And only end where we begun ? If men in peace can have their right, That breaks both law and oath ? Either the caufe at firft was ill, And thence they will infer, That either now or at the first They were deceiv'd; or, which is worst, But plague and famine will come in, And cannot go afunder: But while the wicked ftarve, indeed Princes we are if we prevail, When to our fame 'tis told, It will not be our leaft of praise, To have deftroy'd the old. Then 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, To the Five Members of the Honourable HOUSE OF COMMON S. The humble Petition of the POETS. AFTER fo many concurring petitions From all ages and fexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though fet form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their fouls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the blefs'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. And And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please, By this we have power to change age into youth, They 're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet We are modeft, and seek not to make it our own. And between thofe and ours there's no difference, Although the old maxim remains ftill in force, That a fanctify'd cause must have a fanctify'd course, So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, You have made king Charles himself a poet: A WESTERN WONDER. Do you not know, not a fortnight ago, When a hundred and ten flew five thousand men, There Hopton was flain, again and again, Or elfe my author did lye; With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are living, To God, and his fervant Chidleigh. But now on which fide was this miracle try'd, I hope we at last are even; For Sir Ralph and his knaves are rifen 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 For now he out-runs his arms and his guns, What Reading hath coft, and Stamford hath loft, These wounds will not heal, with your new great feal, and grace, Now, Peters and Cafe, in your prayer A SECOND WESTERN WONDER. γου heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and Which made the lye so much the louder : O what a damp it ftruck through the camp! It blew him to the Vies, without beard or eyes, |