CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
But there’s a Thunderer above,
Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune’s wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.
Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
Excise doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate’er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We’ll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the elected ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
But you may fail of your fair hopes,
If fates propitious be;
And yield your loathed lives in ropes
To vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish join,
The Cumbrian and the Scot
Do with the Danes and French combine,
Then look unto your lot.