Seven years expired, the third of November, 1647,  
SEven years the troublous time away did slip,  
And King and Parliaments Apprenticeship  
Are come t'an end, let both sides be made Free,  
 been at strife too long, 'tis time t'agree.  
Seven is a number of most strange Predictions,  
Seven year's King Charles hath undergon Afflictions,  
Seven years the Parliament the Rule did hold,  
Seven years (twice more) they would do, if they could.  
Seven years Egypt's lean Kine did gourmandise,  
Seven years (thrice more) their Maws will not suffice.  
Seven years all good men have endured slavery,  
Seven years base villains have grown rich by knavery,  
Seven years the King served to a troublous Trade,  
Seven years expired, pray let him Free be made;  
Seven years are gone, th' Apprenticeship is past,  
Pray let him have his Freedom now at last;  
he's past a Apprentice, do the best you can  
To set him Up, make him no Journeyman:  
Of all men, he deserves most to be Free;  
To be set Up, no man's so fit as he.  
His Freedom is, to have but what's his own;  
His Liberty, his Kingdoms, Crown, and Throne,  
His Wife, his Children; and that Laws and Right  
May not be overswayed by Power and Might;  
That Gods true Service may set forth his Glory,  
And not a babbling Nonsense Directory;  
That King and Parliament may so agree,  
That one may Sovereign, th'other Subjects be:  
And such as wish not King and Kingdom's freedom,  
The Devil to the Gallows quickly speed 'em.   

A direful Anathema against PEACE-HATERS,  written by Franc. Quarles. 
PEace Vipers, Peace, let crying blood ne'er cease  
To haunt your guilty Souls, that love not Peace:  
And cursed be that Religion, that must buy  
A Reformation with Phlebotomy.  
Infernal Firebrands, whom the very Tears  
Of groaning England, swallowed up with Fears,  
Cannot allay, nor yet the bleeding Veins  
Of desperate Ireland, which even now remains  
A very Golgotha, cannot assuage;  
Whose Babes, the Earnest of another Age,  
Taste of your savage Piety, and lie  
The Lamblike Martyrs of your Cruelty:  
Whilst you lie safely embred, to increase  
The flames of Christendom, and cry, No Peace.  
Let Samsons coupled Messengers convey  
These Firebrands hence, and let them make their way  
To their own Houses, there consume, devast,  
Burn down their Houses, lay their Gran'ries waste:  
Let all their Sons run mad into the Street,  
And seeking Refuge there, there let them meet  
Th'encountering Sword; and whom that spares to kill,  
Let them be Slaves, and labour at the Mill:  
Let all their Wives and Daughters beg in vain,  
Let them be ravished first, and after slain.  
Let all their Kindred wander up and down  
Like Vagabonds, be lashed from Town to Town:  
Let Baseness be en tayled upon their Name  
Too firm for all Recoveries; let Shame,  
Reproach, and lasting Infamy remain.  
In deeper Characters then that of Rain,  
Let Catesby, Piercy, and that bloody Knot  
Be Sainted now, or else at least forgot:  
And let these Vipers vindicate their Crimes  
In every Almanac for aftertimes;  
Where, let their baseness live among the Sinces,  
More firm them reigns of Kings, or births of Princes:  
Thus let these Firebrands thrive, and if this Curse  
Succeed not, may it yield unto a worse  
For them; let them still live, till (He) think good  
To quench them in their Generations blood:  
That all the world may hisse, and hear them cry,  
Who loved not Peace, in Peace shall never die.   

The Commons Exultation, Anagrammaticall to the PARLIAMENT, Anagram PRAI LAMENT.  
PRay ye that awe the Land, in Moses Chair,  
And you (the Church) in Aaron's, 'gainst that Prayer,  
An Ancient Parliament made Common; more  
Hate Common Prayer than a common Whore;  
Especially reject the Pater Noster  
And Churches Liturgy: for if you foster  
Such Heavenly Charms, take heed you'll pray for Kings,  
Queens, Princes, Prelates, such are deadly things:  
So you your Christian Faith might re-admit,  
Turn honest men regain your long-lost Wit,  
And so your feared black Consciences would vex ye,  
Which are benumbed now, and not yet perplex ye.  
As God commands, t'obey the Higher Powers,  
You will be highest, and all Power is yours,  
And you know, if the King should have his due,  
And you have yours, what would become of you?  
