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Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Oh ’tis a patient beast !
We'll have the spoil at least.
To the Five Members of the Honourable, H OU SE OF CO M M O N S.
The humble Petition of the POETS.
FTER so many concurring petitions
From all ages and sexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their souls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the bless’d form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you
for the confidence only to crave it. Next in course, we complain of the
And first, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Although the old maxim remains still in force,
A WESTERN WONDER.
Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,
How they bragg’d of a Western Wonder ? When a hundred and ten New five thousand men,
With the help of lightning and thunder ?
There Hopton was flain, again and again,
Or elfe my author did lye ; With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are living,
To God, and his servant Chidleigh.
But now on which side was this miracle try'd,
I hope we at last are even ; For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves,
To cudgel the clowns of Devon. And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame
Of the gout three months together ; But it prov'd, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever.
For For now he out-runs his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him ;
What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost,
Goes deep in the sequestrations ; These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal,
Nor Jepson's declarations.
Now, Peters and Cafe, in your prayer and grace,
Remember the new Thanksgiving; Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
Or shortly you'll dig for your living.
A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.
YOU heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and
Which was done with a firkin of Powder,
O what a damp it struck through the camp !
But as for honest Sir Ralph,
When out came the book, which the News-monger took
From the Preaching Ladies letter, Where in the first place, stood the Conqueror's face,
Which made it fhew much the better.
But now without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, fo fast he did run,
That he left half his name behind him.
And now came the post, save all that was lost,
But alas, we are past deceiving
Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.
This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping,
eyes, Which kept the Lord-mayor from fleeping.
Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,
For the laws not your cause, you that loath 'em, Left Efex should start, and play the second part
Of the worshipful Sir John Hotham.