The GENEVA BALLAD.  
To the Tune of 48.  

OF all the Factions in the Town,  
Moved by French Springs or Flemish Wheels,  
None treads Religion upside down,  
Or tears Pretences out at heels,  
Like Splay-mouth with his brace of Caps  
Whose Conscience might be scanned perhaps  
By the Dimensions of his Chaps.   

He whom the Sisters so adore,  
Counting his Actions all Divine,  
Who when the Spirit hints, can roar,  
And if occasion serves can whine;  
Nay he can bellow, bray or bark.  
Was ever sike a Beuk-larned Clerk,  
That speaks all Lingua's of the Ark.   

To draw in Proselytes like Bees,  
With pleasing Twang he tones his Prose,  
He gives his Handkerchief a squeeze,  
And draws John Calvin through his Nose.  
Motive on Motive he obtrudes,  
With Slip-stocking Similitudes,  
Eight Uses more, and so concludes.   

When Monarchy began to bleed,  
And Treason had a fine new name;  
When Thames was balderdashed with Tweed,  
And Pulpits did like Beacon's flame;  
When Jeroboam's Calves were reared,  
And Laud was neither loved nor feared,  
This Gospel-Comet first appeared.   

Soon his unhallowed Fingers stripped  
His sovereign Liege of Power and Land,  
And having smote his Master, slipped  
His Sword into his Fellows hand.  
But he that wears his Eyes may note,  
Ofttimes the Butcher binds a Goat,  
And leaves his Boy to cut her Throat.   

Poor England felt his Fury then  
Outweighed Queen Mary's many grains;  
His very Preaching slew more men,  
Than Bonner's Faggots, Stakes and Chains.  
With Dog-star Zeal and Lungs like Boreas,  
He fought and taught; and what's notorious,  
Destroyed his Lord to make him Glorious.   

Yet drew for King and Parliament.  
As if the Wind could stand North-South;  
Broke Moses's Law with blessed intent,  
Murdered and then he wiped his mouth.  
Oblivion altars not his case,  
Nor Clemency nor Acts of Grace  
Can blanche an Aethiopian's Face.   

Ripe for Rebellion he begins  
To rally up the Saints in swarms,  
He bauls aloud, Sirs, leave your Sins,  
But whispers, Boys, stand to your Arms,  
Thus he's grown insolently rude,  
Thinking his Gods can't be subdued,  
Money, I mean, and Multitude.   

Magistrates he regards no more  
Than St. George or the Kings of Colen;  
Vowing he'll not conform before  
The Old-wives wind their Dead in Woollen.  
He calls the Bishop, Greybeard Goff,  
And makes his Power as mere a Scoff,  
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 domestic Broils at home.  
How quietly Great CHARLES might reign,  
Would all these Hot-spurs cross the Main,  
And preach down Popery in Spain.   

The starry Rule of Heaven is fixed,  
There's no Dissension in the Sky:  
And can there be a Mean betwixt  
Confusion and Conformity?  
A Place divided never thrives:  
'Tis bad where Hornets dwell in Hives,  
But worse where Children play with Knives.   

I would as soon turn back to Mass,  
Or change my Phrase to Thee and Thou;  
Let the Pope ride me like an Ass,  
And his Priest's milk me like a Cow:  
As buckle to Smectymnuan Laws,  
The bad effects o'th' Good Old Cause,  
That have Dove's Plumes, but Vultur's Claws.   

For 'twas the Haly Kirk that nursed  
The Brownists and the Ranters Crew;  
Foul Errors motley Vesture first  
Was Oaded in a Northern Blue.  
And what's th' Enthusiastic breed,  
Or men of Knipperdoling's Creed,  
But Cov'nanters run up to seed?   

Yet they all cry, they love the King,  
And make boast of their Innocence:  
There cannot be so vile a thing,  
But may be coloured with Pretence.  
Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear,  
No Subject like th' old Cavalier,  
No Traitor like Jack—.    

LONDON: Printed for Henry Brome, at the Gun at the West-end of St. Paul's Churchyard. MDCLXXIV.