To make me the most glorious king
That e'er o'er England reign'd;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain'd?

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
'Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray'd.
We did believe 'twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Ye sick-brain'd fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But there's a Thunderer above,