Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune's wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
EXCISE doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor's votes.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate'er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We'll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the ELECTED ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.