THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT. Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength, So sad is our condition, That could we hope that now at length We might find intermission, And had but half we had before, Ere these mechanics sway’d; To our revenge, knee-deep in gore, We would not fear to wade. CROMWELL ON THE THRONE. In vain (fond people) do you grutch And tacitly repine. For why? my skill and strength are such Both poles of heaven are mine. Your hands and purses both cohered To raise us to this height: You must protect those you have rear’d, Or sink beneath their weight. KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN. Singing with angels near the throne Of the Almighty Three I sit, and know perdition (Base Cromwell) waits on thee, And on thy vile associates: Twelve months {35} shall full conclude Your power—thus speak the powerful fates, Then _vades_ your interlude. THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT. Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time, The most auspicious day, On which these monsters of our time To hell must post away. Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws, And so impair their stings, We may no more fight for the Cause Or other _novel_ things! A SHORT LITANY FOR THE YEAR 1649. By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.) FROM all the mischiefs that I mention here, Preserve us, Heaven, in this approaching year: From civil wars and those uncivil things That hate the race of all our queens and kings; From those who for self-ends would all betray, From saints that curse and flatter when they pray; From those that hold it merit to rebel, In treason, murthers, and in theft excel; From those new teachers have destroy’d the old, And those that turn the gospel into gold; From a High-Court, and that rebellious crew That did their hands in royal blood imbrue,— Defend us, Heaven, and to the throne restore The rightful heir, and we will ask no more. THE SALE OF REBELLION’S HOUSE-HOLD STUFF. Printed in “Percy’s Reliques,” from an old black-letter copy in Mr Pepys’ collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in a Choice Collection of 120 Loyal Songs—1684 To the tune of “Old Sir Simon the King.” REBELLION hath broken up house, And hath left me old lumber to sell; Come hither and take your choice, I’ll promise to use you well. Will you buy the old Speaker’s chair? Which was warm and easy to sit in, And oft has been clean’d, I declare, Whereas it was fouler than fitting. Says old Simon the King, Says old Simon the King, With his ale-dropt hose, and his Malmsey nose, Sing, hey ding, ding-a-ding, ding.