THE CHARACTER OF A london-diurnal: with several select POEMS:  
By the same Author.  
Optima & novissima Editio.  
Printed in the year MDCXLVII.   

THE CHARACTER OF A london-diurnal.  
A diurnal is a puny Chronicle, scarce pin-feathered with the wings of time: It is an history in Sippets; the English Iliads in a nutshell; the apocryphal Parliaments book of Macca bees in single sheets. It would tire a Welch-pedigree, to reckon how many aps 'tis removed from an annual: For it is of that Extract; only of the younger Ho●se, like a Shrimp to a Lobster The original sinner in this kind was Dutch; Galliobelgicus the Protoplast; and the modern Mercuries but Hans-en-Kelders. The Countess of Zealand was brought to bed of an almanac; as many Children, as days in the year. It may be the Legislative Lady is of that lineage; so she spawns the diurnals, and they at Westminster, take them in Adoption, by the names of Scoticus, Civicus, Britanicus. In the frontispiece of the old beldame-diurnal, like the Contents of the Chapter, sits the House of Commons judging the twelve Tribes of Israel, You may call them the kingdom's Anatomy before the weekly calendar: For such is a diurnal, the day of the month, with what weather in the commonwealth. 'Tis taken for the Pulse of the Body-politic; and the Emperick-Divines of the Assembly, those spiritual Dragooners, thumb it accordingly. Indeed it is a pretty Synopsis; and those grave rabbis (though in point of Divinity) trade in no larger Authors. The country-carrier, when he buys it for their Vicar, miscalls it the urinal: yet properly enough; For it casts the water of the State, ever since it staled blood. It differs from an Aulicus, as the devil and his Exorcist; or as a black Witch doth from a white one, whose office is to unravel her enchantments.  
It begins usually with an Ordinance, which is a Law stillborn, dropped, before quickened by the royal assent: 'Tis one of the Parliaments liaments by-blows, (Acts only being legitimate) and hath no more sire, than a Spanish jennet, that's begotten by the wind.  
Thus their Militia (like its Patron, Mars) is the issue only of the mother, without the concourse of royal Jupiter.  
Yet Law it is, if they vote it, though in defiance of their fundamentals; like the old Sexton, who swore his Clock went true, what ever the Sun said to the contrary.  
The next Ingredient of a diurnal is plots, horrible plots; which with wonderful Sagacity it hunts dryfoot, while they are yet in their Causes, before Materia prima can put on her smock. How many such fits of the Mother have troubled the kingdom, and (for all Sir Walter Earl looks like a Man-Midwife) not yet delivered of so much as a Cushion? But Actors must have their Properties; And, since the Stages were voted down, the only playhouse is at Westminster.  
Suitable to their plots are their Informers; Skippers and tailors; spaniels both for the Land and the water: Good conscionable Intelligence! For, however Pym's Bill may inflame the reckoning, the honest Vermyn have not so much for lying, as the public Faith.  
Thus a zealous butcher in morefield's, while he was contriving some Quirpo-cut of Church-Government, by the help of his out-lying ears, and the Otacousticon of the Spirit, discovered such a plot, that Selden intends to combat Antiquity, and maintain it was a tailor's Goose, that preserved the Capitol.  
I wonder my Lord of Canterbury is not once more all-to-betraytored for dealing with the Lions, to settle the Commission of Array in the Tower. It would do well to cramp the Articles Dormant, besides the opportunity of reforming those Beasts of the Prerogative, and changing their profaner names of Harry and Charles, into Nehemiah and Eleaz●r.  
Suppose a corn-cutter, being to give little Isa●c a cast of his Office, should fall to paring his brows, mistaking the one end for the other; because he branches at both. This would be a plot; and the next diurnal would furnish you with this Scale of Votes.  
Resolved upon the Question, that this Act of the Corncutters was an absolute Invasion of the city's Charter, in the representative Forehead of Isaac. Resolved, that the evil counsellors about the Corncutter are Popishly affected, and Enemies to the State. Resolved, that there be a public Thanksgiving for the great deliverance of Isaac's Brow-antlers; and a solemn Covenant drawn up, to defy the Corn-cutter, and all his works.  
Thus the Quixotes of this Age fight with the Windmills of their own heads; quell Monsters of their own creation, make plots, and then discover them; as who fitter to unkennel the Fox, than the Tarryer, that is a part of him.  
In the third place march their Adventures; the Roundheads Legend, the rebel's Romance; Stories of a larger size, than the ears of their Sect; able to strangle the belief of a Soli-fidian.  
I'll present them in their order; and first, as a Whiffeler before the show, enter Stamford, one that trod the Stage with the first, traversed his ground, made a leg and Exit. The countrypeople took him for one, that by Order of the Houses was to dance a morris through the West of England. Well, he's a nimble Gentleman, set him but upon banks his Horse in a Saddle Rampant, and it is a great question, which part of the centaur shows better tricks.  
There was a Vote passing to t●●nslate him, with all his Equipage into monumental-gingerbread; 〈◊〉 it was crossed by the Female-Committee, alleging that the v●●our of his Image would bite their Children by the Tongues.  
This Cubit and an half of Commander, by the help of a diurnal, routed his enemies fifty miles off: 'tis strange you'll say, and yet it is generally believed, he would as soon do it at that distance, as nearer hand. Sure it was his Sword, for which the weap●n-salve was invented: that so wounding and healing, like loving Correlates, might both work at the same removes.  
But the squib is run to the end of the Rope. Rome, for the Prodigy of Valour, Madam Atropos in breeches; Waller's Knight-errantry: and, because every mountebank must have his Z●ny, throw him in Haslerigge, to set off his story: these two like Bell and the Dragon, are always worshipped in the same Chapter: they hunt in their Couples, what one doth at the head, the other scores up at the heel.  
Thus they kill a man over and over, as Hopkins and St●rnhold murder the psalms, with another to the same; one chimes all in, and then the other strikes up, as the Saints-Bell.  
I wonder, for how many lives my Lord Hopton's soul took the ●ease of his Body.  
First, St●mford slew him: then Waller out-killed that half a ●●rre: and yet it is thought the sullen corpse would scarce bleed, were both these Man-slayers never so near it.  
The fame goes of a Dutch headsman, that he would do his office with so much ease and dexterity, that the Head after execution should stand still upon the shoulders: pray God Sir William be not Probationer for the place. For, as if he had the like knack too, most of those, whom the diurnal hath slain for him, to us poor Mortals seem untouched.  
Thus these Artificers of Death can kill the man, without wounding the body, like Lightning, that melts the Sword, and never sings the Scabbard.  
This is the William, whose Lady is the conqueror; This is the city's Champion, and the diurnals Delight; he, that Cuckolds the general in his Commission: for, he stalks with Essex, and shoots under his belly, because his Oxcellency himself is not charged there. Yet in all this triumph there is a whip and a bell; translate but the Scene to Round-way-down: Th●re Haslerig's Lobsters were turned into Crabs, and crawled backwards; there poor Sir William ran to his Lady for a use of consolation.  
But the diurnal is weary of the Arm of flesh, and now begins an Hosanna to Cromwell, one that hath beat up his Drums clean through the Old Testament: you may learn the genealogy of our Savio●r, by the names in his Regiment: The Muster-master uses no other List, than the first Chapter of Matthew.  
With what face can they object to the King the bringing in of foreigners, when themselves entertain such an Army of Hebrews? This Cromwell is never so valorous, as when he is making Speeches for the Association, which nevertheless he doth somewhat ominously, with his neck awry, holding up his ear, as if he expected Mahomet's pigeon to come, and prompt him: He should be a Bird of prey too, ●y his bloody b●ake: his nose is able to try a young Eagle, wh●ther she be lawfully begotten. But all is not Gold that glisters: What we wonder at in the rest of them, is natural to him, to kill without bloodshed: For, most of his trophies are in ● Church-Window; when a lookingglass would show him more Superstition: He is so perfect a hater of Images, that he hath defaced Gods in his own Countenance. If he deal with Men, it is when he takes them napping in an old Monument: Then down goes dust and ashes: and the stoutest Cavalier is no better. Obrave Oliver! time's voider, Sub-sizer to the worms; in whom Death, that formerly devoured our Ancestors, now chewes the Cud: He said Grace once, as if he would have fallen aboard with the marquess of Newcastle: Nay, and the diurnal gave you his Bill of Fare; But it proved but a running Banquet, as appears by the Story. Believe him as he whistles to his Cambridge team of Committee-men, and he doth Wonders. But Holy men (like the Holy language) must be read backwards. They ri●le colleges, to promote Learning; and pull down Churches for Edification. But sacrilege is entailed upon him: There must be a Cromwell for cathedrals, as well as abbeys: A secure sinner, whose offence carries its pardon in its mouth: For, how can he be hanged for Church-robbery, which gives itself the benefit of the clergy?  
But for all Cromwell's Nose wears the dominical Letter, yet compared with Manchester, he is but like the vigils to an holiday. This, this, is the man of God; so sanctified a thunderbolt, that Burrowes in a proportionable blasphemy to his Lords of Hosts, would style him the archangel, giving battle to the devil.  
Indeed, as the angels, each of them makes a several Species; so every one of his soldiers is a distinct Church. Had these Beasts been to enter the ark, it would have pazled Noah to have sorted them into pairs. If ever there were a rope of Sand, it was so many Sects twisted into an Association.  
They agree in nothing, but that they are all Adamites in Understanding: It is the sign of a Coward, to wink, and fight; yet all their Valour proceeds from their Ignorance.  
But I wonder whence their general's purity proceeds; it is not by Traduction: if he was begotten Saint, it was by equivocal Generation: for the devil in the Father, is turned Monk in the Son; so his godliness is of the same Parentage with good laws; both extracted out of bad Manners; and would he alter the Scriptute, as he hath attempted the Creed, he might vary the Text, and say to Corruption, Thou art my Father.  
This is he, that hath put out one of the Kingdoms eyes, by clouding our Mother-University, and (if the Scotch mist further prevail) will extinguish this other: He hath the like quarrel to both; because both are strung with the same optic Nerve, knowing Loyalty. Barbarous rebel! who will be revenged upon all Learning, because his Treason is beyond the Mercy of the Book.  
The diurnal as yet hath not talked much of his Victories: but there is the more behind: For the Knight must always beat the giant; That's resolved. If any thing fall out amiss, which cannot be smothered, the diurnal hath a help at Maw; It is but putting to Sea, and taking a Danish Fleet; or brewing it with some success out of Ireland, and it goes down merrily.  
There are more Puppets, that move by the wire of a diurnal; as Brereton and Gell; two of Mars his Petty-toes, such snivelling Cowards, that it is a favour to call them so; was Brereton to fight with his teeth, as in all other things he resembles the beast, he would have odds of any man at the weapon; O he's a terrible slaughterman at a thanksgiving Dinner, had he been a cannibal to have eaten those that he vanquished, his gut would have made him valiant.  
The greatest wonder is at Fairfax, how he comes to be a Babe of Grace? Certainly it is not in his personal, but (as the State Sophies distinguish) in his Polotique Capacity; regenerated ab extra, by the zeal of the House he sat in, as Chickens are hatched at Grand Cairo, by the adoption of an Oven.  
There is the woodmonger too, a feeble crutch to a declining cause, a new Branch of the old oak of Reformation.  
And now I speak of Reformation, vous avez Fox, the Tinker; the liveliest emblem of it that may be; For what did this Parliament ever go about to reform, but Tinker-wise, in mending one hole they made three.  
But I have not ink enough to cure all the Tetters and ringworms of the State.  
I will close up all thus. The Victories of the Rebels are like the magical combat of Apuleius; who, thinking he had slain three of his Enemies, found them at last, but a Triumvirate of Bladders. Such, and so empty, are the Triumphs of a diurnal: but so many impostumated Fancies, so many Bladders of their own blowing.  
FINIS.   

