'Tis a plain Case GENTLEMEN:  
OH the distraction of this Factious age!  
Have not wile-men (who are stark mad with rage,  
Brought this fair Land to such a combustion.  
That rhrough their means we may fear confusion.  
A horrid Tragedy is now begun.  
And still continues, would to God 'twere done.  
'Tis writ in blood, as all the World may see,  
And plainly read this Kingdom's misery  
Oh! who would ha' thought that two years ago,  
That so much Christian blood should on th' earth flow,  
As hath been shed this last year? cursed be he  
That was the cause of this Phlebotamie.  
Some are confident in their opinion,  
Papists have fomented this Division;  
Others say, the Brownists (of whom beware)  
Have stirred up this unnatural, wretched War:  
For my own part, I think they both have been  
The Ruin of this Nation. Thes estill spin  
The thread of our undoing: these a●e those  
Besides these two that are this Islands foes.  
Nay ' besides these, there are some high in State,  
Who to this Land are most unfortunate.  
I dare not name them yet there's few but knows  
Who are the Kings and Kingdoms professed foes.  
May all that wish ill will unto this Land,  
Never subsist in Peace, but may the hand  
Of divine Justice bring them unto shame;  
Blast their fame, forgotten be their name.  
They that breath blood, and do defy fair Peace,  
May they want joy their sorrows never cease:  
Torn with possessed whirlwinds may they die,  
And Dogs bark at their murderous memory.  
There is no honest heart but needs must grieve,  
To consider the Times wherein we live.  
What eye can refrain from shedding salt tears?  
To see the many mischiefs our vain fears,  
And causeless jealousies have on us brought,  
Kindled this strange fire, and all our woes wrought.  
These are the Jonans, that the tempest raise,  
These are the Achans that our Israel amaze.  
Were't not for fears and jealousies at first,  
We had not with the plague of War been cursed,  
But blest with happy Peace; there had not come  
On this same Kingdom such a Martyrdom:  
The King had not gone from us, no discontent  
Arose at all, 'twixt Him and's Parliament.  
But we ourselves have caused our several woes;  
Though we be victors, yet  overthrows.  
Let the King or Parliament have the best,  
Both King and Kingdoms suffers lies oppressed;  
Let who can have the day, with your favour,  
Both Armies are loser's, for their labour;  
Much precious blood is lost, many a poor soul,  
And cannot the thought of this condole  
This civil, uncivil war? But you'll say,  
If it please God our Forces get the day,  
We shall be then most happy live secure,  
Our dwellings being entrenched about most sure  
From our enemies. Do not yourselves deceive,  
The enemi's within you that believe.  
'Tis not your Bulwarks can save your ●uck nor pelf,  
Man is the greatest enemy to himself.  
'Tis not your boasting that y'are safe i'th' City,  
Y'are no where safe, though ye seem near so witty,  
And thus much know from me, for verily,  
weare certain of nothing but uncertainty.  
The King not certain is of's Royal Crown,  
Nor the Subject of what he calls his own.  
Such is th'inconstancy ' of this world's Ball,  
No man knows whether he shall stand or fall.  
Rely not therefore on the Arm of flesh,  
Depend not on the Army neither trust fresh  
Horses, not the power or prowiss of Kings;  
All these without the Lord are but vain things.  
Unless God keep your City, the watchmen watch  
In vain, and without him much harms you'll catch.  
Oh! whether is our ancient courage fled?  
With our forefathers it is long since dead,  
And now we English are even like our Bows,  
That once won Battles, now skares none but Crows,  
Our homebred jars and civil contestations,  
Have rendered us a storm to Foreign Nations.  
LONDON you count is yours, & the Court's yours,  
The King must then be yours, and his Crown yours,  
And what are you then? Royal thiefs, you'll blow,  
Seditious fire which still doth spread and grow  
To such a huge intolerable flame,  
That all your wit can never quench the same.  
You that sit threatening what storms you'll raise here,  
Do you know where they'll light? I'll tell you where,  
You like so many Joves, do throw them down;  
You regared none, neither Sceptre nor Crown,)  
And what then? you like Tiles on houses tops.  
When foul wether comes, will shift the rainy drops,  
From one, to one and whilst from you it sheds,  
Where falls the showers? on the poor People's heads,  
I'll tell you a pretty tale. There grew a tall,  
A goodly fence of Hawthorn and of Bryer,  
That when the Sun was choleric and hot  
Kept sheep and yeaning Lambs safe from his rage  
Or when the Sky stormed did his wrath assuage.  
This goodly row of Briers still anon,  
Would as the Sheep went by, tear from their backs  
Rags of their wooly coats, at which the sheep  
(Though by protection of this good old Briar  
They were fed fat, and therefore were grown proud  
Repined, and did prefer bills of complaint  
Up to the shepherds: The rude hairbrain shepherds  
Cried down with this proud Briar; the hedging bills  
So laid about them, down the Briar did fall,  
And wha● ensued? a tale most tragical.  
Being laid along, they trod on't in despite,  
Put fire unto it, and burned it in the flame,  
The green bows wept, seeing men past ruth or shame  
What follows next? marry hail, rain and snow,  
Beat on the sheep and Shepherds, cold winds blow  
But whers their shelter? gone. Then did the heat  
So scorch them, that they had no lift to eat.  
But where's their cool shade now? gone, gone, & then  
Others break in, and feed, whilst these fed lean.  
At last starved wolves and ravenous foxes came,  
And ear up all left neither ewe, nor lamb;  
The Shepherds pined to nothing and like men  
Made wise by their harms, wished th'ole Bryer again.  
 read a Text, preach you upon't 'tis plain,  
They stab themselves, that strike their Sovereign.   

YORK, Printed by STEPHEN BUKLEY, 1643.