O. Cromwells THANKES TO THE Lord Generall, Faithfully presented by Hugh Peters In another Conference.

Together with an Hue and Cry AFTER Mercurius Politicus.

London, Printed by M. T.

Cromwel's Thanks to the Lord Ge­neral, faithfully presented by HVGH PETERS.
Oliver Cromwell, having had a late Conference with the new Lord Generall, (truly reported by Hugh Peters, wherein he made an earnest request to his Excellency for the sending of severall per­sons to him, to receive their just Rewards, as well as himself, which by good Fortune is very much gratified) appeareth again to Peters in Saint Jamses Park; To whom he applieth himself after his wonted manner, as followeth.

Cromwell.

HOnest Hugh! Well met! Of all my old Acquaintance and Familiars; I have none in such esteem, as thy self! Thou art honest indeed! I did but desire George Monke to do me a civill Cour­tesie; and I really finde, that thou thy self hast been very Sollicitous and assiduous in moving him to grant it; which he hath done to my great content and satisfaction, and for which I am come againe of purpose to thee, that I may present my Thanks unto him by thine own hands.

Peters.

Sir, I am body and soul at your Devotion and service! I am your obsequious Vassall, and shall with all Observance and Fidelity perform your Commands.

Cromw.
[Page 2]

Prethee Peters! How does honest George Monk?

Pet.

He is very well, Sir. And who but He! You never had a quarter of that Love and Respect from City or Country, as he has gotten by his Policy, in all your life.

Crom.

Seriously so Robin Titchburn tells me. The old Proverb is very true, Birds of a Feather, will flock together: And so will gregal Beasts too. I did but de­sire honest George, to send that Ape to me, and he has sent me my little Marmoset Jack Ireton too in Com­pany? Its honestly done of him. He was ever a noble Fellow, and as good, if not better, than his word: And thats more than ever I was in all my dayes, all the world knows.

Pet.

Nay but Sir, you may be well assured, and take my honest word for it, that his Excellency will send you some more Company, ere it be long: He is very mindfull of your Requests.

Cromw.

I believe thee.

Pet.

Sir, For all Jo. Lambert did shew him a slippery Trick lately, and go out of the Tower, and headed a part of the Phanatick party near Daintry, together with Okey, young Hasterige, and divers others; yet by the prowesse and valour of your Cosen Richard In­goldsby, and others under his Command, they are all routed, and Lambert himself, with the Heads of that knot of Rebels, and Traitors (as they call them) are brought up prisoners, and secured in Cold harbour, and other parts of the Tower of London; and it will not be long first, ere they be all sent packing by an Attainder in Parliament to see how you do; or else they'le have very ill luck.

Crom.
[Page 3]

I professe, Peters! I am very glad of it: I thought I should not be long without Company. I shall be glad to see my old Chronees again. I'le doe what I can for them, as I promised before, when I was last with thee. But why doest thou stay all this while from me, to thy prejudice, when thou might­est have a Conge d'eslure presently (I am confident) to be Arch-Bishop of our Infernall Babell, if thou wouldest but come to me? What is it, that I cannot doe, if I please, when I am pleased? And that was al­wayes a very hard matter to do, thou knowest! But, I finde it very true, What I have often said hereto­fore: The Devill is good when he is pleased. And thou doest fit my turn daintily.

Pet.

I marry Sir, I shall be well set up indeed. A Bishoprick! and an Arch one too! Oh brave, my Lord! I'le come to you, I'le warrant you! I never was such a simple foole yet, as to be a foe to my own profit. A Bishop! I'le not refuse your proffer, my Lord: If John Calvin might have had but the like at Geneva, he would never have been such a rigid Pres­byter, as he was. Oh my Stars! This is a noble prof­fer indeed. A Bishop! and Bishop of Babell too! Why! its double honour, my Lord! An Arch-Bi­shop! a Metropolitane! a Primate! What not? a Province! 'tis admirable! I professe, I'le be sure to prefer Mr. Feake. Up, he goes! And for Luke Har­runny (the metal man) he shall be Incumbent at St. Thomas Watering. My dearly beloved, Ignatius Loyola (Philip Nye) has given me the slip (as some say) like a cunning knave, and gone over to Holland for a Triall without me: And so has Nedham too of a certain, like a slye Rogue, as he is: He's fully re­solved [Page 4] to take up my name-sake Hugh's trade, and Cobble the second part of Mare Liberum: But I will send an Hue and Cry after him to the Hogen Mogans, that he may be remitted from thence to his own pro­per Country. Would you think it my Lord, that Bunce and Massie are come over again? Nay more, That Massie should be chosen a Parliament-man. The wheele turns strangely round. Yonders the Earle of Northumberland, and all the Lords gotten together a­gain, I protest, in the House of Peers. There's such a Noble Pack of them, that it would make you stark mad, if you were but here a little to see them. They are not such a base Pack, as you shuffled together, we all know to be true. Nay, now the King will come in, and you can hardly see any body without his or his Fathers Colours in their Hats. Their work goes on amain: And I'le tell you one remarkable thing more, my Lord, for a rare secret; as sure as may be, if they alight on you, they'le lay you by Sindercombe at Tower-hill: For your old friend, the Earle of Man­chester is Speaker again of the Lords House; and he will be sure to remember your former kindnesse and love to him at Dunnington Castle.

Crom.

Why! this is news indeed! I think I had best come oftner hither, that I may know how squares goe. What a foole was I to be so mercifull to the Royallist and Presbyterians? If I had sent them all to Heaven in a string, this had never been brought a­bout! prethee what does Sr. Arther Haslerige doe?

Pet.

Doe! Do you call it? Why! he's gone in­to Holland too, and they say, that he has an huge bank there. But my Lord, what do you think is be­come of Harry Martine?

Crom.
[Page 5]

Why! what's betid of him?

Pet.

Harry is gone to sweat out the Pox at Serra­nam in the West Indies, as sure as a Club, and has ta­ken a whole Covey of Whores with him, to plant the Country. Oh! There will be sweet work with them, I trow. He has paid all his Debts with a pox to him, and Sr. John Lent halls Chamber rent too with a mischeif.

Crom.

Oh brave Harry! He has more knavish wit, than twenty of them. Well, he'le be sure to come to me however at one time or other. Caelum non ani­mum mutant, qui trans mare currunt; Change of Country is no change of Condition! But is there no more gone beyond the Seas?

P.

There's divers more gone over the water to Lambeth-house:

Crom.

Why! thats well! And what does Ned Dendy keep them there, as he was wonted to do in my time?

Pet.

No, no, Do not ye believe that Sir: There is a Norfolk man gotten into his place, that (they say) has an hundred times more honesty in him, than ever that formal Cox-combe had. Well Sir, The old Herb-women, Gardeners, Butchers, and Poulterers; nay, and all the Victuallers in London, are resolved to make an Holy day for Titchburn and Ireton: They have obtained favour already for a couple of Beards for them (against the day) to be made of the wooll of an old Dog, that's come very lately from Mareco, to congratulate the members of the Committee of Safety, and confirm a League with them in the be­half of his Master the Majesty of Leather-land.

Crom.

Its an ill winde, that blows no body no profit! [Page 6] Rob. Titchburn, and my other small Officer have al­wayes had good fortune: witnesse Spencer the poul­terer, and the honest Chandler in Black-friers, Cum multis aliis, as I remember.

Pet.

I, my Lord! They are both to be posted up in Pauls-Church-yard for a couple of eminent Wor­thies; in whose Majoralties so many good-works were done for the honour of the City, to their praise be it spoken; as the Consecration of Pauls-Church­yard for Cabbages and Turnips, the Repairing of Pauls Steeple, and erection of a very lofty Spire up­on, that may be plainly seen on the ground in New­gate-market without lifting up of one's head, and so forth.

