ENGLAND'S CHANGELING OR, The Time Servers Laid open in their Colours, BEING A clear Discovery of the New Cheat of the Thing called the Good Old Cause. By one that hopes to see better TIMES. Printed in the year, 1659. To all true Englishmen. Dear Countrymen, TO let you know that one as truly now Forgets himself, as he remembers you, I here present you with I know not what, To do you service.— What though some rotten Upstart swell, what then? So you take't friendly, what care I for them, But would you know this Sir that's here intended, His titles what, and whence he is descended; Then know they call this Gent. sprung from a Fig, One for the good Old Cause, Time's Whinligig: Titles sufficient to make him a flaunting, And now time-Gallant (tho' true worth be wanting) He comes to kiss your hands, and hope that you Will give him Quarter for a night or two, And afterwards if so you think it fit, To burn him, do, or tear him every bit, Wishing poor England's Tyrants all so used, That have so many honest men abused; And that is all, and that is scarce enough, For them or this dressed up in such a stuff. Yours, and only yours, H. W. To England's Tormentors. HAve at you Sirs, 'tis but a word or two, And that's enough, if not too much for you; You that pretend Religion, and why? To make Religion cloak your villainy; You that pretend the public good, but how? Just as the Pigs that whine to suck the Sow; You men-devouring beasts, you ne'r-be-good, Will nothing please you but our all heartsblood? No wonder that sweet England seems a hell, When you sit judges in our Israel: What e'er you think, we think you mad or worse, D'ye hope to fatter still byth' people's curse? Fox's indeed far best when wished a rope, But you'll unkenneled be e'er long we hope; And then (what then) 'twill be such sport, that O, Actaeon's Dogs ne'er used their Master so. ENGLAND'S CHANGELING OR, The Time Servers, etc. WHat Age is this? What times are now? Vice states it so in each man's brow, with thousands waiting on her, Clothed all in silks and Purple brave, As if no honest man, but knave, should ere again have honour. Whilst virtue (who's so heavenly sweet) That blest are Kings if kiss her feet, goes slighted up and down; She that laments poor England's woes, See, see, how naked there she goes, Kikt at by every Clown. An honest man! a thing most rare, Or Gentleman that's Debonair, to live hath much ado; Then what one said, I now avow, 'tis hard not to write Satyrs now, I think you think so too. A Gentleman good Sir, alack, What's that? a last years Almanac, I thought so by his look, A foolish, useless, worthless thing, A castby now just as the King, whom Upstarts cannot brook. No, no, we have a people now, Blew-apron-blades, men that know how, all Nations fill with wonder, Who'r skilled in State-affairs so well, Each man's another machivel, to keep the Gentry under. Religion's made a Tennis-Ball, For every fool to play wîthall, both which we have so many, That we disputed have so long, 'Bout which is right, and which is wrong, till we have hardly any. I now have lived to see the day, Wherein a Fig-man bears such sway, that Knights dare scarce sit by him; Yea, I have lived to see the hour, In which a Clothier hath such power, that Lords are glad to buy him. Thus do the froth of all the earth, A spawn sprung from a dungill birth, now Prince it in our Land, A people come the Lord knows how, Both Fame and nameless till just now, must every one command. Kind hearted souls they are indeed, O that we had more of the breed, which take such much pain; Spending their spirits day and height, That they the Nation may requite, by turning all again. Ah me! what times, sad times are these, Wherein such tadpole slaves with ease, mount up and live respected? When they that have done service more Than ten of them, yea ten score, go slighted and neglected. Witness those many Gallant men, That fought it out so stoutly, when The State was brought most lo, Which now for their Arrcares do lie, But not one groat can they come by, though some a begging go. Yet such as have no service done, Nor ever did on hazard run, these wars I dare be sworn, But lay for Offices in wait, Aiming to get a great Estate, get thousands in a morn. The honest souls which live by love, Now see all this but dare not move, the cause, because not Master; For they to prove the City lover, So long the staff delivered over, that now they cannot baste her. Then what is man to trust upon, Who is so fond, so fickly gone, so crazed in's apprehension; He's never well until he be, Above his fellows, thought strait he downfall beyond dimension. And down good God pluck all such down, That seem for Christ, but seek their own, where ere they come or go; But peace, no more, the rest is meant, O that this long-long Parliament, would rid us of our wo. But Parliaments have done amiss, Themselves ere now, pray may not this? then who'll cast anchor there; Alas can men do what they should, Nay, would they do it if they could, a second War I fear. A second War, how can that be? Hath not the Parliament and we, brought all we wished to pass? So long as Monk and we agree And all our Enemies forced to flee, who fears a War's an ass. But why should we be so secure? Sith God is just h●e'l ne'er endure, things managed as you see; P●ide and oppression cry aloud, Then cry to Heaven, to Heaven for blood, and they shrewd sticklers be. What was't that beat the first alarms, In English hearts to take up arms, I menn i'th' well affected? Was't not our Church to purify, From all the dregs of Popery, which had her so infected. And this was well, and bravely done, Had we gone on as we begun, it had been a gallant Cure, But for to thrust out one Church so, And suffer thousand worse to grow, this purge is not so pure. And what was next the moving cause, That made us rush even in the jaws, of death, with such delight? Was't not left arbitrary Power, Should State and liberty devour, to stave off if we might. Sure this was it, and this was all, These were the main, the principal, that made the honest fight; And now that this accomplished is, Beyond what we could think or wish, you sweetly them requite. If we sometimes had from our Prince A lash or two, what have we since? indeed a world of favour; Just as from Rehoboam, when One finger should be heavier than the weight of all his Father. How often promised (but still fooled) Were we, the Egyptian taskers should be punished for oppression? But whilst the Sheep hath any wool, Our Shepherds will be never full, tears make but poor impression. Then since that man's grown such a beast, That Homo homini lupus est, blest they who are unborn: How ere let's sigh to God 'bove, One sigh may chance to get his love, though men our tears do scorn. FINIS.