The Caution

He that does swear, though to a Truth,

You count him far worse than a Lyer,

Yet you will firk your Sister Ruth,

So it may edify her;

You, like the Devil, abhor a Crosse,

But I’le have as good Reason from Pyms Stone-horse.

Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,

What do you mean to do?

Our Churches Hierarchy you hold

Within a foul Suspition;

And say the Prelates Sleeves are old

Reliques of Superstition;

The very Ragges of Rome they are

Such as the Whores of Babilon wear.

Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,

What do you mean to do?

Therefore in Zeal and Piety,

You’l dy their Lawn in blood,

And root out their Society,

A work you think is good;

The Malice is, some of your Eares

Were cropt far shorter than your hairs.

Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,

What do you mean to do?

When you the Miter have pull’d down,

You’l be hang’d before contented,

Your next Pluck must be at the Crown,

A Plot long since invented;

But Grigge swears Tyburn shall have her due,

Hee’l behang’d himself, if he hang not you.

Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,

What do you mean to do?

The Coblers were astonished,

The Porters eke, also;

To hear the Noyse that ecchoed

From your vast Tubb below:

But let him be hang’d will never mend,

The Cobler thinks upon his end.

But you to whom my Lines do tend

Have a care of what you do.