He whom the fifters fo adore,

Counting his actions all divine,

Who when the fpirit hints can roar,
And if occafion ferves can whine ;
Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark,
Was ever fike a beau-learn'd clerk,
That speaks all lingua's of the ark,

To draw in profelytes like bees,
With pleafing twang he tones his profe;
He gives his handkerchief a fqueeze,
And draws John Calvin thro' his nofe;
Motive on motive he obtrudes,
With flip-ftocking fimilitudes,
Eight ufes more, and fo concludes.

When monarchy began to bleed,
And treafon had a fine new name;
When Thames was balderdafh'd with. Tweeds
And pulpits did like beacons flame ;

When Jeroboam's calves were rear'd,
And Laud was neither lov'd nor fear'd,
This gofpel-comet first appear❜ds

Soon his unhallow'd fingers ftripp'd
His fov'reign liege of power and land:
And having fmote his mafter, flipp'd
His fword into his fellow's hand:

But he that wears his eyes, may note,
Oft-times the butcher binds a goat,
And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then, Outweigh'd queen Mary's many grains; His very preaching flew more men, Than Bonner's faggots, ftakes, and chains, With dag-ftar zeal and lungs like Boreas, He fought and taught, and, what's notorious. Destroy'd his Lord to make him glorious.

Yet

Yet drew for king and parliament,
As if the wind cou'd ftand North-South
Broke Mofes's law with bleft intent.
Murther'd, and then he wip'd his mouth.
Oblivion alters not his cafe,

Nor clemency, nor acts of grace,
Can blanch an Ethiopian's face.

Ripe for rebellion he begins
To rally up the faints in swarms,
He bawls aloud, Sirs, leave your fins,
But whispers, Boys, ftand to your arms.
Thus he's grown infolently rude,
Thinking his gods can't be fubdu'd,
Money, I mean, and Multitude.

Magiftrates he regards no more
Than St George, or the king of Colon,
Vowing he'll not conform before,
The old wives wind their dead in woollen
He calls the bishop, grey-beard coff,
And makes his power as meer a scof
As Dagon, when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry,
Halloo, my hearts, beware of ROME,
Cowards that are afraid to die,

Thus make domeftick broils at home.
How quietly great Charles might reign,
Would all these hot-fpurs cross the main,
And preach down Popery in Spain.

The starry rule of heaven is fixt,
There's no diffention in the sky:
And can there be a mean betwixt

Confufion and conformity;

A place divided never thrives,

'Tis bad where hornets dwell in hives, But worse where children play with knives.

I wou'd as foon turn back to mafs,

Or change my phrase to thee and thou;

Let

Let the Pope ride me like an ass, And his priests milk me like a cow: As buckle to Smeɛtymnian laws, The bad effects o'th' good old cause.

That have doves plumes, but vultures claws.

For 'twas the holy kirk that nurs'd
The Brownifts and the Ranters crew;
Foul errors motly vefture first
Was coated in a Northern blue;
And what's th' enthufiaftick breed,
Or men of Knipperdolin's creed,
But cov❜nanters run up to feed.

Yet thy all cry they love the king,
And make boaft of their innocence;
There cannot be fo vile a thing
may be cover'd with pretence:

But

Yet when all's faid, one thing I'll swear
No fubject like th' old cavalier,

No traytor like Jack Prefbyter.

W

The Round-Head.

HAT creature's that with his fhort hairs,
His little band, and huge long ears,
That this new faith hath founded?
The faints themselves were never such,
The prelate ne'er rul'd half fo much.
O! fuch a rogue's a round-head.

What's he that doth the bishops hate,
And counts their calling reprobate,

'Cause by the pope propounded;
And think a zealous cobler better,
Than learned Uher in e'ery letter !
O! Juch a rogue's a round-head.

What's he that doth high-treason say,
As often as his yea and nay,

And with the king confounded;

2

And

And dares maintain that Mr Pym
Is fitter for a crown than him;

O! fuch a rogue's a round-head,

What's he that if he chance to hear
A little piece of common-prayer,

Doth think his confcience wounded,
Will
go
five miles to preach and pray,
And meet a fifter by the way?
O! fuch a rogue's a round-head.

What's he that met a holy fifter,
And in a haycock gently kifs'd her,
O! then his zeal abounded:
'Twas underneath a fhady willow,
Her bible ferv'd her for a pillow?
And there he got a round-head.

A Caveat to the Round-beads.

Come to charge ye

That flight the clergy,

And pull the miter from the prelate's head,

That you will be wary,

Left you miscarry,

In all these factious humours you have bred; But as for Brownifts we'll have none,

But take them all and hang them one by one.

Your wicked actions,

Join'd in factions,

Are all but aims to rob the king of his due }

Then give this reason

For your treason,

That you'll be rul'd, if he'll be rul'd by you;

Then leave these factions, zealous brother,
Leaft you be hanged one against another.

Your

Your wit abounded,

Gentle Round-head,

When you abus'd the bishops in a ditty,
When as you fanged,

You must be hanged,

A timpany of malice made you witty;
And, tho' your hot zeal made you bold,
When you are hang'd your arfe will be cold.

Then leave confounding,

And expounding,

The doctrine that you preach in tubs,

You raise this warring,

And private jarring,

I doubt, in time, will prove the knave of clubs.
It's for your lying, and not for your oaths,

You fhall be hang'd, and Ketch shall have your cloaths.

The TURNCOAT. To the Tune of, London is a fine Town.

When Charles return'd into our land,
The English church fupporter,

I fhifted off my cloak and band,
And fo became a courtier.
A turncoat, &c.

The