%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The Sence of the Oxford-Iunto, / Concerning the late Treaty; wherein the severall Reasons are delivered, / why they could not conclude a Peace with the Parliament: And Published / for the Satisfaction of the whole Kingdome. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer ?-? Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 06/21/2014 32752

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R210333 GIve eare (beloved Countrimen) / Who long so much for Peace, Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 418 The Sence of the Oxford-Iunto, / Concerning the late Treaty; wherein the severall Reasons are delivered, / why they could not conclude a Peace with the Parliament: And Published / for the Satisfaction of the whole Kingdome. The Sence of the Oxford-Junto, Concerning the late Treaty; wherein the severall Reasons are delivered, why they could not conclude a Peace with the Parliament: And Published for the Satisfaction of the whole Kingdome. The Sense of the Oxford Junto, Concerning the late Treaty; wherein the several Reasons are delivered, why they could not conclude a Peace with the Parliament: And Published for the Satisfaction of the whole Kingdom. ?-?

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GIve eare (beloved Countrimen) Who long so much for Peace, And guesse a Treaty th' only meanes The Kingdome to release: Be not mistaken thus to thinke; For wee were sent so farre As Uxbridge, but to sweare and drinke, And not to end the Warre. Through our dissembling Impudence Your hearts (we know) were full Of Joy, and did us true beleeve, Whereas we mean't to Gull: What though the Kingdome bleeding lie, Yet Peace is out of season, And that Bug-beare we doe defie For many a weighty reason. First, I'le no Peace, sayes Rupert; Good Uncle, doe not thinke, That I can leave your Kingdome so While there is any chincke: You know for Plunder I did come With German tag and rag; And I'le have more ere I goe home Againe unto the Hague. Doe (Brother) doe, sayes Maurice, I like the Humour deare, And could contented be to have The Warre last many a yeare: Let's keep us still on English ground, And for ourselves create Possessions of as large a bound, As the Palatinate. Then from his Pen starts Digby, And cries 't was Princely spoken, Since hope there was that France would send Ten thousand for a token: Besides, the Gallant Irish vow To pawne their Praying Beads, Rather than we should yield them now A Peace, to lose our Heals. 'Tis true (my Sonne) quoth Bristoll, Then write a Declaration Of our late Treating, which wee'l send To cheate each forraine Nation: For we must make the world beleeve, None more for Peace requested Than we, or else they'l laugh in sleeve, And we shall be detested. But Brother mine, sayes Cottington, I am Lord Treasurer; Yet not one Penny can produce For to maintaine the War: And now the tottering State of Spaine Can spare us no reliefe, I live to beare the Bag in vaine, And may die like a Thiefe. Fie, fie my Lord, then Winchester Bids him not to despaire, And cheeres him with large Rodomonts, Much like a Wise mans Heire: Il'e doe my best to keep off Peace, And stoutly put all Care by; For if from Basing they me chase, Il'e run to my Lord of Darby. Darby, He will doe anything, So they the War prolong, If that his Countesse give him leave; For she at home's most strong: But if that Latham yielded be, And they escape well can, Her, and these two Wits, you may see Reigne in the Ile of Man. And I, Lord Paulet, would be glad To have the War still spun out, Because I know from Basing-house The Foole at length will run out: Then there to have Command in chiefe I'me sure will be my fate; And like a good brotherly Thiefe, Beg him and his Estate. 'Tis a good Christian act (my Lord) I Hopton doe allow it; For I was once esteem'd a Saint, As all the World does know it: And for this Name more War I'le wage, Till I it gaine from Rome; So Traitours shall a Pilgrimage Make yearely to my Tombe.
