Lay by your Pleading, The Law lies a Bleeding, Burn all your Studies down, and throw away your Reading; Small Power the World has, And doth afford us, Not half so many Privileges as the Sword does; It fosters our Masters, It plaisters Disasters, And makes the Servants quickly greater than their Masters; It ventures, it enters, It circles, it Centres, And sets a Prentice free despite of his Indenters. This takes up all things, And sets up small things, This masters Money, tho' Money masters all things. It's not in Season, To talk of Reason, Or count it Loyalty, when the Sword will have it Treason: This conquers a Crown too, The Cloak and the Gown too, This sets up a Presbyter, and this doth pull him down too; This subtile deceiver, Turn'd Bonnet into Beaver, Down drops a Bishop, and up steps a Weaver. It's this makes a Lay-man, To Preach and to Pray Man, And this made a Lord of him, which was before a Drayman; For from this dull-pit, Of _Saxbey's_ Pulpit, This brought a holy Iron-monger to the Pulpit: No Gospel can guide it, No Law can decide it, No Church or State can debate it, 'Till the Sword hath Sanctify'd it; Such pitiful things be, Happier than Kings be, This brought in the Heraldry of _Thimblesby_ and _Slingsby_. Down goes the Law-trix, For from this Matrix, Sprang holy _Hewson's_ power, and tumbl'd down St. _Patrick's_. It batter'd the Gun-kirk, So did it the Dum-kirk, That he is fled and gone to the Devil in _Dunkirk_; In _Scotland_ this waster, Did work such disaster, This brought the Money back for which they sold their Master: This frighted the _Flemming_, And made him so beseeming, That he doth never think of his lost Lands redeeming. But he that can tower, Over him that is lower, Would be counted but a Fool to give away his Power: Take Books and rent them, Who would invent them, When as the Sword replys _Negatur Argumentur_: The grand College Butlers, Must vail to the Sutlers, There's not a Library like to the Cutlers; The Blood that is spilt, Sir, Hath gain'd all the Guilt, Sir, Thus have you seen me run the Sword up to the Hilt, Sir. _Queen_ DIDO. [Music] When _Dido_ was a _Carthage_ Queen, She lov'd a _Trojan_ Knight; Who sail'd about from Coast to Coast, Of Metal brave in Fight: As they Hunting rid, a Shower, Did on their Heads with fury pour, Drove 'em to a lonely Cave, Where _∆neas_ with his Charms, Caught fair _Dido_ in his Arms, And got what he would have. Then _Dido Hymen's_ Rites forgot, Her Love was won in hast; Her Honour she consider'd not, But in her Breast him plac'd; Now when their Loves were just began, Great _Jove_ sent down his winged Son, To fright _∆neas'_ sleep: Make him by the break of Day, From Queen _Dido_ steal away, Which caus'd her wail and weep.