Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength,
So sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
We might find intermission,
And had but half we had before,
Ere these mechanics sway’d;
To our revenge, knee-deep in gore,
We would not fear to wade.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
In vain (fond people) do you grutch
And tacitly repine.
For why? my skill and strength are such
Both poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both cohered
To raise us to this height:
You must protect those you have rear’d,
Or sink beneath their weight.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Singing with angels near the throne
Of the Almighty Three
I sit, and know perdition
(Base Cromwell) waits on thee,
And on thy vile associates:
Twelve months [35] shall full conclude
Your power—thus speak the powerful fates,
Then vades your interlude.
Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time,
The most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our time
To hell must post away.
Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws,
And so impair their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause
Or other novel things!
A SHORT LITANY FOR THE YEAR 1649.
By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.)