With new-wrought caps, against the canon, For taking cold, tho’ sure he have none; A sermon’s end, where he began one, A new hour long, when’s glass had run one, New use, new points, new notes to stand on: See a new teacher, etc. THE ROUNDHEAD. From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works. WHAT creature’s that, with his short hairs, His little band, and huge long ears, That this new faith hath founded? The saints themselves were never such, The prelates ne’er ruled half so much; Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead. What’s he that doth the bishops hate, And counts their calling reprobate, ’Cause by the Pope propounded; And thinks a zealous cobbler better Than learned Usher in ev’ry letter? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead. What’s he that doth _high treason_ say, As often as his _yea_ and _nay_, And wish the King confounded; And dares maintain that Mr Pim Is fitter for a crown than him? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead. What’s he that if he chance to hear A little piece of _Common Prayer_, Doth think his conscience wounded; Will go five miles to preach and pray, And meet a sister by the way? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead. What’s he that met a holy sister And in a haycock gently kiss’d her? Oh! then his zeal abounded: ’Twas underneath a shady willow, Her Bible served her for a pillow, And there he got a Roundhead. PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE UNDER THE ROSE. From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. THERE is an old proverb which all the world knows, Anything may be spoke, if ’t be under the rose: Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint, Of the state of the land, and th’ enormities in’t. Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves, More than ever were known in a State before; But I hope that their mischiefs have digg’d their own graves, And we’ll never trust knaves for their sakes any more. Under the rose be it spoken, the city’s an ass So long to the public to let their gold run, To keep the King out; but ’tis now come to pass, I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won. Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a company of men, Trainbands they are called—a plague confound ’em:— And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall, May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all! Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a damn’d committee Sits in hell (Goldsmiths’ Hall), in the midst of the city, Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers— The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears. Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament, Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King, Then Derrick {32} may chance have ’em all in a string.