AN ANSWER TO THE GENEVA BALLAD.  

OF all the Drolsters in the Town,  
Of Popish, or of Hobbian Race,  
None drags Religion up and down,  
Or doth the Gospel such disgrace  
As Spruce with Coat Canonical  
Whose Conscience echoes have at all,  
Would a fat Benefice but fall.   

He whom the Ruder Wits adore,  
And count his vile Lampoons Divine;  
Who Pimps in Rhyme for the Old W●ore.  
And fain would patch up Dagon's shrine,  
A sacred Proteus one that can,  
Blend Gospel with the Koran,  
And takes Texts from Leviathan.   

Yet if he list, this Motley Clark,  
Himself as loud as smec can bray,  
The Church he slanders in the dark,  
But Hector's for her in the day:  
Of Late he scoffed at Mitred Peers,  
Pulled the old Graybeards by the ears,  
And called them Heavens Overseers.   

Yet now he frowns on them again,  
And grins in rage his foaming chaps,  
wishes poor Presbyter in Spain,  
And tears his Edifying caps,  
So Cowards kill where Hero's spare,  
And Renogades always are  
More fierce than native Turks by far.   

Thus with each Heifer he can plow  
A Papist or an Independent,  
What point the Gales of profit blow,  
He always steers, and there's an end on't,  
Was ever sick a Priest among  
All Gloster Cobblers fulsome Throng,  
To pawn his Conscience for a Song?   

Whilst Presbyter with active fist,  
Makes it his work to preach and pray▪  
This modefied Episcopist,  
Shows 'tis to Heaven a jollier way:  
With ●●gans and with Violin,  
And Ballad new on merry pin,  
He means to Wheedle souls from sin.   

Geneva in a huff he kicks,  
And sweats by's reverend Cassac-Coat.  
The Leaman-Lakes a second styx,  
Where none but damned souls do float,  
Though wise men think its waters be,  
From all such secret venom free,  
Nor half so blackish as Rome's See.   

Perhaps the man has cause to stickle,  
Since Interest leads him to complain,  
F●aring some Neighbouring Conventicle,  
His Incomes to Low Ebb should Drain;  
But be not, friend! at that dismayed,  
Should preaching prove a sorry Trade,  
Ballading is not quite decayed.   

He varnishes his envious hate  
With a pretended loyal zeal,  
But would in truth subvert the state;  
And all embroil the common-weel;  
His business is but to divide,  
wound Protestants through calvin's side  
That Popelings once more might us ride.   

See how he slyly acts his part,  
Commends Queen Mary's bloody days:  
And doubtless should we sound his heart,  
Such Bonfires here afresh would raise.  
But Heaven defend those sad extremes,  
We hope to keep unfilled Thames,  
Free both from Tweds & Tiburs streams   

Cease then impertinently to Rant,  
We understand the Stale Intrigue:  
Remember the Scotch Covenant,  
Was copied from your gall:  
Against blue bonnet swagger not,  
We know who hatched the powder-plot,  
Not yet is Ireland's blood forgot.   

Our Sovereign's pleasure we'll obey,  
But scorn to Truckle unto thine;  
Since Charles does liberty display,  
How dare such Phamleteers repine?  
Peace, Becket junior, know your place,  
Let no oblivion reach your case,  
Who Ciphers make of acts of Grace.   

The constant Rules of Heaven we know.  
Whose Stars in Various Orbs do move,  
Which we may Copy here below,  
Whilst several parties live in Love.  
Without Yoke of Conformity,  
We can keep Christian Unity,  
As different Notes make Harmony.   

Yet well may each good shepherd cry,  
Unto his flocks beware of Rome,  
When foreign wolves so oft we spy,  
Making Domestic broils at home;  
And in each corner of the Land,  
Perceive those sly sheep-steelers stand,  
To give them the Red-Letters brand.   

With Holy Beads they teach to chant,  
Their Aves and their unknown prayers,  
And all the while to Heaven they mount,  
Take special care to tell the stairs:  
The Kitchenwench comes into Matin,  
And loins her soul with shreds of Latin,  
Like greasy Fustian faced with Satin.   

Their whole Religion is so Odd,  
It seems a Dark Mysterious Trade,  
To Disturb Kings, and Worship God,  
Only in show and Masquerade:  
A Chaos of Deformity,  
Made up of blood, hypocrisy,  
fraud, treason, and idolatry.   

Yet you as soon to Mass would Gad,  
Alas! it is all one to thee;  
He that Religion never had,  
May easily a Papist be,  
Where purchased pardons set him free  
Beyond a Raners Libertee,  
To wallow in Debaucheree.   

Though he contrive to hide his Plot,  
We yet can apprehend the snare,  
Through the sheeps-clothing he has got,  
His fox's Ears do plain appear:  
Protestant Drones, look to your lives,  
He'd fain be burning of your hives,  
And counts the Scriptures dangerous Knives.   

we'll not Recriminate the case,  
Nor make boast of our Loyalty,  
But still with thankful hearts embrace,  
Our Gracious prince's clemency:  
Yet hope to prove our innocence,  
And actions void of just offence,  
Against this slsanderous Pretence.   

When surplice was an useless thing,  
And Mitre a poor Relic lay,  
The preaching Cloak brought back the King,  
And turned our Dismal Night to Day:  
Mun Calamy, and a few more,  
Did then more on their Sovereign's score  
Then troops of Railerists before.   
FINIS.   

Printed in the Year. 1674.