Englands Passing-Bell, Postscript
The POSTSCRIPT.
READER! 'tis now almost six years twice told
My Muse conceiv'd; so that this Brat's born old▪
Yet even then it had Nativity;
But ever since hath mist Epiphany;
I took it for still born, and buried it,
As smother'd by an Epileptick fit.
But since that time, it seems its Ghost hath walkt;
And with some Friends familiarly talkt.
I do not know whereof it might complain;
But this they say, they'l dig it up again
In hopes to make the Bones and Dust to speak,
Which so long lay in silence, and to break
The nap of this poor Dormouse. I confess
It's not grown out of season, more or less;
Much of what then did look like Prophesie,
Late actions have turn'd into History.
So that to read aright, thou must begin
Eleven years back, and think how things were then.
Yet some things here thou'lt find, which I have reason
Enough to think will ne're be out of season.
And once more may I speak but what I think,
You'l find the bitterest cup is yet to drink.
The Ball is up, by that the Game is out,
Those that survive will wish for death, I doubt:
When that curst Fox that's now unkennel'd shall
Turn head against the Chase▪ we stand or fall.
Ah me! methinks I see the bloody Field;
But here's my comfort; Heaven is my shield.
I smell the Battel, and you'l shortly see
How you are juggl'd to your Destinie.
When God shall heal the sickness of this Nation,
And purge her Blood by an Evacuation,
Yea, when our veins shall weep their fountains dry,
And shed those crimson Tears, which from the eye
Might have been better spar'd; then shall we know
With what a God England hath had to do.
FINIS.
End of the text · Thomas Gilbert, Englands Passing-Bell (1679)