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The garlands wither on your brow, Then boaft no more your mighty deeds,
Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
. To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the duft.
Epitaph upon King
CTAY, passenger, stay here, and fee,
Intomb'd lies injur'd majesty; Why trembleft not ? here's that would make All but a harden'd rebel quake. A king! O! starts thou not to hear, A murder'd king lies bury'd here? Search all the records of old times, And muster up all ages crimes, And roll 'em up in one great mass, 'Twill fall far short of what this was. A monarch fentenc'd to his death, By vulgar, base, plebeian breath, A lawgiver, by laws unknown, Condemn'd to lose his head and throne; Nay, and to make the odium more, This must be done at his own door, And all under the false pretence Of liberty and conscience.
A fort Litany for the Year
TROM all the mischiefs I shall mention here,
T Preserve us, heaven, in this approaching year; From civil wars, and those unciyil things, That hate the race of all our queens and kings; From those who, for self-ends, would all betray ; From faints that curse and flatter when they pray; From those that hold it merit to rebel, In treason, murders, and in theft excel ;
From those new teachers have destroy'd the old,
Upon the Storm at the death of Dliver Crom
well, revers'd out of Mr Waller's fine Piece of Flattery.
T H EN take him, devil! hell his foul doth claim,
1 In storms as loud as his king-murthering fame. His cheating groans and tears have shook this ifle, Cleft Britain's oaks, for Britain's funeral pile. Now, at his exit, trees uncut are toft Into the air ; fo Faustus once was loft. Rome mift her first, fo London her last king, Both kill'd, then wept, and fell to worshiping. We in a storm of wind our Nimrod loft, King'd him, and sainted him, then curss'd his ghoft. In Deta's flames thus Hercules lay dead, In Worcester's flames, he on his raving bed ; He some scragg’d oaks and pines from mountains rent, This stole two brave isles from the continent; Ravag'd whole towns; and that his Spanish theft, As a curft legacy to Briiain left. The seas, which, with our hopes, God had confin'd, The devil made to narrow for his mind; Our bounds enlargement was his greatest toil, He made our prison greater than our isle. Under the line our enslav'd cries are spoke, And we and Dunkirk draw but in one yoke. From broils he made, he beft could disengage; From his own head diverts our purchas'd rage : And by fine state-art, to his country show'd, How to be slaves at home, and thieves abroad. Confederate ufurpers quake to see, The grave not under pow'r of tyranny ; Nature shrunk up at this great monster's death, And swellid the seas with much affrighted breath ;
Then to the bounding shore her billows rollid,
: A Song on Oliver's Court..
Let him to our court repair,
Who fickler than the city ruff,
Let him &c.
If he can invert the word,
Convert Paul's church into the mews,
Let him &c.
Who hath commiffion to convey
Let him &c.
An Old SONG. By way of Dialogue.
2. CAY, Puritan, if it should come to pass,
That thou must hear, or play, or mass,
To do as the spirit shall infuse.
Which wou'dft thou eat?
Such fuperftitious meat.
Who loves his gut, but doth the spirit flight..
2. Say, Puritan, if it should be thy hap,
Wouldit thou deny!
It favours of antiquity.
By any true zealot.
Cho. Here's a Puritan catechised right,
Who loves his schism, but doth the spirit flight.
2. Say, Puritan, dost love the choir,
And holy bellows that inspire
The faithful think 'em not so meet. 2. But wouldft not thou use any guile, To hear a brother preach a mile
From text or sense?
The spirit will dispense.
Who loves his humour, but doth the spirit Night.
2. Say, Puritan, at glorious paint
At such a sight?
To pure eyes as is the light.
On her with Ruth?
So it be naked truth.
Who loves a painted whore, all other paint doth slight.
The Romith Priest deny'd Hell-Room.
A Romih priest that dy'd the other day,