Classic Poem

To the Tune of Gerrards Mistriss .

Farewell
False Honors, and usurped Powers farewell,
For the Great Bell
Of Justice rings in our affrighted ears
The Gripes
Of wounded Conscience far exceed all stripes,
Yet are small types,
Of those sharp pains Rebellion justly fears.
See how
Th' unmasked people hiss us out of doors,
And call us Knave.
Because though We, their Servants be,
We made them but our Slaves.
For since
We laid the Country wast like ravenous Boors ,
They seek our bloods,
Our Hands
Because they prize their Liberties,
But to devour their Goods
We dip'd in Royal blood, to take his Lands
At our Commands,
And made 3. Kingdoms headless at one blow.

The strife
We caus'd was chiefly to cut off his life,
With cursed Knife;
He that was Vertues Friend, must be our foe made
Religion do our Drudgery to base Ends.
But now we find,
They that do sow pretences, mow
A Harvest of the wind.
And now
When clamorous vengeance calling for amends
Begins our grief,
Our Friend the Devil, with his Evill,
Can give us no relief.

Go search
All Lands beneath the Suns Star-spangled perch,
You'l find no Church
Like ours, while reverend Bishops held the chair.
But those
We know with our designs would never close;
And therefore chose
In their steads to set up Extempore prayer.
Poached Eyes,
And words twang'd through a whining Lecturers Nose
Did fill our Purses,
That many have Rings, and better things,
Which now give only curses.
And thus
Hell was our Text, though Heav'n were our Gloze
And Will our Reason,
Religion we made free of Hocus trade,
And voted Loyalty Treason.

Since we
With wicked Armes have made the Crosier flee,
Errour is free
To lay her nets, to make weak minds her prize,
All Sects,
Schismes cursed Heresies with stubborn necks,
Corrupt our Texts,
And crane up Scripture to maintain their lyes.
You see
The crop-ear'd Anabaptist sowing Tares
In every ground,
Though the Plagues of War, wherever they are
The Church and State confound.
So do
The Roman Noses vend their Popish wares,
By twylight still;
And the Quaker half mad, though he looks so sad,
Grinds in the Jesuites Mill.

Our Drums
Did drown our Process, and our Writs; our Plums
Bid kiss our Bums,
We sent our Laws and Persons to the Tower;
From whence
To be deliver'd, 'twas in vain to fence
By talking sense;
No Habeas Corpus in the Court of Power.
The Gown
Did stoop the Reverend Velvet to a crew
In short Red-coats,
Who many a day, have made you pay,
For cutting your own throats.
We rob'd
The whole of Food to pamper out the few,
Exciz'd your Wares,
And tax'd you round, sixpence the pound,
And massacred your Bears.

But now
Despairs black clouds do hang upon our brow,
For all do bow
Their hearts to their true Shepheard,
Charles their King.
And we,
The Wolfish Rulers now must Subjects be
To destiny,
And end our Junito in a fatal string.
Then learn
All future Traytors by our Tragick doom,
E're 'tis too late,
Lest when you make Kingdoms to shake,
You copy out your fate.
We know
Our high affronts to Church and State make Room
For us in Hell;
But yet we'l hope, till the sad Rope
Sayes bid the World farewell .