Ass upon Ass▪  
BEING A COLLECTION OF Several Pamphlets written for, and against the Author of the Ass' Complaint against Balaam, or the cry of the Country against Ignorant and Scandalous Ministers.  
Together with some choice Observations Upon them all.  
By Leonard Blunt Esq  
LONDON, Printed for the Author, MDCLXI.   

THE Ass' complaint against Balaam; Or the Cry of the COUNTRY AGAINST Ignorant and Scandalous Ministers.  
To the Reverend Bishops.  
YE mitred Members of the House of Peers,  
The King's Churchwardens, and Gods Overseers,  
Fathers in Christ, we your poor children cry▪  
Oh give us Bread of life, or else we die.  
For we are burdened with our old Sir john's,  
Who when we ask for Bread do give us stones;  
And only cant a Homily or two,  
Which Daws and Parrots may be taught to do;  
Drunkards Canonical, Unhallowed Bears,  
That name God oftener in their oaths then prayers.  
Into what darkness will our Church be hurled,  
If such as these be called The light o'th' World?  
These that have nought to prove themselves devout,  
Save only this, That Cromwell turned them out.  
Mistake us not we do not mean those loyal  
And learned souls, who in the fiery trial  
Suffered for King and Conscience sake, let such▪  
Have double Honour, we shall ne'er think much;  
But this our tender conscience disapproves,  
That Ravens should return as well as Doves;  
And croak in pulpits, once again to bring  
A second Judgement on our Church and King.  
Though England doth not fear another loss,  
'Cause God hath burned his Rods at Charing Cross;  
Yet Clergy sins may call him to the Door  
Even him who whipped and scourged them out before.  
Oh therefore ye that read the sacred Laws  
Eject their Persons, and disown their cause:  
God & the King have both condemned this crew,  
Then let them not be patronised by you.  
'Tis not their Cassocks, nor their Surplices,  
We quarrel at, there is no hurt in these;  
We own their Decency, yet every Fool  
Cannot be called a Monk that wears a Cowle;  
Were grace & learning wanting, (by your leaves,)  
We would not pin our faith on your Lawn Sleeves;  
'Tis Aaron's breastplate, and those sacred words  
Become a Churchman best, THAT THAT my Lords,  
Which pious Baxter makes his livery,  
Would all our Curates were but such as he!  
Pardon my Lords, we do not make this stir,  
To vindicate the factious Presbyter;  
We hate his ways, and equally disown  
The zealous Rebel as the Idle Drone;  
And beg as oft to be delivered from  
The Kirk of Scotland, as the Sea of Rome;  
We pray for Bishops too, Oh may ye stand  
To heal the sad distractions of the Land;  
Then give us Priests, Loyal and painful too,  
To give to Caesar, and to us our due.  
God save King Charles our Christian faiths Defender,  
And bring Religion to its wont Splendour.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
LOyal and Orthodox Reader, Judge charitably, I am neither presbyterian nor Fanatic, but as true a Son of the Church of England as thyself; for thy further satisfaction. I shall (God willing) present thee with another paper, to clear my honest intention in this.  
Lewis Griffin.   

OBSERVATION.  
THis Gentleman begging our Charity, in this place we shall say little of him, nor charge him with being that which he desires to be excused from; but whoever seriously considers this copy of verses as they are in themselves, (let him pretend to be never so true a Son to the Church of England, thereby to take off the Aspersion of a Fanatic) shall find him to verify the old English Proverb, that he is neither flesh, nor fish, nor good red herring: any thing, or nothing.   

