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Law lies a Bleeding.
Since the Sword hath ſo much prevail’d of late,
What troubles and diſcentions do befall the State.
What troubles and diſcentions do befall the State.
The Tune is, Love lies a Bleeding.
Lay by your Pleading,
Law lies a bleeding;
Burn all your Studdies down,
and throw away your reading;
Small power the word has,
And doth afford us
Not ſo many Priviledges,
halfe as the Sword does;
It fopſters your Maſters,
And plaſters Diſſaſters,
And makes the Servants quickly
greater then their Maſters;
It venters, it enters,
It circles, it centers,
And makes an Aprentice Free
in ſpite of his Indenters.
Law lies a bleeding;
Burn all your Studdies down,
and throw away your reading;
Small power the word has,
And doth afford us
Not ſo many Priviledges,
halfe as the Sword does;
It fopſters your Maſters,
And plaſters Diſſaſters,
And makes the Servants quickly
greater then their Maſters;
It venters, it enters,
It circles, it centers,
And makes an Aprentice Free
in ſpite of his Indenters.
This takes down tall things,
And ſets up ſmall things;
This maſters mony too, though
mony maſters all things.
It is not in ſeaſon
For to talk of reaſon,
Or call it Loyal, when the
Sword will have it Treaſon;
It conquers the Crown, too,
The Cloak and the Gown, too:
This ſets up a Prisbiter,
and pulls him downe too.
The ſubtle Deceiver,
Turnes Bonnet into Beaver,
Down drops a Biſhop and
up ſtarts a Weaver.
And ſets up ſmall things;
This maſters mony too, though
mony maſters all things.
It is not in ſeaſon
For to talk of reaſon,
Or call it Loyal, when the
Sword will have it Treaſon;
It conquers the Crown, too,
The Cloak and the Gown, too:
This ſets up a Prisbiter,
and pulls him downe too.
The ſubtle Deceiver,
Turnes Bonnet into Beaver,
Down drops a Biſhop and
up ſtarts a Weaver.
The ſecond part to the ſame tune.
THis makes a Lay-man
To Preach and to Pray man
This will make a Lord of him
that was but a Dray-man.
Forth from the dull-pit,
Of Follies full-pit,
This brought an Hebrew Iron-
monger into the Pulpit:
Such pitifull things be,
Happier than Kings be;
Here comes in the Haraldrie
of Thimble and Slingsby:
No Goſpel can guide it,
No Law can decide it,
Either in the Church or State,
till the Sword hath Saintifi’d it.
To Preach and to Pray man
This will make a Lord of him
that was but a Dray-man.
Forth from the dull-pit,
Of Follies full-pit,
This brought an Hebrew Iron-
monger into the Pulpit:
Such pitifull things be,
Happier than Kings be;
Here comes in the Haraldrie
of Thimble and Slingsby:
No Goſpel can guide it,
No Law can decide it,
Either in the Church or State,
till the Sword hath Saintifi’d it.
Down go your Law-tricks,
Forth from the Matrix
Sprung holy Huſsons power
and tumbled down Saint Patrick:
This Sword did prevail ſo
Mightily in Wales, too,
Shinkin ap Powel cries and ſwears
Cods-plu-ter-nails, too.
Forth from the Matrix
Sprung holy Huſsons power
and tumbled down Saint Patrick:
This Sword did prevail ſo
Mightily in Wales, too,
Shinkin ap Powel cries and ſwears
Cods-plu-ter-nails, too.
In Scotland this faſter
Did breed ſuch diſaſter.
That they brought their money back,
for which they ſold their Maſter;
They battered my Gun-dork,
And ſo they did my Dum-ſork
That he is fled, and ſwears
that the Devil is in Dunkerk.
Did breed ſuch diſaſter.
That they brought their money back,
for which they ſold their Maſter;
They battered my Gun-dork,
And ſo they did my Dum-ſork
That he is fled, and ſwears
that the Devil is in Dunkerk.
He that can tower,
Over him that is lower;
Would be thought a Foole
to give away his power.
Take Bokes and rent them,
Who would Invent them,
When as the Sword replies
Negatur argumentum:
The Grand-Coledge Butlers
Muſt hail to the Sutlers;
There’s not a Library like
unto the Cutlers.
The blood that was ſpilt ſir,
Is turned into guilt ſir:
Thus have you ſeen me run
my Sword up to þe hilts ſir.
Over him that is lower;
Would be thought a Foole
to give away his power.
Take Bokes and rent them,
Who would Invent them,
When as the Sword replies
Negatur argumentum:
The Grand-Coledge Butlers
Muſt hail to the Sutlers;
There’s not a Library like
unto the Cutlers.
The blood that was ſpilt ſir,
Is turned into guilt ſir:
Thus have you ſeen me run
my Sword up to þe hilts ſir.
London, Printed Anno Domini. 1659. Finis.