POEMS.  

Square-Cap.  

COme hither Apollo's bouncing girl,  
And in a whole Hippocrene of Sherry  
Let's drink a round till our brains do whirl,  
Tuning our pipes to make ourselves merry:  
A cambridge-lass, Venus-like, borne of the froth  
Of an old half-filled Jug of Barley broth,  
She, she is my Mistress, her suitors are many,  
But she'll have a Square-cap if ere she have any.   

And first for the Plush-sake the Monmouth-cap comes,  
Shaking his head like an empty bottle;  
With his new-fangled Oath, By Jupiter's thumbs,  
That to herhealth he'll begin a pottle:  
He tells her that after the death of his Grannam,  
He shall have— God knows what per annum:  
But still she replies, good Sir La-bee,  
If ever I have a man, Square-cap for me.   

Then Calot-Leather-cap strongly pleads,  
And fain would derive the pedigree of fashion:  
The Antipodes wear their shoes on their heads,  
And why may not we in their imitation?  
Oh, how this football noddle would please,  
If it were but well tossed on S. Thom●● his Lees.  
But still she replied, &c.   

Next comes the Puritan in a wrought-Cap,  
with a long-wasted conscience towards a Sister,  
And making a chapel of Ease of her lap,  
First he ●aid grace, and then he kissed her.  
Beloved, quoth he, thou art my Text,  
Then falls he to Use and Application next:  
But than she replied, your Text (Sir) I'll be,  
For then I'm sure you'll ne'er handle me.   

But see where satin-cap scouts about,  
And fain would this wench in his fellowship marry,  
He told her how such a man was not put out,  
Because his wedding he closely did carry.  
he'll purchase Induction by simony,  
And offers her money her Incumbent to be.  
But still she replied, god Sir La-bee,  
If ever I have a man Square-cap for me.   

The Law●er's a Sophister by his round cap,  
Nor in their fallacies are they divided;  
The one milks the pocket, the other the tap,  
And yet this wench he fain would have bribed.  
Come leave these threadbare scholars, quoth he,  
And give me livery and season of thee:  
But peace John-a-nokes, and leave your Oration,  
For I never will be your Impropriation.  
I pray you therefore good Sir La-bee;  
For if ever I have a man Square-cap for me.    

Mark Anthony.  

WHen as the nightingale chanted her Vespers,  
And the wild forester couched on the ground,  
Venus invited me in th'Evening whispers,  
Unto a fragrant field with Roses crowned:  
Where she before had sent  
My wishes compliment,  
Unto my hearts content,  
Played with me on the Green.  
Never Mark Anthony  
Dallied more wantonly  
With the fair Egyptian.   

First on her cherry cheeks I mine eyes feasted,  
Then fear of surfeiting made me retire:  
Next on her warm lips, which when I tasted,  
My duller spirits made active as fire.  
Then we began to dart  
Each at another's heart,  
Arrows that knew no smart:  
Sweet lips and smiles between.  
Never mark, &c.   

Wanting a glass to plate her amber tresses,  
Which like a bracelet rich decked mine arm;  
Gawdier than Juno wears, when as she graces  
Jove with embraces more stately than warm,  
Then did she peep in mine  
Eyes humour crystalline;  
I in her eyes was seen,  
As if we one had been.  
Never mark, &c.   

Mystical grammar of amorous glances,  
Feeling of pulses the physic of Love,  
Rhetorical cour●ings, and musical Dances;  
Numbering of kisses arithmetic prove.  
Eyes like Astronomy,  
Straight limbed Geometry:  
In her heart's ingeny  
Our wits are sharp and keen.  
Never Mark, &c.    

The authors Mock-Song to Mark Anthony.  

When as the Night-raven sung Pluto's matins,  
And Cerberus cried three Amens at a howl,  
When night wandering Witches put on their pattens,  
Midnight as dark as their faces are foul:  
Then did the fury's doom  
That the nightmare was come;  
Such a misshapen Groom  
Puts down Su. Pomfret clean.  
Never did Incubus  
Touch such a filthy Sus,  
As this foul Gipsy quean.   

First on her goosberry cheeks I mine eyes blasted;  
Thence fear of vomiting made me retire  
Unto the bluer lips, which when I tasted,  
My spirits were duller than Dun in the mire.  
But then her breath took place,  
Which went an ushers pace,  
And made way for her face;  
You may guess what I mean.  
Never did, &c.   

Like snacks engendering, were plated her tresses,  
Or like the ●limy streaks of ropy ale;  
Uglier than Envy wears, when she confesses  
Her head is perewigged with adder's tail.  
But as soon as she spoke,  
I heard a harsh Mandrake:  
Laugh not at my mistake,  
Her head is Epicoene.  
Never did, &c.   

Mystical magic of conjuring wrinkles,  
Feeling of Pulses, the palmistry of hags,  
Scolding out belches for Rhe●orick twinkles;  
With three teeth in her head like to three gags,  
Rainbows about her eyes,  
And her nose weather-wise;  
From them th' almanac lies,  
Frost, Pond, and Rivers clean,  
Never did, &c.    

Upon an hermaphrodite.  
SIr, or madam, choose you whether,  
Nature twisted you both together:  
And makes thy soul two garbs confess,  
Both Petticoat and Breeches dress.  
Thus we chastise the God of Wine,  
With water that is Feminine,  
Until the cooler Nymph abate  
His wrath, and so concorporate.  
Adam till his rib was lost,  
Had both Sexes thus engrossed:  
When Providence our Sire did cleave,  
And out of Adam carved Eve,  
Then did man 'bout Wedlock treat,  
To make his body up complete:  
Thus Matrimony speaks but Thee  
In a grave solemnity.  
For man and wife make but one right  
Canonical hermaphrodite.  
ravel thy body and I find  
In every limb a double kind.  
Who would not think that head a pair,  
That breeds such faction in the haire●  
One half so churlish in the touch,  
That rather than endure so much,  
I would my tender limbs apparel  
In 〈◊〉 his nailed barrel:  
But the other half so small,  
And so amo●ous ●ithall,  
That Cupid thinks each hair doth grow  
A string for his invis'ble Bow.  
When I look babies in thine eyes,  
Here Venus, there Adonis lies.  
And though thy beauty be high noon,  
Thy orb contains both Sun and moon.  
How many melting kisses skip  
twixt thy Male and Female lip?  
twixt thy upper brush of hair  
And thy nether beards despair.  
When thou speak'st, I would not wrong  
Thy sweetness with a double tongue:  
But in every single sound  
A perfect Dialogue is found.  
Thy breasts distinguish one another;  
This the ●ister, that the brother.  
When thou joynest hands, my ear still fancies  
The Nup●iall sound, I John take Frances:  
Feel but the difference, soft, and rough;  
This a gauntlet, that a muff:  
Had sly Ulysses, at the sack  
Of Troy, brought thee his pedlar's pack,  
And weapons too to know Achilles  
From King 〈◊〉 Phillis,  
His plot had failed; this hand would feel  
The Needle, that the warlike steel.  
When music doth thy pace advance,  
Thy right leg takes thy left to dance.  
Nor is't a Galliard danced by one,  
But a mix● dance, though alone:  
Thus every he●eroclite part  
Changes gender, but thy heart.  
Nay those which modest can mean,  
And dare not speak, are Epicoene;  
That Gamester needs must overcome,  
That can play both Tib and Tom.  
Thus did nature's mintage vary,  
Coining thee a Philip and Mary.   

The author's Hermaphrodite, made after M. Randolph's death, yet inserted into his Poems.  
Problem of Sexes; must thou likewise be  
As disputable in thy Pedigree?  
Thou Twins-in-one, in whom Dame Nature tries  
To throw less than alms-ace upon two Dice:  
Were't thou served up two in one dish, the rather  
To split thy Sire into a double father?  
True, the world's scales are even: what the main  
In one place gets, another quits again.  
Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must  
Slice one in two, to keep her number just:  
Plurality of livings is thy state,  
And therefore mine must be impropriate.  
For, since the child is mine, and yet the claim  
Is intercepted by another's name,  
Never did steeple carry double truer,  
His is the Donative, and mine the Cure.  
Then say my Muse (and without more dispute)  
Who 'tis that fame doth superinstitute.  
The Theban wittol, when he once descries,  
Jove is his rival, falls to sacrifice:  
That name hath tipped his horns: see, on his knees,  
A health to Hans-en-Keldar Hercules.  
Nay sublunary Cuckolds are content  
To entertain their Fate with compliment:  
And shall not he be proud, whom Randolph daignes  
To quarter with his Muse both arms and brains?  
Gramercy Gossip; I rejoice to see  
Shee'th got a leap of such a Barbary.  
Talk not of horns, horns are the poet's Crest:  
For since the Muses left their former nest,  
To found a Nunnery in Randolph's quill,  
Cuckold Parnassus is a forked hill.  
But stay, I've waked his dust, his Marble stirs,  
And brings the worms for his Compurgators.  
Can Ghost have natural sons? say Ogg, is't meet,  
Penance bear date after the winding-sheet?  
Were it a Phoenix (as the double kind  
May seem to prove, being there's two combined)  
It would disclaim my right: and that it were  
The lawful Issue of his ashes, swear.  
But was he dead? did not his soul translate  
Herself into a shop of lesser rate?  
Or break up house, like an expensive Lord,  
That gives his purse a sob, and lives at board?  
Let old Pythagoras but play the Pimp,  
And still there's hopes 't may prove his bastard imp.  
But I'm profane; For grant the world had one,  
With whom he might contract an union,  
They two were one: yet like an Eagle spread,  
I'th' body joined, but parted in the head.  
For you my brat, that pose the porphyry chair,  
Pope John, or Joan, or whatsoever you are,  
You are a nephew; Grieve not at your state,  
For all the world is illegitimate.  
Man ca●not get a man, unless the Sun  
Club to the act of generation.  
The sun and man get man; thus Tom and I  
Are the joint fathers of thy Poetry.  
For since (b●est shade) this Verse is Male, but mine  
O ●h weaker 〈◊〉, a Fancy feminine:  
〈…〉 the child, and yet commit no slaughter,  
Sword● shall 〈◊〉 be thy Son, and yet my Daughter.   

Upon Phillis walking in a morning before sunrising.  
THe sluggish morn as yet undressed,  
My Phyllis broke from out her East;  
As if she'd made a match to run  
With Venus, Usher to the Sun.  
The trees, like Yeomen of her Guard,  
Serving more for pomp, than 〈◊〉,  
Ranked on each side with loyal duty,  
Weave branches to enclose her beau●y.  
The Plants, whose luxury was lopped,  
Or age with crutches underpropt;  
Whose wooden carcases are grown  
To be but coffi●s of their own;  
Revive, and at her general dole  
Each receives his ancient soul.  
The winged Choristers began  
To chi●p their matins: and the Fan  
Of whistling winds, like Organs, played,  
Until their Voluntaries made  
The wakened earth in odours rise,  
To be her morning-Sacrifice.  
The flowers, called out of their beds,  
Start, and raise up their drowsy heads:  
And he that for their colour seeks,  
May find it vaulting in her cheeks,  
Where Roses mix: no civil war  
Between her York and Lancaster.  
The Marigold, whose Courtiers face  
Echoes the Sun, and doth unlace  
Her at his rise, at his full stop  
Packs, and shuts up her gaudy shop;  
Mistakes here ●ue, and doth display.  
Thus Phyllis antidates the day.  
These miracles had cramped the Sun,  
Who thinking that his kingdom's won,  
Powders with light his frizzled locks,  
To see what Saint his lustre mocks.  
The trembling leaves through which he played,  
Dapling the walk with light and shade,  
Like lattice-windowes, give the spy  
Room but to peep with half an eye;  
lest her full Orb his sight should dim,  
And bids us all good-night in him,  
Till she would spend a gentle ray,  
To force us a new-fashioned day.  
But what religious Palsie's this  
Which makes the boughs divest their bliss?  
And that they might her footsteps straw,  
Drop their leaves with shivering awe.  
Phillis perceives, and (lest her stay  
Should wed October unto May;  
And as her beauty caused a Spring,  
Devotion might an autumn bring)  
Withdrew her 〈◊〉, yet made no night,  
But left the Sun her Curat● light.   

Upon a Miser that made a great feast, and the next day died for grief.  
NOr escape he so: our dinner was so good,  
My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the could:  
And what delight she took i'th' invitation,  
Strives to taste o'er again in this relation.  
After a tedious Grace in Hopkins r●●hme,  
Not for devotion, but to take up time,  
Marched the trained-band of dishes ushered there,  
To show their postures, and then As they were.  
For he invites no teeth, perchance the eye  
He will afford the lover's gluttony;  
This is a Feast, a muster, not a fight;  
Our weapons not for servie, but for fight.  
But are we tantalized? is all this meat  
Cooked by a Limner, for to view, not eat?  
Th' Astrologers keep such Houses when they sup  
On joints of ●aurus, or their heavenly Tup.  
Whatever feasts he made are su●'d up here,  
His table vies not standing with his cheer.  
His Churchings, christenings, in this meal are all,  
And not transcribed, but i'th' original.  
Christmas is no Feast movable: for lo  
The selfsame dinner was ten years ago:  
'T will be immortal if it longer stay,  
The Gods will eat it for Am●rosia.  
But stay awhile; unless my whinyard fail,  
Or it inc●●nted, I'll cut off th'intaile.  
Sa●nt George 〈◊〉 England then: have at the mutton,  
When the first cut calls me 〈…〉 gl●tto●:  
What d●ax with ●is anger quoddled 〈◊〉  
Killing a sheep thought 〈…〉 slain:  
The 〈…〉; wounding his roast,  
I 〈…〉 up mine host.  
Such 〈◊〉 is with 〈…〉  
Makes him an Eunuch, whe● it carves his 〈◊〉.  
Cut a Goose-leg, and the poor soul for moan  
Turns cripple too, a●d after stands on one.  
Have you not 〈…〉  
A Lan●aster Grand 〈◊〉 will report?  
The soldier with his Morg●y watched the Mill,  
The Cats they came to feast when lust●e Will  
Whips off great Pusses leg, 〈◊〉 by so●e charm  
Proves the next day such an old wom●ns arm:  
'Tis so with him, who cark●se never' ●capes,  
But still we slash him in a thousand sh●●es.  
Our serving-men like spaniels range●●o spring  
The fowl which he hath clockt 〈…〉 his wing.  
Should he on Widgeo●, or on Woodcock feed,  
It were (Thyestes-like) on his own breed.  
To pork he pleads a supersti●n d●e,  
But not a mouth is muzzled by the ●ew.  
Sauces we should have none had he his wish,  
The Oranges i'th' margin of the dish  
He with such hucksters tells them o'er and o'er,  
Th' Hesperian Dragon never watched them more.  
But being eaten now into despair,  
Having nought else to do, he falls to prayer:  
As thou didst once put on the form of Bull,  
And turn'st thy lo to a lovely Mull,  
Defend my rump great love; grant this poor beef  
May live to comfort me in all this grief.  
But no Amen was said: See, ●ee it comes,  
Draw boys, let Trumpets sound & strike up Drums.  
See how his blood doth with the gravy swim,  
And every trencher has a limb of him.  
The venisons now in view, our Hounds spend deeper,  
Strange Deer, which in the pastry hath a Keeper  
Stricter than in the Park, making his guest  
(As he had stolen't alive) to steal it dressed:  
The scent was hot; and we pursuing faster,  
Than Ovid's pack of dogs e'er chased their Master,  
A double prey at once may seize upon,  
Actaeon and his case of Venison:  
Thus was he torn alive. To vex him worse,  
Death serves him up now as a second course.  
Should we, like Thracians, our dead bodies eat,  
He would have lived only to save his meat.   

A young Man to an old Woman Courting him.  
PEace beldame Eve; surcease thy suit:  
There's no temptation in such fruit.  
No rotten meddlers, whilst there be  
Whole Orchards in virginity.  
Thy stock is too much out of date  
For tender plants t'inoculate.  
A match with thee thy bridegroom fears  
Would be thought interest in his years,  
Which when compared to thine, become  
Odd money to thy Grandam sum.  
Can wedlock know so great a curse  
As putting husbands out to Nurse?  
How Pond and Rivers would mistake,  
And cry new almanacs for our sake?  
Time sure hath wheeled about his year,  
December meeting laniveere.  
The Egyptian Serpent figures time,  
And stripped, returns unto his Prime:  
If my affection thou wouldst win,  
First cast thy hieroglyphic skin.  
My modern lips know not (alack)  
The old Religion of thy smack.  
I count that primitive embrace,  
As out of fashion as thy face,  
And yet so long 'tis since thy fall,  
Thy Fornication's classical.  
Our sports will differ: thou mayst play,  
Leer●, and I Alphonso way.  
I'm no Translator; have no vein  
To turn a woman young again:  
Unless you'll grant the Tailor's due,  
To see the forebodies be new:  
I love to wear clothes that are flush,  
Not prefacing old rags with plush:  
Like Aldermen, or Monster-Sheriffs,  
With Canvas Backs, and velvet Sleeves.  
And just such discord there would be  
Betwixt thy Skeleton and me.  
Go study Salve and Treacle, ply  
Your tenant's leg, or his sore eye;  
Thus Matrons purchase credit, thank  
Six pennyworth of Mountebank.  
Or chew thy could on some delight  
Thou takest in thy Eighty Eight.  
Or be but bedrid once, and then  
Thou'lt dream thy youthful sins again.  
But if thou needs wilt be my Spouse,  
First harken, and attend my vows.  
" When Aet●na's fires shall undergo  
" The penance of the Alps in snow,  
" When Sol at one blast of his horn  
" Posts from the C●ab to Capricorn,  
" When th' Heavens shuffle all in one,  
" The Torrid with the Frozen zone;  
" When all these contradictions meet,  
" than (sibyl) thou and I will greet.  
" For all these similes do hold  
" n my young heat and thy dull cold;  
" Then if a fever be so good  
" A Pimp, as to inflame thy blood,  
Hymen shall twist thee, and thy Page,  
The distinct Tropics of man age.  
Well (Madam Time) be ever bald,  
I'll not thy periwig be called.  
I'll never be, 'stead of a Lover,  
An aged ●hronicles new cover.   

