Supprest, deprest, involved in woes, Great Charles, thy people be Basely deceived with specious shows By those that murther’d thee. We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests, Who have our freedom won: Our fainting hope now only rests On thy succeeding son. CROMWELL ON THE THRONE. Base vulgar! know, the more you stir, The more your woes increase, Your rashness will your hopes deter, ’Tis we must give you peace. Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d Unto our dignity; He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d) Without all remedy. KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN. Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou And thy degenerate train, By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow To me thy sovereign, To make me the most glorious king That e’er o’er England reign’d; That me and mine in everything By you should be maintain’d? THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT. Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave Of thy beloved shade; ’Tis we that brought thee to the grave, Thou wert by us betray’d. We did believe ’twas reformation These monsters did desire; Not knowing that thy degradation And death should be our hire. CROMWELL ON THE THRONE. Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie In your small guts; could you Imagine our conspiracy Did claim no other due, But for to spend our dearest bloods To make rascallions flee? No, we sought for your lives and goods, And for a monarchy. KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN. But there’s a Thunderer above, Who, though he winks awhile, Is not with your black deeds in love, He hates your damned guile. And though a time you perch upon The top of Fortune’s wheel, You shortly unto Acharon (Drunk with your crimes) shall reel. THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT. Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth) We languishing do die: _Excise_ doth give free-quarters birth, While soldiers multiply. Our lives we forfeit every day, Our money cuts our throats; The laws are taken clean away, Or shrunk to traitor’s votes. CROMWELL ON THE THRONE. Like patient mules resolve to bear Whate’er we shall impose; Your lives and goods you need not fear, We’ll prove your friends, not foes. We (the _elected_ ones) must guide A thousand years this land; You must be props unto our pride, And slaves to our command. KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN. But you may fail of your fair hopes, If fates propitious be; And yield your loathed lives in ropes To vengeance and to me. When as the Swedes and Irish join, The Cumbrian and the Scot Do with the Danes and French combine, Then look unto your lot.