A SUPPLEMENT TO THE ASS' Complaint against BALAAM, Or the Cry of the COUNTRY AGAINST Ignorant and Scandalous Ministers.  
AVaunt ye smooth-tongued flatterers of the age;  
Praesto ye meal-mouthed Prophets, clear the Stage;  
Enter the Ass again, who (though he Kneel  
Unto the Higher Powers) lifts up his Heel  
Against all those who make God's house a Den  
Of Clergy Thiefs; Have at them once again.  
— But hark; I hear a Country parish cry,  
Were ever Christians in such slavery?  
Must we be taught by an illiterate Bear?  
He preach? He'll only teach our boys to swear.  
— Is then your priest a swearer? Ha— must he  
That taunts a Bishop, taste a pillory?  
And 'tis but Just and Right; Yet who controls  
Him who blasphemes the Bishop of our Souls?  
What? Is an oath less penal than a word?  
Or is the servant greater than his Lord?  
No; He that swears commits the fouler sin,  
And more deserves to lose his ears then—  
— 'Tis true, seditious spirits, that Deny  
Obedience to the sacred Hierarchy,  
Merit severe Correction, let them have't;  
They are Disrtubers both of Church and State;  
Yet Prelates Zeal would be much better shown  
In striking Gods offenders then their own.  
— Nay, Gods are theirs; for he that wears lawn sleeves▪  
Like Christ is murdered 'twixt a brace of Thiefs,  
Both show their enmity, but divers ways,  
The Presbyter Denies, but This betrays;  
Now tell me (gentle Reader) which were Greater,  
The sin of Judas, or the crime of Peter?  
— Then let the Bishops cast them out, for thus  
They do but Justice to themselves and us;  
Like the wise Mariners, who, to appease  
The fury of the Raging winds and Seas,  
Threw Ionas overboard; such was his sin,  
There was no Cannon Law to keep him in.  
Nor is it Reason all should be maintained  
I'th' Church, who took Degrees, and were Ordained;  
For he that after proves a Drunken beast,  
Degrades himself from Man, much more from priest.  
And such they were who caused our Bloody War,  
When Levy's Tribe were kicked by Issacar;  
For though Men speak with a not so my Sons,  
Yet God reproved them with the voice of Guns.  
fanatics, those Philistims, won the field,  
Whilst our poor Israel was forced to yield;  
For Eli's boys had lost the Ark of God,  
Each Phin●has begat an Ichabod.  
Then Oh ye Bishops, heal these sad disasters,  
We do not call for Rectors but for Pastors.  
A Priest should lead his parish as a guide,  
Not leap upon their galled backs and ride,  
For 'tis our Mother Churches grand disgrace,  
That these black patches stick upon her face.  Written by Lewi● Griffin.  

OBSERVATION.  
AFter his promise of this paper, to show his honest intentions in the former; he would have you to believe (if there be any man so credulous) that he hath been a constant lover of Episcopacy: and no great wonder; for indeed he is a subtle Ass, and for a maintenance would easily be brought, not only to kiss a Common-prayer book, (or cant a homily, as he calls it) but willingly to embrace the Turkish Alcoran; and for a new suit or cloak, shall unsay all his former belief in his old Father Cromwell; such is his establishment in his principles. In sum, whoever reads over both his papers, shall see him not only like Balaam's Ass complaining against Balaam; but like the Ass in the Lion's skin, supposing himself the Lion, braying forth nothing but scandal and sedition, thinking thereby to affright those that hold not the same opinion with him: and all under a pretence of zeal to holiness of life, which he himself does seldom practice.   

Balaam's ASS Cudgelled. Or the Cry of TOWN and COUNTRY AGAINST Scandalous and Seditious Scribblers.  
WHat ails the Ass? How comes the Beast to whine?  
Has a been bred among King Pharaohs Kine?  
Has the wet spring spoiled all the Corn and Grass?  
That all the Country cannot keep an Ass?  
He cries for bread, as if Duke Humphreys Ghost  
This twenty years and more had been his host;  
Will no man tie him up, but let him range,  
Thus to disturb the City and the Change?  
But this is a Religious Ass, and cries  
O give him Bread of Life, or else he dies.  
A subtle Ass, for well 'tis understood  
He even thinks as much of Heavenly food  
As the poor Tailor, when he wants a Roul  
To fill his belly, thinks upon his Soul.  
You Ass in boots, if Cromwell or the Rump  
Had given thee but a Living, had been plump,  
Thou wouldst have blest 'em, and have been the man  
For maintenance to kiss the Alcoran.  
I know not where a Homily is read  
But, friend, a Homily is dainty bread.  
The Brewer's grains out of a nasty Tub,  
Is fit food for such a swine or Cub.  
Lawn sleeves and Cassocks cannot please the Gizzard  
Of this seditious scandalising Wizard;  
Yet he pretends Canonical to be,  
But Bell and Dragon is as much as he▪  
'Tis not the soul of this seditious sinner,  
That makes him by't, his belly wants a dinner;  
And there's a reason for it I can tell ye,  
Sometimes ill manners makes an empty belly▪  
To throw Seditious scribles to the view  
Of such a sick and giddy-headed crew  
As we have now amongst us, who by flirt's  
Change their Religions oftener than their shirts,  
Does argue one that doth employ his pate  
To bring confusion on the Church and State.  
The naked Indians would have scorned to be  
So rudely barbarous to their Bramini.  
The Ass that State malevolence doth brew,  
Deserves a bridle, and a Halter too.  
Are these the men of God? Doth this behaviour  
Adorn the Gospel of our God and Saviour?  
Religious Renegadoes! Who to patch  
Their broken desperate fortunes daily watch  
Another opportunity, to bring  
A second ruin on the Church and King.  
You closely jerk at learned Laud, but see  
All Laud is given to God, all shame to thee:  
Had he but seen thy Crocodilian tears,  
The Hangman's Cat had eat thy Ass' ears.  
God save King CHARLES, and keep him from the sleight  
Of such Reformers as in Forty Eight.  Rob. Chamberlain.  

