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For which he's had my kindness still,
Since he his labour did fulfil.
Rothes like a sow in mire,
Who of his whoredom did not tire,
But wallow'd in adultery,
In cursing and profanity,
And did allot the Sabbath-day,
To spend it in his game and play;
Perjur'd himself in Mitchell's case,
To bring that rebel to disgrace,
He did contrive that engine,
That did make Hackston dree great pain,
To rip his breast at my desire,
And burn his heart quick in the fire,
Mangled his hands and took them off,
That they might be the people's scoff,
And afterwards struck off his pow,
And set it on the Netherbow;
And cut his body all asunder,
And plac'd it for a world's wonder.
Thus he shook off humanity,
For the respect he had to me.
At last in horror he did die,
And went to Tophet dolefully.
Monmouth did me a noble turn,
When he to Bothwell-bridge did come,
With armed force, with power and might,
He slew and put the Whigs to flight.
Although it was the Sabbath-day,
He would not grant them a delay,
But instantly did hash them down,
And took them captives to the town.
They prisoners were in the Grey friar,
Until a false oath they did swear;
