Well, let the truth be where it will,
We’re sure all else is ours;
Yet these divisions in our religions
May chance abate our powers.
Then let’s agree on some one way,
It skills not much how true;
Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, [33]
Or any sect old or new;
The devil’s i’ th’ pack, if choyce you can lack,
We’re fourscore religions strong;
Take your choyce, the major voyce
Shall carry it, right or wrong.
“Then wee’le be of this,” sayes Megg;
“Nay, wee’le be of that,” sayes Tibb;
“Nay, wee’le be of all,” sayes pitifull Paul;
“Nay, wee’le be of none,” sayes Gibb.
Neighbours and friends, pray one word more,
There’s something yet behinde;
And wise though you be, you doe not well see
In which doore sits the winde.
As for religion to speake right,
And in the Houses sence,
The matter’s all one to have any or none,
If ’twere not for the pretence.
But herein doth lurke the key of the worke,
Even to dispose of the crowne,
Dexteriously, and as may be,
For your behoofe and your owne.
“Then let’s ha’ King Charles,” sayes George;
“Nay, let’s have his son,” sayes Hugh;
“Nay, let’s have none,” sayes Jabbering Jone;
“Nay, let’s be all kings,” sayes Prue.
Oh we shall have (if we go on
In plunder, excise, and blood)
But few folke and poore to domineere ore,
And that will not be so good;
Then let’s resolve on some new way,
Some new and happy course,
The country’s growne sad, the city horne-mad,
And both the Houses are worse.
The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit,
And both to like purposes too;
Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause,
Are talk’t of, but nothing we doe.
“Come, come, shal’s ha’ peace?” sayes Nell;
“No, no, but we won’t,” sayes Madge;
“But I say we will,” sayes firy-faced Phill;
“We will and we won’t,” sayes Hodge.
Thus from the rout who can expect
Ought but division?
Since unity doth with monarchy
Begin and end in one.
If then when all is thought their owne,
And lyes at their behest,
These popular pates reap nought but debates,
From that many round-headed beast;
Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men,
And Cavaliers give the word;
Now let us see at what you would be,
And whether you can accord.
“A health to King Charles!” sayes Tom;
“Up with it,” sayes Ralph, like a man;
“God blesse him,” sayes Doll; “and raise him,” sayes Moll;
“And send him his owne!” sayes Nan.
Now for these prudent things that sit
Without end and to none,
And their committees, that townes and cities
Fill with confusion;
For the bold troopes of sectaries,
The Scots and their partakers,
Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates,
The covenant and its makers;
For all these wee’le pray, and in such a way,
As if it might granted be,
Jack and Gill, Mat and Will,
And all the world would agree.
“A plague take them all!” sayes Besse;
“And a pestilence too!” sayes Margery,
“The devill!” sayes Dick; “And his dam, [34] too!” sayes Nick;
“Amen! and Amen!” say I.
It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.
A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES,
A CROWN FOR CROMWELL,
AND A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.
From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
So, so, the deed is done,
The royal head is sever’d,
As I meant when I first begun,
And strongly have endeavour’d.
Now Charles the First is tumbled down,
The Second I do not fear;
I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown,
Nor for Jehovah care.