The Long Parliament next came all to the block, And they this untameable palfrey would ride; But she would not bear all that numerous flock, At which they were fain themselves to divide. Jack Presbyter first gets the steed by the head, While the reverend Bishops had hold of the bridle; Jack said through the nose they their flockes did not feed, But sat still on the beast and grew aged and idle. And then comes the Rout, with broom-sticks inspired, And pull’d down their graces, their sleeves, and their train; And sets up Sir Jack, who the beast quickly tyr’d With a journey to Scotland and thence back again. Jack rode in a doublet, with a yoke of prick-ears, A cursed splay-mouth and a Covenant spur, Rides switching and spurring with jealousies and fears, Till the poor famish’d beast was not able to stir. Next came th’ Independent—a dev’lish designer, And got himself call’d by a holier name— Makes Jack to unhorse, for he was diviner, And would make her travel as far’s Amsterdam. But Nol, a rank-rider, gets first in the saddle, And made her show tricks, and curvate, and rebound; She quickly perceived that he rode widdle waddle, And like his coach-horses threw his Highness to ground. Then Dick, being lame, rode holding by the pummel, Not having the wit to get hold of the rein; But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell, That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again. Next Fleetwood and Vane with their rascally pack, Would every one put their feet in the stirrup; But they pull’d the saddle quite off of her back, And were all got under her before they were up. At last the King mounts her, and then she stood still; As his Bucephalus, proud of this rider, She cheerfully yields to his power and skill Who is careful to feed her, and skilful to guide her. A CATCH. By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660. LET’S leave off our labour, and now let’s go play, For this is our time to be jolly; Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away, To nourish our griefs is but folly: He that won’t drink and sing Is a traytor to’s King, And so he that does not look twenty years younger; We’ll look blythe and trim With rejoicing at him That is the restorer and will be the prolonger Of all our felicity and health, The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth. ’Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches, Our riches brings honour, at which every mind itches, And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy, And our joy makes us leap and sing, Vive le Roy! THE TURN-COAT. By Samuel Butler. 1661.