To Mrs. K. T. who asked him why he was dumb.  

STay, should I answer (Lady) then  
In vain would be your question.  
Should I be dumb, why then again  
Your asking me would be in vain.  
Silence nor speech (on neither hand)  
Can satisfy this strange demand.  
Yet since your will throws me upon  
This wished contradiction,  
I'll tell you how I did become  
So strangely (as you hear me) dumb.  
Ask but the chap-fallen Puritan,  
'Tis zeal that tongue-ties that good man:  
For heat of conscience, all men hold,  
Is th'only way to catch that cold.  
How should loves zealot then forbear  
To be your silenced Minister?  
Nay your religion which doth grant  
A worship due to you my Saint,  
Yet counts it that devotion wrong  
That does it in the vulgar tongue.  
My ruder words would give offence  
To such an hallowed excellence;  
As th'English Dialect would vary  
The goodness of an Ave Mary.  
How can I speak, that twice am checked  
By this and that religious Sect?  
Still dumb, and in your face I spy  
Still cause, and still divinity.  
As soon as blessed wit● your salute,  
My manners taught me to be mute:  
For, lest they cancel all the bliss  
You signed with so divine a kiss,  
The lips you seal must needs consent  
Unto the tongue's imprisonment.  
My tongue in hold, my voice doth rise  
(With a strange E●la) to my eyes;  
Where it gets bail, and in that sense  
Begins a new-found Eloquence.  
Oh listen with attentive sight  
To what my prattling eyes indite.  
Or (Lady) since 'tis in your choice,  
To give, or to suspend my voice,  
With the same key set ope the door  
Wherewith you locked it fast before;  
Kiss once again, and when you thus  
Have doubly been miraculous,  
My Muse shall write with handmaid's duty  
The Golden Legend of your Beauty.   

He whom his dumbness now confines,  
But means to speak the rest by signs.   I. C.  

A fair nymph scorning a black Boy Courting her.  Nymph. 
STand off, and let me take the air;  
Why should the smoke pursue the fair?  Boy. 
My face is smoke, thence may be guest  
What flames within have scorched my breast.  Nymph. 
The flame of love I cannot view,  
For the dark lantern of thy hue.  Boy. 
And yet this lantern keeps love's Taper  
Surer than yours, that's of white paper.  
Whatever Midnight hath been here,  
The moonshine of your light can clear.  Nymph. 
My Moon of an Eclipse is 'fraid,  
If thou shouldst interpose thy shade.  Boy. 
Yet one thing (Sweetheart) I will ask,  
Buy me for a new false Mask.  Nymph. 
Yes: but my bargain shall be this,  
I'll throw my Mask off when I kiss.  Boy. 
Our curled embraces shall delight  
To checquer limbs with black, and white.  Nymph. 
Thy ink, my paper, make me guess,  
Our nuptial bed will make a press;  
And in our sports, if any came,  
They'll read a wanton Epigram.  Boy. 
Why should my Black thy love impair?  
Let the dark shop commend thy ware:  
Or if thy love from black forbears,  
I'll strive to w●sh it off with tears.  Nymph. 
Spare fruitless tears, since thou must needs  
Still wear about thee mourning weeds:  
tears can no more affection win,  
Then wash thy Aethiopian skin.   

Upon the death of M. King drowned in the Irish Seas.  
I Like not tears in tune, nor will prize  
His ar●●ficiall grief that scanns his eyes:  
〈◊〉 weep down pious beads; but why should I  
Con●ine them to the muse's rosary?  
I am no Poet, here my pen's the spout  
Where the rainwater of my eyes runs out,  
In pity of that name, whose fate we see  
Thus copied out in griefs hydrography.  
The Muses are not Mermaids, though upon  
Thy death the Ocean might turn Helicon.  
The Sea's too rough for verse; who rhymes upon't,  
With X●●xes, str●ves to fetter th' Hellespont.  
My tears will keep no channels, know no laws  
To guide their streams, but like the waves, this cause  
Runs with disturbance, till they swallow me,  
As a description of his misery.  
But can his spacious virtues find a grave  
Within th' impostu●'d bubble of a wave,  
Whose learning if we sound, we must confess  
The Sea but shallow, and him bottomless?  
Could not the winds, to countermand thy death,  
W●● their whole Chard of lungs, redeem thy breath?  
Or some new Island in thy rescue peep,  
To heave thy resurrection from the deep?  
That so the world might see thy safety wrought  
With no less miracle than thyself: Most thought  
The famous Stagirite, which in his life  
Had Nature as familiar as his wife,  
Bequeathed his widow to survive with thee,  
Queen-dowager of all philosophy,  
An ominous legacy, that did portend  
Thy fat●, and predcessors second end.  
Some have affi●m'd that what on earth we find,  
The Sea can parallel for shape and kind.  
Books, A●ts, and 〈◊〉 were wanting, but in thee  
Neptune hath got an university.  
we'll dive no more for pearl, we hope to see  
Thy sacred relics of mortality.  
we'll welcome storms, and make the seaman prize  
His shipwreck now, more than his merchandise.  
He shall embrace the w●ves, and to ●y tomb,  
As to a royaller Exchange shall come.  
What can we now expect? Water and Fire,  
Both Elements of ruin, do conspire;  
And that resolves us which doth us compound,  
One Vatican was barnt, another dr●wn'd.  
We of the gown ou● L●braries must toss,  
To understand the great 〈◊〉 of our loss;  
Be pupils to our grief, and so much grow  
In learning, as our sorrow●s overfl●w  
When we have● filled t●e R●●d●ets of our eyes,  
we'll send it forth, and ven● such ●●egies:  
So that our tears shall 〈…〉,  
We floating Islands, living 〈◊〉.   

A Dialogue between two Zealots, upon the &c. in the Oath.  
SIr Roger, from a zealous piece of Freeze,  
Raised to a Vicar of the children's threes;  
Whose yearly Audit may, by strict account,  
To twenty Nobles, and his veils amount;  
Fed on the Common of the female charity,  
Until the Scots can bring about their parity;  
So shotten, that his soul, like to himself,  
Walks but in Querpo: This same clergy elf,  
encountering with a Brother of the Cloth,  
Fell presently to Cudglels with the Oath.  
The Quarrel was a strange misshapen Monster,  
&c. (God bless us) which they construe,  
The Brand upon the buttock of the Beast,  
The dragon's tail tied on a knot, a nest  
Of young Apocryphaes, the fashion  
Of a new mental Reservation.  
While Roger thus divides the Text, the other  
Winks and expounds, saying, my pious Brother  
harken with reverence; for the point is nice,  
I never read on't, but I fasted twice,  
And so by Revelation, know it better  
Than all the learned Idolaters o'th' Letter.  
With that he swelled, and fell upon the theme,  
Like Great Goliath with his weaver's beam:  
I say to thee &c. thou liest,  
Thou art the curled lock of Antichrist:  
Rubbish of Babel, for who will not say  
Tongues were confounded in & c.?  
Who swears &c. swears more oaths at once  
Then Cerberus out of his Triple Sconce.  
Who views it well, with the same eye beholds  
The old half Serpent in his numerous folds.  
Accurst &c. thou, for now I scent  
What lately the prodigious Oysters meant.  
Oh Booker, Booker, how cam'st thou to lack  
This sign in thy prophetic almanac?  
It's the dark Vault wherein th'infernal plot  
Of powder 'gainst the State was first begot.  
Per●●e the Oath, and you shall soon descry it  
By all the Father Garnets that stand by it.  
'Gainst whom the Church, whereof I am a Member,  
Shall keep another fifth day of November.  
Yet here's not all, I cannot half untruss  
&c. it's so abominous.  
The Trojan Nag was not so fully lined,  
Unrip &c. and you shall find  
Og the great Commissary, and which is worse,  
Th'Apparatour upon his skew-bald Horse.  
Then (finally my Babe of Grace) forbear,  
&c. will be too far to swear:  
For 'tis (to speak i● a familiar stile)  
A Yorkshire Wea-bit, longer than a mile.  
Then Roger was inspired, and by Gods-diggers,  
he'll swear in words at large, and not in figures.  
Now by this drink, which he takes off, as loath  
To leave &c. in his liquid Oath.  
His brother pledged him, and that bloody wine,  
He swea●s shall ●eale the Synods Catiline.  
So they drunk on, not offering to part  
Till they had quite sworn out th'eleventh quart:  
While all t●at saw and heard them jointly pray,  
〈…〉 ●ribe were all &c.   

Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.  
SMectymnuus? The Goblin makes me start:  
I'th' Name of Rabbi Abraham, what art?  
〈◊〉? or ●rabick? or Welsh? what skilt?  
Ap all the Bricklayers that Babel built.  
●ome Conjurer translate, and let me know it:  
Till then 'tis fit for a West-Saxon Poet.  
But do the brotherhood then play their prizes,  
Like Mummers in Religion with disguises?  
Outbrave us with a name in Rank and File,  
A Name which if 'twere trained would spread a mile?  
The Saints monopoly, the zealous Cluster,  
Which like a Porcupine presents a Muster,  
And shoots his quills at Bishops and their Sees,  
A devout litter of young Maccabees.  
Thus jacks-of-all-trade hath devoutly shown,  
The twelve Apostles on a Cherry-stone.  
Thus Faction's a-la-mode in treason's fashion;  
Now we have heresy by Complication.  
Like to Don-quixots' Rosary of Slaves  
Strung on a chain; A murnival of Knaves  
Packed in a Trick; like Gypsies when they ride,  
Or like Colleagues which sit all of a side:  
So the vain satirists stand all a row,  
As hollow teeth upon a lutestring show.  
Th' Italian Monster pregnent with his Brother,  
Natures Diaeresis, half one another,  
He, with his little Sides-man Lazarus,  
Must both give way unto Smectym●uus.  
Next 〈…〉 is Smec's; for lo his side  
Into a ●ive-fold Lazar's multiplied.  
Under each a●me there's tucked a double Gizzard,  
Five faces lu●ke under one single vizard.  
The Whore of Babylon left these brats behind,  
Heirs of Confusion by gavel-kind.  
I think Pythagoras' soul is rambled hither,  
With all the change of raiment on together:  
Sm●c is her general Wardrobe, she'll not dare  
To think of them as of a thoroughfare;  
He stops the Gossopping Dame; alone he is  
The Purlew of a metempsychosis.  
Like a Scotch mark, where the more modest sense  
Checks the loud phrase, & shrinks to thirteen pence:  
Like to an Ignis fatuus, whose flame  
Though sometimes tripartite, joins in the same:  
Like to nine tailors, who if rightly spelled,  
Into one man, are monosyllabled.  
Short-handed zeal in one hath cramped many,  
Like to the Decalogue in a single penny.  
See, see, how close the Curs hunt under a sheet,  
As if they sp●nt in choir, and scanned their feet;  
One Cure and five Incumbents leap a Truss,  
The title sure must be litigious.  
The Sadduces would raise a question,  
Who must be Smec at th' Resurrection.  
Who cooked them up together, were to blame,  
Had they but w●re-drawn, and spun out their name,  
'T would make another Prencices Petition  
Against the Bishops and their Superstition.  
Robson and French (that count from five to five,  
As far as nature fingers did contrive,  
She saw they would be Sessers; that's the cause  
She cleft their hoof into so many claws)  
May tire their carrot-bunch, yet ne'er agree  
To rate Smectymnuus for polemony.  
Galigula, whose pride was mankind's bail,  
As who disdained to murder by retail,  
Wishing the world had but one general Neck,  
His gl●tton blade might have found game in Smec.  
No echo can improve the Author more,  
Whose lungs pays use on use to half a score.  
No felon is more lettered, though the brand  
Both superscribes his shoulder and his hand.  
Some Welshman was his Godfather; for he  
Wears in his name his genealogy.  
The Banes are asked, would but the time give way,  
Betwixt Smectymnuus, and &c.  
The Guests invited by a friendly Summons,  
Should be the Convocation, and the Commons.  
The Priest to tie these fox's tails together,  
Moseley, or Sancta Clara, choose you whether.  
See, what an offspring every one expects?  
What strange pluralities of Men and Sects?  
One says, he'll get a Vestery; another  
Is for a Synod: Bet upon the Mother.  
Faith cry S. George, let them go to't, and stickle,  
Whether a Conclave, or a Conventicle.  
Thus might Religions caterwaule, and spite,  
Which uses to divorce, might once unite.  
But their cross fortunes interdict their trade;  
The groom is Rampant, but the Bride displayed.  
My task is done; all my hee-Goats are milked;  
So many Cards i'th' stock, and yet be bilked?  
I could by Letters now untwist the rabble,  
Whip Smec from Constable to Constable.  
But there I leave you to another dressing,  
Only kneel down, and take your father's blessing.  
May the Queen-Mother justify your fears,  
And stretch her Patent to your leather-ears.   

The mixed Assembly.  
FLeabitten Synod: an Assembly brewed  
Of Clerks and Elders ana, like the rude  
Chaos of presbytery, where laymen guide  
With the ●ame Woolpack clergy by their side.  
Who asked the Banes twixt these discoloured Mates?  
A strange Grottesco this, the Church and States  
(Most divine tick-tack) in a piebald crew,  
To serve as table-men of divers hue.  
She that conceived an Aethiopian heir  
By picture, when the parents both were fair,  
At sight of you had borne a dappled son,  
You checquering her imagination.  
Had Jacobs' flock but seen you sit, the dams  
Had brought forth speckled and ringstreaked lambs.  
Like an Impropriators Motley kind,  
Whose Scarlet Coat is with a Cassock lined.  
Like the lay-thief in a canonic weed,  
Sure of his clergy ere he did the deed,  
Like Royston crows who are (as I may say)  
Friars of both the Orders Black and Gray.  
S● mixed they are, one knows not whether's thicker,  
A lair of burgess, or a lair of Vicar.  
Have they usurped what royal Judah had?  
And now must Levi too part stakes with God?  
The sceptre and the Crosier are the Crutches,  
Which if not trusted in their pious Clutches,  
Will sail the cripple-state. And were't not pity  
But both should serve the yardwand of the City?  
That Isau might struck his beard, and sit  
Judge of 〈◊〉 and Elegerit.  
Oh that they were in chalk and charcoal drawn!  
The miscellany satire, and the fawn,  
And all th'Adulteries of twisted nature  
B●t faintly represent this riddling feature,  
Whose members being not Tallies, they'll not own  
Their fellows at the Resurrection.  
Strange Scarler Doctors these, they'll pass in Story  
For sinners half refined in Purgatory;  
Or parboiled lobsters, where there jointly rules  
The fading Sables and the coming Gules.  
The flea that Faistaff● damned, thus lewdly shows  
Tormented in the flames of Bardolph's Nose.  
Like him that wore the Dialogue of Cloaks,  
This shoulder 〈◊〉 a Styles, that John a Noaks.  
Like Je●es and Christians in a ship together,  
With an old Ne●k verse to distinguish either.  
Like their intended Discipline to boot,  
Or whatsoever hath neither head nor foot:  
Such may these stripped-stuff hangings seem to be,  
Sacrilege matched with codpiece simony;  
Be sick and d●eam a little, you may then  
Fancy these Linsey-wolsey Vestry-men.  
Forbear good Pembroke, be not overdaring,  
Such Company may chance to spoil thy swearing:  
And these Drum-Major oaths of bulk unruly,  
May dwindle to a feeble By my truly.  
He that the noble Percy's blood inherits,  
Will he strike up a Hotspur of the spirits?  
he'll f●ght the Obadiahs out of tune,  
With his u●circumcised Algernoon.  
A name so stubborn, 'tis not to be scanned  
By him in Gath with the six fingered hand.  
See, they obey the magic of my words.  
Presto; theyre gone. And now the House of Lords  
Looks like 〈◊〉 withered face of an old hag,  
But with three teeth like to a triple gag.  
A Jig, a Ji●: And in this antic dance  
Fielding, and doxy Martial first advance.  
Twiss blows the Scotch pipes, and the loving brace  
Puts on the traces, and treads ●inque-a-pace.  
Then Say and seal must his old Hamstrings supple,  
And he and ru●pl'd Palmer make a couple.  
Palmer's a fruitful girl, if he'll unfold her,  
The Midwife may find work about her shoulder,  
Kimbolton that rebellious Boanerges,  
Must be content to saddle Doctor Burges.  
If Burges get a clap, 'tis ne'er the worse,  
But the fift time of his Cmpurgators.  
Nol Bowles is coy; good sadness cannot dance  
But in obedience to the Ordinance,  
Her Wharton wheels about till Mumping Lidy,  
Like the full Moon, hath made his Lordship giddy.  
Pym and the Members must their giblets levy  
T'encounter Madam Smec, that single Bevy.  
If they two truck together, 'twill not be  
A childbirth, but a goal-delivery.  
Thus every Gibeline hath got his Guelph,  
But Selden, he's a Galliard by himself,  
And well may be; there's more Divines in him  
Then in all this their Jewish Sanhedrim:  
Whose Canons in the forge shall then bear date,  
When Mules their Cosin-Germanes generate.  
Thus Moses Law is violated now,  
The ox and ass go yoked in the same plough.  
Resign thy Coach-box Twisse; Brook's Preacher, he  
Would sort the beasts with more conformity.  
Water & earth make but one Globe, a Roundhead  
Is Clergy-Lay Party-per-pale compounded.   

