Qui Chetat Chetabitur:
OR,
TYBURNE Cheated.
BEING,
A POEME,
Elizabeth Jefferie. UPON
The three Regicides Munson, Mildmay and Wallopp; who
were Drawn upon Hurdles to Tyburne on the
27th. of January, 1661.
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GReat, and grave Tyburne, Wee are sent
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To court thee in a Complement:
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Wee come, oh strange! to make no stay,
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Only greet, and so away;
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Take notice how we doe adore thee,
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And in worship fall before thee;
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Thus we fall before thy Trine,
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And vow our selves for ever thine:
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'Twas for thy sake we stirr'd up strife,
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And now we love thee to the life;
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Our humble hearts doe make request,
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Not to be mounted, like the rest;
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We are content all strife should cease,
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And love, what once we hated, Peace.
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Did we not doe a pretty thing,
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To Murder a Religious King:
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Oh! how we quafft his guiltless blood,
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He onely dy'd for being good;
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Whilst all the Punishment we had
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Was but to live, for being bad;
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If this be all we must incurr,
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Who would not be a Murtherer:
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We care not now we know our hope
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Must be intayl'd upon a Rope.
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Pray tell us Lawyers, can there be
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A Fine, without Recoverie?
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We'l satisfie our selves a None,
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We now are reading Little---ton;
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If Cooke were living, he'd advise us
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In our distress, though you dispise us;
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But he (poore Wretch) was cast aside,
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His Law was DUN before he dy'd:
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Some of his Brethren smil'd to see,
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Whilst others cry'd, And why not we?
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Their Judgments did the thing enlarge,
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Though he were Drawn that drew the Charge;
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We see aboundance of our Gange,
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(I hope they practice how to Hang)
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That knew full well, the time was, when
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Money made Knaves, now honest men:
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Nor had we bin thus made a Theame,
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Had we bin rul'd by QUARLES his Dreame;
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He call'd us Rebells in our prime,
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And told us of this very time:
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But he n'ere dream'd, as some recited,
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That for his Worke he should be slighted:
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Such Caveleirs we daily see,
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Are constant to their Povertie;
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Their's was the danger, their's the paine,
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But we can tell who reapes the gaine;
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Now they may begg through Iron-grates,
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That lost (by which we got) Estates.
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Whilst once a yeare we pay our Vows,
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To this our monstrous three legg'd Spous,
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Who showes her love, in this our woe,
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Poore Wretch she's loath to let us goe;
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Oh! how she labours, and inclines
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To make us understand her Lines;
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How she seems to swell with pride,
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With her Champion by her side,
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Who invites us to our woes,
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That the Knave might have our cloathes;
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He tells us that we need not feare,
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For old Noll, and Bradshaws there;
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We know, and all the world may see't,
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That 'tis not merry when Knaves meet;
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But this old saying now proves true,
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The Gallows alwayes claimes her due;
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Wer't not for fear, we would proceed,
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And out of love, be hang'd indeed;
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For unto us it does appeare
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Sad to be hanged once a yeare,
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For like old Noll, though breath be fled,
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We may be hanged when we be dead:
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But one thing joyes us to the heart,
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The Caveleirs can bare no part,
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For if we see them but begin
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To laugh we'le bid them laugh that win;
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And if they chance to make their braggs,
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We'le bid them looke upon their Raggs;
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Alas poore Creatures, they can hope
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Only in Raggs, and we in Rope.
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But now, Grave Tyburne we must leave thee,
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'Tis no wonder we deceive thee;
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Pray doe not weep, for 'tis in vaine
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Next yeare, we'le see the here againe;
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Till then, with a submissive bow
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We make to thee, each Man his vow:
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And first we doe resolve to bee
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Obedient unto none but thee;
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Next, during life, we vow t'appeare
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And doe thee homage once a yeare;
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These promises thou well mayst trust,
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Necessety will make us just.
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Thus we thy Servants, every one,
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Wallopp, Mildmay, and Munson,
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With all our might and power, will
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Be allwayes carefull to fullfill
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Thy sweet commands, nor time, nor season
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Shall hinder us, from thinking Treason;
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What though we never lov'd our King?
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Thou lov'st us for that very thing;
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In all things thou shalt be our Cheife,
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Thou lov'st a Traitor, and a Theife,
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Therefore thou need'st take no care
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For we can fitt thee to a haire;
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For our Deeds are so much fam'd
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That Hell will blush to hear us nam'd,
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And thus for our Rebellious Pride,
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Wee'l once a yeare on Hurdles ride,
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And if Squire Dun will not oppose,
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Wee'l every Winter finde him cloaths.
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And now, great Charles, to thee we bow,
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And, Satan-like, we all alow
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And owne thee for a gratious King,
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Though unto us th'art no such thing;
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We tooke away thy Fathers life,
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His Blood still reekes upon our knife;
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Then how can we expect thy Grace,
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When Justice takes up Mercies place.
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Therefore, if extracted be
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The Quintescence of Tyrannie,
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'Tis Love, compared to our Deeds,
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Till we are dead, thy Father bleeds;
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But if thy Mercy should outshine
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Thy Justice, Thou would'st prove Devine;
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Add Plagues, to Plagues, and even then
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Thou art the mildest of all Men
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Thus we conclude, and from this houre
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We will acknow[l]edge Thee in Power.
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