The True Englishmans Complaints, Postscript
POST-SCRIPT.
IF ere you leave us in a laſting-Peace,
'Tis by redreſſing all our Grievances.
When Rulers ſtop their ears to th' Peoples cryes,
Thoſe are ſad ſymptoms of Catastrophies.
In Watch, or Clock, things made irregular,
Though ne're ſo ſmall, make all the work to jar.
And in the Body Natural 'tis ſound,
That if an Humour doth therein abound,
That the Phyſician muſt extenuate,
And make it with the reſt co-operate.
So, if in Bodies Politick there be,
Not found 'twixt all Eſtates a harmony,
They ceaſe not till in tract of time they bring
All to Confuſion, Peaſant, Lord and King.
To make ſome great, and ruine all the reſt,
In this a Commonwealth cannot be bleſt.
And doth it follow hence, great Sirs, that we
Muſt be made Beggars to poſteritie.
Let Equity and Juſtice plead our Cauſe,
And then refer us to our antient Laws.
If Magna Charta muſt be wholly ſlighted,
We muſt conclude our Rulers are benighted.
But needs muſt we be poor, when it is known
We've had a ſecond Pearce of Gaveſton.
Your Power is ſovereign, elſe we durſt not quote
His poyſonous name, without an Antidote.
Perfideous Clarenden! that potent Thief,
His Prince's blemiſh, and the Peoples grief.
Who once did ſcorn to plunder by retail,
Who ſtretch'd the State's purſe till the ſtrings did fail.
He and his fellow Juglers found the knack
To plow deep furrows on the Nations back.
Like Glaziars, who incite the roaring Crew
Windows to break, that they may make them new.
So they pick Quarrels with our Neighbor Nations,
Then baul at you to peel us with Taxations;
Which having got, ſtil more and more they crave,
Ev'n like the Horſleech, or devouring Grave.
For Avarice cannot be ſatisfi'd,
No more than Belzebub and's Brother Hide.
That Machiavil we have not yet forgot,
Who brew'd that wicked, helliſh Northern Plot;
Where many Gentlemen had ruin'd been,
If Providence had not ſtept in between.
Who then amongſt vour ſelves ſecure can be,
If this be not check'd by Authoritie,
He was one of that open-handed Tribe
Whoſe Avarice ne're yet refuſ'd a Bribe.
What ſuit of Law ſoev'r before him came,
He that produc'd moſt Angels, won the Game;
Be't right or wrong, or Plaintiff or Defendant,
Should have the Cauſe, if Gold were at the end on't.
How did he ſend, without remorſe or fear,
Thouſands brave Engliſh to that Grave, Tangier?
What uſage had the Scots, thouſands can tell,
When the late Remonſtrators did rebel.
Whilſt Iriſh Rebels quit their old O hone.
Poor Engliſh Proteſtants take up that tone.
Empſon and Dudly's facts compar'd with his,
Were but nights darkneſs unto Hells Abiſs.
The famous Spenſers did in type pourtray
What ſhould be acted by this Beaſt of prey.
Earth him, and you ſhall find within his Cell,
Thoſe miſchiefs which no Age can parallel;
War, Fire and Blood, with vaſt expence of Treaſure,
Ruine of Engliſhmen, his chiefeſt pleaſure.
In fine, for Miſchief he was what you will,
The perfect Epitome of all ill.
All good men hate his Name; nay (which is worſe)
Three Nations doggs him with their heavy curſe.
As he regarded not the Widows tears;
So ye, juſt Heavens, multiply his fears.
Let Cains moſt dreadful doom ſoon overtake him,
And his companion Gout never forſake him.
Let Heavens Vengeance light upon his pate,
Till all our wrongs it doth retaliate;
Till he himſelf to Juſtice doth reſign,
Let all men call him, Curſed Clarendine.
Dexterous Artiſt, he with little eaſe,
Tranſplanted Dunkirk from beyond the Seas,
And dropt it near that fatal ſpot of Land,
Where for him now Tyburn doth weeping ſtand;
The ecchoing Ax out of the Tow'r doth call,
To ſpeed this Monſter Epidemical.
But he upon us having plaid his prank,
Follows his Brethren, Finch and Windebank.
Thus Hide by name, is Hide by practice too,
Yet cannot hide from Heav'n, tho hid from You.
And being gone, hath left his Imps behind,
Whoſe only work is, all your Eyes to blind,
Leſt tracing him, you find their villany.
Yet known to few but the All-ſeeing Eye.
If any thing of common fame be true,
He's only gone our Miſchiefs to renew;
And if his practice juſtifie our fears,
Hee'l ſets again together by the ears.
Ambition's of the nature of the Devil,
Alwayes to brood, and hatch, and bring forth evill.
If true that Maxime be, Kings cannot err;
With modeſty we may from thence infer.
Ill thrives that hapleſs Nation then that ſhows,
A ſilent Prince, and Chancellor that crows
Over his Equals, over all his Peers,
Over Fanaticks, over Cavaliers;
He was ſo abſolute, 'twas hard to ſay
Or he, or Charles, whether we muſt obey.
Roſe from a Gentleman, too near the Throne;
Sought not the Nations Intreſt, but his own.
You are our Bridle in ſuch Tyrants jaws,
That would deſtroy us, and ſubvert our Laws.
Now hold the Beign, now keep the Ballance true,
Find thoſe Bandetro's that do lie purdue.
If you, like Cato, for your Country ſtand,
Three noble Nations are at your command,
Whilſt Juſtice, Truth & Right ouſneſs do guide you
Wee'l be your Guard, whatever ſhal1 betide you.
Diſarm the Papiſts, and ſecure our Ports,
Place Proteſtants iu Garriſons and Forts.
Why ſhould the French and Iriſh here bear ſway,
That Enemies to England are this day?
Let not our Magazines remain with thoſe,
That burnt our City, and abide our Foes;
Whoſe helliſh, bloody principles are ſuch,
To butcher Engliſh-men they think nor much.
What Safety, Peace, or Trade can we expect,
When theſe protected are, and you neglect
Us to ſecure againſt ſuch Cut-throat Dogs,
As ſwarm now in our Land, like Egypts Frogs.
What means the flocking of the French ſo faſt,
Into our Bowels thus with Arms to haſt?
And muſt our Horſes, which of value be,
Be unto France tranſported, as we ſee?
Are not our Forts and Caſtles, all betray'd.
When all their Stores and Guns aſide are laid,
Out of the reach of ſuch as would oppoſe
Forreign Enemies and Domeſtick Foes?
Did the Dumb Child, when at his Father's throat
He ſaw a Knife? immediately cry out?
Can we be ſilent, when the Train is laid,
And Fire-works prepared, as 'tis ſaid?
Look through the Vail, and yon will ſoon eſpy
The Romiſh Councils cloſe at work do lie,
To undermine You, and Religion too:
Look well about you, leſt you do it rue.
Now is the time to quit your ſelves like men,
Now ſtand up for our Liberties, and then,
The Lawrel Wreath and never-fading Bayes,
Shall crown your heads, and we ſhall ſing your praiſe.
Is there no Balm in Gilead? is there no Phyſician there? Why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?
FINIS.
End of the text · George Wither, The True Englishmans Complaints (1668)