Qui Chetat Chetabitur: OR, TYBURNE Cheated.
BEING, A POEME, UPON The three Regicides Munson, Mildmay and Wallopp; who were Drawn upon Hurdles to Tyburne on the 27th. of January, 1661.
GReat, and grave Tyburne, Wee are sent
To court thee in a Complement:
Wee come, oh strange! to make no stay,
Only greet, and so away;
Take notice how we doe adore thee,
And in worship fall before thee;
Thus we fall before thy Trine,
And vow our selves for ever thine:
'Twas for thy sake we stirr'd up strife,
And now we love thee to the life;
Our humble hearts doe make request,
Not to be mounted, like the rest;
We are content all strife should cease,
And love, what once we hated, Peace.
Did we not doe a pretty thing,
To Murder a Religious King:
Oh! how we quafft his guiltless blood,
He onely dy'd for being good;
Whilst all the Punishment we had
Was but to live, for being bad;
If this be all we must incurr,
Who would not be a Murtherer:
We care not now we know our hope
Must be intayl'd upon a Rope.
Pray tell us Lawyers, can there be
A Fine, without Recoverie?
We'l satisfie our selves a None,
We now are reading Little—ton;
If Cooke were living, he'd advise us
In our distress, though you dispise us;
But he (poore Wretch) was cast aside,
His Law was DUN before he dy'd:
Some of his Brethren smil'd to see,
Whilst others cry'd, And why not we?
Their Judgments did the thing enlarge,
Though he were Drawn that drew the Charge;
We see a boundance of our Gange.
(I hope they practice how to Hang)
That knew full well, the time 'was, when
Money made Knaves, now honest men:
Nor had we bin thus made a Theame,
Had we bin rul'd by QUARLES his Dreame;
He call'd us Rebells in our prime,
And told us of this very time:
But he n'ere dream'd, as some recited,
That for his Worke he should be slighted:
Such Caveleirs we daily see,
Are constant to their Povertie;
Their's was the danger, their's the paine,
But we can tell who reapes the gaine;
Now they may begg through Jron-grates,
That lost (by which we got) Estates.
Whilst once a yeare we pay our Vows,
To this our monstruous three legg'd Sp [...]us,
Who showes her love, in this our woe,
Poore Wretch she's loath to let us goe;
Oh! how she labours, and inclines
To make us understand her Lines;
How she seems to swell with pride,
With her Champion by her side,
Who invites us to our woes,
That the Knave might have our cloathes;
He tells us that we need not feare,
For old Noll, and Bradshaw's there;
We know, and all the world may see't,
That 'tis not merry when Knaves meet;
But this old saying now proves true,
The Gallow [...] alwayes claimes her due;
Wer't not for fear we would proceed,
And out of love, be hang'd indeed;
For unto us it does appeare
Sad to be hanged once a yeare,
For like old Noll, though breath be fled,
We may be hanged when we be dead:
But one thing joyes us to the heart,
The Cavel [...]irs can bare no part,
For if we see them but begin
To laugh we'le bid them laugh that win;
And if they chance to make their braggs,
We'le bid them looke upon their Raggs;
Alas poore Creatures, they can hope
Only in Raggs, and we in Rope.
But now, Grave Tyburne we must leave thee,
'Tis no wonder we deceive thee;
Pray doe not weep, for 'tis in vaine
Next yeare, we'le see the here againe;
Till then, with a submissive bow
We make to thee, each Man, his vow:
And first we doe resolve to bee
Obedient unto none but thee;
Next, during life, we vow t'appeare
And doe thee homage once a yeare;
These promises thou well mayst trust,
Necessety will make us just.
Thus we thy Servants, every one,
Wallopp, Mildmay, and Munson,
With all our might and power, will
Be allwayes carefull to fullfill
Thy sweet commands, not time, nor season
Shall hinder us, from thinking Treason;
What though we never lov'd our King?
Thou lov'st us for that very thing;
In all things thou shalt be our Cheife,
Thou lov'st a Traitor, and a Theife,
Therefore thou need'st take no care
For we can fitt thee to a haire;
For our Deeds are so much fam'd
That Hell will blush to hear us nam'd,
And thus for our Rebellious Pride,
Wee'l once a yeare on Hurdles ride,
And if Squire Dun will not oppose,
Wee'l every Winter finde him cloaths.
And now, great Charles, to thee we bow,
And, Satan-like, we all alow
And owne thee for a gratious King,
Though unto us th'art no such thing;
We tooke away thy Fathers life,
His Blood still reekes upon our knife;
Then how can we expect thy Grace,
When Justice takes up Mercies place.
Therefore, if extracted be
The Quintescence of Tyrannie,
'Tis Love, compared to our Deeds,
Till we are dead, thy Father bleeds;
But if thy Mercy should out shine
Thy Justice, Thou would'st prove Devine;
Add Plagues, to Plagues, and even then
Thou art the mildest of all Men.
Thus we conclude, and from this houre
We will acknowledge Thee in Power.
FUNIS.
London, printed by Edward Crowch dwelling on Snow-hill. 1661. Who these Traitors would once have hang'd.