Sir William Waller's KINDNESS TO THE Cities of London and Westminster, Particularly Expressed.  

SIr Edmondbury Godfrey was much taller,  
Than the Right Worshipful Sir William Waller.  
But what of that? at high and low they aim,  
No rank from them a privilege can claim.  
Well may Goliath smite you with his Sling,  
He will not spare an inoffensive King.  
You have been zealous to support our Nation,  
And Rome has found you a severe vexation.  
Ten thousand times their old unerring Pope,  
Has wished you Godfrey's Cravat, or a Rope.  
How would they clap their wings, their hearts and hands,  
To see you bound with Inquisition bands?  
How would they drown themselves in good rich Sack,  
Might they but see you on a Frenchman's Rack?  
No wonder you and Rome are now at odds,  
Alas! they cry out, you have burned their gods.  
And now what do they do? study, and wait,  
To heap the worst of mischiefs on your pate.  
Revenge doth boil, it is exceeding hot,  
Fain would they have your Worship's Head i'th' Pot;  
But they're supplanted yet, as is their Plot.  
Revenge cries Rome, revenge cries France and Spain,  
For all the Images that he has slain.  
Revenge yourselves for these and such like deeds,  
Seek out revenge for all your late burnt Beads.  
Give London yet another sixty six,  
For burning both your Beads and Crucifix.  
And in the midst of these great flames, remember,  
'Twas such as he that made a fifth November  
To be a Holiday: make up the pile  
Higher and hotter, than you'll make us smile.  
Banish your love, your kindness and your pity,  
As they do Jesuits from their great City.  
Thus little Waller, these enraged Cattle,  
Do at a distance give your Worship Battle.  
Revenge delays; and they are even sick,  
To suck the blood of such a Heretic.  
The Pope would almost give his triple Crown,  
〈…〉 ve you fettered in a Popish Town.  
〈…〉 d their Veins, they be like to burst,  
〈…〉 inks cry let them do their worst.  
You fear no Colours, like a little Lion,  
You Rampant-Wise defend the Walls of Zion.  
You let them Plot, then show their Priests a Trick;  
You Catch the Plotters in the very Nick.  
Many by your Industry have been taken,  
For Fear of you, some have the Land Forsaken,  
Your Argus Eyes the Secretest Corners ' spy;  
As from the Pestilence, from you they Fly;  
Few grow so Hardy now to stand and Dye.  
How many Nights have you refused your Sleep,  
Whilst we did Slumber, you our Gates did Keep;  
As though you Shepherd were, and we your Sheep.  
The Priests like Wolves from place to place you hurried,  
And those you Catched, Law and Jack Catch has Worried.  
What Zealous Godfrey left undone, we Hope  
You will Complete, no thanks unto the Pope.  
But stay, who Thanks you for your Pains and Care?  
His Royal Majesty, and our Lord Mayor.  
All Sober men, of all Degrees and Ranks,  
Do come and offer up their Hearty Thanks.  
We may Bless God that such Good Magistrates,  
Do now Reside within our City Gates.  
Plotters loose Ground, and indeed it is no Wonder,  
They make their Bands, you Break them Asunder:  
They Tie, and you Untie; they Plot and Contrive,  
You Counterplot, how can the Plotters Thrive?  
You give them Justice: But their good Behaviour  
Will not allow them any Grain of Favour.  
They cannot hope for Favour or for Love,  
Till they less Cruel and less Bloody prove.  
If e'er these Blackamoors should change their Skins,  
And once Repent for all their Traitorous Sins.  
Your Pity then would reach from hence to Rome,  
And you would freely bid them welcome Home;  
May you be Safe (Dear Sir) till that day come.  
May those that wish you ill be ever Blest,  
With Gerald's Dagger in his Popish Breast.  
Once I'll compare; may those that wish you Ill,  
Be found like Godfrey on a Primrose-Hill.   
FINIS