A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES:
A CROWNE FOR CROMWELL:
A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.
You may sing this to the Tune of faine I would.
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1
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Cromwell in the throne.
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SO, so, the deed is done,
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the Royall head is severd
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As I meant, when I first begunne
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and strongly have indeavord.
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Now Charles the I. is tumbled down,
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the second, I not feare:
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I graspe the Septer, weare the Crown,
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nor for Jehovah care.
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2
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K.Charles in his Coffin.
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Thinkst thou base slave, though in my grave,
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Like other men I lie:
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my sparkling fame and Royall Name
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can (as thou wishest) die.
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Know Caatiffe, in my sonne I live
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(the black Prince calld by some)
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And he shall ample vengeance give
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to those that did me doome.
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3
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The people in the Pit.
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Supprest, deprest, involvd in woes,
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great Charles thy people be
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Basely deceivd with specious showes,
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by those that murthered thee.
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We are inslavd to Tyrants hests,
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who have our freedome wonne:
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Our fainting hopes, now ownly rests
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on thy succeeding sonne.
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4
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Cromwell on the throne.
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(Base vulgar) know the more you stirre
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the more your woes increase,
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Your rashnesse will your hopes deter:
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(tis we) must give you peace.
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Black Charles a Traytor is proclaimd
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unto our dignity:
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He dies (if ere by us hees gaind)
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without all remidie.
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5
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K. Charles in his Coffin.
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Thrice perjurd Villaine, didst not thou
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and thy degenerate traine,
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By mankinds saviours body, vow
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to me thy Soveraigne,
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To make me the most glorious King
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that ere ore England raignd:
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that me and mine in every thing
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by you, should be maintaind.
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6
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The people in the pit.
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Sweet Prince, O let us pardon crave
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of thy beloved shade,
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Tis we that brought thee, to the grave,
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thou wert by us betraid.
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We did beleeve, twas reformation,
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these Monsters did desire:
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Not knowing, that thy degradation
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and death, should be our hire.
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7
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Cromwell on the throne,
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Ye sick braind fools, whose wit doth lie
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in your small guts; could you
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Imagine our conspiracy,
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did claime no other due
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But for to spend our dearest bloods,
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to make Rascalians flee,
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No, we fought for your lives and goods,
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and for a Monarchie.
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8
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K.Charles in his Coffin.
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But theres a thunderer above,
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who though he winke a while,
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Is not with your black deeds in love:
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he hates your damned guile.
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And though a time you pearce upon
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the top of fortunes wheele,
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You shortly unto Acharon,
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(drunke with your crimes) shall reele.
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9
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The people in the pit.
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Meanetime (thou glory of the earth)
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we languishing doe die:
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Excise doth give free-quarter birth
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while Souldiers multiply.
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Our lives we forfeit every day,
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our money cuts our throats:
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The Lawes are taken cleane away,
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or shrunke to Traytors votes.
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10
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Cromwell on the throne.
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Like patient Mules resolve to beare
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what ere we shall impose,
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Your lives and goods you need not feare
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weel prove your friends not foes.
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We (the Elected ones must guide
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a thousand years this land,
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You must be props unto our pride,
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and Slaves to our command.
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11
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K. Charles in his coffin.
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But you may faile of your faire hopes,
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if Fates, propitious be
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And yeeld your loathed lives in Ropes,
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to vengeance and to me.
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When as the Swedes and Irish joyne,
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the Cambrian and the Scot,
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Do with the Danes, & French combine
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then look unto your lot.
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12
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The people in the pit.
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Our wrongs hath arm'd us with such strength
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so sad is our condition,
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That could we hope that now at length
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we might finde intermission,
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And have but halfe we had before,
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ere these Mechanicks swaid
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To our revenge, knee deepe in gore
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we would not feare to wade.
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13
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Cromwell in the throne.
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In vaine (fond people) doe you grutch,
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and tacitely repine.
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For why, my skill and strength is such,
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both Poles of heaven are mine.
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Your hands and purses both coherd,
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to raise us to this height:
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You must protect, those you have reard
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or sinke beneath their weight.
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14
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K.Charles in his coffin.
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Singing with Angels, neere the throne,
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of the Almighty three:
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I sit and know perdition
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(base Cromwell) waites on thee
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And on thy vile associates:
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twelve moneths shall full conclude
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Your power; thus speake the powerfull Fates,
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then vades your interlude.
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15
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The people in the pit.
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Yea powerfull Fates, haste, haste, the time
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the most auspicious day,
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On which these monsters of our clime,
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to hell must poste away.
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Meanetime so pare their sharpned clawes
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and so impare their stings,
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We may no more fight for the Cause,
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nor other novell things.
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