The Second Part to the same Tune.
Or, The Letanie continued.
Which may be sung or said, Morning or Evening, before or after Supper.
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FRom a painted Ladie with black patches,
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From Parliament-men, and their lame dispatches,
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From midnight-hunting in another mans Berry,
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From going over to Callis in a Wherry,
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And from the Black Rod where seven Nobles be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From a proud Woodcock, and a peevish wife,
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From a pointlesse Needle, and a broken knife,
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From lying along in a Ladies Lapp,
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Like a great Fool that longs for Papp,
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And from the fruit of the Three-cornered Tree,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From all Capon-eating holy Coblers,
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From illuminated mysticall Con-joblers,
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From Presbyters, and Independent Traytors,
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And all such Creatures called Agitators,
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From these, the Devil, and worse, if worse may be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From a conspiracy of wicked Knaves,
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A knot of Villains, and a crew of Slaves,
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From laying Plots for to abuse a Friend,
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From working humors to a wicked end:
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And from the place where Wolves and Foxes be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From Raviliacs, Catalines, and Joyces,
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From factious brothers sniveling voyces,
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From an Ireton or a Crumwell,
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Such blessed Saints that love a Bum-well,
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And from all Subjects that would Soveraignes be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From rusty Bacon and ill rosted Eeles,
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From a madding wit that runs on wheels,
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From a vapring humour and a beetle head,
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A smoaky chimney and a lowzie bed,
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A blow upon the elbow and the knee,
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From each of these goodnesse deliver me.
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From setting Vertue at too lowe a price,
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From loosing too much coyne at Cards and Dice,
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From Suretiship, and an emptie purse,
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From any thing that may be tearmed worse:
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From all such ill wherein no good can be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From Cockoldry, and a Coward City,
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From Harpyes claws, and from a Committee;
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From Satans Imps, all Sequestrators,
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Flesh-eating Canibals, State Regraters:
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From all such Theeves and Rogues my prayer shall be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From Morbus Gallicus, and Spanish Figs,
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From a Welch Hubbub, and from Scottish Jigs,
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From wandring Preachers before they be sent,
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And from a seven-yeers Parliament,
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That never was, nor is, nor good will be,
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From each of these Vertue deliver me.
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From senior sympleton the good Lord Gray,
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From that State-Fox politick the Lord Say,
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Whose Nose like a Pick-ax beats down our Churches,
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From Nath: his Sons fierce sieges, and false lurches,
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From making use of such as these men be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From Philip the fool, that swore hed be Independent,
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From Piercy the puppy, or Protector transcendent:
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From the Lord Wharton that valiant Moppet,
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Tom Thum in an Oven, and he in a Saw-pit.
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From such as Apes, and Owls, and Asses be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From Billy Brereton that Martial tool,
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That looks as sitting upon a close stool,
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From Collonel Martyn that peticoat-diver,
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And a chip oth same block, old Herefords Weaver:
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From Sir John Pots Ile pray, yes verily,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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From the highly promoted Mr. Pury,
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Of a poore Weaver to be a State-Fury,
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From Marshall, and Burges, those Geneva Buls,
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From Cawdry, and Calamy such spiritall Guls,
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From all such holy Weathercocks as they be,
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Vertue and goodnesse still deliver me.
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