Rails in the Church are abomination,

But Rails in the Street are no Innovation.
Sing, &c.

My Lord Mayor himself on Cock-horfe did ride,
Not like a young Gallant with a Sword by his Side.
'Twas carried before him, but there was espied
The Cross-bar in the Hilt by a Puritan eyed.
Sing, &c.

Two Dozen of Aldermen ride two by two,

Their Gowns were all fcarlet,but their Nofes were blue: The Recorder made a Speech, if Report it be true, He promis'd more for them than e'er they will do. Sing, &c.

[State, They should be good Šubjects to the King and the The Church they would love, no Prelates would hate; But methinks it was an omnious Fate

They brought not the King through Bishopsgate.
Sing, &c.

The Citizens rod in their Golden Chains

Fetch'd from St. Martins, no Region of Spain's:
It seems they were troubl'd with Gundamor's Pains,
Some held by their Pummels, and some by their Manes.
Sing, &c.

In Jackets of Velvet, without Gown or Cloak,

Their Faces were Wainscot, their Hearts were of Oak:
No Trainbands were seen, no Drums beat a ftroke,
Because City Captains of late have been broke.
Sing, &c.

The King, Queen and Prince, the Palfgrave of Rhine,
With two Branches more of the Royal Vine,
Rode to the Guild-Hall where they were to dine,
There could be no lack where the Conduits run Wine.
Sing, &c.

Nine hundred Dishes in the Bill of Fare

For the King and Nobles prepared there were ;

There

There could be no lefs, a Man might well fwear,
By the Widgeons and Woodcocks and Geefe that
Sing, &c.
[were there.
Tho' the Dinner were long, yet the Grace was but short,
It was faid in the Fashion of the English Court.
But one Paffage more I have to report,

Small Thanks for my Pains I look to have for't,
Sing, &c.

Down went my Lord Mayor as low as his Knee,
Then up went the White of an Alderman's Eye:
We thought the Bishop's Grace enlarged should be,
(Not the Arch-bishop's) no fuch Meaning had he.
Sing, &c.

When's Lordship 'kneel'd down, we look'd he should (So he did heartily, but in his own way) [pray, The Cup was his Book, the Collect for the Day Was a Health to King Charles, all out he did say. Sing, &c.

The Form of Prayer my Lord did begin,

The reft of the Aldermen quickly were in:
One Warner they had of the greatness of the Sim
Without Difpenfation from Burton or Prin.
Sing, &c,

Before they had done it grew towards Night,
(I forget my Lord Mayor was made a Knight:
The Recorder too with another Wight,

Whom I cannot relate, for the Torches are light.) Sing, &c.

Up and away, by St. Paul's they pafs;

When a prick-ear'd bray'd like a Puritan Afs: [Glass,
Some thought he had been fear'd with the painted
He swore not, but cry'd high Popery by th' Mass.
Sing, &c.

The Quire with Mufick on a Scaffold they fee
In Surplices, all their Tapers burnt by,

An Anthem they fung moft melodiously;
If this were Popery, I confefs it was high.
Sing, &c.

גי

From thence to Whitehall there was made no ftay, Where the King gave them Thanks for their Love that Nothing was wanting, if I could but say

[Day: The House of Commons had met him half way. Sing, &c.

W

VENUS Lachrymans.

AKE my Adonis, do not die,
One Life's enough for thee and I;
Where are thy Words, thy Wiles,
Thy Love, thy Frowns, thy Smiles;
Alas in vain I call,

One Death hath fnatch'd them all:
Yet Death's not deadly in thy Face,
Death in thofe Looks it felf hath Grace.
'Twas this, 'twas this I fear'd
When thy pale Ghoft appear'd:

This I prefag'd when thundering Jove
Tore the beft Myrtle in my Grove;
When my fick Rofe-buds loft their Smell,
And from my Temples untouch'd fell;
And 'twas for fome fuch thing

My Dove did hang her Wing.