OBSERVATION.  
REader, Perhaps you may as well as I wonder that men of almost all sorts, as here you find them, should have such small employment, as to busy their brains in cudgelling a poor silly Ass from one to another: and in my opinion render themselves all such; and more especially the Author of this, (Sexton or parish-Clark, call him which you please▪) Sure his Parish is very small, he is so needy, that he will Papist like, sell you prayers for sixpence a dozen; or his Burials and Christen not many in the year, that he must Poet-like, writ a Pamphlet, for money to by food for the Ass, and cloak it over with zeal.   

Cur Percussisti? OR BALAAM REPROVED For Cudgelling the Ass.  
ALas! the Ass is Cudgeled in good sadness▪  
Why so I Pray? To show the Prophet's madness.  
Patron of scandal and of ignorance;  
From which we prayed a deliverance.  
This was the sum of the Petition,  
Which guilty Balaam terms sedition  
Who, but a soul empty of grace, and reason  
Would think this cry preparative to treason?  
At vice's orthodox the poor Ass grieves:  
Not at the Cassocks or the reverend sleeves,  
These, are by Canon decent, yet I shall  
Think constant preaching more Canonical.  
Are Mitres, Cassocks, of so near a kin  
To sloth and drunkenness that beastly sin,  
That who the Clergy warns these sins to flee,  
Doth mean, Bishops and Priests there, must not be?  
The Crown and Mitre are so haply twisted,  
The last infringed, the first is then resisted.  
But both with equal zeal disown they do  
Factious Preachers, and bibbing Readers too.  
Where's the sedition then? 'tis in a dish  
Cooked up, yes the water turns Pork to Fish.  
●ll manners 'tis sure, soft, the man's well bred,  
His belly is not empty, but his head.  
Foul Patriot, scandal and vices support,  
Kicked by an Ass, thou puttest him into Court.  
A Priest well drenched, the Constable did seize on,  
'Twas cried, hold factious Officer, 'tis treason.  
At length the Prisoner swears, 'twas said, swear on,  
This Parish is full of sedition.  
'Tis an Essay to Church and State's confusion,  
To show the Laics grief or Priest's collusion,  
There needs no Cham, these secrets to betray,  
Darkness can't hid what's done in the midday.  
Is this the man of God? or is he sent  
To drink and swear, for th' Gospel's ornament?  
Revived impieties, Black mouthed debauchery,  
ne'er can be whitened with thy Poetry,  
Unhappy solecism, when was it true  
That Sins ruin would make the State to rue,  
Or Church? whose noble growth and lasting age,  
Decay of vice increase of grace presage.  
Arm then (ye Mitred Lords) be clothed with power,  
Full charge your Canons and then let them Roar  
'Gainst Scandal, Ignorance, and Laziness,  
'Gainst sancy pride, and factious peevishness.  
Hophni and Phinehas, their fatal doom,  
Should startle those that succeed in their room▪  
The Sacrifice was then abhorred, they're slain,  
Eli falls too, 'cause he did not restrain.  
Long live King Charles, prosper in grace & glory,  
Let's Name be written in Eternal Story.  By H. G.  

OBSERVATION.  
THis Author writing a paper of verses which he is ashamed to own; sets two letters of a name (we know not whether his own or no) that we should not know where to find him; but yet we may well guess at him, if we observe the character formerly given of their faction, that he is of the tribe of Adoniram;- A zealous R—, who to save his Bacon shall make twenty recantations; and for preferment, change his Religion oftener than his shirt; and is almost as near a kinsman to a K— as a Cavenanter to a Scotchman.   

