Who then can stay, or will, to see things of so great weight steer’d by such barbarous Hounds as these: First, were there an _Egypt_ to go down to, I would involve my Liberty to them, upon condition ne’er more to see my Country. What? live in silence under the sway of such base actions, is to give consent; and though the lowness of my present Estate and Condition, with the hazard I put my future dayes upon, might plead a just excuse for me to stay at home; but Heavens forbid: I’le rather serve in {84} Chains, and draw the Plough with Animals, till death shall stop and say, _It is enough_. Sir, if you stay behind, I wish you well: I am bound for _Mary-Land_, this day I have made some entrance into my intended voyage, and when I have done more, you shall know of it. I have here inclosed what you of me desired, but truly trouble, discontent and business, have so amazed my senses, that what to write, or where to write, I conceive my self almost as uncapable as he that never did write. What you’le find will be _Ex tempore_, without the use of premeditation; and though there may want something of a flourishing stile to dress them forth, yet I’m certain there wants nothing of truth, will, and desire. _Heavens bright Lamp, shine forth some of thy Light,_ _But just so long to paint this dismal Night;_ _Then draw thy beams, and hide thy glorious face,_ _From the dark sable actions of this place;_ _Leaving these lustful Sodomites groping still,_ _To satisfie each dark unsatiate will,_ _Untill at length the crimes that they commit,_ _May sink them down to Hells Infernal pit._ _Base and degenerate Earth, how dost thou lye,_ _That all that pass hiss, at thy Treachery?_ _Thou which couldst boast once of thy King and Crown,_ _By base Mechanicks now art tumbled down,_  Brewers _and_ Coblers, _that have scarce an Eye,_ _Walk hand in hand an thy Supremacy;_ _And all those Courts where Majesty did Throne,_ _Are now the Seats for Oliver and Ioan:_ {85} _Persons of Honour, which did before inherit_ _Their glorious Titles from deserved merit,_ _Are all grown silent, and with wonder gaze,_ _To view such Slaves drest in their Courtly rayes;_ _To see a_ Drayman _that knows nought but Yeast,_ _Set in a Throne like_ Babylons _red Beast,_ _While heaps of Parasites do idolize_ _This red-nos’d_ Bell, _with fawning Sacrifice._ _What can we say? our King they’ve Murthered,_ _And those well born, are basely buried:_ _Nobles are slain, and Royalists in each street_ _Are scorn’d, and kick’d by most Men that they meet:_ _Religion’s banisht, and Heresie survives,_ _And none but Conventicks in this Age thrives._ _Oh could those_ Romans _from their Ashes rise,_ _That liv’d in_ Nero’s _time: Oh how their cries_ _Would our perfidious Island shake, nay rend,_ _With clamorous screaks unto the Heaven send:_