And threaten sudden change of weather,
Feel pangs and aches of state-turns,
And revolutions in their corns;
And, since our workings-out are cross’d, 505
Throw up the Cause before ’tis lost. 
Was it to run away we meant,
When, taking of the Covenant,
The lamest cripples of the brothers
Took oaths to run before all others; 510
But in their own sense only swore
To strive to run away before;
And now would prove, that words and oath
Engage us to renounce them both? 
’Tis true, the Cause is in the lurch, 515
Between a Right and Mungrel-Church;
The Presbyter and Independent,
That stickle which shall make an end on’t;
As ’twas made out to us the last
Expedient —­ ( I mean Marg’ret’s Fast,) 520
When Providence had been suborn’d,
What answer was to be return’d. 
Else why should tumults fright us now,
We have so many times come through? 
And understand as well to tame, 525
As when they serve our turns t’inflame: 
Have prov’d how inconsiderable
Are all engagements of the rabble,
Whose frenzies must be reconcil’d
With drums and rattles, like a child; 530
But never prov’d so prosperous
As when they were led on by us
For all our scourging of religion
Began with tumult and sedition;
When hurricanes of fierce commotion 535
Became strong motives to devotion;
(As carnal seamen, in a storm,
Turn pious converts, and reform;)
When rusty weapons, with chalk’d edges,
Maintain’d our feeble privileges; 540
And brown-bills levy’d in the City,
Made bills to pass the Grand Committee;
When zeal, with aged clubs and gleaves,
Gave chace to rochets and white sleeves,
And made the Church, and State, and Laws, 545
Submit t’ old iron and the Cause. 
And as we thriv’d by tumults then,
So might we better now agen,
If we knew how, as then we did,
To use them rightly in our need:  550
Tumults, by which the mutinous
Betray themselves instead of us. 
The hollow-hearted, disaffected,
And close malignant are detected,
Who lay their lives and fortunes down 555
For pledges to secure our own;
And freely sacrifice their ears
T’ appease our jealousies and fears;
And yet, for all these providences
W’ are offer’d, if we had our senses; 560
We idly sit like stupid blockheads,
Our hands committed to our pockets;
And nothing but our tongues at large,
To get the wretches a discharge: 
Like men condemn’d to thunder-bolts, 565
Who, ere the blow, become mere dolts;
Or fools besotted with their crimes,
That know not how to shift betimes,