The Ass beaten for Bawling; OR, A REPLY FROM THE CITY TO The Cry of the Country.  
To Smectimnuus, the Club of Divines, or Divines of the Club.  
TO you, because you are one manifold,  
A twisted Halter, and because weare told  
You understand the nonsense of the Criers,  
As they do yours, send we that are Replyers.  
Take up your Colts, you know them by their mark,  
Bid them give audience, that is stand and hark.  
Fleabitten Grace with your out-lying ears,  
The KING'S Disturbers, and Gods Pillagers,  
Bawl not, but hear the Cries of millions dead,  
Our blood has been your drink, our flesh your bread.  
And are your maws too tender for the stones  
Of the now Priest? that could eat Churches once  
Complain ye now of Canting ye Jack Daws  
That set Religion to a tune The Cause;  
Ye wolves Synodical, self-Hallowing Cast,  
If ye could pray ye should, so ye would fast.  
Our Church is like to fall into the Myre  
If she must follow such a fatuus fire,  
Dark Lantern lights, such whose well-shadowed sin  
Begun the Dance that Cushind Cromwell in.  
Mistake us not, we do not mean those zealous  
And tender souls, that fearing still, were jealous:  
Who set the Kingdom all o'fire, and made  
No conscience what CHARLES suffered, how betrayed.  
Let such have double honour, Capitol Geese,  
'Cause they ' be gagling, Pulpits two a piece,  
But this we like not that ye stand and bark  
To keep the wearied Dove out of the Ark:  
And that your tender conscience brooks not giving  
The Priest his Church, now you have had his living,  
For he poor Man shall not enjoy't he fears  
So many months, as ye have had it years.  
I but the Ravens come too, and they'll croak  
So that a second judgement they'll provoke.  
'Twas the first turned them out, what follows then?  
The next must be your coming in again.  
Where are your wits? get you again to School  
there's a scourge for you, and a pretty tool  
With a Chris-cross in't, There when you have been  
Well whipped and scourged for this your modern sin  
Of simple railing at the Men of God,  
I'll take a care for burning of the Rod  
Till then be not so mad I pray thee Smec.  
To let such Coxcombs break the Church's neck;  
God and the King's a book that doth concern,  
The Preacher, that would others teach, to learn;  
'Tis not their splaymouth nor their oboe nose  
Their hums and haus, and such like forms as those  
We quarrel at, nor black Caps set in print  
On the notched Poll, there may be nothing in't  
These fooleries we allow but yet a Saint  
Is not cut out of every one doth cant;  
Were Arrogance and Faction wanting, how  
Should Ignorance take blockheads from the Blow  
And arm them back and breast against their King?  
These graces are thy Saints Smec. That's the thing  
Which blooming Peartree makes his Livery  
Mouth indefatigable, were all such as He!  
Now pardon us good Smec. we do not this  
To make the Presbyter seem as he is  
A zealous R— nor do we disown  
Or hate his ways that level at a Throne  
But as we would, Rome should not tyrannize,  
And be ourselves a Rome put in disguise:  
And every Man a Pope in his precinct,  
Nor shall the Scotch Kirk think to be distinct  
But truckle under us; duly we and truly.  
For Bishops pray, that they would be unruly.  
And to our holy work put their own hand,  
Promoting the distractions of the Land.  
For to speak truth, we cannot wear a bridle,  
And suffer others preach and we stand idle:  
Nor is it possible we should agree  
Unless we can have Bishops, such as we  
That would Priests railing make & factious too,  
With whom good Cesar knows not what to do.  
Men free from charity, and love of peace  
Smec. if thou leav'st us any, leave us these  
That robbing Peter, and not paying Paul  
We may get, what? why e'en the Devil and all  
But now, this very hour the world must end,  
Take no more care for Sunday Pudding friend.  
Nor as was done in days of the Protector  
Ninteen probationers preach for one Lecture  
The deep Soraction snow must now turn black  
Dark be ye dazzling Lamps, Phoebus go back  
And fetch thy mourning Cloak, the Moon bow die  
Fire cannot burn, nor Roundheads cannot lie.  
Earth shift thy Poles and thaw the Muscovites,  
In the Armenian planes. And now the Lights  
Are out, let all things to confusion tumble,  
And rudely like the family conjumble.  
They may beget an Ass, Styx will so arm,  
And freeze, that he shall feel L●wd but lukewarm.  
Of whom the Brethren that conformed not  
All in his time, cried out he was too Hot.  
God save K. CHARLES and keep him from the clutches  
Of him that at the KING'S Religion grudges.   

