Epistle XLII. A Satyre on the Rebellion

Urge me no more to sing, I am not able
To raise a note; Songs are abominable:
Yea David's Psalms do now begin to be
Tun'd out of Church, by hymns extempore.
No accents are so pleasant now as those
That are Caesura'd through the Pastors nose.
I'll only weep our misery and ruth,
I am no Poet, for I speak the truth.
Behold a self against it self doth fight,
And the left hand prevails above the right.
The grumbling guts, i'th belly of the State,
Unthankful for the wholsome food they ate;
Belch at their head, and do begin to slight
The Cates, to which they had an appetite:
They long for kickshawes, and new fangled dishes;
Not which all love, but which each fancy wishes.
Behold a glorious Phoebus tumbling down,
While the rebellious Bears usurp the Crown.
Behold a Teem of Phaetons aspire
To guide the Sun, and set the World on fire:
All goes to wrack, and it must needs be so,
When those would run, that know not how to go.
Behold, a lawful Soveraign, to whose mind
Dishonesty's a stranger, now confin'd.
To the Anarchick pow'r of those whose reason
Is flat Rebellion, and their truth is Treason.
Behold the loyal Subjects pill'd and poll'd.
And from Algier to Tunis bought and sold:
Their Goods sequestred by a legal stealth,
The private robb'd t' uphold the Common-wealth.
And those the only plunderers are grown
Of others States, that had none of their own.
Robbers no more by night in secret go,
They have a Licence now for what they do:
If any to the Rulers do complain,
They know no other godliness but gain:
Nor give us any plaister for the sore
Of paying much, but only paying more.
What e'r we do or speak, how e'r we live,
All is acquitted if we will but Give;
They sit in Bulwarks, and do make the lawes
But fair pretences to a fowler cause,
And Horse-leech-like cry give, what e'r they say,
Or sing, the burden of their song is Pay.
How wretched is that State! how full of wo,
When those that should preserve, do overthrow!
When they rule us, and o'r them money raigns,
Who still cry Give, and alwaies gape for gains!
But on those Judges lies a heavy curse,
That measure crimes by the Delinquents purse:
The time will come when they do cease to live,
Some will cry Take, as fast as they cry'd Give.