Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoyced
To hear thy royal resolution voiced,
And are content far more poor to be
Than yet they are, so it reflects from thee.
Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate;
Our zeal is to thy PERSON, not thy STATE.
We are not so ambitious to desire
Our drooping fortunes to be mounted higher,
And thou so great a monarch, to our grief,
Must sue unto thy subjects for relief:
And when they sit and long debate about it,
Must either stay their time, or go without it.
No, sacred prince, thy friends esteem thee more
In thy distresses than ere they did before;
And though their wings be clipt, their wishes fly
To heaven by millions, for a fresh supply.
That as thy cause was so betray'd by MEN,
It may by ANGELS be restored agen.
Ballad: I Thank You Twice
Or
The city courting their own ruin,
Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.
A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.
The hierarchy is out of date,
Our monarchy was sick of late,
But now 'tis grown an excellent state:
Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The teachers knew not what to say,
The 'prentices have leave to play,
The people have all forgotten to pray;
Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The Roundhead and the Cavalier
Have fought it out almost seven year,
And yet, methinks, they are never the near:
Oh, God, etc.
The gentry are sequester'd all;
Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,
For there they meet with the devil and all;
Still, God, etc.
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