The devils last legacy, or, A round-headed ironmonger made executor to Pluto wherein is shewed the discent of the Round-heads, as also the Round-heads great desire of a crown and to sway a scepter, although it be but Pluto his crown and scepter / composed by W.K. ...

An Oration of the Round-head, a crackt Ironmonger, new made Executor to the Devill.

Roundhead,

BRethren, it is the fortune of Knaves and Fooles to have the best lucke: I make no question but it is well known to you all, that our Father Pluto hath given over trading, and hath made me supervisor of his last Will and Testament; tis a fortune beyond the Moone, and though I be both Knave and Foole, yst I thought the Proverbe would have crost it selfe in me; and seeing I am so chosen and predestinated, I will have an eye to all his entreaties, and execute the part of an adopted Son; he hath given me charge over your cum cu∣ra animarum, therefore deare Sisters and Brethren, I must performe the part of the Devils Viccar and Curate of Hell,

therefore lets follow him, and our Service-Clarke set the Song.

Clarke,

Lets sing this Song to the tune of Old Sir Symon the King; 'tis a New Dittie, el∣levate you voyces.

GRand Pluto he is dead, Lets sing in this very Day, That he hath left his Throne Ʋnto the Round-heads sway. And Old Sir Symon the King, And Old Sir Symon the King, We'll have a thred-bare Coate, and a mamsey Nose, Sing hey ding ding a ding ding.

The Ironmonger Rules, The Cobler also Preaches, The Tinker he Cornutes, The Weaver sometimes teaches. And Old Sir Symon the King.

The Sisters protles much, Canarie-Birds imitating, The Baker gets a Tubs, And never holds his prating. And Old Sir Symon the King.

We stuffe our guts with Capons, Devotions but very small, The World we thus can flatter, And say Devotions all. With Old Sir Symon the King.

To Westminster we trudge, Each Man with a Bilbo blade, At Night to Conventicles, And ride like Hackney-Jade. And Old Sir Symon the King.

The Miters from the Prelats We will pull away, No Man dare contradict, Or once against it say. Then Old Sir Symon the King.

The Divell hath left us his, What is it we want at all, Be stedfast sister deare, Although that Round-heads fall. Then Old Sir Symon the King, Then Old Sir Symon the King, Wee'l have a thred bare Coat, and a Mamsie Nose, Sing hey ding ding a ding ding.

Clarke,

Peace and put out the Candles, you have gone a Note too high, lie all the Sisters downe, and straine lower, procreandi causa.