The King's Disguise.  
ANd why so coffined to this vile disguise?  
Which who but sees, blasphemes thee with his eyes.  
My twins of light within their penthouse shrink,  
And hold it their allegiance to wink.  
Oh for a State-distinction to arraign  
Charles of high Treason 'gainst my sovereign.  
What an Usurper to his Prince is wont,  
Cloister and shave him, he himself hath done't.  
His muffled fabric speaks him a recluse,  
His ruins prove it a religious house.  
The Sun hath mewed his beams from off his lamp,  
And Majesty defaced the royal stamp.  
Is't not enough thy Dignity's in thrall,  
But thou'lt transcribe it in thy shape and all?  
As if thy Blacks were of too faint a dye,  
Without the tincture of tautology.  
Flay an Egyptian for his Cassock skin,  
Spun of his country's darkness, lined within  
With Presbyterian budge, that drowsy trance,  
The Synods sable, foggy ignorance;  
Nor bodily nor ghostly Negro could  
Rough-cast thy figure in a sadder mould:  
That privy-chamber of thy shape would be  
But the Close-mourner to thy royalty.  
Then break the circle of thy tailor's spell,  
A pearl within a rugged Oyster-shell.  
Heaven, which the Minster of thy Person owns,  
Will fine thee for Dilapidations.  
Like to a martyred Abbeys courser doom,  
Devoutly altered to a Pigeon room:  
Or like the college, by the changeling rabble,  
manchester's Elves, transformed into a Stable.  
Or, if there be a profanation higher,  
Such is the sacrilege of this attire,  
By which thou'rt half deposed, thou look'st like one  
Whose looks are under Sequestration:  
Whose Renegado form, at the first glance,  
Shows like the self-denying Ordinance.  
Angel of light, und darkness too, I doubt,  
Inspired within, and yet possesed without.  
Majestic twilight in the state of grace,  
Yet with an excommunicated face.  
Charles and his Mask are of a different mint,  
A psalm of mercy in a miscreant print.  
The Sun wears Midnight, Day is beetle-browed,  
And Lightning is in Keldar of a cloud.  
〈…〉 of fate!  
〈…〉 Eagle shrunk into a Bat?  
〈…〉 what magic vapour can it be  
That shri●ks his rays to this apostasy?  
It is no subtle film of 〈◊〉 air,  
No Go●-web vizard, such as Ladies wear,  
When th●● are veiled, on purpose to be seen.  
Doubling their lustre by their vanquished screen:  
Nor the false scabbard of a Princes tough  
Me●all, and three-piled darkness, like the 
* 〈…〉  slough  
Of an imprisoned flame, 'tis Faux in grain●,  
Dark 〈◊〉 to our high Meridian.  
Hell belched the damp, the Warwick-Castle Vote  
Rang Britain's curfew, so our light went out.  
Thy visage is not legible, the letters,  
Like a Lord's name, writ in fantastic fetters:  
Clothes where a Swisser might be buried quick,  
Sure they would fit the Body politic.  
False beard, enough to fit a stage's plot,  
For that's the ambush of their wit, God wot.  
Nay all his properties so strange appear,  
Y'are not i'th' presence, though the King be there.  
A libel is his dress, a garb uncouth,  
Such as the 
* 〈◊〉.  Hue and Cry once purged at mouth.  
Scribbling assassinate, thy lines a●●est  
An ear-mark due; Cub of the blatant Beast,  
Whose breath before 'tis syllabled for worse,  
Is blasphemy unfledged, a callow curse.  
The Laplanders, when they would ●ell a wind  
Wafting to hell, bag up thy phrase and bind  
It to the bark, which at the voyage end  
Shifts Poop, and brings the colic in the fiend.  
It to the barque, which at the voyage end  
Shifts Poop, and breeds the colic in the fiend.  
But I'll not dub thee with a glorious scar,  
Nor sink thy scholar with a Man of War.  
The black-mouthed Siquis, and this slandering suit,  
Both do alike in picture execute.  
But since w'are all called Papist, why not dare  
Devotion to the rags thus consecrate.  
As Temples use to have their Porches wrought  
With Sphynxes, creatures of an antic draught,  
And puzzling portraitures, to show that there  
Riddles inhabited, the like is here.  
The black offender, should he wear his fin  
For penance, could not have a darker skin.  
But pardon Sir, since I presume to be  
Clerk of this Closet to Your majesty:  
Methinks in this your dark mysterious dress  
I see the gospel couched in Parables.  
The second view, my purblind fancy wipes,  
And shows Religion in its dusky types.  
Such a Text royal, so obscure a shade  
Was Solomon in Proverbs all arrayed.  
Now all ye brats of this expounding age,  
To whom the Spirit is in pupil age;  
You that damn more than ever Samson slew,  
And with his engine, the same jawbone too:  
How is't Charles escape your Inquisition free,  
Since bound up in the bible's livery?  
Hence Cabinet-untrussers, Picklocks hence,  
You that dim jewels with your bristol-sense:  
And Characters, like Witches, so torment,  
Till they confess a guilt, though innocent.  
Keys for this cipher you can never get,  
None but S. Peter's opes this Cabinet.  
This Cabinet, whose aspect would benight  
Critic spectators with redundant light.  
A Prince most seen, is least: What Scriptures call  
The Revelation, is most mystical.  
Mount than thou shadow royal, and with haste,  
Advance thy morning star, Charles' overcast.  
May thy strange journey contradictions twist,  
And force fair weather from a Scottish mist.  
Heaven's Confessors are posed, those star-eyed Sages  
To interpret an eclipse, thus riding stages.  
Thus Israel-like he travels with a cloud,  
Both as a Conduct to him, and a shroud.  
But oh! he goes to Gibeon, and renews  
A league with mouldy bread, and clouted shoes.   

The rebel Scot.  
HOw! Providence! and yet a Scottish crew!  
Then Madam nature wears black patches too.  
What? shall our Nation be in bondage thus  
Unto a Land that truckles under us?  
Ring the bells backward; I am all on fire,  
Not all the buckets in a Country choir  
Shall quench my rage. A Poet should be feared  
Whe● angry, like a Comets flaming beard.  
And where's the Stoic? can his wrath appease  
To see his country sick of Pym's disease  
By Scotch invasion? to be made a prey  
To such Pig-wiggin Myrmidons as they?  
But that there's cha●me in verse, I will not quote  
The name of Scot, without an Antidote;  
Unless my head were red, that I might brew  
Invention there that might be poison too.  
Were I a drowsy Judge whose dismal Note  
Disg●●geth halters, as a juggler's throat  
Doth ribbons: could I (in Sir Emp'ricks tone)  
Speak Pills in phrase, and quack destruction:  
Or roar like Martial, that Gen●vah-Bull,  
Hell and damnation a Pulpit full:  
Yet to express a Scot, to play that prize,  
Not all those mouth-Grandoes can suffice.  
Before a Scot can properly be cursed,  
I must (like Hocus) swallow daggers first.  
Come keen iambics, with your Badgers feet,  
And Badger-like, bite till your teeth do meet.  
Help ye tart satirists, to imp my rage,  
With all the Scorpions that should whip this age.  
Scots are like Witches; do but whe● your pen,  
Scratch till the blood come; they'll not hurt you then.  
Now as the Martyrs were enforced to take  
The shapes of beasts, like hypocrites, at stake,  
I'll bait my Scot so; yet not cheat your eyes,  
A Scot within a beast is no disguise.  
No more let Ireland brag, her 〈◊〉 Nation  
Fosters no venom, since the Scots Plantation:  
Nor can ours feigned Antiquity maintain;  
Since they came in, England hath Wolves again.  
The Scot that kept the Tower might have shown  
(Within the gra●e of his 〈◊〉 ●rest alone)  
The 〈…〉 Panther; and engrossed  
What all those wild collegiates had cost  
The honest High-shoes, in their Termly Fees,  
First to the savage Lawyer, next to these.  
Nature herself doth Scotchmen beasts confess,  
Making their country such a wilderness:  
A Land, that brings in question and suspense  
God's omnipresence, but that Charles came thence.  
But that Montrosse and Crawford's loyal Band  
Atoned their sins, and christened half the Land:  
Nor is it all the Nation hath these spots;  
There is a Church, as well as Kirk of Scots:  
As in a picture, where the squinting paint  
Shows Fiend on this side, and on that side Saint.  
He that saw hell in's melancholy dream,  
And in the twilight of his Fanc●e's theme,  
Scar●d from his sins, repented in a fright,  
Had he viewed ●cotland, had ●urn'd proselyte.  
A Land, where one may pray with cursed intent,  
O may they never suffer banishment!  
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,  
Not forced him wander, but confined him home.  
Like Jews they spread, and as Infection fly,  
As if the devil had ubiquity.  
Hence 'tis, they live at Rovers; and defy  
This or that place, Rags of geography.  
They're Citizens o'th' World; they're all in all,  
Scotland's a Nation epidemical.  
And yet they ramble not, to learn the Mode  
How to be dressed, or how to lisp abroad,  
To return knowing in the Spanish shrug,  
Or which of the Dutch States a double Jug  
Resembles most, in Belly, or in Beard:  
The Card by which the Travellers are steered.  
No; the Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat; their ostrich stomachs make their swords their meat.  
Nature with Scots as tooth-drawer's hath dealt,  
Who use to hang their teeth upon their Belt.  
Yet wonder not at this their happy choice;  
The Serpent's fatal still to Paradise.  
Sure England hath the Hemerods', and these  
On the North postern of the patient seize,  
Like Leeches: thus they physically thirst  
After our blood, but in the cure shall burst.  
Let them not think to make us run o'th' score,  
To purchase villeinage, as once before,  
When an Act past, to stroke them on the head,  
Call them good Subjects, buy them gingerbread.  
Nor gold, nor Acts of Grace; 'tis steel must tame  
The stubborn Scot: A Prince that would reclaim  
Rebels by yielding, doth like him, (or worse)  
Who saddled his own back to shame his horse.  
Was it for this you left your leaner soil,  
Thus to lard Israel with Egypt's spoil?  
They are the gospels lifeguard; but for them,  
The Garrison of new Jerusalem,  
What would the Brethren do? the Cause the cause!  
Sack possets, and the fundamental laws!  
Lord! what a godly thing is want of shirts!  
How a Scotch-stomach, and no meat, converts!  
They wanted food, and raiment; so they took  
Religion for their seamstress, and their Cook.  
Unmask them well; their honours and estate,  
As well as conscience, are sophisticate.  
Shrive but their Titles, and their money poise,  
A Laird and Twenty pence pronounced with noise,  
When const●ued, but for a plain Yeoman go,  
And a good sober twopence; and well so.  
Hence than you proud Impostors, get you gone;  
You Picts in Gentry and Devotion:  
You scandals to the stock of Verse! a race!  
Able to bring the Gibbet in disgrace!  
Hyp●●●olus by suffering did traduce  
The ostracism, and shamed it out of use.  
the Indian that Heaven did forswear,  
Because he heard the Spaniards were there,  
Had he but known what Scots in hell had been,  
He would Erasmus-like have hung between.  
My Muse hath done. A Voider for the nonce!  
I wrong the devil, should I pick the bones?  
That dish is his: for when the Scots decease,  
Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.  
A Scot, when from the Gallow-Tree got loose,  
Drops into S●yx, and turns a Solun-Go●se.   

