Thought upon Death,

After hearing of the Murder of

King CHARLES I.

By Mr. SAMUEL BUTLER.

There is no Armour against Fate, Death lays his Icy Hands on Kings.

Scepter and Crown

Muft tumble down,

And in the Duft be equal laid,

With the poor crooked Scythe and

(spade

Som

Some Men with Swords may reap the

(Field,

And plant fresh Laurels where they kill, But their ftrong Nerves at laft muft

(yield, They tame but one another ftill; Early or late,

They foop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring

(Breath,

Whilft the pale Captive yields to

(Death.

The Garlands wither on your Brow, Then boaft no more your mighty

(Deeds,

Upon Death's purple Altar now, See where the Victor Victim bleeds..

All Heads must come...

To the cold Tomb

C

Only the Actions of the Juft

Smell.fweet and bloffom in the Dast.

Good

Good Advice in
Bad Times.

Owze up, Great Charles! Thy
Courage show,

Rowze

Or Faction foon will bring Thee low: Some must be Banish'd, others Swing, Or Thou must cease to be a King. No credit give to Villain Oats, Be not amas'd with Popish Plots; No Foregin Troops of Pilgrims fear, Nor Popish Armies in the Air; But guard thy Throne against the bafe Defigns of thofe that boast of Grace, And plead thereby, as Times go now, A better Right to Rule than Thou.

Take

Take care of Tony and his Party,
They are the Rogues that mean to hurt

(thee.
The Tories love thee and obey thee,
None but the Rebel Whigs betray thee,
The ftubborn wicked Spawn of those
That struggl'd for the Good OldCause,
Till they thy Royal Sire fubdu'd,
And in his blood their Hands imbru'd;
These are the only Snakes that fting

(thee

And if not crufh'd will foon unking

thee ;)

For thou haft warm'd them till they (bite thee,

The way they always will requite thee
Therefore look round thy Court, good
(Prince,
And banish all fuch Serpents thence.
Mercy, that Attribute divine,
Hath been thy Fathers fault and thine;
His Clemency and Goodnefs coft
Himfelf and Subjects all they loft;
And thine, if thou wilt ftill restrain
Thy Juftice, will abridge thy Reign;
For

For Whigs believe that Mercy fprings
Alone from Cowardife in Kings;
And therefore but infult the more,
When Princes moderate their Pow'r.

Banish thy fpurious Son the Land, Let him no more thy Troops command; Withdraw thy fondness from the Fool, Thy Darling, but the Party's Tool; A Fencing, Riding, Cringing Thing, That courts the mob to make himKing, An empty, dancing, fiery Bauble, Ador'd by Strumpets and the Rabble; The Ladies Idol at a Ball,

The Stallion of thy Court Whitehall; Who got,great Charles,by thee,retains Thyprincelyluft,but wants thy brains, Which makes fome think when you (contented

His Mother, that your Head diffented, And that's the Caufe the Foppifh Ape Has nothing of thee but thy Shape.

Beware