He whom the fifters fo adore, Counting his actions all divine, Who when the fpirit hints can roar, To draw in profelytes like bees, When monarchy began to bleed, When Jeroboam's calves were rear'd, Soon his unhallow'd fingers ftripp'd But he that wears his eyes, may note, 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, Nor clemency, nor acts of grace, Ripe for rebellion he begins Magiftrates he regards no more Hark! how he opens with full cry, Thus make domeftick broils at home. The starry rule of heaven is fixt, 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 Yet thy all cry they love the king, But Yet when all's faid, one thing I'll swear No traytor like Jack Prefbyter. W The Round-Head. HAT creature's that with his fhort hairs, What's he that doth the bishops hate, 'Cause by the pope propounded; What's he that doth high-treason say, And with the king confounded; 2 And And dares maintain that Mr Pym O! fuch a rogue's a round-head, What's he that if he chance to hear Doth think his confcience wounded, What's he that met a holy fifter, 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, Your Your wit abounded, Gentle Round-head, When you abus'd the bishops in a ditty, You must be hanged, A timpany of malice made you witty; 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. 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, I fhifted off my cloak and band, The |