Soon his unhallow’d fingers stript
His sovereign-liege of power and land;
And, having smote his master, slipt
His sword into his fellow’s hand;
But he that wears his eyes may note
Oft-times the butcher binds a goat,
And leaves his boy to cut her throat.
Poor England felt his fury then
Outweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains;
His very preaching slew more men
Than Bonnar’s faggots, stakes, and chains:
With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas,
He fought, and taught, and, what’s notorious,
Destroy’d his Lord to make him glorious.
Yet drew for King and Parliament,
As if the wind could stand north-south;
Broke Moses’ law with blest intent,
Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth:
Oblivion alters not his case,
Nor clemency nor acts of grace
Can blanch an Ethiopian’s face.
Ripe for rebellion, he begins
To rally up the saints in swarms;
He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins,
But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms:
Thus he’s grown insolently rude,
Thinking his gods can’t be subdued—
Money, I mean, and multitude.
Magistrates he regards no more
Than St George or the King of Colon,
Vowing he’ll not conform before
The old wives wind their dead in woollen:
He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff,
And makes his power as mere a scoff
As Dagon when his hands were off.
Hark! how he opens with full cry,
Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome!
Cowards that are afraid to die
Thus make domestic brawls at home.
How quietly great Charles might reign,
Would all these Hotspurs cross the main
And preach down Popery in Spain.
The starry rule of Heaven is fixt,
There’s no dissension in the sky;
And can there be a mean betwixt,
Confusion and conformity?
A place divided never thrives,
’Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives,
But worse when children play with knives.
I would as soon turn back to mass,
Or change my praise to Thee and Thou;
Let the Pope ride me like an ass,
And his priests milk me like a cow!
As buckle to Smectymnian laws,
The bad effects o’ th’ Good old Cause,
That have dove’s plumes, but vulture’s claws.
For ’twas the holy Kirk that nursed,
The Brownists and the ranters’ crew;
Foul error’s motley vesture first
Was oaded [98] in a northern blue;
And what’s th’ enthusiastick breed,
Or men of Knipperdolin’s creed,
But Cov’nanters run up to seed!
Yet they all cry they love the King,
And make boast of their innocence:
There cannot be so vile a thing
But may be cover’d with pretence;
Yet when all’s said, one thing I’ll swear,
No subject like th’ old Cavalier,
No traytor like Jack-Presbyter.