Shall Presbyterian bells ring Cromwel's praise,
While we stand still and do no Trophies raise
Unto his lasting name? Then may we be
Hung up like bells for our malignity:
Well may his Nose, that is dominical,
Take pepper in't, to see no Pen at all
Stir to applaud his merits, who hath lent
Such valour, to erect a monument
Of lasting praise; whose name shall never dye,
While England has a Church, or Monarchy
He whom the laurell'd Army home did bring
Riding Triumphant o'r his conquer'd King,
He is the Generals Cypher now; and when
He's joyn'd to him, he makes that one a Ten
The Kingdomes Saint; England no more shall stir
To cry St George , but now St. Oliver :
He's the Realms Ensign; and who goes to wring
His Nose, is forc'd to cry, God save the King .
He that can rout an Army with his name,
And take a City, ere he views the same:
His Souldiers may want bread, but ne'r shall fear
(While he's their General,) the want of Beer;
No Wonder they wore Bayes, his Brewing-fat
( Helicon -like) makes Poets Laureat:
When Brains in those Castalian liquors swim,
We sing no Heathenish Pean, but an Hymn;
And that by th'Spirit too, for who can chuse
But sing Hosanna to this King of Jews?
Tremble you Scottish zealots, you that han't
Freed any Conscience from your Covenant:
That for those bald Appellatives of Cause,
Religion, and the Fundamental Laws,
Have pull'd the old Episcopacy down;
And as the Miter, so you'll serve the Crown:
You that have made the Cap to th'Bonnet vail,
And made the Head a servant to the Tail
And you curst spawn of Publicans, that sit
In every County, as a plague to it;
That with your Yeomen Sequestrating Knaves,
Have made whole Counties beggarly, and slaves
You Synod that have sate so long to know
Whether we must believe in God, or no;
You that have torn the Church, and sate t'impaire
The Ten Commandements, the Creed, the Prayer;
And made your honours pull down heavens glory,
While you set up that Calf, your Directory:
We shall no wicked Jews-car'd Elders want,
This Army's made of Churches Militant:
These are new Tribes of Levi ; for they be
Clergy, yet of no University.
Pull down your Crests; for every bird shall gather,
From your usurping backs a stolen feather:
Your Great Lay-Levite Prynne whose Margent tires
The patient Reader, while he blots whole quires,
Nay reams with Treason; and with Nonsence too,
To justifie what e'r you say or do:
Whose circumcised ears are hardly grown
Ripe for another Persecution:
He must to Scotland for another pair;
For he will lose these, if he tarry here
Burges that Reverend Presby-dean of Pauls ,
Must (with his Poundage) leave his Cure of Souls,
And into Scotland trot, that he may pick
Out of the Kirk, a nick-nam'd Bishoprick
And Will the Conquerour in a Scottish dance,
Must lead his running Army into France .
And that still-gaping Tophet Goldsmiths-Hall ,
With all its Furies, shall to ruine fall.
We'll be no more gull'd by that Popish story,
But shall reach heav'n without that Purgatory:
What honour does he merit, what renown
By whom all these oppressions are pull'd down:
And such a Government is like to be
In Church and State, as eye did never see:
Magicians think he'll set up Common-Prayer;
Looking in's face, they find the Rubrick there:
His Name shall never dye, by fire nor floud,
But in Church-windows stand, where pictures stood:
And if his soul loathing that house of clay,
Shall to another Kingdome march away,
Under some Barns-floor his bones shall lye,
Who Churches did, and Monurments defie:
Where the rude Thrasher, with much knocking on,
Shall wake him at the Resurrection.
And on his Grave, since there must be no Stone,
Shall stand this Epitaph; That he has none .