You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall, Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call; Who carry on and fashion your design By Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line, (Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name: 80 Let not that title in fair battles gain'd Be by such abject things as you profan'd; For what have you achiev'd, the world may guess You are those Men of Might which you profess? Where ever durst you strike, if you met foes Whose valour did your odds in men oppose? Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights, Which made you late the People's favourites; Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence Draw out your marches' full circumference, 90 Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the rest Of your well-plotted renders in the West; Then to the angry North your compass bend, Until your spent career in Scotland end, (This is the perfect scale of our mishap Which measures out your conquest by the map), And tell me he that can, What have you won, Which long before your progress was not done? What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town, You were not sure to carry ere sat down? 100 There needed no granadoes, no petard, To force the passage, or disperse the guard. No, your good masters sent a Golden Ram To batter down the gates against you came. Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the Swede His armed forces into Denmark lead, 'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire, Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire, Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin, Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin. 110