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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

Charles I.

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

From those new teachers have destroy'd the old,
And those that turn the gospel into gold;
From a high-court and that rebellious crew,
That did their hands in royal blood imbrue ;
Defend us, heaven, and to the throne restore
The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.

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,
The approaching fate of Europe's troubles told.

: A Song on Oliver's Court..
LJ E that would a new courtier be,
11 And of the late coin'd gentry,
A brother of the prick-ear'd crew,
Half a Presbyter, half a fer,
When he is dipt in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd his hands in royal blood,

Let him to our court repair,
· Where all trades and religions are.

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Who fickler than the city ruff,
Can change his brewer's coat to buff,
His dray-cart to a coach, the beast
Into two Flanders mares at least,
Nay hath the heart to murder kings,
Like David, only with his flings;

Let him &c.

If he can invert the word,
Turning his ploughshare to a sword,
His cafiock to a coat of mail,
Gainst bishops and the clergy rail,


Convert Paul's church into the mews,
Make a new colonel of old shoes,

Let him &c.

Who hath commiffion to convey
Both sexes to Jamaica, .
There to beget new babes of grace
On wenches hotter than the place,
Who carry in their tails a fire,
Will rather scorch than quench desire,

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,
• Which wou'dft thou chuse ?
A. Truly in such a doubtful case, .
It would become a babe of grace,

To do as the spirit shall infuse.
2. But were here in thy Friday dish
A capon, or a piece of fish,

Which wou'dft thou eat?
A. Capons are for the babes of grace,
Give sinful Papists ling and plaise,

Such fuperftitious meat.
Cho. Here's a Puritan catechised right,

Who loves his gut, but doth the spirit flight..

2. Say, Puritan, if it should be thy hap,
To be enjoin'd a corner cap,

Wouldit thou deny!
A. Yes, I profess, Babylon's whore
That idol did erect, nay more,

It favours of antiquity.
Q. But wouldft not be content to wear
The cap that hideth fin, not hair,

Sirnamed Cælott?
A. Yes, if it ben't of Spanish leather made,
Surely it cannot be gainsaid

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 organ sweet ?
A. Truly no, they're Satan's instruments,
Not fit for Sion's holy tents,

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?
A. Yes, so he rail religiously
'Gainst surplice and conformity,

The spirit will dispense.
Cho. Here's a Puritan Catechised right,

Who loves his humour, but doth the spirit Night.

2. Say, Puritan, at glorious paint
In church window wouldst not faint

At such a sight?
A. The free or painted glass, for there
Idolatry is full as clear,

To pure eyes as is the light.
2. But if a painted fifter lies
Prostrate, wouldst thou cast thy eyes

On her with Ruth?
A. Well may the spirit so digest
A glance, a kiss, and feel the rest,

So it be naked truth.
Cho. Here's a Puritan catechised right,

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,
A His soul to hell went presently away,
The devil that then stood centinel,
Askt him, from whence he came and why to hell ?
I am a priest, quoth he, come to sustain
In these dark cells just and eternal pain.


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