POSTSCRIPT.  
NOw, to this railing Ass more shall be spoke,  
When he has got a Living or a Cloak,  
Only this Country's mouse feeds in our Cubboards,  
And brings his Cry no further than the Suburb.  
Advertisements and Supplements w'ave read,  
He looks to's Ears, we must look to our Head.  
Now no more Mumming sirrah, d'off your Vizard,  
Know we have eyes can pierce into your Gizzard.  
By stroking of our Beards you are not like,  
To make us be secure and let you strike  
He that calumniates the meaner sort,  
Looks ill on all, and aught to suffer for't.  BY EDM. COOPER Of Limestreet, Doctor of Physic.  

OBSERVATION.  
THE Doctor thinking himself an honester man than the rest, must be seen in Print too; but we suppose the main end of his publishing this, was, having lived long in obscurity, and not having much practice, to let the World understand that there is such a Physician, (like a Quacksalver that sets up his Bills on Posts) writes The Ass beaten for bawling, by Edmond Cooper of Limestreet Dr. of Physic; that thereby he may gain Patients, and become famous, and so when his names up, he may lie in Bed till noon.   

WORK FOR COOPER, Or a Bone for the Doctor to pick.  
Being an Answer to a Scurrilous Pamphlet, Entitled The Ass beaten for Bawling.  
To Dr. Edm. Cooper.  
TO you Sir, 'cause you're of those shallow brains,  
That prise a Gem below two barley grains,  
That like the Dunghill cock, rather confine  
Your Spirits to a Jakes, then seek a Mine,  
Who breathe nought else but an opinion Nursed  
By Echoes than yourselves far more accursed.  
Degenerate Race! does vice find pleaders then,  
England breed those will vindicate a sin?  
Is piety? Is all Religion fled,  
Swearing and Drunkenness come in their stead?  
And can there Advocates for them too be?  
Sad world! but pray Sir who gave you your fee?  
We know you use to take it, and perhaps,  
Promise the Cure, but breed an After-lapse;  
IT has been the Empirics Trade: but how you veil  
Your plot? how cunningly you seem to rail  
Against Smectimnuus, that you might Excuse  
Two horrid Sins, God and your self abuse.  
An Easy Judgement might have led you Sir,  
To have understood the Ass without this stir;  
But now I find he has more wit than you,  
Indeed I've known Asses been Doctors too.  
Had not your Violent love too ill restrained  
Your Sense: You might have found that he declaimed  
Not against Things but Vices: Church and State  
I know he honours, 'twas his zealous hate  
To wickedness, that gained him your ill will,  
Oh may he gain it, and increase it still.  
But Sir to clear that Judgement is so weak,  
It understands not what an Ass does speak.  
Pray let me tell you, and 'tis what I know  
The Church of England doth to such men own,  
Such men as writ that Ass: whose pious souls  
Although they can't digest your full brimmed bowls  
Nor Thunder out your Ranting Oaths, yet be  
As Faithful to the Church, the Liturgy,  
Honours the Bishops, and the Hierarchy,  
Pray they in truth, may th' Churches Fathers be▪  
And tell me Sir if you would count him rather,  
Of a loved child, the more Indulgent Father,  
Who gives his ill-inclining Son a free  
Swinge in Vice, till he kiss the Gallow-tree:  
Or he gives due Correction, who though less  
Loving he seems, yet leads to Happiness.  
But Mr. Doctor, since y'ave showed your wit,  
And cause y'are come in print think y'ave hit  
On a fine cunning pretty nibbling strain.  
Pray give me leave to tell you some things plain:  
First, y'are an Ass; but that I think you know,  
And therefore let the World know so much too,  
Else thus much Ignorance you had ne'er betrayed,  
Nor publicly your Folly had displayed.  
there's something worse behind which I should tell,  
But may conceal it since 'tis seen so well,  
Yet it shall out, for I'll ne'er be a slave  
To my own thoughts, I think too y'are a Knave:  
Or else you do belly yourself, for he  
That pleads for Vice smells rank of Knavery.  
But Sir, in some part we may you excuse,  
For whilst men bestially themselves abuse  
By Gorging, till they belch it up again,  
Th'advance your trade, and thus you plead for gain.  
In sum, Sir, know, the time will one day come,  
The Ass may freely speak when Balaam's dumb.  
Such Balaams as yourself, by wealth made bold,  
Who strangely hording up your heaps of gold,  
Grow proud, imperious, scurrilous, and then  
Count poverty a crime in virtuous men.  
God save King Charles, & keep him from their Claws,  
Who pray for him, yet plead against his Laws.  John Dauncey.  

