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Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat ;

Oh ’tis a patient beast !
When we have gaul'd and tir'd the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,

We'll have the spoil at least.

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AFTER so many

concurring petitions
From all ages and sexes, and all conditions,
We come in the rear to present our follies
To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Holles.
Though set form of prayer be an abomination,
Set forms of petitions find great approbation :
Therefore, as others from th’ bottom of their souls,
So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls,
According unto the bless’d form you have taught us,
We thank you first for the ills you have brought us :
For the good we receive we thank him that gave it,
And you for the confidence only to crave it.
Next in course, we complain of the great violation
Of privilege (like the rest of our nation)
But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken,
Which never had being until they were broken ;
But ours is a privilege ancient and native,
Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.


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And first, ’tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivants fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
But in that also you have got the priority.
Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it
Poetical license, and always did claim it.
By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonsense to sense, and falfhood to truth
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;
This art some poet, or the devil has taught ye :
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both houses have made it.
But that trust above all in poets reposed,
That kings by them only are made and deposed,
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing :
But when we undertake deposing or killing,
They ’re tyrants and monsters ; and yet then the poet,
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it ;
And when we resume a fceptre or crown,
We are modest, and seek not to make it our own.
But is 't not presumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two ?
For all those pretty knacks you compose,
Alas, what are they but poems in profe?
And between those and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense :
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)
You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it ;
And though you are modest and seem to abhor it,
"T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it :


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Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a sanctify'd cause must have a fanctify'd course, If

poverty be a part of our trade, So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Nay even so far as undoing will do it, You have made king Charles himself a poer : But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows, Already you have had too much of his profe.



Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,

How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder? When a hundred and ten flew five thousand men,

With the help of lightning and thunder ? There Hopton was fain, again and again,

Or else my author did lye ; With a new Thankfgiving, for the dead who are living,

To God, and his fervant Chidleigh.

But now on whick fide was this miracle try'd,

I hope we at last are even ; For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves,

To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame

Of the gout three months together ; But it prov’d, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever,



For now he out-runs his arms and his guns,

And leaves all his money behind him ;
But they follow after ; unless he takes water,

At Plymouth again they will find him.

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What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost,

Goes deep in the sequestrations ; These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal,

Nor Jepson's declarations.

Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace,

Remember the new Thanksgiving ; Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,

Or shortly you'll dig for your living.


You heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and

Which made the lye so much the louder :
Now lift to another, that miracle's brother,

Which was done with a firkin of Powder.


O what a damp it struck through the camp

But as for honest Sir Ralph,
It blew him to the Vies, without Heard or eyes,
But at least three heads and a half.


When out came the book, which the News-monger took

From the Preaching Ladies letter, Where in the first place, stood the Conqueror's face,

Which made it shew much the better.

But now without lying, you may paint him Aying,

At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, so fast he did run,

That he left half his name behind him.

And now came the post, save all that was loft,

But alas, we are past deceiving
By a trick fo ftale, or else such a tale

Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.


This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,

In the pulpit to fall a weeping, Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his eyes,

Which kept the Lord-mayor from sleeping.

Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,

For the laws not your caufe, you that loath 'em, Les Essex thould start, and play the second part

Of the worshipful Sir John Hotham.


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