O Run, run, Mr. Priveledge or we are all loſt, Sir Pitifull Parliament hath taken griefe, which hath ſo prevailed over his powers and maſtered his faculties, that he is now be­come a meere Skelleton and lies drawing on — away with winged haſt — harke how he groanes — his heart-ſtrings2 crack like a Cable, when the affrighted Barke breakes from the Anchor, — hee yawnes againe, — O good man, that hee that hath beene ſo long floriſhing, of ſuch health of body and wealthy above Craeſſus, ſhould now bee waſted with a Scotch Feaves, and ſhaken to pieces, with a Welsh Ague, and fall as poore as Ir•s; O runne, runne good Priviledge, ſome Aqua­vitae, for our ſicke Parliament, or all's loſt.

The Doctors, the Doctors, poſt, poſt, for the Doctors, doe you two, ſtand here like ſtatues to behold your ſick Maſter ſurrender his Ghoſt; dare you be Spectators with the Divell; O Mr. Priviledge, O Mr. Vote, one of you runne for Doctor King, the other for Dr. Biſhop, but bid the laſt not to appeare in his Lawne ſleeves; for the ſhape of any thing reſembling Innocence, will haſten my Maſters end, — runne, runne, for Gods ſake:

For Pluto's ſake cheare up Sir, or elſe all Hell will be ſor­rowfull, O how his temples beat, as if hee were poſſeſt with a Vertigo good Sir bee comforted, the Scots are not yet com­ming, Prince CHARLES is yet in France, Poyer may yet bee nam'd, the Londoners are ſtill Sir at your ſervice, the Coxcombs are bewitcht unto their ruine you yet may Rule the roaſt o're King and People, why ſhould you dye yet.

O Rebellion, thy comforts come too late, my Conſcience,3 ō my Conſcience, 'tis that kills me were there no oppoſition, J am a man that am di'd o're with blood, am guilty of an hun­dred thouſand lives, — oh, oh, — I have for to inrich my pri­vate Coſers, undone a Nation, made ten Thouſand beg, have wrongd my King, that is the beſt of Princes, pull'd downe all order in the Church and State, and introduc't the worſt of Turciſme, — oh — oh.

Conſcience is meerly, but an ayrie ſound; ſhall fear perſwade you Sir to penitence, recall your wonted temper, and imagine to be as great as ever, deare Sr. without you, I that have ſeaven yeares, maskt with the vayle of ſeeming Pity, been worſhipt as a god ſhall now decline into my wonted orbe, and abhor­red, as the worſt of Devils.

I can hold out no longer, 'tis in vaine for me to cheare my ſelfe, when Death's approaching, ſhift for thy ſelfe Rebellion, I muſt leave thee, I ſee as in a glaſſe my Fate is caſt, and that the King will have his owne againe; and if the words of dy­ing men be Oracle, beleeve then ▪ that ere Three yeares are ac­compliſht, all things will be as they were ſeaven yeares ſince, 'tis beſt for me to dye and ſo eſcape the fury of thoſe Lyons, wait to teare me; doſt thon not know the Commons of this Iſle have found their errour, and doe now reſolve to have one King, rather then forty Tyrants; ſeeſt thou not how my miſe­ries throng about me, perceiveſt thou not that Heaven it ſelfe is bent to give a period to my undertakings, all England, Ire­land, Wales, Scotland; yea the Univerſe, proteſt to fall them­ſelves or ruine me: Where's Mr. Covenant.

Here Sr. yet with no weeping eye, doe I deplore your miſerable Fortune; for you have dea't with mee, as ſome with Iades, ride them of their legges, then turne them to the Commons: I have beene hackney to you Sr. this ſeaven yeares, have made great journyes, and yet carried dou­ble, and but of late when you were ſwolne with pompe,4 and hemd about, with all miſtaken glories, when I expected love and great preferment, you thruſt me forth of doores, with ſcorne and obloquie, for which you now lie Cauving.

I never meant for to make thee my Rivall, how ere, for to adde to my owne advantage, I entertained and hugd thee in my boſome, Machiavill was my maſter, any thing that might helpe forward my curſt undertakings, Oaths, Cove­nants, and Proteſtations, with or againſt God, all was one to me; home to thy Blew Capt brethren, both I and thee muſt neere expect our wiſhes; the King, the King man, now muſt rule againe. — Where's Mr. Plunder.

Here my deare Maſter.

O my delicious ſervant, to thee J am ingaged more then to all my creatures, thou haſt been my ſupoorter all a-long, nor ſhall I leave behind me now I die, a doir, but what by thy helpe I have gained.

Be chearfull Sir, I ſtill am your true Trojan, give me but Warrants ſigned with your hand, Ile plunder all without di­ſtinction, fetch you in Money, Cattell goods and Treaſure, make you Delinquents, let me make them poore, ſhew me a Cleargie man, that doth preach ſound Doctrine, whoſe life con­formable unto his words, whoſe Charity extends unto y^e poore, dares build Almſhouſes, whoſe ſawcineſſe is ſuch that he dares pray for the King Queen and Progenie, Ile ſoone ceaze on his living and eſtate, and command none for to afford him ſucc­our, ſhew me an honeſt harmleſſe meaning man, who hold it beſt untroubled to remaine, and view the fate of things and not to meddle, whoſe happy ſoule addors the golden meane, and wiſheth truth alone may get the better, Iſle ſtrip him of his te­nements and lands, and trie his patience more, then Sathan Iobes or ſhew me but a Citizen whoſe Cheſts, ring, loud with ſilver bells, though he be nere ſo honeſt and upright though he ſought for Cauſe and Covenant; yet this vaſt treaſure ſhall5 pronounce his doome; that he is rich ſhall be a heynons crime, all that he is poſſeſt of I will rifle, to adde unto your ſtore.

Thou haſt been faithfull in thy undertakings, but my imploying thee hath been my ruine; come all at once about me, Mr. Privi­ledge, Mr. Vote, Mr. Declaration, Mr. Rebellion, Mr. Covenant, and Mr. Plunder, my glaſſe is almoſt runne, I now muſt leave you to be the ſcorne and hate of after Ages; yet ere I make my Exit 'twere convenient that my laſt Will, and Teſtament, were drawne, which ſhall be in this forme.