A LETTER FROM Bruſſels.

THine, by T. L. our true Poſt-pigeon, and (I would I could not ſay) onely expedi­tious perſon, was mine before the morn­ing; and our Maſters the ſame minute, who took no ſmall delight therein: for he read it thrice, and is reſolved (and ſwore to boot) thou art the firſt ſhall kneel under his ſacred Sword. Sir C. C. has his heart, and at firſt view he thought of wafting thither, leſt he ſhould think his loyalty was ſlighted: but H. I. and I. adviſed otherwiſe, and with ſome a doe diverted that intent, and got him to ſignifie his Royal pleaſure in the incloſed; which, in­ſtantly diſpatch by Minyard way: F. H. has alwayes paſſage ready. Sir M. M. two hours after brought4 good news from his cold Countrey; but Calvin ſmels too rank for us to venture thither: they firſt betray­ed his Royal Father, and after that his ſacred ſelf: nor are our fortunes now at that low ebb, to re­imbarque our all in that old-leaky-bottom. Prithee perſwade Sam. to be ſilent, tell him it is our Maſters pleaſure. Thinkeſt thou none knows, as well as he who firſt conjured up this Divel, and curſed them that would not curſe and fight againſt His Majeſty in Meroz name: yes, we can look though through our ſingers: this Rebellion firſt bubbled up in Preſbyte­rian Pulpits, yet it's impollitick to ſay ſo much: we alſo know 'tis more for fear of the Phanatiques than for love to us, they now are loyal: ſo alſo it is our neceſſity, not choice, that makes us court them: Hug them you cannot hang, at leaſt until you can: would Lall: had longer lips; I hate to ſhew the teeth before we bite: we choak our Dogs with Cruſts as well as Pins, no Curre will eat a Pin alone; a blew Ribbon and a Star we know will un­become a Rebels ſhoulder, but Fiſhes bite at baits; he is an Aſſe that angles and hides not his Hook: How moſt unhappy is my Soveraign Lord, that the impatience of his Friends ſhould be as perillous to his fortunes, as the Pikes of his Enemies: we never yet well minded our next worke; he's a Fool that thinks when the Nedle's in the Thread won't follow: ſet then your helping hand to this, let that alone; procure the cauſe and 'tis impoſſible to ſeparate the effect. But he comes in on terms? and is bound up? Tuſh! remember that bleſſed line I marked in Machia­vil; he's an Oafe that thinks an Oath, or any Tedder5 can tame a Prince beyond his pleaſure: Zerviah's Sons lived to David's great diſlike, but 'twas but til he could kill them more conveniently: and pre­thee what did Shimei's pardon do but planch him up: they can't abide to ſee his houſe a Roundhead­hive; 'tis true, tis much that any can: Are you yet to learn to make Neceſſity a Vertue? who doubts but that C, Borgia did his buſineſſe better, by lulling Vitelloz aſleep ▪ than to have hazarded all by the in­certain chance of Fortune; 'tis a Romance to think Revenge can ſleep, but like a Dog, to wake at will: 'Tis true, ſerved we a Prince that needed ſpurs, this humour might be cheriſhed; but alas, we rather uſe all the Art and Arguments we can to rein him in; hadſt thou but ſeen his paſſion when M's Pedigree came over, thou wouldſt have ſaid he had ſteel enough — Seal Rob. lips, I pray thee, for fear it may diſſerve him at dinner; 'twas, and in ſome degree is, too publique. There needs no Record for a Rival; yet is it laid (by ſtrict command) next Murrey's Manuſcript, and wil one day be reviewed; til then Plantaginet's in pickle. But I'le retain our (moſt abſolutely neceſ­ſary) diſcourſe, for thy farher ſatisfaction: canſt fancy, that our Maſter can forget he had a Father, how he liv'd and died, how he loſt both Crown and life, and who the cauſe thereof? never Monarch yet had a memory halfe ſo bad: Ne'r fear, there's fire enough in his Fathers Aſhes (though yet inviſible) to burn up every Adverſary; only our clamorous impa­tience would have all at once: give time, he aſcends moſt ſafe that does't gradatim; overſtraining not onely ſpends the ſtrength too faſt, but does en­danger falling more: Remember our dread Leige6 Lord (if ever guilty of an error) miſcarried here; from what a hope fell he and we, for want of fol­lowing S. 's advice: All or none's a Game not for a Prince to play, but Deſperado's, whoſe fortunes riſe and ſet with every Sun. The Presbyter will give up the Phanatique, a handſome bone to pick at firſt: I like it better far than all at once; exceſs brings ſur­feits: Thus half the beard they ſhave themſelves, let us alone with t' other: Drown firſt the Kitlings, let the Dam that litter'd them alone a little longer: They glory they are Orthodox; hear, and hold ſtill thy head, let us alone to find out freſh Phanatiques, and beat them back into King Harry's Codpiece. We know the Sectaries had a Sire, and whoſe ſpurious brood they are; even as the Puritan was the off-ſet of the Pro­teſtant: Spain's Attach, revive as oft as well thou canſt; 'tis a good blind, and propagates our Maſters Intereſt: Wat came ſince my laſt, and will not let our Lord alone, till he ſees a Lecture up in Court, and Chaplains preach before him, ordained by the Preſbytery: and one Waldenſe is come already. O Jeſu, Jack! I want an iron hoop to keep my ſides from ſplitting, to ſee my poor Prince hite's lips for halfe an hour long, while that Dulmano begs a bleſſing (as he cals it) as our Mech-beggers do their Bacon at the Farmers doors: G. got behinde him yeſterday and made mouths, which the Puppy by an unhappy turn of his head perceived; but His Majeſty ſeeing all, prudently anticipated his complaint, and with a Royal gravity, not onely rebuked G. but immediatly diſmiſt him his ſer­vice.

