From the Fanaticks pestilential Breed;
An Offspring sprung from that most odious Race,
Whose Hanging would the Tripple-Tree disgrace.
The Royal Captive here remained in Tears,
Till Bradshaw doom’d a Period to his Years;
But now the injur’d Saint in Peace does dwell,
While those that judg’d him, burning are in Hell.
Getting cross the Water again, from this dismal Isle, I no sooner set Foot upon Terra firma, but I made the best of my Way for Berkshire; where I took a Survey of Windsor Castle, and then thought myself as well Qualify’d as any Knight of the Garter, to take a Pilgrimage whither I pleas’d: So with a full Body, and an empty Stomach, (for you must know, we Pilgrims live not very daintily) I went into Wiltshire, where I as much admired the Cathedral of Salisbury, (as an Antiquary, doth an old Tomb; who will go forty Miles, and more to see it) because it contain’d as many Windows about it, as a German Countess did once Children in her Womb, which were just three hundred sixty five, the precise Number of Days in the Year, unless it happens to be Bissextile or Leap-Year, which has one Day more. Hence, I went with a light Heart, and a thin Pair of Breeches into Dorsetshire; where being nothing remarkable to take Notice of, it came into my Noddle to make the following Acrostick on Nothing.
N othing was the first Matter made the World;
O n Man e’er since nothing but Plagues are hurl’d.