'Twould make all good men glad, and bad men grieve,  
And Gregory's gains would make him fine for Shrieve;  
His Foot-cloth, Saddle, and his golden Chain,  
The Knave would be a fine proud Knave in Grain.  
For just power will overtop your Lording state,  
And curb (your Pride Superlative) your hate.  
Pray for the Spirit of Stupid Ignorance,  
Which may to sacred Pulpits fools advance;  
For Academics see, (with Argos Eyes)  
theyare for your Sects and do, too quick Spies:  
There's two ways left you, do as, you began,  
Love nor regard, or fear nor God or Man,  
Sat in your Thrones, ne'er to your Homes go back,  
To see your handiwork, your Country's wrack,  
Y'are safe and whole, here gain the golden Fleeces,  
But in the Country you'd be torn in pieces;  
Though Home be Homely, yet 'tis full of fear,  
If you go home you'll find the Devil is there.  
Therefore (as yet) pray break not up your Schools,  
Clubs, Flails, Pitchforkes, are but churlish Tools,  
And where you think the fresh Air will refresh ye,  
The oppressed Country Corridons' will thresh ye.  
The wronged yeomanry are stout and tough,  
And they are not yet pol'd half bare enough,  
They still have left some Horses, Sheep and Swine,  
Some little store of Money, Calves, and Kine;  
You have but taken part from them as yet,  
You must take all, or leave them ne'er a whit:  
The only way their courages to quail,  
Is, strip 'em all, as naked as my Nail,  
Take from them all, whereby they may subsist,  
And then they'll not be able to resist:  
Thus may you Rule and Reign, and sit secure,  
You and your Heirs, for ever to endure.  
Sat still, Return not to your Habitations,  
They'll call you to account for Sequestrations,  
For plunderings, for free-quarterings, and oppressions,  
And all your Tyraunies, (beyond expressions)  
You'll be examined what good you have done?  
And you (most humbly) must say, truly none;  
They'll ask you then, what evils ye have committed?  
You'll answer, We no Mischief have omitted;  
Then they'll demand, How fares the King, I pray?  
You'll say, he bears the Name, and we the sway.  
They'll ask, of true Religion what's become?  
And you must answer, you have struck her dumb:  
Then they'll require, What did you with the Church?  
And you'll Reply,  left her in the lurch:  
 brought Confusion to our Albion.  
And made King Charles a King of Babylon:  
Nothing of England's left, but foul defame,  
And Babell-Building of old Amsterdam:  
Famous for this, that sin, or any thing  
May be endured, but one Church, one King.  
The Ark once Landed at our happy Haven.  
We have refused the Dove, and took the Raven,  
Whose greedy Appetite, and dismal croaking,  
Hath been Laws, Churches, and Religions choking:  
Of all these crimes the Country will accuse you,  
And find you Guilty, and most kindly use you.  
These questions will be asked, and more than these,  
Therefore sit still if you love Wealth and Ease.  
The cries and curses of the poor are fierce,  
And to God's terrible Tribunal pierce:  
Therefore (good) Parliament (l) Prai Lament,  
Lament, repent, just Vengeance to prevent:  
Pray till your lasting Lungs and Breath is spent  
The rest of time melt into tears, lament.  
But can you weep yourselves into a stood,  
That could not weep to see us weep in blood?  
Your hearts were rather tickled at the p●ey,  
When as you trafficked over our Red Sea:  
If ere you weep, perhaps your cheeks you'll wet,  
As Ahab did, who did but counterfeit;  
Or like the weeping of the Crocodile,  
That murder's people as they pass by Nile;  
Or if your tears are real, you must borrow  
From Esau tardy tears of needless sorrow:  
For why (like him) you do repent too late,  
To move our wornged Souls 've filled with hate.  
But if (like Peter) you could weep most bitter  
True tears of Penitence, they would be sweeter  
T'your self, the widows and the fatherless,  
(Your late petitioners without redress.)  
I would you knew how Country, Court, and City,  
Laugh at your dangers, slight you without pity,  
Curses fly up, that you may be confounded  
To that black pit, whose bottom ne'er was sounded.  
But yet (though not to Man) to God still weep,  
For in his Bottle he true tears doth keep:  
Pay true repentance up, for your Excise,  
To God for Sin, he'll wipe tears from your eyes,   
FINIS.