To those that did my doom.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther'd thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants' hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
'Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim'd
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e'er by us he's gain'd)
Without all remedy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind's Saviour's body vow
To me thy sovereign,