A Congratulatory POEM on the WHIGG's Entertainment.  

HOllow Boys, Hollow, Hollow once again!  
Tother half Crown shall then reward your pain.  
Alas, Poor Whigg, where wilt thou sneaking go,  
Thy Wine is spilt, thy Pies, and Cakes are Doughty?  
Down go the Coppers, Tables, Shelves and all,  
And so Farewell to Haberdasher's Hall!  
Damned Protestant's! that when the Court abhored,  
Dare eat, and drink without a Patent for't.  
And what true Catholics, no doubt, will say,  
Was ten times worse, upon a Fasting day!  
No Northern Healths would with Huzza's be crowned,  
No Loyal Dammees there would rend the Ground.  
These hungry Covenanting Curs, contrive  
To gobble up the King's Prerogative.  
In Pasties, Plots, in Custard, Treason lies,  
And hot Rebellion lurks in Pudding-Pyes.  
Fear always through Perspective looks, and thus  
A Sausage must be dubbed a Blunderbuss.  
Poor Woodcocks, Loyal Subjects counted be;  
Condemned by sly fanatics, Treachery.  
Spits Rapiers are to stab obedient Geese,  
A Stately Pastry is a Mortar-piece.  
Glasses are Hand-Granadoes, which may fall  
At Charing-Cross, or Fire the Milky Hall.  
Cooks Shops hatch close Designs upon the State  
Against Calves, and Capons to ASSOCIATE;  
Which if the Traitors freely won't confess,  
Our Jury's them shall all-to-be-Address.  
Those that were never marked by the Beast,  
Shall neither Buy, nor Sell, nor Fast, nor Feast.  
Whilst this Indulgence we to Friends afford,  
Change rusty Cassocks for a glittering Sword.  
But if they have nor Coat nor Gown to sell,  
Godfrey's Cravat will do the Job as well.    

London, Printed for E. Smith, 1682.