There's neither swallow, dove nor dade, can soar more high, or deeper wade; 
Nor shew a reason from the stars, what causeth peace or civil wars: 
The man in the moon may wear out his shoo'n by running after Charles his wain, 
But all's to no end, for the times will not mend till the King, &tc. 

Full forty years this royal crown hath been his fathers and his own; 
And is there any one but he, that in the same should sharers be? 
For who better may the scepter sway than he that hath such right to reign? 
Then let's hope for a peace, for the wars will not cease, till the King, &tc. 

Though for a time we see White-Hall with cobweb-hangings on the wall, 
Instead of gold and silver brave, which formerly 'twas wont to have, 
With rich perfume in every room, delightful that princely train, 
Which again shall be, when the time you see, that the King &tc. 

Did Walker no predictions lack in Hammonds bloody almanack? 
Foretelling things that would ensue, that all proves right, if lies be true: 
But why should not he the pillory foresee, wherein poor Toby once was tane? 
And also foreknow, to the gallows he must go, when the King &tc. 

Then avaunt upon thy hill, my hope shall cast his anchor still, 
Until I see some peaceful dove bring home the branch I dearly love: 
Then will I wait for the waters to abate, which now disturb my troubled brain 
Else never rejoyce till I hear the voice, that the King &tc.