Thus from the rout who can expect Ought but division? Since unity doth with monarchy Begin and end in one. If then when all is thought their owne, And lyes at their behest, These popular pates reap nought but debates, From that many round-headed beast; Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men, And Cavaliers give the word; Now let us see at what you would be, And whether you can accord. “A health to King Charles!” sayes Tom; “Up with it,” sayes Ralph, like a man; “God blesse him,” sayes Doll; “and raise him,” sayes Moll; “And send him his owne!” sayes Nan. Now for these prudent things that sit Without end and to none, And their committees, that townes and cities Fill with confusion; For the bold troopes of sectaries, The Scots and their partakers, Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates, The covenant and its makers; For all these wee’le pray, and in such a way, As if it might granted be, Jack and Gill, Mat and Will, And all the world would agree. “A plague take them all!” sayes Besse; “And a pestilence too!” sayes Margery, “The devill!” sayes Dick; “And his dam, {34} too!” sayes Nick; “Amen! and Amen!” say I. It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom. A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES, A CROWN FOR CROMWELL, AND A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE. From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year. CROMWELL ON THE THRONE. SO, so, the deed is done, The royal head is sever’d, As I meant when I first begun, And strongly have endeavour’d. Now Charles the First is tumbled down, The Second I do not fear; I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown, Nor for Jehovah care. KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN. Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave Like other men I lie, My sparkling fame and royal name Can (as thou wishest) die? Know, caitif, in my son I live (The Black Prince call’d by some), And he shall ample vengeance give To those that did my doom. THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.