City, and would be fit for any enterprise that might Establish or uphold the same.  Titch. 
Well Colonel Marten, this methink is not well done of you, to add Affliction to Affliction; the remembrance of each of these particulars Cuts a new Wound, and every thought thereof Torments my Soul with renewed Grief.  Mar. 
Come then Mr. Alderman, let's Laugh away every thing that disturbs our Content, let's make Music with the Gingling of our Chains, and let us make our Fetters to keep a Noise in Tune; let us turn one of our Acts of Parliament into Hopkins his Rhimes, and sing ourselves into a better Temper. But what think you Mr. Alderman methinks we want a Girl to complete the story.  Titch. 
Fie Fie is this Prison Discourse, what hard hap had I to meet with such a Chambermate; sure this adds to my former distempers, and Reiterates my never to be pacified Grief: Oh that I had been so happy as to have been united to one in Prison who would Alternately have passed away the time in opening a Text of Scripture, that we might have Sung a Psalm of Lamentation together; discoursed of the World to come, and brought to our Minds the remembrance of those Torments, which some of our brethren now endure for having a Hand in the Blood of that just man; but I'll go Pray.  Mar. 
A Pox take your canting, what the Devil makes you disturb me in my rest; methings this whining and drolling is not like praying at all; pray Mr. Alderman talk yourself, let me not hear so much as the sound of one of your words, for I told you before it goes against my Nature to hear any Prayers.  Titch. 
Truly Colonel Marten, you are very profane, I thought we had all been praying Saints that Cut off the King's Head, and you methinks do not speak the language of one.  Mar. 
A way I tell you with this discourse, there was not one person like a Saint in all that crew called the High Court of Justice, and truly if I had thought there had; you should not have found me there, for I promise you I do not like such company; but come let's talk of what will become of us, is there any hopes of Escaping the Gallows;  Titch. 
None that ever I can hear, only they say the King is merciful.  Mar. 
I but they say the people are mad to have us out of the way, they are ever and anon crying out why are not those Rogues brought to Justice, some saying no Torment is bad enough for us, Hanging in Chains, setting our Quarters upon the City Gates, and our heads upon London Bridge, they think it not punishment enough, They would have us buried a Live, Starved to Death; some say let their skins be pulled over their Ears whilst they are living, and let them be hanged up as Memento of everlasting shame, and as a warning piece to succeeding Ages how they meddle with the sacred institution of Kings and Princes.  Titch. 
Well so I were but out of the World, I would not much care which way I went, for it is Torment enough for me to live; do you not think it doth trouble me to be carried to the Tower when I was once Lieutenant thereof and to be a close Prisoner, where I commanded the whole place myself, and to have one of my Brethren an Alderman of London now to be a Commander over me; well if I be Reprieved it will be my punishment, I shall live like Tantalus all my days; that is to say only mocked with pleasure and delight.  Mar: 
Well Mr. Alderman for the present Good night, but pray hereafter, do not whine out your Feigned stuff, for say any thing but your prayers and I shall be glad to discourse with you; I think 'tis about sleeping time, though we shall be parted when we are carried to another Prison, yet we shall meet at the Gallows; or else our Heads may meet with our Brother Peter and the rest of our Brethren upon London Bridge.  
FINIS.