Part 15

What’s he that doth high treason say, As often as his yea and nay, And wish the King confounded; And dares maintain that Mr Pim Is fitter for a crown than him? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that if he chance to hear A little piece of Common Prayer, Doth think his conscience wounded; Will go five miles to preach and pray, And meet a sister by the way? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that met a holy sister And in a haycock gently kiss’d her? Oh! then his zeal abounded: ’Twas underneath a shady willow, Her Bible served her for a pillow, And there he got a Roundhead.

PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE UNDER THE ROSE.

From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

THERE is an old proverb which all the world knows, Anything may be spoke, if ’t be under the rose: Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint, Of the state of the land, and th’ enormities in’t.

Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves, More than ever were known in a State before; But I hope that their mischiefs have digg’d their own graves, And we’ll never trust knaves for their sakes any more.

Under the rose be it spoken, the city’s an ass So long to the public to let their gold run, To keep the King out; but ’tis now come to pass, I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won.

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a company of men, Trainbands they are called—a plague confound ’em:— And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall, May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all!

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a damn’d committee Sits in hell (Goldsmiths’ Hall), in the midst of the city, Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers— The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears.

Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament, Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King, Then Derrick {32} may chance have ’em all in a string.

Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive; For all they have spoken or taught will ne’er save ’em, Unless they will leave that fault, hell’s sure to have ’em!

THE DOMINION OF THE SWORD.

A song made in the Rebellion.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. To the tune of “Love lies a bleeding.”

LAY by your pleading, Law lies a bleeding; Burn all your studies down, and Throw away your reading.

Small pow’r the word has, And can afford us Not half so much privilege as The sword does.

It fosters your masters, It plaisters disasters, It makes the servants quickly greater Than their masters.

It venters, it enters, It seeks and it centers, It makes a’prentice free in spite Of his indentures.

It talks of small things, But it sets up all things; This masters money, though money Masters all things.

It is not season To talk of reason, Nor call it loyalty, when the sword Will have it treason.

It conquers the crown, too, The grave and the gown, too, First it sets up a presbyter, and Then it pulls him down too.

This subtle disaster Turns bonnet to beaver; Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up Starts a weaver.

This makes a layman To preach and to pray, man; And makes a lord of him that Was but a drayman.

Far from the gulpit Of Saxby’s pulpit, This brought an Hebrew ironmonger To the pulpit.

Such pitiful things be More happy than kings be; They get the upper hand of Thimblebee And Slingsbee.

No gospel can guide it, No law can decide it, In Church or State, till the sword Has sanctified it.

Down goes your law-tricks, Far from the matricks, Sprung up holy Hewson’s power, And pull’d down St Patrick’s.