LAMENT , oh London ! Mother of Cities , and let thy Daughters Mourn in Sack-cloth and Ashes , for thy Son , thy dearest Son , the Prodigal is over-taken in his Flight ; The Lord High Chancellor of England turn'd Tarpolin , taken napping in a mean Bawdy-House at Wapping . What a Precipiece has he Leapt , from the Bench to the Bar ; who , by our means was advanc'd from the Bar to the highest Bench , in so high a Sphere , that nothing but a Gibbet cou'd Exalt him . If such a Fall be the Effects of Pride , that must be Insolence ; and how Just are the Fates , that the Haughty Judge should now be brought a Criminal , even before that City over which he had so lately Insulted . Who will Proclaim this Wonder in the East , or Report it in the West ? How wou'd those poor Wretches , whom he Hang'd there by Dozens , Lament , if they had but liv'd to see this Day ? What an after Slaughter was it , when the Duumvirat of Tyrants , Kirk and His Lordship , went down to Reap the Gleanings of the Bloody Field ; whose Voice , like a Two-edg'd Sword , destroy'd more in cold Blood , than Absalom and all his Host had done before ? What thinks your Lordship of it now ? Can you as easily digest an Haltar now , as you cou'd then disgorge them ? Oh 't is a rare sight to see the deploring Wretches hang by Couples , and make Wry-Mouths one at another . Methinks , the Judge and the General wou'd give as good Diversion ; and it would much increase the Horror of their Punishment , if we cou'd but raise the Dead to be Spectators . This is the Noose you have both so justly deserv'd , which the ungodly Comissary so narrowly scaped , but into which the Wicked Councellor is so justly fall'n .

And is it not a dreadful Fall ( my Lords ) from the Chancery-Bench , to the Traytors-Bar ? From an Insulting Peer , that Rul'd the Throne , to a whining Prisoner in the Tower ? The Privy-Council Table , transform'd into a publick Scaffold ; The soft Cushion , into an hard Block ; The Embroider'd Purse , into a Quilted Capp ; and the Golden Mace , into a glittering Hatchet ; the Hang-man your Charnock . But he will do you Justice : Hark how he begins to Insult already in your own Terms ; Ho Sir ! have I catcht you ? You are a Rogue , I know you Sirrah ! I shall — . But Hang him ! Hang him ! an Haltar's too good for him , were it not to fulfil his Dream . And I should be loath to stain my Axe with his Polluted Blood , if it were not to do the Country good Service .