And their fair dissembling cloak;
And a Presbyterian jump,
With an Independent smock.
Says old Simon, etc.

Will you buy a conscience oft turn'd,
Which served the High-Court of justice,
And stretch'd until England it mourn'd,
But hell will buy that if the worst is.
Here's Joan Cromwell's kitchen-stuff tub,
Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers,
With which old Noll's horns she did rub,
When he was got drunk with false bumbers.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here's the purse of the public faith;
Here's the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth
Lent thimbles to ruin the nation.
Here's Dick Cromwell's Protectorship,
And here are Lambert's commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip,
Cramm'd with tumultuous petitions.
Says old Simon, etc.

And here are old Noll's brewing vessels,
And here are his dray and his flings;
Here are Hewson's (36) awl and his bristles,
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong