THE RVMP ULULANT, OR PENITENCE per FORCE; BEING. The Recantation of the old rust-roguy-rebellious-rampant, And now ruinous rotten-rosted RUMP.

To the Tune of Gerrards Mistresse.
False Honours, and usurped Power Farewell,
For the great Bell
Of Justice rings in our affrighted Ears.
The Gripes,
Of wounded Conscience far exceed all Stripes,
Yet are small Types,
Of those sharp Payns Rebellion justly fears,
See how,
Th' unmasked People hisse us out of Doors,
And call us Knaves,
Because though We, Their Servants be,
We made them but our Slaves.
For since
We layd the Country wast like ravenenous Bores,
They seek our Blouds,
Because we prize, their Liberties,
But to devour their Goods.
Our Hands
We dip'd in Royal Bloud, to have his Lands
At our Commands,
And made three Kingdoms headless at one Blow,
The Strife
We caus'd was chiefly to cut off his Life,
With cursed Knife;
He that was Vertues Friend, must be our Foe.
We made
Religion do our Drudgery to base Ends,
But now we find,
They that do sow Pretences, mow
A Harvest of the Wind.
And now
When clamorous Vengeance Calling for Amends
Begins our Grief,
Our Friend the Devil, with his Evil,
Can give us no Relief.
Go search
All Lands beneath the Suns Star-spangled Perch,
You'll find no Church
Like Ours, whilst reverend BISHOPS held the Chayr.
But those
We knew with our Designs would never close;
And therefore chose
In their steads to set up Extempore Prayer.
Poached Eyes
And words twang'd through a whining Lecturers Nose,
Did fill our Purses,
That many have Rings, and better Things,
Which now give only Curses.
And thus
Hell was our Text, though Heav'n were our Gloze,
And Will our Reason,
Religion we made free of Hocus trade,
And voted Loyalty Treason.
Since We
With wicked Arms have made the Crosier flee,
Errour is free,
To lay her Nets, to make weak Minds her Prize.
All Sects,
Schismes, cursed Heresies with stubborn Necks,
Corrupt our Texts,
And Crane up Scripture to maintain their Lyes.
You see
The Crop-ear'd Anabaptist sowing Tares
In every Ground,
Though the Plagues of Warr, wherever they Are
The Church and State Confound.
So do
The Roman Noses vend their Popish Wares,
By Twylight still;
And the Quaker halfmad, though he looks so sad,
Grinds in the Jesuites Mill.
Our Drums
Did drown your Processe, and your Writes; our Plums,
Bid kiss our Bums,
We sent your Laws and Persons to the Tower:
From whence
To be deliver'd, 'Twas in vain to Fence
By talking Sence;
No Habeas Corpus in the Court of Power.
The Gown
Did stoop his reverend Velvet to a Crew
In short red Coats,
Who many a Day, Have made you pay,
For cutting your own Throats.
We rob'd
The Whole of Food to pamper up the Few,
Excis'd your Wares,
And tax'd you round, Six pence the Pound,
And massacred your Bears.
But now
Dispayrs black clowds do hang upon our Brow,
For All do Bow,
Their Hearts, to their true Shepheard, Charles their King.
And We
Their Wolfish Rulers now must Subjects be
To Destiny,
And end our Juncto in a fatal String.
Then learn
All future Traytors by our Tragick Doom,
E're 'tis too late;
Lest when you make, Kingdoms to shake,
You Copy out our Fate.
We know
Our High Affronts to Church and State make Room
For Us in Hell;
But yet We'll Hope, till the sad Rope
Sayes, Bid the World Farewell.
‘Facit Indignatio Versum.’

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