A Parallel of TIMES: Or a Memento to
the WHIGGS.
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But lo a Charg is drawne a day is set
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The silent lamb is brought, the wolves are met;
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And wheres the Slaughter-house. Whitehall must be,
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La[t]ely his Palace, now his Calvarie
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And now ye Senators is this the thing,
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So oft declard is this your glorious King?
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Religion vails herself, and Mouns that she
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Is forcd to own such Horrid Villanie.
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WHat dare not Englands Monsters had they powr?
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What did they not, when with a Sanguine Showr
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The Nations were bedued? The Dog-stars heat
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Had put Three Kingdoms in a Bloody Sweat.
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Then was the Time when Murder knew no bound,
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Death and Destruction every where were found.
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Fates boding Omens still presaging Grief,
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Widdows and Orphans crys had no relief:
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The Hell-inspired Hounds had scented Blood,
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And could not be by force of Law withstood.
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No Sacred Ties had aw enough to bind
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Those whom Religions ruine were designd,
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By Hells dire darkness who with them had joynd,
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If possible t unhinge the mighty Frame
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Of Brittains Empire, and eclipse the name
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Of her Great Monarch whom the Trump of fame
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Renders Immortal here; whilst he above
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Triumphs in Glory and his Makers Love.
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Law and Religion were pretences made
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To mount the Rebels, till they both betrayd,
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And in their Soveraigns Wounds them bleeding laid.
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No less than Royal Blood must seal their crimes,
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Murders were sports in those dire dismal times,
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Infamous Canters who nere utterd sence,
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With Englands great affairs durst then dispence:
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And judge of those who had the Care of Souls,
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The Reverend Clergy, each vile wretch controuls.
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Reason was stagerd, Learning tumbled down,
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When the backd Rable once had bravd the Crown.
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When the black Tribe had Treason made no sin,
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And let destruction like a deluge in,
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By pulling up the Sluces of the State,
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Which the long bellowing Surges did rebate;
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And all into disorderd ruine set,
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Whilst they in troubled Waters cast their Net:
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Fishers of Men in one sence termd they are,
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Who did Mens Lives and Fortunes both insnare.
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Then England groand to see her Breast so red,
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With Blood of her dear dying Children shed,
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By Murthering Villains that her face ore-spread.
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Judgement was turnd to Wormwood in that day,
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Nor Truth nor Justice challengd any sway:
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Twas the devouring Sword they made their Law,
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Which Gold or Blood from Loyalist must draw.
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The Children Banishd, and the Father Slain
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Did not suffice: Their rage to all his Train
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Of Nobles did the Monsters soon extend,
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As if with him Nobility must end;
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Twas Treason then to be their Soveraigns Friend.
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The basest of all Man-kind mounted high
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By this mad Rout, fill all with Tyrany:
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In every place Death and Oppression raves,
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All were enslaved to the worst of Slaves:
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Unless those mighty Souls who scornd to be
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Connivers at his horrid Villany;
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But with a brave disde[i]gn contemnd his rage,
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To Heaven ascending from the Crimson Stage,
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To meet their Royal Master in that bliss,
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Which has no end buts endless happiness.
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But thanks kind Heaven the Storm at length gave way,
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The gloomy Clouds gave back, long absent Day
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Rose glorious to refresh our drooping Isle,
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And made the mournful Nation once more smile.
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The best of Kings did favour to that earth,
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Renderd thrice happy by his Reign and Birth:
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Before whose Face the conscious Rebels fly,
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Not daring to behold that Majesty
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In whom Afronts might justly kindle Ire,
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Fierce as a Whirlwind or devouring Fire,
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To overwhelm or drive them from that Earth,
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Which is polluted only by their birth:
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But see Heavens Pattern---All thats good and great,
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A King whose Mercy stays the wheel of Fate;
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He pities those that thirsted for his Blood,
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And will not add to the too Crimson Flood.
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But what avails Royal trancendent Grace
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Where black Ingratitude has fixd her place?
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Unless to warm the Monsters, till they grow
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Impious as that dire Snake found in the Snow;
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For they no sooner found deaths terror past,
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But from their holes without a blush they hast:
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And Croak aloud, their practices renew,
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Rant at their Rulers, and would Rule them too.
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The many-headed Monster they revive,
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And it, like Jehu, furiously they drive:
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Once more a madding, no ways left untrid
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To find a Saddle Monarchy to Ride.
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How with Petitions, how with Juries packd,
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Have they the Bosoms of the people Sackd,
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To know the strength of Faction, how it grows?
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What Loyalist was safe, when they supposd
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The giddy multitude had with them closd?
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To such stupendious Insolency grown,
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Their black mouths spard not to asperse the Throne.
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At Regal Power they did presume to strike,
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And durst a Damnd Association like.
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What Shoals of Evidence like Locust swarmd,
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With Stings as sharp as Fellest Scorpions Armd,
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Who must Infallible be deemd, till they
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The dire Dark Mischief of the Whiggs bewray?
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But then the Scene is changd; none must believe
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They can speak Truth: And then the busy Sheriff
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Must us with Ignoramus undeceive.
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These and a Thousand more their projects are,
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Who would our Lives and Fortunes once more share;
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And where their Will their Powr theyd no Man spare.
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Then let the Royal Martyrs Fall remain
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Fresh in our minds, the Shambles of the slain
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Who guiltless fell; yet lets forgive that score,
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Pardon whats past; But never Trust them more.
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