Crom.

Thou tellest me wonders indeed.

Pet.

Your printers are resolved to come to you, (Sir) and embrace your favour; so as you will let them print, as you promised gratis; for they have little to doe now, but to listen after Intelligence.

Crom.

They'le be hanged first, before they'le come at me!

Pet.

Nay, Sir, It was no more than time to give them a little ease; for Harry Hils drave on so furious­ly, that one of his presse-men for hast-sake, has quite over-wrought his man Thomas, and streined his back. He thought, there was no more to do, than up and ride; but I think he's paid with a pox to him. His Master had better luck, when he wrought Jour­ney-work with the Taylors wife in Black-friers. If the virulence of his distemper continue, he must get a better head-piece, or a Steel cap to keep in his Brains, or they'le run quite away from him; unless he can procure some skilfull physitian in St. Thomas's [Page 7] Hospitall to hold them within the Reines.

Crom.

There's an Engine indeed: A printing-press! The Devill would not be a press-man, to work like a Horse, and have no better successe. Well, Peters! I must be gone to my Master; but faile not to give George hearty thanks for remembring me so respectively. And let me know, what he saith to thee, as soon as you can.

Pet.

I will Sir.

Exit Cromwell.
PETERS
solus, Singing and dancing for joy!
O Babell! I thy Bishop
Elected am! an Arch one!
No Monk shall remain
In thy province; but Vane,
And Hewson along shall march on.
I am for Deformation,
Let order be confounded;
All things will go well,
When the Bishop of Hell
Rules all the Rost with's Round-head.
Then hey! for the See of Babel!
And hoh! for the old Protector!
The Bishop his Grace,
Is come into place,
And made an infernal Rector.

Peters goes to St. James's House, and presenteth old Oliver's Thanks to the Lord General in a Canto, as followeth.

To the Tune of, I tell thee Dick, &c.
REnowned George! I have Command,
From Oliver to kiss your Hand,
And thankfully to pay
His best respects to you, who have
Him speaking from his restlesse grave;
In manner, as I say.
George Monke; you have done well indeed,
In doing it with such good speed,
Some Company to send,
Who shall be well-come! Come there more,
We have reserv'd for them such store,
Shall never have an end.
I would not have them stay too long;
Nor yet be sent in such a Throng,
To trouble Charon's score.
No! I would have them have their Due;
And such Examples made by you,
The like may be no more.
And therefore send us Three or Fou [...]
At once; and then as many more,
And thus our Boat will Row;
Charon will make a quick Return
With Lambert, Ireton and Titchburn,
And more securely goe.
This Order keep, and you will finde,
The rest, that shall be left behinde,
You may dispatch with ease,
From Tiburn, or from Tower-hill:
A few Fanaticks sped thus, will
Prevent a worse disease.
And thus I thank you, and have sent,
Our Bishop's Grace (Incontinent)
Your Excellence to greet!
Be honest, George, and you shall be,
A Subject of Felicitie,
And you and I neere meet.
Exitus acta probat:
Finis non pugna coronat.

An Hue and Cry after Mercurius Politicus.

