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Law lies a Bleeding.

Since the Sword hath ſo much prevail’d of late,
What troubles and diſcentions do befall the State.

The Tune is, Love lies a Bleeding.

   Lay by your Pleading,
   Law lies a bleeding;
Burn all your Studdies down,
 and throw away your reading;
   Small power the word has,
   And doth afford us
Not ſo many Priviledges,
 halfe as the Sword does;
   It fopſters your Maſters,
   And plaſters Diſſaſters,
And makes the Servants quickly
 greater then their Maſters;
   It venters, it enters,
   It circles, it centers,
And makes an Aprentice Free
 in ſpite of his Indenters.

   This takes down tall things,
   And ſets up ſmall things;
This maſters mony too, though
 mony maſters all things.
   It is not in ſeaſon
   For to talk of reaſon,
Or call it Loyal, when the
 Sword will have it Treaſon;
   It conquers the Crown, too,
   The Cloak and the Gown, too:
This ſets up a Prisbiter,
 and pulls him downe too.
   The ſubtle Deceiver,
   Turnes Bonnet into Beaver,
Down drops a Biſhop and
 up ſtarts a Weaver.

The ſecond part to the ſame tune.

   THis makes a Lay-man
   To Preach and to Pray man
This will make a Lord of him
 that was but a Dray-man.
   Forth from the dull-pit,
   Of Follies full-pit,
This brought an Hebrew Iron-
 monger into the Pulpit:
   Such pitifull things be,
   Happier than Kings be;
Here comes in the Haraldrie
 of Thimble and Slingsby:
   No Goſpel can guide it,
   No Law can decide it,
Either in the Church or State,
 till the Sword hath Saintifi’d it.

   Down go your Law-tricks,
   Forth from the Matrix
Sprung holy Huſsons power
 and tumbled down Saint Patrick:
   This Sword did prevail ſo
   Mightily in Wales, too,
Shinkin ap Powel cries and ſwears
 Cods-plu-ter-nails, too.

   In Scotland this faſter
   Did breed ſuch diſaſter.
That they brought their money back,
 for which they ſold their Maſter;
   They battered my Gun-dork,
   And ſo they did my Dum-ſork
That he is fled, and ſwears
 that the Devil is in Dunkerk.

   He that can tower,
   Over him that is lower;
Would be thought a Foole
 to give away his power.
   Take Bokes and rent them,
   Who would Invent them,
When as the Sword replies
 Negatur argumentum:
   The Grand-Coledge Butlers
   Muſt hail to the Sutlers;
There’s not a Library like
 unto the Cutlers.
   The blood that was ſpilt ſir,
   Is turned into guilt ſir:
Thus have you ſeen me run
 my Sword up to þe hilts ſir.

London, Printed Anno Domini. 1659. Finis.