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cause_n good_a king_n lord_n 4,716 5 3.8323 3 true
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A92084 The Rump dockt 1660 (1660) Wing R2272; Thomason 669.f.23[8]; ESTC R211495 839 1

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THE RUMP DOCK'T TIll it be understood What is under Monck's Hood The City dare not shew his horns Till ten daies be out The Speaker 's sick of the Gout And the Rump doth sit upon thorns If Monck be turn'd Scot The Rump goes to pot And the Good Old Cause will miscarry Like coals out of embers Revive the Old Members Off goes the Rump like Dick and Harry Then In come the Lords Who drew Parlament swords With Robes lined through with Ermin But Peers without Kings Are very useless things And their Lordships counted but Vermin Now Morley and Fagg May be put in a bagg And that doughty man Sir Arthur In despair for his Foil With Alderman Hoyle Will become a Knight of the Garter That Knave in Grain Sir Harry Vane His case then most mens is sadder There is little hope He can scape the rope For the Rump turn'd him o're the Ladder That pretious Saint Scott Shall not be forgot According to his own desires Instead of Neck-verse Shall have it writ on his Horse Here hangs one of the Kings Triers Those nine sons of Mars That whipt the Rumps Arse I mean the Commanders War-lick If the Rump smell strong With hanging too long Shall serve to stuff it with Garlick That parcel of man In length but a span Whose wife's Eggs alwaies are addle Must quit the Life-guard As he did when skar'd By Lambert out of the saddle Lambert now may turn Florist Being come off the poorest That ever did man of the Sword The Rump let a fart Which took away his heart And made him a Squire of a Lord His Cheshire glory Is a pitiful story There the Saints triumpht without battle But now Monck and his Friers Have driven him into the Briers As he did Booth and his Cattle For the rest of the Rump Together in a lump 'T is too late to cry Peccavi Yee have sinn'd all or most Against the Holy Ghost And therefore the Divel must have ye But now valiant City Whether must thy Ditty Be sung in Verie or in Prose For till the Rump●●unk For fear of Monck Thy Militia durst not shew Its Nose Base Cowards and Knaves That first made us slaves Very Rascals from the beginning Onely unto Moncks Sword The Nation must afford The honour of bringing the King in Printed in the year 1660.