This text comes from Rump Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
My Lord,
When you were last at London ’twas our fear,
Lest the same Rout which threatned Majesty,
Might strike at you: ’tis but the same Career
To aime at Crowns, and at the Miter fly.
For still the Scepter and the Crosier staffe
Together fall, ’cause they’re together safe:
Yet while the sence of Tumults deepest grow,
And presse in us, no doubts in you arise;
There still dwelt calm and quiet in your Brow,
As our Distractions were your Exercise:
And taught us, all assaults, all Ills to beare,
Is not to fly from Danger, but from Fear.
That Courage waits you still, some merely rode
From Tumults and the Peoples frantick Rage,
Counting their safety by their far abode,
And so grew safer still at the next Stage:
But ’tis not space that shelters you, the rest
Secure themselves by Miles, you by your Breast.
And now my Lord, since you have London left,
Where Merchants wives dine cheap, & as cheap sup,
Where Fools themselves have of their Plate bereft,
And sigh and drink in the course Pewter cup.
Where’s not a Silver Spoon left, not that giv’n than
When the first Cockney was made Christian,
No not a Bodkin, Pincase, all they send
Or carry all, what ever they can happe on,
Ev’n to the pretty Pick Tooth, whose each end
Oft purg’d the Relicks of continual Capon.
Nothing must stay behind, nothing must tarry,
No not the Ring by which dear Joan took Harry.
But now no City-Villain, though he were
Free of a Trade and Treason, dares intrude,
No sawcy Prentises assault you there,
Engag’d by their Indentures to be rude:
Whom for the two first years their Masters use
Onely to cry down Bishops and cleanse Shooes,
There as in silent Orbes you may ride on,
And as in Charles his Wain move without jarres,
Your Coach will seem your Constellation,
Not drawn about by Horses, but by Stars.
Till seated near the Northern Pole, wee thence
Judge your seat Sphear, you its Intelligence.