A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES: A CROWNE FOR CROMWELL: A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.
You may sing this to the Tune of faine I would.
1 Cromwell in the throne.
SO, so, the deed is done,
the Royall head is severd
As I meant, when I first begunne
and strongly have indeavord.
Now Charles the 1. is tumbled down,
the second, I not feare:
I graspe the Septer, weare the Crown,
nor for Jehovah care.
2 K. Charles in his Coffin.
Thinkst thou base slave, though in my grave,
Like other men I lie:
my sparkling fame and Royall Name
can (as thou wishest) die.
Know Caatiffe, in my sonne I live
(the black Prince calld by some)
And he shall ample vengeance give
to those that did me doome.
3 The people in the Pit.
Supprest, deprest, involvd in woes,
great Charles thy people be
Basely deceivd with specious showes,
by those that murtherd thee.
We are inslavd to Tyrants hests,
who have our freedome wonne:
Our fainting hopes, now ownly rests
on thy succeeding sonne.
4 Cromwell on the throne.
(Base vulgar) know the more you stirre
the more your woes increase,
Your rashnesse will your hopes deter:
(tis we) must give you peace.
Black Charles a Traytor is proclaimd
unto our dignity:
He dies (if ere by us hees gaind)
without all remidie.
5 K. Charles in his Coffin.
Thrice perjurd Villaine, didst not thou
and thy degenerate traine,
By mankinds saviours body, vow
to me thy Soveraigne,
To make me the most glorious King
that ere ore England raignd:
that me and mine in every thing
by you, should be maintaind.
6 The people in the pit.
Sweet Prince, O let us pardon crave
of thy beloved shade,
Tis we that brought thee, to the grave,
thou wert by us betraid.
We did beleeve, twas reformation,
these Monsters did desire:
Not knowing, that thy degradation
and death, should be our hire.
7 Cromwell on the throne,
Ye sick braind fools, whose wit doth lie
in your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy,
did claime no other due
But for to spend our dearest bloods,
to make Rascalians flee,
No, we fought for your lives and goods,
and for a Monarchie.
8 K. Charles in his Coffin.
But theres a thunderer above,
who though he winke a while,
Is not with your black deeds in love:
he hates your damned guile.
And though a time you pearce upon
the top of fortunes wheele,
You shortly unto Acharon,
(drunke with your crimes) shall reele.
9 The people in the pit.
Meanetime (thou glory of the earth)
we languishing doe die:
Excise doth give free-quarter birth
while Souldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
our money cuts our throats:
The Lawes are taken cleane away,
or shrunke to Traytors votes.
10 Cromwell on the throne.
Like patient Mules resolve to beare
what ere we shall impose,
Your lives and goods you need not feare
weel prove your friends not foes.
We (the Elected ones must guide
a thousand years this land,
You must be props unto our pride,
and Slaves to our command.
11 K. Charles in his coffin.
But you may faile of your faire hopes,
if Fates, propitious be
And yeeld your loathed lives in Ropes,
to vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish joyne,
the Cambrian and the Scot,
Do with the Danes, & French combine
then look unto your lot.
12 The people in the pit.
Our wrongs hath arm'd us with such strength
so sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
we might finde intermission,
And have but halfe we had before,
ere these Mechanicks swaid
To our revenge, knee deepe in gore
we would not feare to wade.
13 Cromwell in the throne.
In vaine (fond people) doe you grutch,
and tacitely repine.
For why, my skill and strength is such,
both Poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both coherd,
to raise us to this height:
You must protect, those you have reard
or sinke beneath their weight.
14 K. Charles in his coffin.
Singing with Angels, neere the throne,
of the Almighty three:
I sit and know perdition.
(base Cromwell) waites on thee
And on thy vile associates:
twelve moneths shall full conclude
Your power; thus speake the powerfull Fates,
then vades your interlude.
15 The people in the pit.
Yea powerfull Fates, haste, haste, the time
the most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our clime,
to hell must poste away.
Meanetime so pare their sharpned clawes
and so impare their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause,
nor other novell things.
FINIS.