But to proceed, that we may come
Nearer to our conclufion :
The cunning fox the lion takes
Thro' unfrequented woods and brakes;
As thieves do paffengers which they
Intend to bind and ftrip, or flay;
Juft fo it happen'd, as you'll hear,
For as they travell'd without fear,
He leads him to a place they call,
In country language, a trap-fall:
He had no fooner stepp'd upon
This engine of destruction,
But through he falls into a pit,
From whence he no ways out could get.
The fox no fooner faw him in,
But he began to bark and grin;
To rail, demand, and, more to move
The royal beaft, did thus reprove :
'Tis doubtlefs for your punishment,
This judgment by the gods is fent.
You've been, I fear, too oft unjust,
And with your fubjects broke your trust;
Have fretch'd prerogative too high,
And trefpass'd upon property:
All which must be reflor'd and mended,
E'er this calamity be ended.
The beaft, whofe noble heart and foul
No dangers, no diftrefs, controul,
To the bafe varlet thus replies:
I thee and thy advice defpife,
Tho' by my own distress and thy
Falfe vows, and oaths, and flattery,
I'm hither brought, yet I determine,
Not to betray my trust, false vermin,
Nothing fhall make me do a thing
Below the glory of a king.
Quoth Reynard, Since you are fo flout,
I won't attempt to bring you out:
If you don't think a compofition
May be of use in your condition,
Here you may lie, and farve, and rot ;
So to the brink o'th' pit he got,
And in his filthy tail he pifs'd,
And gave it in his face a twist.
The royal brute, altho' a creature,
Adorn'd with all the gifts of nature,
One that could fuffer perfecution,
And martyrdom with resolution,
To be thus pifs'd upon and treated,
You must suppose was something heated.
He would have spoke, but 'twas in vain
For kings in prison to complain,
So the poor beaft had no permiffion
To represent his hard condition:
For Reynard, like an artful traytor,
Had fo contriv'd and fix'd the matter,
That all the tygers, wolves, and bears,
Already were about his ears.
His tryal, fentence, and his death,
Another fable ball fet forth,
Which I intend, to fhew my art,
To call this fable's fecond part.
A Thought upon Death, after bearing of the Murder of King Charles I.
HE glories of our birth and state
Are fhadows, not fubftantial things;
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hands on kings.
Scepter and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the duft be equal laid,
With the poor crooked fcythe and spade.
Some men with fwords may reap the field,
And plaint fresh laurels where they kill,
But their ftrong nerves at laft muft yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,
They ftoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
Whilft the pale captive yields to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boaft no more your mighty deeds,
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell fweet and bloffom in the duft.
An Epitaph upon King Charles I.
TAY, paffenger, ftay here, and fee,
Intomb'd lies injur'd majefty;
Why trembleft not? here's that would make
All but a harden'd rebel quake.
A king! O! ftarts thou not to hear,
A murder'd king lies bury'd here?
Search all the records of old times,
And mufter up all ages crimes,
And roll 'em up in one great mafs,
'Twill fall far fhort of what this was.
A monarch fentenc'd to his death,
By vulgar, bafe, plebeian breath,
A lawgiver, by laws unknown,
Condemn'd to lofe his head and throne;
Nay, and to make the odium more,
This must be done at his own door,
And all under the falfe pretence
Of liberty and confcience.
A fhort Litany for the Year 1649.
ROM all the mischiefs I fhall mention here, Preferve us, heaven, in this approaching year; From civil wars, and those uncivil things, That hate the race of all our queens and kings; From those who, for felf-ends, would all betray; From faints that curfe and flatter when they pray; From those that hold it merit to rebel, In treafon, murders, and in theft excel;
From those new teachers have destroy'd the old,
And those that turn the gofpel into gold;
From a high-court and that rebellious crew,
That did their hands in royal blood imbrue;
Defend us, heaven, and to the throne reftore
The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.
Upon the Storm at the death of Dliver Cromwell, revers'd out of Mr Waller's fine Piece of Flattery.
HEN take him, devil! hell his foul doth claim,
In ftorms as loud as his king-murthering fame.
His cheating groans and tears have shook this ifle,
Cleft Britain's oaks, for Britain's funeral pile.
Now, at his exit, trees uncut are toft
Into the air; fo Fauftus once was loft.
Rome mift her first, so London her last king,
Both kill'd, then wept, and fell to worshiping.
We in a storm of wind our Nimrod loft,
King'd him, and fainted him, then curfs'd his ghost.
In Oeta's flames thus Hercules lay dead,
In Worcester's flames, he on his raving bed;
He fome fcragg'd oaks and pines from mountains rent,
This ftole two brave ifles from the continent;
Ravag'd whole towns; and that his Spanish theft,
As a curft legacy to Britain left.
The feas, which, with our hopes, God had confin'd,
The devil made to narrow for his mind;
Our bounds enlargement was his greatest toil,
He made our prifon greater than our ifle.
Under the line our enflav'd cries are spoke,
And we and Dunkirk draw but in one yoke.
From broils he made, he best could difengage;
From his own head diverts our purchas'd rage:
And by fine state-art, to his country fhow'd,
How to be flaves at home, and thieves abroad.
Confederate ufurpers quake to fee,
The grave not under pow'r of tyranny;
Nature fhrunk up at this great monster's death,
And fwell'd the feas with much affrighted breath;
Then to the bounding fhore her billows roll'd,
The approaching fate of Europe's troubles told.
A Song on Oliver's Court.
E that would a new courtier be,
And of the late coin'd gentry,
A brother of the prick-ear'd crew,
Half a Prefbyter, half a Jew,
When he is dipt in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd his hands in royal blood,
Let him to our court repair,
Where all trades and religions are.
If he can devoutly pray,
Feaft upon a fafting day,
Be longer bleffing a warm bit,
Than the cook was dreffing it,
With covenants and oaths difpenfe,
Betray his lord for forty pence,
Let him to our court repair, &c.
If to be one of the eating tribe,
Both a Pharifee, and a Scribe,
And hath learn'd the fnivelling tone
Of a fluxt devotion,
Curfing from his fweating tub
The cavaliers to Belzebub,
Who fickler than the city ruff,
Can change his brewer's coat to buff,
His dray-cart to a coach, the beast
Into two Flanders mares at least,
Nay hath the heart to murder kings,
Like David, only with his flings;
Let him &c.
If he can invert the word,
Turning his ploughfhare to a fword,
His caflock to a coat of mail,
?Gainft bishops and the clergy rail,
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