Rupertismus.  
O That I could but vote myself a Poet!  
Or had the Legislative knack to do it:  
Or, like the Doctors Militant, could get  
Dubed at adventures Verser 〈◊〉!  
Or had I Cacus trick to make my rhymes  
Their own Antipodes, and 〈◊〉 the times:  
F●ces about, says the Remonstra●● 〈◊〉;  
Allegiance is 〈…〉:  
〈◊〉- Colt, 〈…〉 Recorder,  
Might be a 〈…〉 Order:  
Had I but Elsing's gift (that splay-mouthed Brother)  
That declares one way, and yet means another:  
Could I but write asquint; then (Sir) long since  
You had been sung, A great and glorious Prince.  
I had observed the Language of the days;  
Blasphemed you; and then periwigged the Phrase  
With Humble Service, and such other Fustian,  
Bells which ring backward in this great Combustion.  
I had reviled you; and without offence,  
The literal, and Equitable sense  
Would make it good: when all fails, that will do't:  
Sure that distinction cleft the devil's Foot.  
This were my Dialect, would your highness please  
To read me but with Hebrew Spectacles;  
Interpret Counter, what is cross rehearsed:  
Libels are commendations, when reversed.  
Just as an optic glass contracts the sight  
At one end, but when turned doth multiplied.  
But you're enchanted, Sir; you're doubly free  
From the great Guns, and squibbling poetry:  
Whom neither Bilbo, nor Invention pierces,  
Proof even 'gainst th' artillery of Verses.  
Strange! that the Muses cannot wound your mail;  
If not their Art, yet let their Sex prevail.  
At that known Leaguer, where the Bonny Besses  
Supplied the bowstrings with their twisted tresses,  
Your spells could ne'er have fenced you: every arrow  
Had lanced your noble breast, & drunk the marrow:  
For beauty, like white powder, makes no noise;  
And yet the silent Hypocrite destroys.  
Then use the Nuns of Helicon with pity,  
Lest Wharton tell his Gossips of the City,  
That you kill women too; nay maids: and such  
Their general wants Militia to touch.  
Impotent Essex! is it not a shame,  
Our commonwealth, like to a Turkish Dame,  
Should have an Eunuch-Guardian? may she be  
Ravished by Charles, rather than saved by thee.  
But why, my Muse, like a green-sickness-girl,  
Feedest thou on coals and dirt? a gelding-earl  
Gives no more relish to thy Female palate,  
Then to that ass did once the thistle-salad.  
Then quit the barren Theme; and all at once  
Thou and thy sisters, like bright Amazons,  
Give RUPERT an alarum, RUPERT! one  
Whose name is wit's Superfoetation.  
Makes fancy, like eternity's round womb,  
Unite all valour, present, past, to come.  
He, who the old philosophy controls,  
That voted down plurality of souls,  
He breathes a grand Committee; all that were  
The wonders of their age, constellate here.  
And as the elder sisters, growth and sense  
(Souls Paramount themselves) in man commence  
But faculties of reasons Queen; no more  
Are they to him who were complete before.  
Ingredients of his virtue thread the Beads  
Of Caesar's acts, great Pompey's, and the Sweads:  
And 'tis a bracelet fit for Rupert's hand,  
By which that vast Triumvirate is spaned.  
Here, here is palmistry; here you may read,  
How long the world shall live, & when't shall bleed.  
Whatever man winds up, that RUPERT hath:  
For Nature raised him of the public Faith.  
Pandora's Brother, to make up whose ●●ore,  
The Gods were fain to run upon the score.  
Such was the Painters Brieve for 〈◊〉;  
Item an eye from Jane, a lip from 〈◊〉  
Let Isaac and his Cit'z-●lea off the ●lace  
That tips their Antlets for the 〈…〉;  
Let the zeale-twanging Nose that wants a ●idge,  
Snuffling devoutly, drop his silve● bridge:  
Yes, and the gossip's spoon 〈◊〉 the sum,  
Although poor Cal●b lose his Christ●ndome:  
Rupert outweighs that in his sterling-self,  
Which their selfe-wants pays in commuting pelf.  
Pardon, great Sir, for that ignoble crew  
Gaines, when made bankrupt, in the scales with you.  
As he, who in his Character of light  
Styled it God's shadow, made it far 〈…〉  
By an eclipse so glorious, (light is ●im,  
And a black nothing, when compared to him)  
So 'tis illustrious to be Rupert's foil,  
And a just trophy to be made his spoil.  
I'll pin my faith on the Diurnalls●●eeve  
Hereafter, and the Guild-Hall Creed believe;  
The Conquests, which the common-council hears  
With their wide listening mouth, from the great Peers  
That ran away in triumph: such a Foe  
Can make them victors in their overthrow:  
Where providence and valour meet in one,  
Courage so poised with circumspection,  
That he revives the quarrel once again  
Of the souls throne, whether in heart or brain;  
And leaves it a drawn march: whose fervour can  
Hatch him, whom Nature poached but half a Man,  
His Trumpet like the Argells at the last,  
Makes the soul rise by a miraculous blast,  
'Twas the Mount Athos c●rv'd in shape of man  
(As 'twas defined by the Ma●edonian)  
Whose right hand should a populous Land contain,  
The left should be a channel to the main:  
His spirit might inform th' Amphibious figure;  
Yet straight-laced sweats for a Dominion bigger:  
The terror of whose name can out of seven,  
(Like Falstaffe's Buckram-men) make fly eleven.  
Thus some grow rich by breaking; Vipers thus  
By being slain, are made more numerous.  
No wonder they'll confess no loss of men;  
For Rupert knocks'em, till they gig again,  
They fear the Giblets of his train; they fear  
Even his Dog, that four-legged cavalier:  
He that devours the scraps, which L●ndsford makes,  
Whose Picture feeds upon a child in stakes:  
Who name but Charles, he comes aloft for him,  
But holds up his Malignant leg at Pym.  
●Gainst whom they've several Articles in sauce;  
First, that he barks against the sense o'th' House.  
resolved Delinquent; to the Tower straight;  
Either to th' Lions, or the Bishop's Grate.  
Next for his ceremonious wag o'th' tail:  
But there the Sisterhood will be his bail,  
At least the Countess will, Lust's Amsterdam,  
That lets in all religious of the game.  
Thirdly, he smells Intelligence, that's better,  
And cheaper too, than Pym's from his own Letter:  
Who's doubly paid (fortune or we the blinder?)  
For making plots, and then for Fox the Finder.  
Lastly, he is a devil without doubt;  
For when he would lie down, he wheels about;  
Makes circles, and is couchant in a ring;  
And therefore score up one for conjuring.  
What canst thou say, thou wretch? O quarter, quarter!  
I'm but an instrument, a mere S. Arthur.  
If I must hang, o let not our Fates vary,  
Whose office 'tis alike to fetch and carry.  
No hopes of a reprieve, the mutinous stir  
That strung the Jesuit, will dispatch a cur.  
Were I a devil, as the rebel fears,  
I see the House would try me by my peers.  
There lowler there! ah Jowler! saint! 'tis nought  
What e'er the Accusers cry, they're at a fault;  
And Glyn, and Maynard have no more to say,  
Then when the glorious Strafford stood at Bay.  
Thus labels but annexed to him we see,  
Enjoy a copyhold of Victory.  
S. Peter's sh●dow healed; Rupert's is such,  
'Twould find S. Peter's work, yet wound as much.  
He gags their guns, defeats their dire intent,  
The Cannons do but lisp and compliment.  
Sure Jove descended in a leaden shower  
To get this Perseus: hence the fatal power  
Of shot is strangled: bullets thus allied  
Fear to commit an act of parricide.  
Go on brave Prince, and make the world confess,  
Thou art the greatest world, and that the less.  
Scatter th'accumulative King; untruss  
That fivefold fiend, the States SMECTYMNUUS;  
Who place Religion in their Velam ears;  
As in their Phylacters the Jews did theirs,  
England's a Paradise, (and a modest Word)  
Since guarded by a Cherubs flaming Sword.  
Your name can scare an atheist to his prayers;  
And cure the chincough better than the Bears.  
Old sibyl charms the toothache with you: Nurse  
Makes you still children; nay, and the pond'rous curse  
The clowns salute with, is derived from you;  
(Now RUPERT take thee, Rogue; how dost thou do?)  
In fine, the name of Rupert thunders so,  
Kimbolton's but a rumbling Wheel-barrow.   

