In which, to gull the people, you pretend, That Military Justice was your end; 160 As if we still were blind, not knowing this To all your other virtues suited is; Who only act by your great grandsires' law, The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw, Whose principle was murder, and their sport To cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt: Nay, in your actions we completed find What by those Levellers was but design'd, For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies, Canton the land in petty tyrannies, 170 And for one King of commons in each shire, Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here. Had you not meant the copies of each deed Should their originals in ill exceed, You would not practice sure the Turkish art, To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart, Lest if with freedom they at home remain, They should (which is your terror) fight again. A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved, And by the faction like himself approv'd; 180 Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try, Scarce sampled from the basest enemy. Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare, Of these inhuman truckings witness are; At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led, Were marketed, like cattle, by the head. Let it no more in History be told That Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold; When we the Saints selling their brethren see, Who _had a Call_ (they say) to set them free; 190 And are at last by right of conquest grown To claim our land of Canaan for their own. Though luckless Colchester in this outvies Argiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise; Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was) Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass, Till, led about by some insulting band, They first were show'd in triumph through the land: In which, for lack of diet, or of strength, If any fainted through the march's length, 200 Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crew All those they could drive on no further, slew; What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give, Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live. Indeed we cannot less from such expect, Who for this work of ruin are elect: This scum drawn from the worst, who never knew The fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew; But take such low commanders on their lists, As did revolted Jeroboam priests: 210 That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone, Like Egypt once with vermin overrun. If in the rabble some be more refin'd, By fair extractions of their birth or mind, Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays, That no impression of their virtue stays. As gold, embased by some mingled dross, Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.