Tis a plaine Case GENTLEMEN:
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OH the distraction of this Factious age!
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Have not wile-men (who are starke mad with rage,
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Brought this faire Land to such a combustion,
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That through their means we may feare confusion.
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A horrid Tragedy is now begun,
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And still continues, would to God twere done.
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Tis write in bloud, as all the World may see,
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And plainely reade this Kingdoms misery.
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Oh! who would ha thought that two yeares agoe,
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That so much Christian bloud should on th earth flow,
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As hath been shed this last yeare? curst be he
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That was the cause of this Phlebotamie.
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Some are confident in their opinion,
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Papists have fomented this Division;
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Others say, the Brownists (of whome beware)
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Have stird up this unnaturall, wretched Warre:
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For my owne part, I thinke they both have been
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The Ruine of this Nation. These still spin
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The thread of our undoing: these a[r]e those
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Besides these two that are this Islands foes.
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Nay besides these, there are some high in State,
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Who to this Land are most unfortunate.
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I dare not name them yet thers few but knowes
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Who are the Kings and Kingdomes profest foes.
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May all that wish ill will unto this Land,
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Never subsist in Peace, but may the hand
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Of divine Justice bring them unto shame;
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Blaste their fame, forgotten be their name.
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They that breath bloud, and do defie faire Peace,
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May they want joy their sorrows never cease:
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Torne with possessed whirlewinds may they dye,
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And Dog, barke at their murtherous memory.
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There is no honest heart but needs must greive,
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To consider the Times wherein we live.
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What eye can refraine from shedding salt teares?
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To see the many mischiefs our vaine feares,
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And causelesse jealousies have on us brought,
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Kindled this strange fire, and all our woes wrought.
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These are the Jonahs, that the tempest rayse,
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These are the Achans that our Israell amaze.
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Wert not for feares and jealousies at first,
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We had not with the plague of Warre been curst,
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But blest with happy Peace; there had not come
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On this same Kingdame such a Martyrdome:
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The King had not gon from us, no discontent
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Arose at all, twixt Him ands Parliament.
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But we ourselves have causd our severall woes;
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Though we be victors, yet whave overthrowes.
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Let the King or Parliament have the best,
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Both King and Kingdomes suffers lyes opprest;
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Let who can have the day, with your favour,
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Both Armies are loosers, for their labour:
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Much precious bloud is lost, many a poore soule,
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And cannot the thought of this condole
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This civill, uncivill warre? But youl say,
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If it please God our Forces get the day
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We shall be then most happy, live secure,
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Our dwellings being entrenched about most sure
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From our enemies. Do not yourselves deceive,
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The enemis within you, that beleive.
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Tis not your Bulwarks can save your muck nor pelfe,
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Man is the greatest enemy to himselfe.
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Tis not your boasting that yare safe i th City.
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Yare nowhere safe, though ye seeme neere so witty
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And thus much know from me, for verily,
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W are certaine of nothing but uncertainty.
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The King not certaine is of s Royall Crowne,
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Nor the Subject of what he calls his owne.
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Such is th inconstantcy of this worlds Ball,
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No man knowes whether he shall stand or fall.
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Rely not therefore on the Arme of flesh,
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Depend not on the Army, neither trust fresh
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Horses, nor the power or prowis of Kings;
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All these without the Lord are but vaine things.
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Unlesse God keepe your City, the watchmen watch
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In vaine, and without him much harms youle catch.
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Oh! whether is our ancient courage fled?
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With our forefathers it is long since dead,
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And now we English are even like our Bowes,
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That once won Battailes, now skares non but Crows,
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Our home-bred jarrs and civill contestations,
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Have renderd us a storme to Forraigne Nations.
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LONDON yon count is yours, & the Courts yours,
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The King must then be yours, and his Crown yours,
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And what are you then? Royall theeves, youle blow,
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Seditious fire, which still doth spread and growe
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To such a huge intollerable flame,
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That all your wit can never quench the same.
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You that sit threatning what stormes youle raise here,
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Do you know where theyl light? Ile tell you where,
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You like so many Joves, do throwe them downe;
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You regared none, neither Scepter nor Crowne,)
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And what then? you like Tyles on houses tops.
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When foule wether comes, will shift the rainy drops,
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From one, to one and whilest from you it sheads,
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Where falls the showers? on the poor Peoples heads,
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Ile tell you a pretty tale. There grew a tall
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A goodly fence of Hawthorn and of Bryer,
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That when the Sunne was chollericke and hot
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Kept sheepe and yeaning Lambs safe from his rage
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Or when the Sky stormd did his wrath asswage.
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This goodly rowe of Bryers still anon,
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Would as the Sheep went by, teare from their backs
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Rags of their wooly coates, at which the sheepe
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(Though by protection of this good old Bryer
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They were fed fatt, and therefore were grown proud
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Repind, and did preferre bills of complaint
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Up to the shepheards: The rude hairbrain shepheards
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Cryed down with this proud Bryer; the hedging bills
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So layd about them down the Bryer did fall,
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And what ensued? a tale most tragicall.
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Being layd along, they trod ont in despite,
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Put fire unto it, and burnt it in the flame,
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The green bows wept, seeing men past ruth or shame
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What follows next? marry haile, raine and snow,
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Beat on the sheepe and Shepherds, cold winds blow
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But whers their shelter? gon Then did the heat
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So scorch them, that they had no list to eate.
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But whers their coole shade now? gon, gon, & then
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Others breake in, and feed, whilest these fed leane.
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At last starved wolves and ravenous foxes came,
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And eate up all left neither ewe, nor lambe;
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The Shepherds pind to nothing and like men
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Made wise by their harmes, wisht th ole Bryer agen.
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I have read a Text, preach you upont tis plaine,
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They stab themselves, that strike their Soveraigne.
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