Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive; For all they have spoken or taught will ne’er save ’em, Unless they will leave that fault, hell’s sure to have ’em! THE DOMINION OF THE SWORD. A song made in the Rebellion. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. To the tune of “Love lies a bleeding.” LAY by your pleading, Law lies a bleeding; Burn all your studies down, and Throw away your reading. Small pow’r the word has, And can afford us Not half so much privilege as The sword does. It fosters your masters, It plaisters disasters, It makes the servants quickly greater Than their masters. It venters, it enters, It seeks and it centers, It makes a’prentice free in spite Of his indentures. It talks of small things, But it sets up all things; This masters money, though money Masters all things. It is not season To talk of reason, Nor call it loyalty, when the sword Will have it treason. It conquers the crown, too, The grave and the gown, too, First it sets up a presbyter, and Then it pulls him down too. This subtle disaster Turns bonnet to beaver; Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up Starts a weaver. This makes a layman To preach and to pray, man; And makes a lord of him that Was but a drayman. Far from the gulpit Of Saxby’s pulpit, This brought an Hebrew ironmonger To the pulpit. Such pitiful things be More happy than kings be; They get the upper hand of Thimblebee And Slingsbee. No gospel can guide it, No law can decide it, In Church or State, till the sword Has sanctified it. Down goes your law-tricks, Far from the matricks, Sprung up holy Hewson’s power, And pull’d down St Patrick’s. This sword it prevails, too, So highly in Wales, too, Shenkin ap Powel swears “Cots-splutterer nails, too.” In Scotland this faster Did make such disaster, That they sent their money back For which they sold their master. It batter’d their Gunkirk, And so it did their Spainkirk, That he is fled, and swears the devil Is in Dunkirk. He that can tower, Or he that is lower, Would be judged a fool to put Away his power. Take books and rent ’em, Who can invent ’em, When that the sword replies, _Negatur argumentum_. Your brave college-butlers Must stoop to the sutlers; There’s ne’er a library Like to the cutlers’. The blood that was spilt, sir, Hath gain’d all the gilt, sir; Thus have you seen me run my Sword up to the hilt, sir. THE STATE’S NEW COIN.