John Lilburne {26} is a stirring blade, And understands the matter; He neither will king, bishops, lords, Nor th’ House of Commons flatter: John loves no power prerogative, But that derived from Sion; As for the mitre and the crown, Those two he looks awry on. The King sent us, etc. Tom Violet {27} swears his injuries Are scarcely to be numbred; He was close prisoner to the State These score dayes and nine hundred; For Tom does set down all the dayes, And hopes he has good debters; ’Twould be no treason (Jenkin sayes) To bring them peaceful letters. The King sent us, etc. Poore Hudson {28} of all was the last, For it was his disaster, He met a turncoat swore that he Was once King Charles his master; So he to London soon was brought, But came in such a season, Their martial court was then cry’d down, They could not try his treason. The king sent us, etc. Else Hudson had gone to the pot, Who is he can abide him? For he was master to the King, And (which is more) did guide him. Had Hudson done (as Judas did), Most loyally betray’d him, The Houses are so noble, they As bravely would have paid him. The King sent us, etc. We’ll then conclude with hearty healths To King Charles and Queen Mary; To the black lad in buff (the Prince), So like his grandsire Harry; To York, to Glo’ster; may we not Send Turk and Pope defiance, Since we such gallant seconds have To strengthen our alliance? Wee’l drink them o’re and o’re again, Else we’re unthankfull creatures; Since Charles, the wise, the valiant King, Takes us for loyall traytors. This if you will rhyme dogrell call, (That you please you may name it,) One of the loyal traytors here Did for a ballad frame it: Old Chevy Chace was in his minde; If any suit it better, All those concerned in the song Will kindly thank the setter. UPON HIS MAJESTY’S COMING TO HOLMBY. Charles I., after his surrender to the English Commissioners by the Scotch, was conveyed to Holmby House, Northamptonshire, 16th February, 1647. HOLD out, brave Charles, and thou shaft win the field; Thou canst not lose thyself, unless thou yield On such conditions as will force thy hand To give away thy sceptre, crown, and land. And what is worse, to hazard by thy fall, To lose a greater crown, more worth than all. Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoyced To hear thy royal resolution voiced, And are content far more poor to be Than yet they are, so it reflects from thee. Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate; Our zeal is to thy _person_, not thy _state_.