A rope treble-twisted, for John Tayler the water-poet. Or rather for his malignant friends in London, which make use of his name to slander and abuse the Parliament, and well-affected party, in their pernicious pamphlets; and particularly, Mr. John Booker, a man of known honesty, and one who scornes to calculate for the meridian of Oxford. Snarle not, malignants: if you do, here's rope enough for you, and all that love the Pope.