Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

The King's Disguise.

ANd why so coffin'd in this vile Disguise, That who but sees blasphemes thee with his eys? My Twins of Light within their Penthouse shrink, And hold it their Allegiance to wink. O for a State-Distinction to Arraign Charles of High-Treason 'gainst my Soveraign! What an Usurper to his Prince is wont, Cloyster and shave him, he himself hath don't. His muffled Feature speaks him a Recluse, His Ruins prove him a Religious House. The Sun hath mew'd his Beams from off his Lamp, And Majesty defac'd the Royal Stamp. Is't not enough thy Dignitie's in thrall, But thou'lt transcribe it in thy shape and all? As if thy Blacks were of too faint a die Without the Tincture of Tautology. Flay an Egyptian for his Cassock-skin Spun of his Countrie's darkness, lin't within With Presbyterian badge, that drowzy Trance The Synod's sable, foggy Ignorance. Nor bodily, nor ghostly Negro could Rough cast thy Figure in a sadder mold.

This Privy-Chamber of thy Garb would be But the Close-Mourner to thy Royalty. Then break the Circle of thy Taylor's Spell. A Pearl within a rugged Oyster's Shell. Heaven, which the Minster of thy Person owns, Will fine thee for Dilapidations. Like to a martyr'd Abbey's courser doom, Devoutly alter'd to a Pigeon-room; Or like a College by the Changeling Rabble, Manchester's Elves, transform'd into a Stable. Or if there be a Prophanation higher, Such is the Sacrilege of thine Attire; By which th' art half depos'd, thou look'st like one Whose Looks are under Sequestration: Whose Renegado-form at the first glance, Shews like the Self-denying Ordinance. Angel of Light and Darkness too (I doubt) Inspir'd within, and yet possess'd without: Majestick Twy-light in the state of Grace, Yet with an Excommunicated Face. Charles and his Mask are of a different Mint, A Psalm of Mercy in a miscreant print. The Sun wears Midnight; Day is beetle-brow'd, And Lightning is in Kelder of a Cloud. O the accurst Stenography of State! The Princely Eagle shrunk into a Bat.

What Charm; what Magick vapour can it be That checks his Rayes to this Apostasie? It is no subtil fi••m of Tiffany-air, No Cobweb-Vizard (such as Ladies wear; When they are vail'd on purpose to be seen, Doubling their Lustre by their vanquish'd skreen.) No, the false Scabberd of a Prince is tough, And three pil'd darkness, like the smoaky slough Of an imprison'd flame; 'tis Faux in grain, Dark Lanthorn to, our bright Meridian: Hell belch'd the Damp, the Warwick Castle Vote Rang Britain's Curfeu, so our Light went out. A black Offender should he wear his Sin For Penance, could not have a darker Skin. His Visage is not legible; the Letters Like a Lord's Name writ in Phantastick Fetters. Clothes where a Switzer might be buried quick; Sure they would fit the Body Politick. False Beard enough to thatch a Poet's Plot (For that's the Ambush of their Wit, God wot) Nay all his Properties so strange appear, Y' are not ith' Presence, though the King be there. A Libel is his Dress, a Garb uncouth, Such as the Hue and Cry once purg'd at Mouth. Scribling Assassinate! Thy Lines attest An ear-mark due▪ Cub of the Blatant Beast:

Whose Breath before 'tis syllabled for worse Is Blasphemy unfledg'd, a callow Curse: The Laplanders when they would sell a wind Wafting to Hell, bag up thy Phrase and bind It to the Barque, which at the Voyage end Shifts Poop, and breeds the Collick in the Fiend. But I'l not dub thee with a glorious Scar, Nor sink thy Sculler with a Man of War. The black-mouth'd Siquis, and this slandering suit Both do alike in Picture execute. But since w'are all call'd Papists; why not date Devotion to the Rags thus Consecrate? As Temples use to have their Porches wrought With Sphynxes, Creatures of an Antique draught, And purling Portraitures, to shew that there Riddles inhabited; the like is here. But pardon Sir, since I presume to be Clerk of this Closet to your Majesty; Methinks in this your dark mysterious Dress, I see the Gospel couch'd in Parables. The second view my purblind phancy wipes, And shews Religion in its dusky Types, Such a Text Ro••••l, so obscure a shade, Was Salomon in Proverbs all array'd. Come all the Brats of this Expounding Age To whom the Spiri••••s in Pupilage:

You that damn more than ever Sampson slew, And with his Engine the same Jaw-bone too. How is't he scapes your Inquisition free; Since bound up in the Bible's Livery? Hence Cabinet-Intruders, Pick-Locks hence, You that dim Jewels with your Bristol-sence, And Characters, like Witches, so torment, Till they confess a Guilt, though Innocent. Keys for this Cipher you can never get, None but Saint Peter's ope this Cabinet; This Cabinet, whose Aspect would benight Critick Spectators with redundant light. A Prince most seen is least. What Scriptures call The Revelation, is most mystical. Mount then thou Shadow Royal, and with haste Advance thy Morning-Star, Charles overcast. May thy strange Journey contradictions twist, And sorce fair Weather from a Scottish mist. Heavens Confessors are pos'd; those Star-ey'd Sages T'interpret an Eclipse thus riding Stages. Thus Israel-like he travels with a Cloud, Both as a Conduct to him and a Shroud. But O! He goes to Gibeon, and renews A League with mouldy bread and clouted shoes.