2 There Hopton was slain, again and again, Or else my author did lie; With a new thanksgiving, for the dead who are living, To God, and his servant Chidleigh. 3 But now on which side was the miracle tried? I hope we at last are even; For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves, To cudgel the clowns of Devon. 4 And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame Of the gout three months together; But it proved, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever. 5 For now he outruns his arms and his guns, And leaves all his money behind him; But they follow after; unless he take water, At Plymouth again they will find him. 6 What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost, Goes deep in the sequestrations; These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal, Nor Jephson's declarations. 7 Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace, Remember the new thanksgiving; Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life, Or shortly you'll dig for your living. A SECOND WESTERN WONDER. 1 You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and thunder, Which made the lie so much the louder: Now list to another, that miracle's brother, Which was done with a firkin of powder. 2 Oh, what a damp it struck through the camp! But as for honest Sir Ralph, It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes, But at least three heads and a half. 3 When out came the book, which the newsmonger took, From the preaching lady's letter, Where in the first place, stood the conqueror's face, Which made it show much the better. 4 But now, without lying, you may paint him flying, At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, so fast did he run, That he left half his name behind him. 5 And now came the post, save all that was lost, But, alas! we are past deceiving By a trick so stale, or else such a tale Might amount to a new thanksgiving. 6 This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face, In the pulpit to fall a weeping, Though his mouth utter'd lies, truth fell from his eyes, Which kept the Lord Mayor from sleeping. 7 Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops, For the laws, not your cause, you that loathe 'em, Lest Essex should start, and play the second part Of worshipful Sir John Hotham. A SONG. 1 Morpheus! the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoky cells, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown: 2 Come, I say, thou powerful god, And thy leaden charming rod, Dipp'd in the Lethean lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake, Lest he should sleep, and never wake. 3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so Obligèd to thy greatest foe? Sleep that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last. ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS.