Works of John Taylor the Water Poet not included in the folio volume of 1630

Fortune , thou art a Whore; and Death, thou art
('Tis ro be fear'd) a Cavaleer in Heart:
You, that so formall stand with Scythe and Glasse,
Think not in private with our Lord to passe.
Was there but one choice peice? one dainty bit,
And your leane ugly Jaws must fall on it?
Were there not Dray-men, Butchers, plump and fat,
But you must pick a Weasle out, a Rat?
Was it you took a liking to the Elfe,
For his Complexion, 'twas so like your selfe?

Or for your Ease, lest a more weighty pack
Should in the transportation break your back?
Was it you found him grating of a scull
Which you might call your owne, you did him cull?
Or that his soveraign

He was a Druggist in Bucklers Berry.

Drugs restor'd a Brother,
That through an Hurdle suckt (you'l say) his Mother?
Was it you came before his Plots were ripe,
And he refus'd to ask you, smoake a Pipe?
If none of these, why then so hasty, Death?
What, not afford a Lord Mayor two daies breath?
When the Potato-Pies, and Capons were
Bought, and in readinesse to end the year?
If 'twas his lot to die, well; else 'twas base,
To cull a Magistrate for's Chain, or Mace.
This was plain Tyranny, we cannot blame
Him for an Independent, when you came.

Restore him to us; sure 'twas a mistake,
King Noll and's Kindred else will make you quake.

Was it for this he did so long oppose
Monarchy, and Princes, to be led by th'Nose,
And shown in Pluto's Court, with O yes! here
Comes my Lord Mayre and's Horse; provide um cheere?
Was it for this he became Pimp, to th'State,
And to admit their Army op'd the Gate?
While in Triumphant manner they bestrid
London, like George on Horseback, as they rid?
Was it for preservation of the flock,
So many o'th' wicked he condemn'd to th'Block?
And with his sword of Power cut in two
What neither Law nor Justice e're could do?

O Death! thou art ungratefull; he has sent
More to thee in one yeare then th'Plague or Lent.
By Proclamations, by Collections too
'Gainst th'Common Enemy what e're would do.
I say again, restore, or wee'l appeale
And have you put down Traytor under seale.

Say Mr. Speaker, is't not Treason scan'd,
For Death t'arrest a Member under hand
And without th'Houses leave?—I know 'tis so,
Youl find it—Caroli Vicesimo.

Is't not against an Order lately made,
All Members to be free, their debts unpaid?
Did they not pitch upon a day, to wit,
Doomsday ith' Afternoon to think on it?

But all this will not do: hee's gon to tell
Hampden and Brooks, and Pym the Newes in Hell.

How there is Peace (God blesse us) coming on
(That Antichristian brat of Babylon)
When 'tis against his Conscience to submit
Or have a finger in restoring it.

Mr. Warner.

Would not the world cry shame, should he accord
VVho in his Name has War, and's Armes the sword?
Hee's gon to tell them of a certain thing
Coming to London, whom men call the King:

Whose Scepter will out-sway, and bring in thrall
Th'establish'd Government Anarchicall.
And with his Radiant lustre quite dispell
What for these seven years has been hatch'd in Hell.

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