To the same Tune.
OYes! Oyes! Oyes! I sing!
If any one can Tidings bring,
Or News, come do't with speed,
A good reward you shall be paid
By every honest Coffee blade,
To fear you shall not need.
A New-gate Bird of late did flye,
Whose Marks and Tokens I descry,
Or else ye'de call me foole.
Though Bos in Linguâ he hath not;
Nor is he a prodigious Scot,
Hatch'd in the Solun Poole;
Yet is he of as strange a kinde;
Produc'd he was, as do's the Winde,
'Gender the Spanish Race!
A puff, or two of vain Applause,
Made him for, or against the Cause,
To Cant in any Case.
His Name is kind to CERBERƲS,
Tricapito MERCƲRIƲS:
A Proteus-like Decoy!
His Habit first was for the King.
At Oxford, till this meer Changeling
Got new Ones at New-Troy.
Then was he call'd Britannicus,
Sometimes the Spy, and thus, and thus.
He flutter'd up and down;
Till he did send his Hue and Cry
After his Sacred Majesty,
(Disguis'd from Town to Town.
Wherein he did prescribe a Dos
Should be administred in gross,
Unto our Glorious King,
Of Penny-royall, Herb-of-Grace,
The Thistle, that call'd blessed was,
And other Herbs ith' Spring.
And that he should be blooded too
Venâ Basilicâ, that so
All his Malignant blood
Might be let out, and thereby all
His Evill Humours, from his Gall
Ore flowing, might be good.
But when the Parliament disdain'd,
That such a Rogue should be maintain'd
In his Impietie;
To New-gate was he sent with speed,
And quarter'd had been for that Deed,
But for another Cry.
He mercy crav'd from our good KING,
At Hampton-Court, and vow'd to sing
A Palinede; and then
He turn'd Pragmatious, so long,
Till Bradshaw made him sing a Song
In New-gate once agen.
When Murdered was our Royall King,
No place, or Age e're knew a Thing
So damnable before!
And that the bloody President,
Corrupted had Mar. Nedham, Gent.
He was a Cab no more.
Then did he plead for Common-wealth,
And made a Case with so much stealth,
The like was never seen!
Politicus was all in all!
His Leyden Letters witnesse shall,
What Traytor he has been.
The Virtuous King of Scots, he make's
A Vicious Tarquin, and up rakes,
What malice could invent,
To make our ancient Government,
By three Estates in Parliament,
And hellish Regiment.
And whom! but for the Rump, contend's!
Till Oliver them packing sends,
In Aprill fifty three:
And then he turns the Cat i'th' pan!
Politicus is no such man,
As he was wont to be!
He turns a Protectorian;
Sayes, Cromwell is the onely Man
For Government most fit,
And in the Weekly Phamphets, chirrups
Such stuff, as Atkins make's in Syrups,
When he is all be-
When Noll was sent for down to Hell,
(As all the Devils know it well,)
And Dick hopp'd into's place!
Oh! how he made that formall Fool
For Government the onely Toole,
That was in all the Case.
But when the Brothers were skipp'd out,
And made a flout by every Lout,
As well they did deserve!
Then Noll, and his Usurping Fry,
('Tis truth! For Interest will not Lye!)
Nedham no more can serve.
He's for the Rump again, till they
By Lambert trudg'd the Postern-way,
As once before they went:
And then he turn'd an Army-blade,
Till honest George them Fools had made,
And brought the Rump in scent.
Then was poore Pol at such a fault,
(Before a Cripple who can halt?)
He knew not how to beat;
But to be beaten was most sure,
For such a Turncoat, who'l endure,
That is a Man compleat?
Thus as he past along the Strand,
A Gentleman, that was well mann'd,
Made him to turn his Taile,
And drubb'd him so upon the Rump,
The Rump was never truss'd so plump,
Since 'twas a Rump for faile:
This, and the News of our good King,
And Lords and Commons, well coming
Each other in short space;
At Westminster the Birds is flown,
And to some other place is gone,
By changing of his face.
But if at Amsterdam you meet,
With one that's pur-blinde in the street;
Hawk nos'd, turn up his hair,
And in his Eares, two holes you'le finde,
And (if they are not pawn'd behinde,)
Two Rings are hanging there.
His Visage smeager is and long,
His Body slender; but his Tongue
If once you chance to hear;
Observe it well; It has a Grace,
Becomming no such Traitor's face,
Of English, that are there.
Some forty years he is of age,
In's prime to act on any Stage,
And fit for any Plot;
Had not he been of Oxford shire,
Because he writes so much for hire;
I'de swear, he was a Scot.
If you will ask, what shall be done
With this Pie-bald Chamelion,
In case you send him home;
He shall be hang'd upon a Tree,
Cut down alive, and then you'le see
His Quarters have their Doom.
Finis, Funis, Funus.

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