« EelmineJätka »
Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Oh ’tis a patient beast !
We'll have the spoil at least.
AFTER so many
And first, ’tis to speak whatever we please,
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.
A WESTERN WONDER.
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 ;
At Plymouth again they will find him.
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.
A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.
You heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and
Which was done with a firkin of Powder.
O what a damp it struck through the camp
But as for honest Sir Ralph,
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
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.