From a vinegar priest on a crab-tree stock, From a foddering of prayer four hours by the clock, Libera nos, &c. From a hunger-starved sequestrator's maw, Libera nos, &c. From all that is said, and a thousand times more, [6 st. From a Saint and his Charity to the poor, From the Plagues that are kept for a Rebel in store, Libera nos, &c. THE SECOND Part. THAT if it please thee to assist Our agitators and their list, And hemp them with a gentle twist, Quæsumus te, &c. That it may please thee to suppose Our actions are as good as those That gull the people through the nose, Quæsumus te, &c. That it may please thee here to enter, Quæsumus te, &c. That it may please thee to unite Else, Faith and Literature, good-night, [9 st. Quæsumus te, &c. John Cleveland. THE KING BEHEADED. HARLES-ah, forbear, forbear! lest mortals prize His name too dearly, and idolatrize. His name! our loss! Thrice cursed and forlorn Charles, our dread sovereign!—hold! lest outlaw'd sense Heaven can behold such treason, and prove just. Charles our dread sovereign's murther'd! tremble! and Charles our dread sovereign's murther'd at his gate! No more, no more. Fame's trump shall echo all Great Christendom ne'er pattern'd; and 'twas strange The blow struck Britain blind, each well-set limb And though she yet lives, she lives but to condole Religion puts on black, sad loyalty Blushes, and mourns to see bright majesty 'Gainst God, 'gainst law, allegiance, and their oath. John Cleveland. PSALM LXXXII. OD sits upon the Throne of Kings, Maintain you wrong And favour lawless things? Defend the poor, the fatherless; The desolate, Whom wicked men oppress. For they of knowledge have no light, No laws prevail; Scarce one in heart upright. Though gods, and sons of the Most High, Great God, judge all The Earth, thy Monarchy. George Sandys. A MOCK SONG. HOW Whitehall's in the grave, And our head is our slave, The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster; The proud prelates, too, cross'd, And all Rome's confined to a cloister. He, that Tarquin was styled, Our white land's exiled, Not a court ape's left to confute us; And flourishing cry: Long live the brave Oliver Brutus. Now the sun is unarm'd, And the moon by us charm'd, The town is our own, We'll rule alone: For the knights have yielded their spent-gorge; With Honi Soit profane, Shout forth amain: For our Dragon hath vanquish'd the St. George. Richard Lovelace. |