Mad TOM a Bedlams desires of peace: or his Benedicities for distracted England's restauration to her wits again.  By a constant, though unjust, sufferer (now in prison) for his majesty's just Regality, and his country's Liberty. SFWB. 

POor Tom hath been imprisoned,  
With strange oppressions vexed;  
He dares boldly say, they tried each way,  
Wherewith Job was perplexed.  
Yet still he cries for the King for the good King,  
Tom loves brave confessors,  
But he curses those dare their King depose  
Committees and oppressors.   

Tom prays for good King Charles,  
The best of Queens, Queen Mary;  
Prays the Prince may advance in safety from France,  
Victorious as old Harry,  
Those have been false to the King to the good King,  
All those durst dissemble,  
Tom smiles but to think how the Rogues will stink,  
And like stout Atkins tremble.   

Next he prays for him in Holland,  
Who his keeper so deceived,  
Got the Speakers pass for a pretty lass,  
And so he was received.  
'Twill be great joy to the King to the good King,  
To hear of his safety,  
But he taught them a trick, at hide and seek,  
They think he's plaguy crafty.   

Bless the hopeful Duke of Gloster,  
And the Princess royal Mary,  
May she fruitful prove, to increase his love,  
A Charles first, than a Harry:  
Bless those have stood for the King for the good King,  
And the offspring royal:  
Tom prays heaven bless sweet Princess Bess,  
Loves none she thinks disloyal.   

Bless those few Lords are honest,  
From the Armies Adjutators,  
Saints sent from heaven, to make all even,  
Both Church and State translators:  
Those stood not firm to the King to the good King,  
But have him forsaken,  
Let the Crownets they wear, and supporters should bear,  
Their Arms from them be taken.   

Bless the reverent suffering Bishops,  
Each Parson, Vicar, Curate,  
From the Presbyter plots and subtle Scots,  
Whose hearts are so obdurate.  
Bless those stood fast to the King to the good King,  
Masters, Fellows, Proctors;  
Pox take the fool went with his council of Trent,  
To visit Oxford Doctors.   

Bless the loyal hearted Gentry  
In Country, Towns, and Cities  
From the bane of us all (base goldsmith's Hall)  
And from their close Committees.  
Those who were false to the King to the good King  
Irish, Scot, or English;  
Some marks may they bear or colours wear  
May them from us distinguish.   

Bless the City from their Lord Major  
From close Committee treasons  
From those are unjust to the Cities trust  
From traitors watch their seasons.  
Now make a mends to your King to your good King  
For you have undone him;  
Your coin to the Scots, your strength and their plots  
Have brought these ills upon him.   

By poor Tom be advised  
As you at Whitehall tried  
So as stoutly call for a common hall,  
It cannot be denied.  
Call on the States for your King for your good King.  
Wish them to deliver  
Unto justice those who the peace oppose,  
You strike it dead for ever.   

Bless us all 'tis a mad World,  
Tom's heart is struck with pity  
To think how of late this thing called a State  
Hath wrought upon this City.  
'Tis time you call for the King for the good King,  
Else you will be undone  
If the Army should bring to ruin your King,  
What will become of London?   

Bless the valiant honest soldiers  
From the hands of base Commanders,  
From those spirits employed, so many destroyed,  
For want of pay in Flanders.  
Those have been false to the King, to the good King  
May they ship at Dover,  
Thence to Rupert in France who will lead them a dance  
They hardly shall recover.   

Bless the Printer from the Searcher  
And from the Houses takers.  
Bless Tom from the flash; from Bridewel's lash,  
Bless all poor Ballad-makers.  
Those who have writ for the King, for the good King  
Be it rhyme or reason,  
If they please but to look through Jenkins his book  
The i'll hardly find it treason.    

Printed, Anno Dommini, 1648.