[Line: 95 'Brooke' is Robert Brooke, second Lord Brooke, cousin and successor of Fulke Greville--the 'fanatic Brooke' who had his 'guerdon meet' by being shot in his attack on Lichfield Cathedral. _Mercurius Anti-Britannicus_, 1645, p. 23, has: Like my Lord Brooke's _Coachman_ Preaching out of a tub. (I owe this citation to Mr. Simpson.)] The King's Disguise. And why a tenant to this vile disguise Which who but sees, blasphemes thee with his eyes? My twins of light within their penthouse shrink, And hold it their allegiance now to wink. O, for a state-distinction to arraign Charles of high treason 'gainst my Sovereign! What an usurper to his prince is wont, Cloister and shave him, he himself hath don' 't. His muffled feature speaks him a recluse-- His ruins prove him a religious house! 10 The sun hath mewed his beams from off his lamp And majesty defaced the royal stamp. Is 't not enough thy dignity 's in thrall, But thou'lt transmute it in thy shape and all, As if thy blacks were of too faint a dye Without the tincture of tautology? Flay an Egyptian for his cassock skin, Spun of his country's darkness, line 't within With Presbyterian budge, that drowsy trance, The Synod's sable, foggy Ignorance; 20 Nor bodily nor ghostly negro could Roughcast thy figure in a sadder mould. This privy-chamber of thy shape would be But the close mourner of thy Royalty. Then, break the circle of thy tailor's spell, A pearl within a rugged oyster's shell. Heaven, which the minster of thy person owns, Will fine thee for dilapidations. Like to a martyred abbey's coarser doom, Devoutly altered to a pigeon-room; 30 Or like a college by the changeling rabble, Manchester's elves, transformed into a stable; Or if there be a profanation higher; Such is the sacrilege of thine attire, By which thou'rt half deposed.--Thou look'st like one Whose looks are under sequestration; Whose renegado form at the first glance Shows like the Self-denying Ordinance; Angel of light, and darkness too, (I doubt) Inspired within and yet possessed without; 40 Majestic twilight in the state of grace, Yet with an excommunicated face. Charles and his mask are of a different mint; A psalm of mercy in a miscreant print. The sun wears midnight, day is beetle-browed, And lightning is in kelder of a cloud. O the accursed stenography of fate! The princely eagle shrunk into a bat! What charm, what magic vapour can it be That checks his rays to this apostasy? 50 It is no subtile film of tiffany air, No cobweb vizard such as ladies wear, When they are veiled on purpose to be seen, Doubling their lustre by their vanquished screen. No, the false scabbard of a prince is tough