Balaams Asse, OR THE CITY-FAST FOR Cursing the KING: and Blessing OLIVER.
VVith the Peoples SPEECH to their Independent Drivers.
And the Asses Sacrifice, or good speed to OLIVER.
⟨July 13th⟩ Printed in the Yeare 1649.
BALAAMS ASSE: OR, The City-Fast, for Cursing the KING: And Blessing OLIVER.
WHether for gain, wil our blind Prophets ride?
Whether will Lucre carry them, and Pride?
They'le ride o're Angels, Curse, doe any thing:
Curse not (sayes God) yes, they will curse the King;
Not in their heart, in that close corner, no,
They will begin to God, and Face him too.
As if they'nd Ormond Exorcize by Spells,
They'l raise his siege with Books, new Lights, & Bels
Goodwyn will preach down Batteries, and spout
Out his hold-forths, that Dublin may hold out.
Peters has chang'd his Tub, and though much spent
Will shew his guift for Pox, and parliament.
How lean the Saint looks with his Rogueries!
H' has been with Rahab entertaining Spies:
How he wheezes against Rupert! his blew lips
Shew, that his straits do vex him more then ships.
The Prophet sure hath sprung a Leak; good daughter
Helpe for to stop him shot, twixt wind, and water.
Harke how th' Inchanters do conjure? Tis Spell:
The text is Gods the comment is from Hell.
So witches say the Pater Noster; (Strong
Carill, and Bond do not, I do them wrong,)
They cannot say that prayer, that striks them dumb
To thinke of Gods, or any Kingdome come.
Look how they wrack the Scriptures as their faces,
Mount Rosse and Ormond are their Common-places
These two are called Jabin and Sisera,
And Lamberts wife the Jael of the day,
Crumwell must drive the Nayle, It followes, (marke
Beloved Forresters of your New-Parke,)
The filthy Swedes, and Danes that gainst you sight,
They are the Hagarens and Moabite,
Oneal is Og, Clanrickard Sihon grimme,
Dillon and Tass the sonnes or Anakim,
Rupert is Hiram, who in Shittini wood
Plunders our Merchants for our Solomons good,
Not to be too profain in verse, (as those
Who stand three houres prophaner far in prose)
This leventh of July's Most absurdly spent,
T'abuse Gods will in either Testament,
To drive an Asse, (These Prophets drive the Asse
The People) gainst the Angell in the Passe.
'T would make a Beast to speak: A word or tway
Suffer good Balaams from your Asse I pray.
Balaams Asse. Or, The Peoples speech to their Independent drivers.
HAve I not serv'd you now these ful seven years
Have I not prickt to all you said, these Eares,
These most attentive Luggs? and have not I
Drawn you the Dunces out of poverty,
The mire of Conventicles? that you dare,
Appear in publicke, with your Parlour ware,
Do you not eate by me, is not your Silke
Your stipend, dyet, All of Asses milke?
How have you squees'd my teates, O covetous Brood
You draw not milke, now, but the very blood:
Was ever such an Asse (though well to passe,
Pembroke himselfe is not a hunger Asse,)
The Prophet rode this Asse, so doe you me,
Now Jocky Saints, late for Presbytery.
But now since that the Angell of the Land
Stands with his Booke, not sword in his just hand,
Shewing my follies, and cryes Asse return;
O how my angry Balaams furies burn!
How they doe switch and goad the Tutord Beast!
Holding forth Swords and Muskets at my breast,
And drive me on, through that milde Angels word,
Upon another, with a flaming Sword.
I see thee (blessed Angell) and thy book,
And will not on, but on thy sufferings look!
When I was fat, I winch'd against thy power,
Now lean and lanck, I curse that wanton houre.
Impute not to the Asse, (unlesse it be
Before enlightened by thy Book, and Thee)
His bold adventures: But when Lion-like,
For those offences, just Revenge shall strike.
Then let that Lion the false Prophets stay,
But let thy couzend Asse escape away.
The Asses Sacrifice, Or, Good speed to Oliver.
VVHether by Land, or Sea, thy Army go,
Like Earth as Corah, Seas, as Pharo know;
And though our Albion shoars are white, we wou'd
Have them made Rubicon with your own blood.
Such faith as to your King you shew'd, find yee:
Be all the Elements your Enemy.
May you be beat by shot, you scorn, your lot
Be it to fall by your late beaten Scot.
That in the blood of this high couzening Saint,
They may yet purge their cheating Covenant,
But if from Chester you for Ireland go,
let the divided waves your black graves show.
And foaming Rupert like a Mercury,
Drive your proud Soules to their just destiny.
Or, if you land in Ireland; Bee it true,
Ireland all Vermine kills, and prov'd in you.
O for a clap of Thunder to applaud
The wish! Revenge for Charles, Strafford, & Laud
Revenge for Capel, Lucas, Lifle, and when
You'r shipd; let the Sea Roare a shrill
Amen.
FINIS.