A Collection of some Letters that were written by

the same Author, most of them in the

time of his Servitude.

To my much Honored Friend Mr. T. B.

I

SIR,

Have lived with sorrow to see the Anointed of the

Lord tore from his Throne by the hands of Paricides, and in contempt haled, in the view of God, Angels and Men, upon a public Theatre, and there murthered. I have seen the sacred Temple of the Almighty, in scorn by Schismatics made the Receptacle of Theeves and Robbers; and those Religious Prayers, that in devotion Evening and Morning were offered up as a Sacrifice to our God, rent by Sacrilegious hands, and made no other use of, then sold to Brothel-houses to light Tobacco with.

Who then can stay, or will, to see things of so great weight steer'd by such barbarous Hounds as these: First, were there an Egypt to go down to, I would involve my Liberty to them, upon condition ne'er more to see my Country. What? live in silence under the sway of such base actions, is to give consent; and though the lowness of my present Estate and Condition, with the hazard I put my future dayes upon, might plead a just excuse for me to stay at home; but Heavens forbid: I'le rather serve in

Chains, and draw the Plough with Animals, till death shall stop and say, It is enough.

Sir, if you stay behind, I wish you well: I am bound for Mary-Land, this day I have made some entrance into my intended voyage, and when I have done more, you shall know of it. I have here inclosed what you of me desired, but truly trouble, discontent and business, have so amazed my senses, that what to write, or where to write, I conceive my self almost as uncapable as he that never did write. What you'le find will be Ex tempore, without the use of premeditation; and though there may want something of a flourishing stile to dress them forth, yet I'm certain there wants nothing of truth, will, and desire.

Heavens bright Lamp, shine forth some of thy Light,
But just so long to paint this dismal Night;
Then draw thy beams, and hide thy glorious face,
From the dark sable actions of this place;
Leaving these lustful Sodomites groping still,
To satisfie each dark unsatiate will,

Untill at length the crimes that they commit,
May sink them down to Hells Infernal pit.
Base and degenerate Earth, how dost thou lye,
That all that pass hiss, at thy Treachery?

Thou which couldst boast once of thy King and Crown,
By base Mechanicks now art tumbled down,
Brewers and Coblers, that have scarce an Eye,
Walk hand in hand in thy Supremacy;

And all those Courts where Majesty did Throne,
Are now the Seats for Oliver and Ioan :

Persons of Honour, which did before inherit
Their glorious Titles from deserved merit,
Are all grown silent, and with wonder gaze,
To view such Slaves drest in their Courtly rayes;
To see a Drayman that knows nought but Yeast,

Set in a Throne like Babylons red Beast,
While heaps of Parasites do idolize

This red-nos'd Bell, with fawning Sacrifice.
What can we say? our King they've Murthered,
And those well born, are basely buried:

Nobles are slain, and Royalists in each street

Are scorn'd, and kick'd by most Men that they meet:
Religion's banisht, and Heresie survives,

And none but Conventicks in this Age thrives.
Oh could those Romans from their Ashes rise,
That liv'd in Nero's time: Oh how their cries
Would our perfidious Island shake, nay rend,
With clamorous screaks unto the Heaven send:
Oh how they'd blush to see our Crimson crimes,
And know the Subjects Authors of these times:
When as the Peasant he shall take his King,
And without cause shall fall a murthering him ;
And when that's done, with Pride assume the Chair,
And Nimrod-like, himself to heaven rear ;
Command the People, make the Land Obey
His baser will, and swear to what he'l say.
Sure, sure our God has not these evils sent
To please himself, but for mans punishment :
And when he shall from our dark sable Skies
Withdraw these Clouds, and let our Sun arise,
Our dayes will surely then in Glory shine,
Both in our Temporal, and our State divine:

May this come quickly, though I may never see
This glorious day, yet I would sympathie,
And feel a joy run through each vain of blood,
Though Vassalled on t'other side the Floud.
Heavens protect his Sacred Majesty,
From secret Plots, & treacherous Villany.
And that those Slaves that now predominate,
Hang'd and destroy'd may be their best of Fate;
And though Great Charles be distant from his own,
Heaven I hope will seat him on his Throne.

From the Chimney Corner upon a low cricket, where I writ this in the noise of some six Women, Aug. 19. Anno

Vale.
Yours what I may,

G. A.

To my Honored Father at his House.

SIR,

B

Efore I dare bid Adieu to the old World, or shake hands with my native Soyl for

my ever, I

have a Conscience inwards tells me, that I must offer up the remains of that Obedience of mine, that lyes close centered within the cave of my Soul, at the Alter, of your paternal Love: And though this Sacrifice of mine may shew something low and thread-bare, (at this time) yet know, That in the Zenith of all

actions, Obedience is that great wheel that moves the lesser in their circular motion.

I am now entring for some time to dwell under the Government of Neptune, a Monarchy that I was never manured to live under, nor to converse with in his dreadful Aspect, neither do I know how I shall bear with his rough demands; but that God has carried me through those many gusts a shoar, which I have met withall in the several voyages of my life, I hope will Pilot me safely to my desired Port, through the worst of Stormes I shall meet withall at Sea.

We have strange, and yet good news aboard, that he whose vast mind could not be contented with spacious Territories to stretch his insatiate desires on, is (by an Almighty power) banished from his usuped Throne to dwell among the dead. I no sooner heard of it, but my melancholly Muse forced me upon this ensuing Distich.

Poor vaunting Earth, gloss'd with uncertain Pride,
That liv'd in Pomp, yet worse than others dy'd:
Who shall blow forth a Trumpet to thy praise?
Or call thy sable Actions shining Rayes?
Such Lights as those blaze forth the vertued dead,
And make them live, though they are buried.
Thou'st gone, and to thy memory let be said,
There lies that Oliver which of old betray'd
His King and Master, and after did assume,
With swelling Pride, to govern in his room.
Here I'le rest satisfied, Scriptures expound to me,
Tophet was made for such Supremacy.