Both Commons and Peers,
Come prick up your ears,
[?] Bellona and [Mars?]
I h[?] shall [?] ye,
With a pleasant [?] Dittie,
of a Rampant Nose and an [Asse?]

The Politick Snout,
That hath a clear rout,
stood it’h midst of old Olivers face,
And when that nose dropt,
Their presently hopt,
a pittiful Rump i’ the place.

Lord Richard and [?]arry.
Did quickly miscarry,
and could not b[?] to mete Daddy,
And old Beldam [?]n,
Was left to make mone,
that she was not as good as my Lady.

If Fleetwood the fool,
Had ne’er gone to School,
his headpeece could not have bin weaker
In archies void place,
Let himc arry the Mace,
before the Loggerheaded speaker.

[?] Desburroughshigh shun
Will not hold the long run,
except blind Hewson translate um
He may supple his toes,
With the matter in the nose,
or with the sick Rumps Birmmatum.

Squire Lambert and’s pride,
Are both hangd alive,
like an old rotten case and an Ink horn
He’s left ith lurch,
That lookt ore the Church,
as the Devil lookt over Lincoln.

Aspiring Sir Vane,
Is now in the [?]ne,
for Presbit[?] [?]orge hath trapand him
Though when [?] was it’h head,
He strook it all dead,
if any could understand him.

If the State do him spue,
Fro Old England so new,
I th[?],
That Church that can see,
Somewhat further then we,
Should hang him up for a Quaker.

Prince Arthur the bold,
Hath late taken cold,
in playing at Cards with the Rump,
Cause he would not save,
Monck dealt him the Knave,
and turnd up the King for Trump.

[?] nine
[?] o thine,
like Apostles of John [?] Leydens,
Have lost all their hopes,
And are worthy of ropes,
for the case is altered like Pleydons.

But take the whole Rump,
All the Members in lump,
the whole house was clothed so thin,
That a cloud like one fist,
Grew to a Scotch mist,
and [?] them all to the skin.

The Rump made us quail
With a sting in the taile,
whiles it did its venome disgorge,
But that Dragons confunded,
Lies bleeding and wounded,
with the Sword of our Englands St George

The Council of State,
Is quite out of date,
the sun is gone off their Diall,
Oh horrible thing:
They Murdered the King
let them have as fair a Tryall.

If Lenthal be dumb,
In serving the bum,
and cannot speak worth a fart,
Let gallant bold Prin,
By vote be brought in,
and he’l set a spoke in their Cart.

Hugh Peters the Antick
That was so long frantic
stands now by himself like a sypher,
Yet Ile give him a wipe,
Because he loves tripe,
since he plowd with the Butchers bet sir:

And yet ere ye pass,
Let him take ’tother glass
and drink it up all at a draft,
Weel bequeath as most due,
The bones of St. Hugh,
[?] Hewson the man of our craft

Let England now ring,
To cry up a King,
as our Parliaments principal head;
Till then you nor me,
Can be full nor free,
but our carcasses gasping for dead.

And now let me venter,
This caveat to enter,
That neither for fear nor affection,
So much as a stump,
Of that reprobate Rump,
[?] had more in Election.