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His malice was ſo ſet on fire,
That nothing could quench his deſire,
Until Argyle, mine enemy,
Was brought condignly for to die:
And Guthrie, who did me oppoſe
By hanging he his days did cloſe:
And Warriſton, the worſt of all,
By my friend Fletcher he did fall:
Thus wonderfully he did pleaſe me,
When of theſe rebels he did eaſe me;
For which good ſervice he doth ſit
Among the princes of my pit.
And my dear couſin Provoſt Mill,
Burnt covenants, yet thought no ill.
At Lithgow-croſs, with more diſgrace
Than ever was at any place,
He burnt Lex Rex and other books
Which ſourly on my intereſt looks;
And many acts of kirk and ſtate,
Which he knew well that I did hate,
'Cauſe they advanc'd a reformation,
That ſhook my kingdom thro' the nation.
He burnt old brechems, roakes and reels,
Alſo the picture of the De'il;
I mean myſelf, 'cauſe he did think
My effigies would make all ſtink
That he burnt on that ſolemn day.
Upon the twenty-ninth of May.
But my dear couſin was miſta'n,
The Covenants remain'd in fame,
By ſome that did love them ſo well.
That with their blood they did them ſeal ;
Yet Provoſt Mill was not to blame,
