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Militia too, they needs must gain,

Those pretty carnal tools:
For Paul's old weapons they disdain,

As fit for none but fools.

Thus Royal Charles lets to lease,

Lays sword and scepter down;
To shew he values us and peace

Above a glorious crown.
Give me the dragon's gall for ink,

His sting to be my pen;
To blast the Scot, and make him stink,

Worse than the dregs of men.
See now the reformation-wirk,

For which they made us bleed;
Is to cashier king, church, and kirk,

On this and that side Tweed.
Let them with Egypt's plagues be crost,

Yet still find new and worse;
And, since I have Job's patience lost,

Give me his skill to curse.
At home and hell may they e'er dwell ;

And for quick passage tiither,
As they have juggled all full well,

So may they hang together.
Let me be Turk, or any thing,

But a Scotch calvinist;
First he damn'd bishops; next his king ;

Now he cashiers his Christ.
Gode faith, sir, they the pulpit bang.

But let their gospel down;
For the old saviour needs must gang,

Now a new one's come to town.
The saints, whom once their mouths did curse,

Dear brethren are and friends;
Which proves their zeal a stalking-horse

For knavish-godly ends.
Then rail no more at antichrist,

But learn ye to be c.vil;
And, since ye have king Cromwell kiss'd,

Shake hands too with the devil.
Since they have damn'd all saints of oid,

No new shall be for me ;
Like Jews, they worship Gods of gold,
Their king they crucily.

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Were he the king of kings, his crown

Could not be safe from foes;
Like Jesuits, they no gospel own,

But murther and depose.
Like Turks, their Heav'n lies all in sense,

In wenches, tarts, and jelly;
No hell they fear, when parted hence;

They serve no God but belly.
All this, and more, by Jove, is true,

If they the treaty cease,
To juggle with the lev’lling crew

That cry, No king, no peace.
No lord, no knight, no gentleman,

For honours now are crimes;
The saints will form us, if they can,

All to the prim'tive times.
Brave days, when Adam was a king

Without crown, lands, or riches !
So, stripp'd of royal robes, they'll bring

Great Charles to fig-leave breeches.
Princes with ploughmen rank shall pass;

Ladies, like the first woman,
Must spin, or else be turn’d to grass,

Now all things are in common.
Thus cov'nanting and levelling

Three kingdoms have o'erthrown, And made all fellows, with their king,

A foot-ball of the crown.
Tell me, thou presbyterian ass,

Why thou at first didst jar?
Thy peevish plea, No bishops, was

The first ground of the war.
Next, to thy shame, thou didst combine

With the sectarian routs ;
Our Charles should be no king of thine,

Or but a king of clouts.
Both king and bishops thus exil'd,

The saints, not yet content,
Now with fresh flames of zeal grow wild,

And cry, No parliament.
Well may we then this maxim prove,

Treason no end can know,
But levels at the Gods above,

As well as those below.

Hark, how for peace the kingdom groans,

That warr’d they knew not why!
Yield then, or else the very stones

Will out against you cry.
For shame, ye bastard-saints, give o'er,

Or else the world will think,
Your mother is great Babel's whore,

If blood you love to drink.
The state's grown fat with orphans tears,

Whilst widows pine and moan; And tender conscience, in ser’n years,

Is turn'd t' a heart of stone.
Return, hard hearts, the treaty ends,

Our breasts with hope do swell;
Your bags are full, then let's be friends,

Or bid the world farewel.
Nor Gods above, nor Gods below,

Our Saints (I see) will own;
Allegiance is rebellion now,

Treason to wear a crown.
Nor king, nor parliament, will please,

"Tis gospel to rebel :
Nay, they'll remonstrate against peace,

Be it in heav'n or hell.
Pluto, beware, (to thee they come,

When here their work is done :)
For they'll break loose, and beat up drum,

And storm thee in thy throne. Then John-a-Leyden, Nell, and all

Their goblin ghostly train, (Brave rebel saints triumphant) shall

Begin their second reign.
Brave reformation! now I see,

London's a blessed place,
To find the saints chearful and free,

And nurse the babe of grace.
Let yellow boys ne'er tempt their sight
Of valour with the

sources,
For the tame slaves will never fight,

Till they have empty purses.
Come then, ye lousy, wanton wags

Of sainted chivalry,
And free their poor condemned bags

That groan for liberty.
March on, boon blades, here's store of cash,

Their king they will not pity : Then spur thein on, and soundly lash These dull-men of the city.