OBSERVATION.  
THis Dauncey would have us to believe that he is a brother as holy, and as pious as any of the rest: but, Reader, before you pass your verdict, I would entreat you to take this short character which I hear of him along with you, and then censure what he writes accordingly. First, he is a man of so giddy hairbrained a nature, and so shallow of apprehension, that without fear or wit, he runs headlong, and takes hold of the Ass' Author's sleeve, and there he will pin his faith; so much does he understand what Religion is. His learning, wit, and manners agree very well in consort, they are all so small. He is a ballad Poet, having for his pay ten groats a ballad, and a pot of Ale: a fellow of no reckoning. To conclude, he is the Common Sponge to the Society of Stationers, who seed him with a bit and a knock; yet is he better fed then taught, for he would make you believe that his impudence is pure piety and holiness.   

A DOSE FOR CHAM BERLAIN, AND A PILL FOR THE DOCTOR, Being an Answer to two Scurrilous Pamphlets, written against the Author of The Ass' Complaint, etc.  
WHat ails this bawling puppy thus to prate?  
I think the Genius of Billingsgate  
Hath lately crept into his soul; Alas!  
That City Dogs should bait the Country Ass?  
And doth the beast stand silent whilst this Proctor  
For Baal and Balaam, with the busy Doctor  
Jerk his dull sides; and not so much as Kick  
The Sexton, nor the Pisspot Empiric?  
'Tis strange he speaks not, Is his back so strong  
To bear abuses, that he holds his tongue?  
Come, I'll bee's Orator, for in some cases  
The Lawyers use to plead for none but Asses.  
Now what says Chamberlain, that pamphlet-monger,  
What dost thou tell the silly Ass of Hunger?  
Should he (like thee turn parish Clerk, and cousin  
Poor souls, and sell his prayer's six pence a dozen,  
Dine upon Midwife's fees, and grease his chaps  
With Gossip's charity and Female scraps,  
Then would his paunch like thine, be quickly fraught,  
And men would say, he's better fed then taught.)  
Thou Priest in Gingerbread, should he but plead  
For Drunken sots that cannot preach but read,  
Such as thyself, O then the foul-mouthed whelp  
Would fawn upon the Ass, and cease to yelp.  
Then peace thou Journyman o'th' Reading pew,  
Tell us not of a giddy-headed crew  
Of sick-brained Sectaris, for all men know  
'Twas such as Chamberlain that made them so;  
Dumb dogs drive out their parishes, to Roam;  
He needs must beg that hath no bread at home,  
But stay, I know what Sir John doth intent;  
He'd have the Bishops take him for their friend;  
Devils pretences, always were divine;  
A Knave may have an Angel for his sign;  
But Reader, take it on a Christians word,  
When such men kiss, they'll soon bewray their Lord;  
But stay, what means the Doctor? has he left  
His Legal murder and his Venial theft,  
His plotting with his Druggest and the Nurse,  
Not for to purge the body, but the purse.  
And turned a Satirist? I'd thought the man  
Had been confined unto a Close-stool pan,  
But 'tis a mad world when Hell breaks lose, and he  
That is a Quack, talks of Divinity;  
Than leave your scribbling sirrah, send your verses  
Into your patients to wipe their A—  
The Ass' Author scorns to stroke your beard,  
he'll foul his hands that meddles with a T—  
Heaven keep this City from Quacksalving knaves  
That send sound men to their untimely graves.  
Here did I think to make an end, but hark,  
〈◊〉 have one word more to the Parish Clark;  
Let preachers say God save King Charles, and then,  
▪ 'twill be your Cue Sir Clark to say, Amen.  William Cook▪  

OBSERVATION.  
ACcording to this Gentleman's own confession, we must believe him to b● a Lawyer, (alias Lawyers Clerk) who having of late too frequently used that most renowned part of the Gity, called Ram Ally▪ and there consumed the greatest part of the ●ees he gained last Term; betakes himself this long Vacation to write Pamplets▪ thinking thereby to recruit the vacancy o● money which his pockets have long endured by reason of his extravagancy. And being now in a mad mood, he resolves with might and main, and with as much impudence a● ever his Namesake at Westminster-Hall had, to scandalise honester men than himsel▪ and with open mouth vilifies those men, wh● do scorn that such polluted lips should hav● the honour to kiss their posteriors.   

