Sir William Waller's KINDNESS TO THE Cities of London and Westminster, Particularly Exprest.
SIr Edmondbury Godfrey was much taller,
Than the Right Worshipful Sir William Waller.
But what of that? at high and low they aim,
No rank from them a priviledge can claim.
Well may Goliah smite you with his Sling,
He will not spare an inoffensive King.
You have been zealous to support our Nation,
And Rome has found you a severe vexation.
Ten thousand times their old unerring Pope,
Has wish'd you Godfrey's Cravat, or a Rope.
How wou'd they clap their wings, their hearts and hands,
To see you bound with Inquisition bands?
How wou'd they drown themselves in good rich Sack,
Might they but see you on a Frenchmans Rack?
No wonder you and Rome are now at odds,
Alas! they cry out, you have burn'd their gods.
And now what do they do? study, and wait,
To heap the worst of mischiefs on your pate.
Revenge doth boyl, it is exceeding hot,
Fain wou'd they have your Worships Head i'th Pot;
But they're supplanted yet, as is their Plot.
Revenge cryes Rome, revenge cryes France and Spain,
For all the Images that he has slain.
Revenge your selves for these and such like deeds,
Seek out revenge for all your late burnt Beads.
Give London yet another sixty six,
For burning both your Beads and Crucifix.
And in the midst of these great flames, remember,
'Twas such as he that made a fifth November
To be a Holiday: make up the pyle
Higher and hotter, then you'll make us smile.
Banish your love, your kindness and your pity,
As they do Jesuits from their great City.
Thus little Waller, these enraged Cattle,
Do at a distance give your Worship Battle.
Revenge delays; and they are even sick,
To suck the blood of such a Heretick.
The Pope wou'd almost give his triple Crown,
[...]ve you fetter'd in a Popish Town.
[...]d their Veins, they 're like to burst,
[...]inks cry let them do their worst.
You fear no Colours, like a little Lyon,
You Rampant-Wise defend the Walls of Sion.
You let them Plot, then shew their Priests a Trick;
You Catch the Plotters in the very Nick.
Many by your Industry have been taken,
For Fear of you, some have the Land Forsaken,
Your Argus Eyes the Secret'st Corners 'spy;
As from the Pestilence, from you they Fly;
Few grow so Hardy now to stand and Dye.
How many Nights have you refus'd your Sleep,
Whilst we did Slumber, you our Gates did Keep;
As though you Shepherd were, and we your Sheep.
The Priests like Wolves from place to place you hurry'd,
And those you Catch'd, Law and Jack Ketch has Worry'd.
What Zealous Godfrey left undone, we Hope
You will Compleat, no thanks unto the Pope.
But stay, who Thanks you for your Pains and Care?
His Royal Majesty, and our Lord Mayor.
All Sober men, of all Degrees and Ranks,
Do come and offer up their Hearty Thanks.
We may Bless God that such Good Magistrates,
Do now Reside within our City Gates.
Plotters loose Ground, and indeed it is no Wonder,
They make their Bands, you Break them Asunder:
They Tye, and you Untye; they Plot and Contrive,
You Counter-Plot, how can the Plotters Thrive?
You give them Justice: But their good Behaviour
Will not allow them any Grain of Favour.
They cannot hope for Favour or for Love,
Till they less Cruel and less Bloody prove.
If e're these Blackamoors shou'd change their Skins,
And once Repent for all their Trayt'rous Sins.
Your Pity then wou'd reach from hence to Rome,
And you wou'd freely bid them welcom Home;
May you be Safe (Dear Sir) till that day come.
May those that wish you ill be ever Blest,
With Gerald's Dagger in his Popish Breast.
Once l'le compare; may those that wish you Ill,
Be found like Godfrey on a Primrose-Hill.
FINIS