Epitaphium Thomae Comitis Straffordii, &c.  
Exurge Cinis, tuúmque s●lus qui potis es, scribe epitaphium:  
Nequit Wentworthi non esse facundus vel Cinis,  
Effare Marmor: & quem coepisti comprehendere,  
Macte & Exprimere.  
Candidus meretur urna, quàm quod rubris  
Notatum est literis, Elogium.  
Atlas Regiminis Monarchici hîc jacet lassus,  
Se●unda Orbis Britannici intelligentia:  
Rex Politiae, & Prorex Hiberniae,  
Straffordii, & Virtutum, Comes:  
Mens Jovis, Mercurii ingenium, & lingua Apollinis;  
Cui Anglia Hiberniam debuit, seipsam Hibernia.  
Sydus aquilonicum, quo sub rubicundâ vesperâ occidente,  
Nox simul & dies visa est: dextróque oculo flevit,  
Laeuóque laetata est, Anglia.  
Theatrum Honoris, itémque Scena calamitosa virtutis  
Actorib us, morbo, morte, invidiâ,  
Quae ternis animosa Regnis non vicit tamen,  
Sed oppressit.  
Sic inclinavit Heros (non minus) Caput  
Belluae (vel sic) maltorum Capitum:  
Merces favoris Scotici, praeter pecunias,  
Erubuit ut tètigit securis,  
Similem quippe nunquam degustavit sanguinem.  
Monstrum narro: fuit tam infensus Legibus,  
Ut prius Legem, quàm nata foret, violavit:  
Hunc tamen non sustulit Lex,  
Verùm Necessitas, non habens Legem.  
Abi Viator, caetera memorabunt posteri.    

Additionall Poems by uncertain AUTHORS.  

The Scots apostasy.  
ISt come to this? what? shall the cheeks of Fame,  
Stretched with the breath of learned Lowdons' name,  
Be flaged again? and that great piece of sense,  
As rich in Loyalty, as Eloquence,  
Brought to the Test, be found a trick of State?  
Like chemists tinctures, proved adulterate?  
The devil sure such language did achieve,  
To cheat our unforewarned Grandam Eve,  
As this Impostor found out, to besot  
Th'experienced English, to believe a Scot.  
Who reconciled the Covenants doubtful sense!  
The Commons Argument, or the city's Pence?  
Or did you doubt, persistence in one good  
Would spoil the fabric of your Brotherhood,  
Projected first in such a forge of sin,  
Was fit for the grand Devils hammering?  
Or was't ambition, that this damned fact  
Should tell the world you know the sins you act?  
The infamy this super-treason brings,  
Blasts more than murders of Your sixty Kings.  
A crime so black, as being advis'dly done,  
Those hold with this no competition.  
Kings only suffered then, in this doth lie  
Th' assassination of monarchy.  
Beyond this sin no one step can be trod,  
If not t'attempt deposing of your C●d.  
Oh were you so 〈◊〉, that we ●ight see  
Heavens ang●y lighting 〈◊〉 your ears to slay,  
Till you were ●●rivel'd 〈◊〉 dust; and your cold Land  
Parched to a drought, beyond the Lybian sand!  
But 'tis reserved; and till heaven plague you worse,  
Be Objects of an epidemic curse.  
First, may your Brethren, to whose viler ends  
Your power hath bawded, cease to count you friends;  
And prompted by the dictate of their reason,  
Reproach the traitors, though they hug the treason.  
And may their Jealousies increase and breed,  
Till they confine your steps beyond the Tweed.  
In foreign Nations may your loathed name be  
A stigmatising brand of infamy;  
Till forced by general hate, you cease to room  
The world, and for a plague go live at home:  
Till you resume your poverty, and be  
Reduced to beg, where none can be so free  
To grant; and may your scabby Land be all  
Translated to a general hospital.  
Let not the Sun afford one gentle Ray,  
To give you comfort of a summer's day.  
But, as a Guerdon for your traitorous War,  
Live cherished only by the Northern Star.  
No Stranger deign to visit your rude Coast,  
And be to all, but banished Men, as lost.  
And such, in heightening of th'infliction due,  
Let provoked Princes send them all to you.  
Your State a Chaos be, where not the Law,  
But Power, your Lives and Liberties may awe.  
No Subject 'mongst you keep a quiet breast,  
But each man strive through blood to be the best;  
Till, for those miseries on us you've brought,  
By your own sword our just revenge be wrought.  
To sum up all— let your Religion be,  
As your Allegiance, masked hypocrisy:  
Until, when CHARLES shall be composed in dust,  
Presumed with Epithetes of GOOD and just;  
HE saved; incensed Heaven may have forgot  
T'afford one act of mercy to a Scot;  
Unless that Scot deny himself, and do  
(What's easier far) renounce his Nation too,   

Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford.  
HEre lies Wise and Valiant Dust,  
Huddled up twixt Fit and Just:  
STRAFFORD, who was hurried hence  
twixt Treason and Convenience.  
He spent his Time here in a Mist;  
A Papist, yet a Ca●vinist.  
His Prince's nearest Joy, and Grief;  
He had, yet wanted all relief.  
The Prop and ruin of the State;  
The People's violent Love, and Hate:  
One in extremes loved and abhorred.  
Riddles lie here; or in a word,  
Here lies Blood; and let it lie  
Speechless still, and never cry.   

On the Archbishop of Canterbury.  
I Need no Muse to give my passion vent,  
He brews his tears that studies to lament.  
Verse chemically weeps; that pious rain,  
Distilled with Art, is but the sweat o'th' brain.  
Who ever sobed in numbers? can a groan  
Be quavered out by soft division?  
'Tis true; for common formal Elegies,  
Not bushels Wells can wash a poet's eyes  
In wanton water-works: he'll tune his tears  
From a Geneva Jig up to the spheres.  
But when he mourns at distance, weeps aloof,  
Now that the Conduit-head is our own roof:  
Now that the fate is public, we may call  
It Britains Vespers, England's funeral.  
Who hath a pencil to express the Saint,  
But he hath eyes too, washing off the paint?  
There is no learning, but what tears surround,  
Like to Seth's Pillars, in the deluge drowned.  
There is no Church, Religion is grown  
From much of late, that she's increased to none;  
Like an hydropic body, full of rheums,  
First swells into a bubble, than consumes.  
The Law is dead, or cast into a trance,  
And, by a Law dough-baked, and Ordinance.  
The liturgy, whose doom was voted next,  
Died., as a Comment upon him the Text.  
There's nothing lives; life is (since he is gone)  
But a nocturnal Lucubration.  
Thus you have seen deaths inventory read  
In the sum to●all— canterbury's dead.  
A sight would make a Pagan to baptize  
Himself a Convert in his bleeding eyes.  
Would thaw the rabble that fierce beast of ours,  
(That which Hyaena-like weeps and devours)  
Tears that ●low brackish from their souls within,  
Not to repent, but pickle up their sin  
Mean time no squalid grief his look defiles,  
He guilds his sadder fate with noble smiles.  
Thus the world's eye with reconciled streams  
Shines in his showers as if he wept his beams.  
How could success such villainies applaud?  
The S●ate in Strafford fell, the Church in Laud:  
The twins of public rage adjudged to die,  
For Treasons they should act by Prophecy.  
The f●cts were done before the laws were made,  
The trump turned up after the game was played.  
Be dull g●eat spirits and forbear to climb,  
For worth is sin, and eminence a crime.  
No churchman can be innocent and high,  
'Tis height makes Gran●ham steeple stand awry.   

On I. W. A. B. of York.  

SAy, my young Sophister, what think'st of this?  
Chimae●ra's real; Ergo falleris.  
The lamb and tiger, Fox and Goose agree,  
And here concorp'rate in one prodigy.  
C●ll an Ha●uspex quickly; let him get  
S●lphur and ●orches, and a laurel wet,  
To P●●●fie the place; for sure the harms  
This Monster will produce, transcend his charms.  
'Tis Na●ures masterpiece of error, this:  
and redeems whatever she did amiss,  
B●fore, from wonder and reproach; this last  
Le●i●imateth all her by-blows past.  
Lo here a general Metropolitan,  
An Arch-Prelat●que Presbyterian.  
Behold his pious Garbs, Canonique Face,  
A z●alous Episcopo-mastix Grace;  
A fa●●e blew-aproned Priest, a lawn-sleeved Brother,  
One leg a Pulpu holds, a Tub the other.  
Let's give him a fit name now, if we can,  
And make th'apostate once more Christian.  
Protaeus we cannot call him; he put on  
His change of shapes by a succession;  
Nor the Welsh weathercock; for that we find,  
At once doth only wait upon the wind:  
These speak him not, but if you'll name him right,  
Call him Religions He●maphrodite.  
His head i'th' sanctified mould is cast,  
Yet sticks th' abominable mitre fast;  
He still retains the Lordship and the Grace,  
And yet has got a reverend Elders place.  
Such acts must needs be his, who did devise  
By crying Altars down, to sacrifice  
To private malice; where you might have seen  
His conscience holocausted to his spleen.  
Unhappy Church! the Viper that did share  
Thy greatest honours helps to make thee bare,  
And void of all thy Dignities and store:  
Alas! thy own Son proves the forrest-boar.  
And like the Dam-destroying cuckoo, he,  
When the thick-shell of his Welsh Pedigree,  
By thy warm fost'ring bounty did divide  
And open, straight thence sprung forth parricide:  
As if 'twas just, revenge should be dispatched  
In thee, by th'Monster, which thyself hadst hatched.  
Despair not though: in Wales there may be got,  
As well as Lincolnshire, an antidote,  
'Gainst the foulest venom he can spit, though's head  
Were changed from subtle grey to poisonous red.  
Heaven with propitious eyes will look upon  
Our party, now the cursed thing is gone;  
And chastise rebels, who nought else did miss  
To fill the measure of their sins but his;  
Whose foul unparalleled apostasy,  
Like to his sacred character, shall be  
Indelible; when ages then of late  
More happy grown, with most impartial fate,  
A period to his days and time shall give,  
He by such Epitaphs as this shall live.   

He Yorks great Metropolitan is laid,  
Who God's anointed, and his Church betrayed.   
THE END.