NOW the Rump is confounded There’s an end of the Roundhead, Who hath been such a bane to our nation; He hath now play’d his part, And’s gone out like a f—, Together with his reformation; For by his good favour He hath left a bad savour; But’s no matter, we’ll trust him no more. Kings and queens may appear Once again in our sphere, Now the knaves are turn’d out of door, And drive the cold winter away. Scot, Nevil, and Vane, With the rest of that train, Are into Oceana {63} fled; Sir Arthur the brave, That’s as arrant a knave, Has Harrington’s Rota in’s head; {64} But hee’s now full of cares For his foals and his mares, As when he was routed before; But I think he despairs, By his arms or his prayers, To set up the Rump any more, And drive the cold winter away. I should never have thought That a monk could have wrought Such a reformation so soon; That House which of late Was the jakes of our state Will ere long be a house of renown. How good wits did jump In abusing the Rump, Whilst the House was prest by the rabble; But our Hercules, Monk, Though it grievously stunk, Now hath cleansed that Augean stable, And drive the cold winter away. And now Mr Prynne {65} With the rest may come in, And take their places again; For the House is made sweet For those members to meet, Though part of the Rump yet remain; Nor need they to fear, Though his breeches be there, Which were wrong’d both behind and before; For he saith ’twas a chance, And forgive him this once, And he swears he will do so no more, And drive the cold winter away. ’Tis true there are some Who are still for the Bum; Such tares will grow up with the wheat; And there they will be, till a Parliament come That can give them a total defeat. But yet I am told That the Rumpers do hold That the saints may swim with the tyde; Nor can it be treason, But Scripture and reason, Still to close with the stronger side, And drive the cold winter away. Those lawyers o’ th’ House— As Baron Wild-goose, {66} With Treason Hill, Whitlock, and Say— Were the bane of our laws And our Good old Cause, And ’twere well if such were away. Some more there are to blame, Whom I care not to name, That are men of the very same ranks; ’Mongst whom there is one, That to Devil Barebone For his ugly petition gave thanks, And drive the cold winter away.