Dull cuckolds! we are dainty slaves,
And well

may be content,
When thirty fools, and twenty knaves,

Make up a parliament.
They banish all men in their wits,

Vote king, lords, all offenders ;
And authorise the phrentick fits

Of our long-sword state-menders. 'Tis Noll's own brew-house now, I swear;

The speaker's but bis skinker: Their members are, like th' council of war,

Car-men, pedlars, and tinkers.
Fine Journey Junto! pretty knack !

None such in all past ages!
Shut shop; for, now the godly pack

Will next pay you your wages.
Gone are those golden days of yore,

When Christmas was an high-day, Whose sports we now shall see no more;

'Tis turn'd into Good-Friday. Now, when the king of kings was born,

And did salvation bring, They strive to crucify in scorn

His viceroy, and their king.
Since th' ancient feast they have put down,

No new one will suffice;
But the choice dainties of a crown,

Princes in sacrifice.
No

powers are safe, treason's a tilt,

And the mad sainted-elves
Boast, when the royal blood is spilt,

They'll all be kings themselves.
Like jolly slaves, ye goodly knaves,
We'll bid th’ old

year

adieu : Old sack and things must pass away,

And so shall all your new. Now for a no-king, or a new;

For th' old, they say, shall pack; The new may serve a year to view

Like an old almanack. New houses, new; for th' old ones dote,

And have been thrice made plunder;
The saints do vote, and act by rote,

And are a nine-days wonder.
Then let us chear, this merry new-year;

For CHARLES shall wear the crown: 'Tis a damn'd cause, that damns the laws,

And turns all upside down.

1

A VISION,
CONCERNING HIS LATE PRETENDED HIGHNESS

CROMWELL, THE WICKED:
Containing a Discourse in Vindication of him, by a pretended Angel, and the

Confutation thereof,
BY THE AUTHOR, ABRAHAM COWLEY.
Sua cnique Deus fit dira Libido.

VIRGIL.
London: Printed for Henry Herringman, at the Anchor in the Lowerwalk in the

New-exchange, 1661. Twelves, containing ninety Pages.

ADVERTISEMENT. This discourse was written in the time of the late protector, Richard the Little;

and was but the first book of three, that were designed by the author. The second was to be a discourse with the guardian angel of Eugland, concerning all the late confusions and misfortunes of it. The third, to devounce heavy judgments against the three kingdoms, and several places and parties in them, unless they prevented then speedily by serious repentance, and that greatest and hardest work of it, restitution. There was to be upon this subject the burden of England, the burden of Scotland, the burden of Ireland, the burden of London, the burden of the army, the burden of the divines, the burden of the lawyers, and many others, after the manner of prophetical threatenings in the Old Testament: But, by the extraordinary mercy of God (for which we had no pretence of merit, nor ihe least glimpse of hope) in the sudden reftoration of reason, and right, and happiness to us, it became not only unnecessary, but unseasonable and impertinent to prosecute the work. However, it seemed not so to the author to publish this first part, because, though no man can justify or approve the actions of Cromwell, without having all the seeds and principles of wicked. Dess in his heart, yet many there are, even honest and and well-meaning people, who, without wading into any depth of consideration in the matter, and purely deceived by splendid words, and ihe outward appearances of vanity, are apt to admire him as a great and eminent person; which is a fallacy, that extraordinary, and, especially, successful villamies impose upon the world. It is the corruption and depravation of human nature, that is the root of this opinion, though it lie sometimes so deep under ground, that we ourselves are not able to per. ceive it; and, when we account any man great, or brave, or wise, or of good parts, who advances himself and his fansily, by any other ways, but those of virtue, we are certainly biassed to that judgment by a secret impulse, or, at least, inclination of the viciousness of our own spirit. It is so necessary for the good and peace of mankind, that this error (which grows almost every where, and is spontaneously generated by the rankvess of the soil, should be weeded out, and for ever extirpated, that the author was content not to suppress this discourse, because it may contribute somewhat to that end, though it be but a small piece of that which was his original design.

IT T was the funeral-day of the late man who made himself to be

called protector, and though I bore but little affection, either to the memory of him, or to the trouble and folly of all publick pageantry; yet I was forced, by the importunity of my company, to go along with them, and be a spectator of that solemnity, the expectation of which had been so great, that it was said to have brought some very curious persons, and no doubt singular virtyoso's, as far as from the Mount in Cornwall, and from the Or

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