And I, Duke Lennox, will contend, As long as I doe live, With Papists how to raise and stretch The Kings Prerogative: Then I may rage and domineere Over my Countrymen, Or else I shall be sham'd t'appear In Scotland ere agen. A figge (my Lord) sayes Capel, The Scots we soon will beate; However, let us goe and seeme As if we meant to Treat: They cut my Woods, both Branch and Boughes, My Timber all is fallen, As if they were to roste the Cowes Whichever I have stollen. And I (quoth Kingston) am undone, Except we fight it out; Because for Bishops I did plead, The Vulgar will me flout: Besides, my Father money lent Unto the King great store; Unlesse we slave the Parliament, I ne're shall see it more. Who would not fight, cries Dunsmore, An Earle to be enstil'd? To lose a Lordship, Hatton sayes, Would make a Courtier wild: Culpepper, he growes hote i'th mouth, Damnes Peace, as if he meant, Rather than not to be a Lord, Fight to be King of Kent. Sir Nicholas, he to treat will goe, But sweares he shall miscarry; The very thought of Peace will spoyle Him for a Secretary. He with them thus conditions then, That if they stay the longer, For him to choose some other man Of constitution stronger. Then up a Bench of Lawyers stand, And in their Judgement gave, 'Twas fit Sir Edward Nicholas might His Habeas Corpus have: Ned Hide, and Lane, they were the chiefe, I need to name no more, Who for their Knighthoods stood so stiffe, And shut Peace out of dore. But all to fight for the knowne Lawes, As Littleton maintaines; Who strove to steale away the Seale, Yet got nothing for his paines: For when the man to Oxford came, They fell to sweare and curse, And askt him if he did not shame To bring an empty Purse. But he at length in favour crept Among the Medley Rout, And is against the name of Peace As zealous and as stout: An't please your Majesty, sayes he, If wisely you will deale, The Ordnance still must mounted be, They will make good the Seale. And I (my Liege) sayes Heath, affirme None better can than these, Restore againe the Chancerie, Your Bench, or Common Pleas: Fight on, by Law Il'e make it good, Pull down the Senate's pride; It is not fit a Treaty should This difference decide. Then spake Armagh, if Law it be, I'le prove it Gospel too, By such a knotty Syllogisme As no man shall undoe: In Bishops breasts all truth doth rest, Scorne Treating then, and come; Wee'l give each man a hallow'd crest, And Consecrated drumme. And I (quoth Duppa) doe protest, That they which but begin To thinke of pulling Bishops downe Commit a heynous sin: What a cursed thing then Treating is, How odious is Peace, Which envies Church-men worldly bliss, Great honours, pride, and ease!
And Stewart vowes hee'l be content Much rather soone to die, Than let his Conscience witnesse beare Unto Presbyterie: What though it does appeare more right, I never will confesse? Let's Treat in shew, breake off, and fight, Upon advantages. But harke ye (Sirs) sayes Dorset, Doe anything you please; Yet for one reason I desire, That we might have a Peace: I cannot act a Souldiers part, Nor freezing lie in Trenches; But wish myselfe with all my heart At Chelsey with my Wenches. Zounds, a Sedan, cries Goring, To cage this piece of sloth; Dammee, but one word more of Peace, I'le stabbe him with an Oath: My Father was in dayes of yore A Monopolizing vermin, But now is glad to keep the dore, And cringe to Harry Termin. That was a gallant trade at Court, Then said Endymion Porter, When Subjects pockets we could fish, And clip their purse-strings shorter: But now the blocke runnes in my mind When I dreame of Peace in bed; Then 'wake, and feele, yet nothing find About mee but my head. O monstrous! then cries Windebanke, That dreames should prove so true; I feare then I shall be undone By Peace as well as you: What though I am a Jesuite, (God blesse our good Queene Mary) Yet if the Round-heads we out-fight, I shall still be Secretary. And I, Tom. Lunsford, hope to be Lieutenant of the Tower, Then I shall have the Citizens Againe within my power: And like tame Slaves, I will them teach An iron chaine to weare; The Ordnance also shall soone reach As farre as Westminster. But soft there (Tom.) quoth Byron, Thou art yet but a Knight; For murthers coole, I Lorded was, After the end o'th' fight: Then I may be Lieutenant made Rather than thee, I hope, Since I more cruell am, if not Prevented by a Rope. I feare not Ropes, sayes Langdale, Hanging to mee's a jest; I'le venture necke at any time To th' weight of my thin chest: If Peace come, I will yield thus farre, And give them many thankes; Yet one thing by the way I barre, All pulling by the Shankes. O Lord, how dare you venture so, Sir Skellum Grenvile cries! The very thought of it doth make Blood in my face to rise: Peace is a sweet soft name to some, But to me it sounds like Thunder, More terrible than a Plymouth Drum, And will rob me of my Plunder. A Skiffe, a Skiffe, baules Dives, If ye talk more of Peace; Hells torments light on ev'ry wretch That prayes the War might cease: For then my Brother George, and I, After the Queen must dance, And live on Popish Charitie, In Italy, Spaine, or France. You see (beloved Countrimen) How Peace is out of season; For which you have the Junto's Sence, And each Commanders reason: Then pray you doe not take it ill We you deceiv'd by Treating; For you may have Peace, if you will But give us a sound Beating.
FINIS.