Whither art thou my Deity gone?
Venus in Venus there is none:
In vain a Goddess now am I,
Only to grieve and not to die.

But I will love my Grief,

Make Tears my Tears relief:
And Sorrows fhall to me

A new Adonis be;

And this no Fates can rob me of, whiles I

Goddess am to weep but not to die.

Metro baud multum diffimili carmina fua
fcripfit Scaldus ille, auctor libri, cui ti-
tulus HERVARER SAGA, (quem edidit
cl. Olaus Verelius) ut conftat ex dialogo
illo inter Hervaram & Angantyri patris
fui manes,
quo ad tumulum ftans, ut
Tirfingum gladium cum eo fepultum
daret, rogat.

HERVOR.

Vidar under rotum.

W AknaduAngantyr, Med hialmi oc briniu

vor

Vekur thig Her- Oc huoffu fuerdi,

Einka dotter.

Yckar Suafu.

Sel thu mer ur hauge
Hardan moekir,
Than er Suafurlama
Slogu duergar,
Hervardur, Hiorvardur,
Hrani, oc Angantyr,
Vek eg ydr alla,

Raund oc reida,
Oc rodnum geiri.
Ero miog vordner
Andgryms fyner
Mein-giarnar ad
Molldar auka!
Ad eingi gior fona
Eyvor vid mig mæla
Ur munar heimi!

Hervardur, Hiorvardur.

HERVOR. Awake Angantyr, Hervor the only Daughter
Of thee and Suafu doth awaken thee.

Give me out of the tombe, the hardned Sword,
Which the Dwarfs made for Suafurlama.
Hervardur, Hiorvardur, Hrani, and Angantyr,
With Helmet, and coat of Mail, and a sharp Sword,
With Sheild and Accoutrements, and bloody Spear,
I wake you all, under the roots of trees.

Are the Sons of Andgrym, who delighted in mischief,
Now become duft and afhes: can none of Eyvors Sons
Now Speak with me, out of the habitations of the dead!
Harvardur, Hiorvardur! So may you all be

Suo fie ydur aullum

Innan rifia

Sem er i maura

Mornid hangi,
Nema fuerd felier,
Thad er flogu duergar
Samyra draugum;
Dyrt um fetla.

ANGANTYR,

Harvor dotter
Huy kallar fuo,
Full feikiuftafa,
Fer Thu ad illu?
Od ertu ordin,
Oc orvita,
Vill-higgiandi
Vekia dauda menn.
Grofu mig ey fader
Nie froendur adrer.
Their haufdu Tirfing

Tueir er lifdu,
Vard Tho eigandi
Einn af fudan.
HERVOR.

Satt moler Thu ecki ?

So lati As Thig.

Heilan ihaugi,

Sem Thu hafir eigi
Tirfing med thier.
Trautter thier ad veita
Arf Angantyr
Einka barne.

ANGANTYR.
Seige eg thier, Hervor,
Thad vera mun,
Sa mun Tirfungur
(Ef thu trua moetter)
At thinni nær
Allte fpilla.
Muntu fon gieta

Within your ribs, as a thing that is hanged up

To putrifie among infects, unless you deliver me the Sword
Which the dwarfs made **** and the glorious belt.
ANGANTYR. Daughter Hervor, full of spells to raise the dead,
Why doft thou call fo? wilt thou run on

To thy own mischief? thou art mad, and out of thy Senfes,
Who art defperately refolved to waken dead men.
I was not haried either by father or other friends,
Two which lived after me got Tirfing,
One of whom is now poffeffor thereof.
HERVOR. Thon doft not tell the truth:
So let Odin hide thee in the tombe, as thos

Haft Tirfing by thee. Art thu unwilling, Angantyr,
To give an inheritance to thy only child?

ANGANTYR. I will tell thee, Hervor, what will come to pass:
This Tirfing will, if thou dost believe me,

Deftrey almof all thy offspring. Thou shalt have a Son,