THE
LAMENTATION.
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GReat Charles, we do lament thy Fate,
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For thou the Object art of late
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Of Popish and of factious Hate.
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These Winds from distant Quarters come,
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From North and South, Scotland and Rome;
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Yet both Concentre in thy Doom.
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They seem each other to Engage,
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And bluster high upon the Stage;
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But against thee both bend their Rage.
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Both of them Aim at thy dear Life,
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But whether Rebellion, or a Knife
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Shall do't, is now the only Strife.
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Each of them Plots to have the Sway,
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And struggle only, that it may
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Be brought about in their own way.
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'Tis neither Love nor Loyalty,
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That make Phanaticks talk so high
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'Gainst Popish Plots and Treachery.
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For they'l rejoyce at Charless Fall,
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And hope, once more, to have at all;
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If Common-Wealth they could Recal.
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The Papists hope will ne're be gone,
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While they can set the Factions on,
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And by them get their business done.
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The Plotters thus are left Untry'd,
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And weightiest Business laid aside,
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Till private Rage be satisfy'd.
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Our Princes Friends we first pursue,
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Whom we count False and he counts True,
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E're his own Foes can have their due.
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The Tawny Turncoat doth suggest,
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The Bishops too, amongst the rest,
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Are Plotters, though they take the Test.
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Yea, He assures us there are Fears,
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That all the old great Cavaliers
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Are in it, over Head and Ears.
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And some there are that gravely say,
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The King did help this Plot to lay,
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For taking his own life away.
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And thus, under pretence to Sift
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The Plot to the bottom; their main drift
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Is at the Government to lift.
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Nor will the Plot serve their base Ends,
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Unless it to the Ruine bends
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Of Monarchy and all its Friends.
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