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To Generall Cromwell.
THe Sword of God doth ever well
I'th hand of vertue! O Cromwel,
But why doe I, complain of thee?
'Cause thou'rt the rod that scourgeth mee?
But if a good child I will bee,
I'le kiss the Rod, and honour thee;
And if thou'rt vertuous as 'tis sed,
Thou'lt have the glory when thou'rt dead.
Sith Kings and Princes scourged be,
Whip thou the Lawyer from his fee
That is so great, when nought they doe,
And we are put off from our due.
But they for their excuse do say,
'Tis from the Law is our delay.
By Tyrants heads those laws were made,
As by the learned it is said.
If then from Tyrants you'l us free,
Free us from their Laws Tyranny.
If not! wee'l say the head is pale,
But still the sting lives in the tail.