TIs high contempt not for to Fast and pray,
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And hold as blest Saint Cromwels Holy day,
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The Devils a Saint, if he deserves to be
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One for his Machivillian Treacherie.
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Insatiate Monster, that doth swallow downe
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At once a Kingdome and a glorious Crowne,
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Whose splendor dazled Mortalls while it stood
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On Charles his head, but dimd since dipt in blood
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May every stone that did adorne it round,
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As witnesses against thee once be found,
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And weigh thee down to Hell, thou horrid fel lion,
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To have reward for this thy grand Rebellion.
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But first thy progresse into Ireland take,
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And see what preparations they will make,
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(To entertaine thee) for that end a day
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Weel set apart, and for thee this wel pray;
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Come yee grim Furies of the Stigian Lake,
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With hideous cryes, and make the welking shake,
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Rouze Charon up, winds, Seas, and all implore,
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To waft this Rebell to the Irish shore,
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Where such a Feast prepard for him shall be,
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The like at Grocers-Hall he nere did see:
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Ormond chief Cook will be to please his pallet,
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And send a fiery Bullet for a Sallet,
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Which shall such terrour to his Saintship bring,
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And make him cry, would he had spard our King;
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The blood methinks doth startle in his face,
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That he no rest can take in any place,
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His Exits come, Ireland the Stage must be,
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Where he must act his latest Tragedie,
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Where he his life shall spend in discontent,
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And bid farewell to Englands Parliament.
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May thy horses founder, thy Souldiers weary grow
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Upon their march they can no further goe,
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Or if march on upon the Irish fight,
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Take to their heeles, and finely give thee flight,
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And may this noise of their most eager running,
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Still make thee think that Charles the II comming
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To claime his due with a victorious hand,
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And purge all Rebels from his English Land.
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May the day look black, and soon convert to night,
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Onely thy ruby Nose to give thee light;
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And that thou mayst to shipping safely get,
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Hell for thy life-guard shall the Furies set,
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Charon thy Ferry-man shall be, and once being ore,
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Mayst thou nere come to vex the English shore.
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