Then the same fire we kindled here
With what was given to quench it there,
And wisely lost that nation :
To do as crafty beggars use,
To maim themselves, thereby t' abuse
The simple man's compassion.



Have I so often pass'd between
Windsor and Westminster unseen,
And did myself divide,
To keep his Excellence in awe,
And give the Parliament the law?
For they knew none beside.


Did I for this take pains to teach
Our zealous ignorants to preach,
And did their lungs inspire ;
Gave them their texts, shew'd them their parts,
And taught them all their little arts
To fling abroad the fire ?


Sometimes to beg, sometimes to threaten,
And say the Cavaliers are beaten,
To stroke the people's ears ;
Then straight when victory grows cheap,
And will no more advance the heap,
To raise the price of fears.


And now the books, and now the beils,
And now our act, the preacher tells,
To edity the people ;
All our divinity is news,
And we have made of equal use
The pulpit and the steeple.


And shall we kindle all this fame
Only to put it out again ?
And must we now give o'er,
And only end where we begun?
In vain this mischief we have done,
If we can do no more.



If men in peace can have their right,
Where's the necessity to fight,
That breaks both law and oath ?
They'll say they fight not for the cause,
Nor to defend the king and laws,
But us against them both.


Either the cause at first was ill,
Or being good, it is so still ;
And thence they will infer
That either now or at the first
They were deceiy’d; or, which is worst,
That we ourselves may err.


But plague and famine will come in,
For they and we are near of kin,
And cannot go asunder :
But while the wicked starve, indeed,
The saints have ready at their need
God's providence and plunder:


Princes we are if we prevail,
And gallant villains if we fail.
When to our fame 'tis told,
It will not be our least of praise,
Since a new state we could not raise
To have destroy'd the old.

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Then let us stay, and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat ;
Oh! 'tis a patient beast?
When we have gallid and tir'd the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,
We'll have the spoil at least.

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After 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.
Tho' set form of prayer be an abomination, 5
Set forms of petition 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,

for the confidence only to crave it. | Next, in course, we complain of the great violation

Of privilege ; (like the rest of our nation)
But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, 15
Which never had being until they were broken ;
But ours is a privilege ancient and native,
Hangs not on an ordinance or pow'r legislative.
And, first 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivants' fees. 20
Next, that we only may lie by authority ;
But in that also you have got the prority.
Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it
Poetical License, and always did claim it.

By this we have pow'r to change age into youth, 25
Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth :
la brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty ;
This art some poet, or the devil has taught ye :
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both Houses have made it. 30
But that trust above all in poets reposed,
That kings by them only are made and deposed :
This tho' you cannot do, yet you are willing ;
But when we undertake deposing or killing,
They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it. 36
And when we resume a sceptre or crown,
We are modest, and seek not to make it our own.
But is't not presumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two ?
For all those pretty knacks you compose,
Alas ! what are they but poems in prose ?
And between those and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense.
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)

You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it ;
And tho' you are modest, and seem to abhor it,
It has done yon good service, and thank Hell for it.
Altho' the old maxim remains still in force,
That a sanctify'd cause musthave a sanctify dcourse,
If poverty be a part of our trade,

SI So far the whole kingdom poets you have made ;

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