Selected quad for the lemma: cause_n

Word A Word B Word C Word D Occurrence Frequency Band MI MI Band Prominent
cause_n great_a see_v time_n 5,907 5 3.3926 3 true
View all documents for the selected quad

Text snippets containing the quad

ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A48067 A letter from Lucifer to his Roman agents N.T., W.P., J.F., & R.L., Sir Edmond-bury Godfrey's back-friends 1682 (1682) Wing L1488; ESTC R30941 4,092 6

There is 1 snippet containing the selected quad. | View lemmatised text

Friend TO Sir Edmond-bury Godfrey's BROTHERS YOur Brother 's murther'd or'e and or'e again They put his precious Memory to pain Now they make woful work with his sweet Name To our great Grief but to their matchless shame Was 't not enough to choak and stab him too Must they his Reputation quite undo What will their Fury never have an end Will they still stab and hang our martyr'd Friend Have they no Modesty no Sense nor Zeal Do they the pangs of Conscience never feel Where will their Killany and Malice rest Why do they his most sacred Corpse molest What had he done or oh what had he said That he so dearly for his Actions paid Oh he dealt justly 't was too great a Crime If you will weigh both Circumstance and Time Cou'd he have daub'd or plaister'd or'e the Guilt Of Papists then his Bloud had ne'er been spilt Cou'd he have sail'd with the Pope's Wind and Tyde Neither his Life nor his Repute had dy'd But now for doing Justice this curst Crew Their bloudy Hands within his Breast embrew Oh horrid Villains are you not afraid To have your Actions by such Actions paid Lord why so slow why doth this lingring Rod Forbear since they forget there is a God Why are thy Saints thy martyr'd Saints abus'd And why 's so very much of Mercy us'd Because thou' rt slow they think thou dost forget Therefore these Villains dance in their own Net But oh make bare thy Arm come forth O Lord And shew them that thou hast a three-edg'd Sword One edge for Nat another edge for Pain And one for Farwell such as swear for gain Those that divide thy People without cause On them Lord execute thy fiercest Laws Thy Patience makes them study to do Evil They 're striving who should first go to the Devil Nat rides the winged Horse he 's in such haste And thinks the time he stays he does but waste It 's strange to see at what great pains and cost These Villains to the Devil do ride Post How eager they 're to get a place in Hell Where perjur'd Raskals must for ever dwell They think we bid them loss if we cry Stay Oh stop your course and make some small delay Consider what you do and where you go What pain and misery you 're like to know This is lost breath they do not thank you for it Nay let me tell you that they do abhor it They 'd rather go to Hell than take advice From Whigs though never at so small a price A sober Whig cries out Proceed no further About Sir Edmond-bury Godfrey's Murther Be wise and wary ere it is too late And do not gain the King and Kingdoms hate For fear your Necks salute a Hempen Fate But pish cry they let 's on a full Car●er And shew that neither God nor Man we fear Let 's swear forswear what if we perjur'd be The worst we know is but the Triple Tree Alas a sight of Hell they do not see These Hawks have golden Hoods before their Eyes They see not where their greatest mischief lies The God of this World blinds them we do find With golden Wedges ev'ry Pocket's lin'd Conscience is sear'd a Mill-stone's not more hard Their Eyes are onely fixt on their Reward Hopes of Preferment and some present Pay Doth steal their Wit and Senses quite away And if their Gold and Silver heaps may swell They 'll dread no danger till they drop to Hell But are these all the Devil nam'd before I fancy I could guess there 's yet one more May not Rogero come in for a Snack Who doth his Fancy strain and his Brains crack To shield the Papists and the Popish Cause E'en to the utmost with his Roman Paws Strange Le the Knave doth write in their defence Joanna with her Broom sweeps him some Pence That is one reason but the Rogue doth hope For far more comfort from his Lord the Pope Were it not for the Popish Pence I 'm sure His scribling pains he never wou'd endure He 'd rather chuse to fiddle to the Dogs That sometimes dance and sometimes run at Hogs This is his Harvest time when th' Commons sits He must pike off they 'll fright him out on 's Wits If hanging does not stop him he will flie To France as fast as ever he can hie There like a Vagabond the Knave may range And this will be the fate of R. L'Estrange FINIS LONDON Printed for Charles Lee. 1682.