Doctor Cooper at WORK UPON DAUNCEYS BONES, AND Cook licking his FINGERS AFTER HIS DOSES AND PILL.  
O For the Doctor's lines, or Cleveland's, Dauncey  
To truss thee in, how bravely would I haunse thee,  
Then like a Jack o' Lent the first of March,  
In Cuerpo thou shouldst hang under some Arch,  
There to be played on by the wind, and noise  
Of Fishwives, Orange-wenches, and the Boys.  
Was't not enough the brethren felt his whip  
So smart and keen, but he must make thee skip  
Thou Jackanapes? thinkest thou, thou piteous elf,  
To draw his auger on thy single self,  
And rescue so a number? foul-mouth no,  
You are beneath him, he's more worth than so.  
Lord, what a holy thing is want of clothes,  
How it keeps Balladers from drink and oaths!  
When there's no more to pawn, an oath were vain,  
Your words will go as far in Chart'r'ouse lane.  
Thou seem'st boy to have taken his advice  
And gone to school again, and thou art wise  
In doing so, thou may'st be of his stables,  
thou'rt at the Dunghill now in Aesop's Fables.  
Your mine's Hell deep, we give a guess what's in't,  
Poets weare sure send nothing to the mint.  
weare pleased to see you wince, y'ave a galled hide,  
Your own breath stinks when 'tis to you applied.  
If your own words resounded be accursed,  
Your meaning was not wholesome at the first.  
Mark how this saucy Rascal begins his prate,  
As though the Doctor were an advocate  
Of foul debauchery: when in no man's hearing  
He ever spoke of drunkenness or swearing;  
Nor thinks there can be such a ●in in fashion  
I'th' Clergy, 'tis hatched in your Imagination:  
There 'tis ye slanderous villains that ye frame  
An odious abuse, and then declaim.  
So I have seen a Coward draw his sword  
Against a Post, and every blow a word;  
Now if thou were't a man, I'd have thee there,  
And then again he cries I'd have thee there.  
Bring forth your swearers, and your drunkards too,  
Or on my word this Knight o'th' post are you.  
I a've a Physician that without perhaps  
Shall cure your mouth secure of after claps.  
Down o' your knees, thank God, and thank me too,  
'Tis well, 'tis well, now Gallows claim thy due;  
And when the Surgeon's chest has brought you sir  
Back from that tree, into their Theatre,  
The Doctor for a Lecture shall not stick,  
To send your bones unto the Devil to pick.  
You might have seen, had you been so inclined,  
(But as the saying is, hasty Curs are blind)  
The Doctor knew your Asse's meaning sir,  
And needs not you for an Interpreter.  
We like no coxeing friend, nor ever will,  
Joa● and Judas both did kiss and kill.  
Had Griffin brayed against a man or two,  
Or on a County where such things they do,  
His Libel might have gone untaxed: but now  
To write at random thus, and to allow  
A roving Kite with full spread wings to fly  
Over the Nation, carrying infamy  
Thus undetermined; Dauncey 'tis too much,  
Ill minds conclude the Clergy all are such.  
This mischief he has done, and as we mention,  
We had but's own word for his good intention.  
This has your pious soul done, that can't drink  
You say, but shall I tell you what I think?  
What I have heard? Dauncey I will take leave,  
For all your affidavit, t'undeceive  
My silly Countrymen, who live in doubt  
Some Minister of worth set this Cry out;  
Whose spirit bleeds within him for the sin  
That yet the people, and the Clergies in.  
But come cheer up my hearts, 'tis no such matter  
This fellow in Divinity does but smatter,  
Hangs on the Press, and as his learning's small,  
His pays ten groats a ballad, and some Ale:  
Which not one Stationer alone does pay for  
But all the Crowd, which he goes first to stay for;  
The Common sponge, a fellow of no reckoning,  
Shall follow you to an Alehouse but for beck'ning.  
And be brought out again perhaps. But How!  
What do I see, Dauncey, the grizly brow  
Of Goblin Truth, Fathers in Truth, the thing  
Undid the Church, and cut the throat o'th' King?  
Choke us no more you R— with your minced meat,  
Fathers, feeds at discretion, we will eat,  
I and give thanks too for your institution,  
And call you fathers without diminution,  
Conservers of God's Oracles, bring these fellows  
Truth to confess, where they should do't to th' Gallows.  
And mark it Dauncey, see how thou art catched,  
As if thine own lie to betray thou'dst watched;  
When with comparison thou wouldst up-cry  
The faith of Griffin, As hath no reply.  
But Mr. Dauncey, now y'ave showed your lack  
Of wit and art, let me again go back,  
And view the subject of your declamation  
Not against things, but vices O this Nation.  
Are vices nothing? and's all this ado  
Made about nothing, by you Puppies two.  
Now you begin to belch up your disgrace,  
And spit foul Language in the Doctor's face;  
What are you proud of, that you thus be- Ass us,  
And knave us bluntly, is't Land in Parnassus?  
Who would not swear you're drunk? it is no ruth  
To conscience for a man to swear the Truth.  
Wouldst thou know what thou art? thou canst not miss,  
In the first Chapter of the Alchemist,  
Where Subtle, Doll, and Face do seem to me  
Railing, to conjure for a name for thee.  
There read thyself, theyare thine all, and if't be  
Thy chance to scape a sadder destiny,  
When with the Stationers thou hast sucked so long  
Scot-free of Ale, as t'other has, whose tongue  
Thou now defendest, mayst thou by good prayers  
Rise by degrees, from Linkboy, to the Players;  
To be their book-keeper, and then grown bold,  
Upon thy parts, when thou art blind and old,  
Presume to write a play in thy last age,  
And have it basely hissed off o' the stage,  
For which thy heart must break, if it break not  
This minute, for thus having played the Sot.  
We are ingenuous, and do not deride.  
Your poverty, you Knaves, no, but your pride;  
And cannot choose but laugh, to see the Saints  
Have drunken Atheists to defend their plaints.  
So exit Dauncey.— Now comes Cook in fury,  
Lick-spit o'th' Law: speak sirrah to the Jury,  
There you may find a dozen of the name  
You give the Doctor, (Caterpillar of fame:)  
Beat me this Buckram Rogue, Falstaff, to seven,  
Nay if thou wilt, beat him into eleven,  
And if they have no better manners then,  
Send them to me, I'll beat them all again.  
Knaves that do nought but quirk upon his Calling,  
And quit their cause; 'tis time the Ass left bawling.  Martial. Ep. I Dic tandem aliquid de tribus Capellis  

