WE have layn under Hatches many years,
Enthrall'd at first with Jealousies and fears:
Since then, th'Indulgence of Pope Oliver
Pardon'd all sins did to his Rise refer.
Then Dapper Dicky did succeed his Sire,
A very gentle, proper, ample Squire,
A Man of Wax, that each Fool work'd upon:
Fleetonian, or a Lambertonian,
They then prevailing, did prepare a Pack
Of all-together Knaves, walk, What d'yee lack:
This was the Rumpin, Thumpin, Rumpin RƲMP,
To Rhyme to which, my Wits I'm forc'd to Pump.
The Rump had not sate long, but it began
To stink i' th'Nostrils of th'Soulderian.
Wallingford-House gave light to Hewsons Eye,
To finde the ready way to Butchery.
The Sultan Lambert's Pride, with paces even,
Trac'd NOLL in Mr. Sterry's way to Heaven:
He sway'd the Officer with Swadling Clout,
Untill Your Excellency gave him the Rout:
You murther'd him in point of his Repute,
In that you Vanquish'd him without Dispute;
That, since (My Lord) You have appear'd, the Els
Is A la mort, and may go Hoyle himself.
Thus hath our late so famous Government,
Been, by the Teeth of Malice, torn and rent;
Which, to patch up again, the Cobler comes,
The Botcher, and the Tinker, with their Thumbs:
But your approach dispers'd that Rabble Rout,
Banish'd our Fears, and gave our Hopes no doubt:
So that we see your Word's of greater force,
Than the huge Menaces of Foot or Horse;
That, like Cyneas, you a Conquest gain
Where e're you come, and yet not any slain.
A Civil Garland hath Renown'd you more,
Than all his Bloody Triumphs did before:
Your Prudence hath brought Peace unto our Gates,
And knit the dislocated Joynts of States;
That, by instinct, We sensibly do feel
Our Center fixt, that late began to reel.
Religione purer Robe so rent and torn,
Will be made new, and in a sense, Re-born:
The Law so threatned to be Ham-string'd, now
Will finde Protection from your awful brow;
And Trading, that long time hath Bed-rid lain,
Will sprightly grow, and shake its Legs again:
That we, e're long, shall be so innocent,
As not to know what the word PLOT hath meant.
Then blame Us not, if that our Joyes abound;
What e're Our Reasons are, YOƲ are the Ground.

London, Printed for John Towers 1660.

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