To those who desire no Peace

Should all those various Gales, whose titles are

Enrol’d within the Pilots Register,

Break from their drowsie Dens, where they have layn

Bound up in slumbers, and invade the Main,

They could not raise a storm like that which they

Raise in the Common-wealth, who would betray

Our Peace to Civil War, in which the State

Must bleed it self to death, and have the fate,

After its stock of life is spent, to lye

Buried i’th Rubbish of an Anarchy.

Should Ravens, Bats, and the shrill Owl conspire

To twist their Notes into a General Quire.

And chuse the Mandrake for the Chaunter, they

Could not shrill forth such an ill-boding lay,

Or strains so Jarring, as do those whose throats

Warble the clamorous and untunefull Notes

Of Blood and Death, some whirle-wind, Sirs, has ta’en

Its Lodging up in the Fanatick brain

Of these bold sons of tumult, I dare say

They moulded were of some distemper’d Clay,

Which from its Centre was by Earth-quake torn,

A Tempest shook the world when they were born;

Sure from its Sphere the Element of Fire

Is dropt, and does their bosomes now inspire,

The flame lockt up in bold Ravillacks urne,

Is snatcht from thence, and in their hearts does burn.

Night, open thy black wombe, and let out all

Thy dreadfull furies, yet these furies shall

Not chill my heart with any fear, since day

Has furies shewn, blacker by far than they.

Let Vaux now sleep untill the day of Doom,

Open his eyes, forgotten in his Tomb,

Let none revile his dust, his Name shall be

Extirpated from every History,

To yield a room for others, for ’tis fit

Their Names in place of his should now be writ,

Who think that no Religion can be good,

Unlesse’t be writ in Characters of Blood,

No marvail if the Rubrick then must be

Blotted from out the Sacred Liturgie,

And those red Letters now no more be known,

They’le have no other Rubrick but their own.

But shall they thus impetuously roule on,

And meet not any Malediction?

Yes sure, may sleep, that milde and gentle balme,

Which all unkind distempers does becalme,

Be unto them a torture, may their Dreams

Be all of Murders, Rapes, and such like Theams;

And when they’re spent, may Wolves approach and howle,

To break their slumbers; may the Bat and Owle,

Before their Gates, to usher in the dayes

Unwellcome light, stretch out their direfull layes;

’Mongst their disordered humors, may there be

A deadly Feud, and fatal mutiny;

May sudden flames their houses melt away,

And Feavers burn their houses too of Clay;

May all their faculties and sences be

Astonisht by some drousie Lethargie,

That there may be allow’d them only sence

Enough to feel the pangs of Conscience,

Griping their souls, that they who thought it sin

To have peace without, may have no peace within.