Qui Chetat Chetabitur: OR, TYBURN Cheated.  
BEING, A POEM, UPON The three Regicides Munson, Mildmay and Wallopp; who were Drawn upon Hurdles to Tyburn on the 27th. of January, 1661.  
GReat, and grave Tyburn, We are sent  
To court thee in a Compliment:  
We come, oh strange! to make no stay,  
Only greet, and so away;  
Take notice how we do adore thee,  
And in worship fall before thee;  
Thus we fall before thy Trine,  
And vow ourselves for ever thine:  
'Twas for thy sake we stirred up strife,  
And now we love thee to the life;  
Our humble hearts do make request,  
Not to be mounted, like the rest;  
We are content all strife should cease,  
And love, what once we hated, Peace.  
Did we not do a pretty thing,  
To Murder a Religious King:  
Oh! how we quaffed his guiltless blood,  
He only died for being good;  
Whilst all the Punishment we had  
Was but to live, for being bad;  
If this be all we must incur,  
Who would not be a Murderer:  
We care not now we know our hope  
Must be entailed upon a Rope.  
Pray tell us Lawyers, can there be  
A Fine, without Recovery?  
We'll satisfy ourselves a None,  
We now are reading Little— tun;  
If Cook were living, he'd advise us  
In our distress, though you despise us;  
But he (poor Wretch) was cast aside,  
His Law was DUN before he died:  
Some of his Brethren smiled to see,  
Whilst others cried, And why not we?  
Their Judgements did the thing enlarge,  
Though he were Drawn that drew the Charge;  
We see a boundance of our Gange.  
(I hope they practice how to Hang)  
That knew full well, the time ' was, when  
Money made Knaves, now honest men:  
Nor had we been thus made a Theme,  
Had we been ruled by QUARLES his Dream;  
He called us Rebels in our prime,  
And told us of this very time:  
But he ne'er dreamed, as some recited,  
That for his Work he should be slighted:  
Such Caveleirs we daily see,  
Are constant to their Poverty;  
Their's was the danger, their's the pain,  
But we can tell who reaps the gain;  
Now they may beg through Jron-grates,  
That lost (by which we got) Estates.  
Whilst once a year we pay our Vows,  
To this our monstruous three legged Sp●us,  
Who shows her love, in this our woe,  
Poor Wretch she's loath to let us go;  
Oh! how she labours, and inclines  
To make us understand her Lines;  
How she seems to swell with pride,  
With her Champion by her side,  
Who invites us to our woes,  
That the Knave might have our clothes;  
He tells us that we need not fear,  
For old Noll, and Bradshaws there;  
We know, and all the world may see't,  
That 'tis not merry when Knaves meet;  
But this old saying now proves true,  
The Gallows always claims her due;  
Were't not for fear we would proceed,  
And out of love, be hanged indeed;  
For unto us it does appear  
Sad to be hanged once a year,  
For like old Noll, though breath be fled,  
We may be hanged when we be dead:  
But one thing joys us to the heart,  
The Cavel●irs can bare no part,  
For if we see them but begin  
To laugh we'll bid them laugh that win;  
And if they chance to make their brags,  
We'll bid them look upon their Rags;  
Alas poor Creatures, they can hope  
Only in Rags, and we in Rope.  
But now, Grave Tyburn we must leave thee,  
'Tis no wonder we deceive thee;  
Pray do not weep, for 'tis in vain  
Next year, we'll see the here again;  
Till then, with a submissive bow  
We make to thee, each Man, his vow:  
And first we do resolve to be  
Obedient unto none but thee;  
Next, during life, we vow t'appear  
And do thee homage once a year;  
These promises thou well mayst trust,  
Necessety will make us just.  
Thus we thy Servants, every one,  
Wallopp, Mildmay, and Munson,  
With all our might and power, will  
Be always careful to fulfil  
Thy sweet commands, not time, nor season  
Shall hinder us, from thinking Treason;  
What though we never loved our King?  
Thou lov'st us for that very thing;  
In all things thou shalt be our Chief,  
Thou lov'st a Traitor, and a Thief,  
Therefore thou needest take no care  
For we can fit thee to a hair;  
For our Deeds are so much famed  
That Hell will blush to hear us named,  
And thus for our Rebellious Pride,  
we'll once a year on Hurdles ride,  
And if Squire Dun will not oppose,  
we'll every Winter find him clothes.  
And now, great Charles, to thee we bow,  
And, Satan-like, we all allow  
And own thee for a gracious King,  
Though unto us thouart no such thing;  
We took away thy Father's life,  
His Blood still reeks upon our knife;  
Then how can we expect thy Grace,  
When Justice takes up Mercies place.  
Therefore, if extracted be  
The Quintessence of Tyranny,  
'Tis Love, compared to our Deeds,  
Till we are dead, thy Father bleeds;  
But if thy Mercy should out shine  
Thy Justice, Thou wouldst prove Divine;  
Add Plagues, to Plagues, and even then  
Thou art the mildest of all Men.  
Thus we conclude, and from this hour  
We will acknowledge Thee in Power.  
FUNIS.   

London, printed by Edward Crouch dwelling on Snow-hill. 1661. Who these Traitors would once have hanged.