7We all made application to the Parſon to me­diate to our Maſter for G. his reſtoration, which he did: and after much intreaty, his requeſt was graciouſly granted; but not for G. his ſake, but for his, and not on future good behaviour nei­ther: M. H. and I. were in the preſence at night, but I thought we ſhould have ſplit our ſpleenes a laughing: but by theſe meanes all was healed: and henceforward we are all commanded to be plaguy-godly. H. bid me hand his ſervice to thee, he ſwears he hath horn'd 15 Cuckolds within this 14 dayes. — Mind the Militia moſt, talk not of disbanding, one pin naturally drives out another. A. B. at parting ſwore he would ſee that execrable Exit raced out; whom ſo aſſiſt he may not ſuffer. Let Th. continue his Ca­reſſes, and bid him not jeopard ſuch broad Joques no more; he ſaies ſhe ſtinks of Piſs and Horſe-ſpice: D, F, C, and — court upon all occaſions: if M, M, and — ſtand right, we ask no more, City, Land, and Sea is our own: that Reformation likes us rarely well, though we wonder he would hazard all upon ſuch a raſh adventure. Bid Phil. and's Brother both be cloſe; they now may liſt and none the wiſer: we dared not let the Nuntio ſee the Sun. We hope our friends droop ſtill, and curſe him whom moſt they covet. — Let not thy Lady know our Italian tye: the Devil can't track us if we 3 keep our tongue within our teeth. Fret not nor afflict thy ſelf nor friend, for we reſolve, the Rogues that left the Rump, ſhall feel the ſcourge that Loyal hearts laſh Rebels with, as well as others; a Roundhead is a Roundhead; black and white De­vils all alike to us. — Thinkeſt thou that we can breath in peace, while we ſee a little finger left alive that hath8 been dipt in Royal blood? or his adherents? No, a thought of mercy more hateful is than Hell: but Cooks may be conquerors, and a plate perform equal execu­tion with a Piſtol, and with leſs report. Be quiet then, let's uſe all art to make them take the halter tamely. Preſſe the ſpeedy raiſing of the City Regiments. — And out the Rogue at Stern: what folly is't to think we can ſafely ferry while the Fleet's Phanatique? This done, let our cauſe miſcarry if it can. Maz. met Wat, and gave him ſound advice. — Get Arms, but buy them not in ſuch ſuſpicious numbers: that if all fails, we may repair to them, and cut our paſſage to the Throne through Traitors blood. Farewel.

Bruſſels, S. V. March 10. 1659.