er outkilled that half a bar; and yet
it is thought the sullen corpse would scarce bleed were both these
manslayers never so near it.

The same goes of a Dutch headsman, that he would do his office with so
much ease and dexterity, that the head after execution should stand upon
the shoulders. Pray God Sir William be not probationer for the place;
for as if he had the like knack too, most of those whom the diurnal hath
slain for him, to us poor mortals seem untouched.

Thus these artificers of death can kill the man without wounding the
body, like lightning, that melts the sword and never singes
the scabbard.

This is the William whose lady is the conqueror; this is the city's
champion and the diurnal's delight; he that cuckolds the general in his
commission; for he stalks with Essex, and shoots under his belly,
because his Excellency himself is not charged there: yet in all this
triumph there is a whip and bell; translate but the scene to Roundway
Down, there Hazelrig's lobsters turned crabs and crawled backwards,
there poor Sir William ran to his lady for an use of consolation.

But the diurnal is weary of the arm of flesh, and now begins an hosanna
to Cromwell; one that hath beat up his drums clean through the Old
Testament; you may learn the genealogy of our Saviour by the names in
his regiment; the muster-master uses no other list but the first chapter
of Matthew.

With what face can they object to the king the bringing in of
foreigners, when themselves entertain such an army of Hebrews? This
Cromwell is never so valorous as when he is making speeches for the
association, which nevertheless he doth somewhat ominously with his neck
awry, holding up his ear as if he expected Mahomet's pigeon to come and
prompt him. He should be a bird of prey too by his bloody beak; his nose
is able to try a young eagle, whether she be lawfully begotten. But all
is not gold that glitters. What we wonder at in the rest of them is
natural to him to kill without bloodshed, for the most of his trophies
are in a church window, when a looking-glass would show him more
superstition. He is so perfect a hater of images that he hath defaced
God's in his own countenance. If he deals with men, 'tis when he takes
them napping in an old monument; then down goes dust and ashes, and the
stoutest cavalier is no better. O brave Oliver! Time's voider, subsizer
to the worms, in whom death, who formerly devoured our ancestors, now
chews the cud. He