The Kings disguise. Cleveland, John, 1613-1658. 1646 Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 4 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A79958 Wing C4678 Thomason E372_2 ESTC R201311 99861835 99861835 113980

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A79958) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 113980) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 59:E372[2]) The Kings disguise. Cleveland, John, 1613-1658. 6, [2] p. s.n., [London : 1647] Caption title. Attributed to John Cleveland by Wing. Imprint from Wing. The final leaf is blank. In verse. Annotation on Thomason copy: page 1: "Jan: 21 London 1646 [i.e. 1647] by Jo. Cleveland Poet"; line 4, between 'Allegiance' and 'to': "now"; page 2: line 2: 'Whose' crossed out and replaced by "His"; line 9: 'Flay an Egyptian from his Cassock skin' altered to "an Egyptian for his Cassock skin, flea."; line 13: 'No' altered to "Nor"; line 17: 'Gaolers' altered to "Taylors"; line 20: 'Would' altered to "Will"; page 3: line 21: 'Princes' altered to "Prince is"; page 5: line 17: 'untrussers' altered to "Intruders"; page 6: line 8: 'Interpret' altered to "T'Interpret". Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Charles -- I, -- King of England, 1600-1649 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2007-03 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-04 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-05 Sampled and proofread 2007-05 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
THE KINGS DISGUISE. ANd why a Tenant to this vile diſguiſe, Which who but ſees blaſphemes thee with his eyes? My Twins of Light within their Pent-houſe ſhrink, And hold it their Allegeance to wink. Oh for a State-diſtinction to arraigne CHARLES of High-Treaſon 'gainſt my Soveraigne. What an uſurper to his Prince is wont, Cloyſter and ſhave him, He himſelfe hath don't. His muffled feature ſpeaks him a Recluſe, Whoſe Ruines prove him a Religious Houſe. The Sun hath mov'd his beams from off his lamp, And Majeſty defac'd the Royall ſtamp. Is't not enough thy Dignity's in thrall, But thou'lt tranſmute it in thy ſhape and all? As if thy Blacks were of too faint a dye Without the tincture of Tautologie. Flay an Egyptian from his Caſſock skin, Spun of his Countreys darkneſſe, line't within With Presbyterian budge, that drowſie trance, The Synods ſable, foggy ignorance. No bodily nor ghoſtly Negro could Rough-caſt thy figure in a ſadder mould: This Privie-chamber of thy ſhape would be But the Cloſe mourner of thy Royaltie. 'Twill breake the circle of thy Gaolcrs ſpell, A Pearle within a rugged Oyſters ſhell. Heaven, which the Minſter of thy Perſon ownes, Would fine thee for Dilapidations. Like to a martyr'd Abbeys courſer doome, Devoutly altered to a Pigeon roome: Or like the Colledge by the changeling rabble, Mancheſters Elves, reform'd into a Stable. Or if there be a prophanation higher, Such is the Sacriledge of thine Attire. By which th'art halfe depos'd, thou look'ſt like one Whoſe lookes are under Sequeſtration. Whoſe Renegado forme at the firſt glance Shews like the ſelfe-denying Ordinance. Angell of light, and darkneſſe too, I doubt, Inſpir'd within, and yet poſſeſs'd without. Majeſtick twilight in the ſtate of grace, Yet with an excommunicated face. Charles and his Maske are of a different mint, A Pſalme of mercy in a miſcreant print. The Sunne weares Midnight, Day is Beetle-brow'd, And Lightning is in Keldar of a cloud. Oh the accurſt Stenographie of fate! The Princely Eagle ſhrunk into a Bat. What charme, what Magick vapour can it be That ſhrinks his rayes to this Apoſtaſie? It is no ſubtile filme of Tiffany ayre, No Cob-web vizard, ſuch as Ladyes weare, When they are vayl'd on purpoſe to be ſeene, Doubling their luſtre by their vanquiſht Skreene: Nor the falſe ſcabberd of a Prince • tough, And three pil'd darkneſſe, like unto the ſlough Of an impriſoned flame, 'tis Faux in graine Darke Lanthorne to our high Meridian. Hell belcht the dampe, the Warwick-Caſtle-Vote Rang Britan's Curfeu, ſo our light went out. Thy viſage is not legible, the Letters Like a Lords name writ in fantaſtick fetters, Cloathes where a Switzer might be buryed quick, Sure they would fit the Body Politique. Falſe beard enough to fit a Stages plot, For that's the ambuſh of their wit, God wot. Nay all his properties ſo ſtrange appeare, Y'are not i'th' preſence, though the King be there. A Libell is his dreſſe, a garbe uncouth, Such as the Hue and Cry once purg'd at mouth. Scribling Aſſaſinate, thy lines atteſt An eare marke due; Cubbe of the Blatant Beaſt, Whoſe breath before 'tis ſyllabled for worſe Is Blaſphemy unfledg'd, a Callow curſe. The Laplanders when they would ſell a wind Wafting to hell, bagge up thy phraſe, and binde It to the Barque, which at the voyage end▪ Shifts Poope, and brings the Collick in the Fiend. But I'll not dubbe thee with a glorious ſcar, Nor ſink thy Skuller with a Man of War. The black-mouth'd Si quis, and this ſlandering ſuite, Both doe alike in picture execute. But ſince w'are all call'd Papiſts, why not date, Devotion to the Rags thus conſecrate. As Temples uſe to have their Porches wrought With Sphynxes, creatures of an antick draught: And puzling Pourtraitures to ſhew that there Riddles inhabited, the like is here. But pardon Sir, ſince I preſume to be Clarke of this Cloſet to Your Majeſty: Methinks in this your dark myſterious dreſſe I ſee the Goſpel coucht in Parables. At my next view, my pur-blind fancy ripes, And ſhews Religion in its dusky types. Such a Text Royall, ſo obſcure a ſhade Was Solomon in Proverbs all array'd. Come all ye Brats of this expounding age, To whom the Spirit is in pupill age; You that damne more then ever Sampſon ſlew, And with his engine, the ſame jaw-bone too: How is't he ſcapes your Inquiſition free, Since bound up in the Bibles Liverie? Hence Cabinet-untruſſers, Pick-locks hence, You that dimne jewels with your Briſtol-ſenſe: And Characters, like Witches, ſo torment, Till they confeſſe a guilt, though innocent. Keyes for this Coffer you can never get, None but S. Peter's op's this Cabinet. This Cabinet, whoſe aſpect would benight Critick ſpectators with redundant Iight. A Prince moſt ſeene, is leaſt: What Scriptures call The Revelation, is moſt myſticall. Mount then thou Shadow Royall, and with haſte Advance thy Morning Star, Charles's overcaſt. May thy ſtrange journey, contradictions twiſt, And force faire vveather from a Scottiſh miſt. Heavens Confeſſors are pos'd, thoſe Star-ey'd Sages Interpret an Eclipſe, thus riding ſtages. Thus Iſrael-like he travels with a cloud, Both as a Conduct to him, and a ſhroud. But oh! he goes to Gibeon, and renews A league with mouldy bread and clouted ſhooes. FINIS.