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.