But being soon tir’d of _Greenwich_, I proceeded on my Pilgrimage to _Gravesend_, where, (and at _Stroud_, _Rochester_, and _Chatham_) the Vintners, Innkeepers, and Victuallers, are more extortioning than any Pawn-Broker, who has the Honesty to take no more than _Cent. per Cent._ for what Money they lend. Hereupon, bidding adieu to the County of _Kent_, I rambled through the County of _Surry_; but it being Assize-Time when I arriv’d at _Kingston_ upon _Thames_, I found I was leap’d out of the Fryingpan into the Fire, for Provisions and Lodging were then as dear as a Suit of Law in _Chancery_; so that I rid forthwith into the County of _Sussex_, where I saw nothing but a Parcel of Bumpkins and Milk-Wenches returning all home, as drunk as _David_’s sow, from a Country-Wake. Thence, I went into _Hampshire_, where Rusticks are as fat as their Hogs and as liquorish as those who buy their Honey. In this County is _Southampton_, where the Sword of Sir _Bevis_ is held in as much Veneration by the Towns People, as a Piece of Paper worn by ’Prentice-Boys, and Servant-Wenches on _Valentine_’s Day. Hence, I went to _Portsmouth_, betwixt which Place and Hell, the Soldiers garrison’d here say, there is but only a Sheet of brown Paper; however, it is honour’d by giving the Title of a Dutchess to _Squintabella_, _alias_ Madamoiselle _Louise de Querouaille_. At this Sea-port, crossing the Water, I reached at the Distance of three Leagues, the _Isle of Wight_, and proceeded to _Carisbrook_ Castle, which inwardly, (as well as outwardly) is much out of Repair, especially the Room in which King _Charles_ I. was confin’d a Prisoner, a little before the horrid Murder perpetrated on him, the then prevailing Party, who under a Stratocracy or Army-Power, brought him to the Block, and then conspir’d to overthrow the well settled Constitution of this Kingdom with Anarchy, and Confusion which unparalleled Piece of Villany incited me to write _ex tempore_ on the Wall of that fatal Place, the following Lines.
_What dismal Horror, and as dismal Gloom, Invades the hallow’d Silence of this Room! Where Majesty in Mourning sat, to wait The wreched News of his more wretched Fate; Curst Spawn of Schism! to give the fatal Shock, Which sent a King a Martyr from the Block. The barbarous Act, which smote his Royal Head, Our Calendars shall ever die with Red; To paint the Overthrow of th’ Church and State, In the rebellious Times of Forty Eight. My Muse, with the shrill Eccho of these Walls, For Vengeance on the bloody Nation calls; And weeps, till fruitful ~Albion~ is freed From the ~Fanaticks~ pestilential Breed; An Offspring sprung from that most odious Race, Whose Hanging would the ~Tripple-Tree~ disgrace. The Royal Captive here remained in Tears, Till ~Bradshaw~ doom’d a Period to his Years; But now the injur’d Saint in Peace does dwell, While those that judg’d him, burning are in Hell._