POSTSCRIPT.  
I Thought I'd finished William now, but hark  
I'ave commendations to thee from the Clerk▪  
Fogg in Rye dough, thou image of a Lawyer,  
Fit to make a Carman, or a Sawyer,  
Much more than ordinary appears in you,  
Plead you for Asses, and are Asses too?  
Must Readers preach; has the Church no degree;  
Nor order? Scribes go take the Lawyer's fees.  
Hell's where confusion is, and rotten speech,  
The Lawyer took's own pill, and spoke at's breech.  
The journey-pew supplies his need, as 'tis,  
Pray get your Ass a pulpit to serve his.  
He will not be the first Ass that e'er spoke  
Out of one, and got by't a suit and cloak.  
I wish thy libel might have pleased where't came,  
And that thou'dst had a more auspicious name,  
At Westminster Hall Gate, he'll see that looks,  
What's to be thought of disaffected Cooks.  
God bless King Charles, so that he ne'er again  
Be troubled with such Rogues, speak Clark, Amen  
Now stroke the Doctor's beard, ye Libel flingers  
And if ye foul your hands, Cook lick your fingers.  By Nat. Wildoe.  

OBSERVATION.  
THE Doctor fearing that his Name would not be far enough spread by his former paper; and being altogether unwilling to lay down the bucklers, and acquiesce under the calumnies cast upon him by Dauncey and Cook, enters again, though not himself, yet by proxy; and endeavours to clear himself by characterizing them; and although he seem to do it never so well, yet let him know, that he was not possessed of over much wisdom when he beat the Ass for bawling; for if he had had but patience, in short time he might have seen the Ass' Author recant, and Cudgel himself for his Foolery.  
FINIS.