The COURT of ENGLAND. Or, The Preparation for the Happy CORONATION of King WILLIAM and Queen MARY.  Englishman. 

COme Gallants, let's tender  
Those Hearts we surrender  
At the best Coronation of our Faiths great Defender,  
Now Glory shall Rule:  
No more Popish Edge-tool;  
Thanks Heaven, of a knave we've at last made a Fool,  
of a jesuit.   

Th' High-Commission-Court-Si●am,  
jess— s, Devil, and Dam,  
Once mauled our poor Church with the Pope's battering Ram;  
Run the great Sleeves of Lawn  
No more shall be drawn  
Into Nooses and Goals by the impudent Spawn  
of a jesuit.   

Who but they and their Crew  
Poor james could undo,  
And lose him his Honour and Diadem too;  
By Petres false measure,  
Th' unfortunate Caesar,  
Turned (alas) out a grazing, like Nabuchadnezzar,  
by the jesuit.   

With your Chancellor false Steward,  
Rome's Scholar so toward,  
Your Castlemain Nuntio, & your Cardinal Howard,  
You have outdone the shot  
Of your Gunpowder Plot,  
And blown up the credulous james; have ye not?  
ye false jesuit.   

Our Freedoms and Charters  
Were the first of your Martyrs,  
For Rome had begun to take up her headQuarters  
Her Vengeance to wreak,  
All Faith we must break,  
For Law, Oaths, & Gospel are all Bonds too weak  
for a jesuit.   

With your sly false preambles,  
For your dear Stakes and Shambles,  
And goring 3 Kingdoms with the old Thorns and Brambles;  
What Engines infernal  
In the Popish Diurnal,  
Could fill the whole world with Treasons eternal  
but the jesuit?   Taffy. 

A Shesuit, that Sheater,  
Rogue, Villain, and Traitor!  
By the flesh of her pones, her Welsh blood rises at her;  
Very fine, Shentlefolks,  
A Welsh Heir, with a pox,  
Was her get her a Prince in a Shugglers Box?  
Cunning Shesuit.   

Has her Forehead no blush on  
Such Proshects to push on,  
As was raise her Welsh Heir to Three Crowns-from a Cushion  
To who, splutternails,  
Does her tell her shame Tales?  
Has her none to put trick on but her Nation of Wales,  
Roguy Shesuit?   

Oh! to pay her old score,  
Had her Son of a Whore  
On a Ladder, as high as her own Penmenmour  
Was ●er once but trussed up,  
Till Her cut the Rope,  
Her might hang there till doomsday, herself & her Pope  
for a Shesuit.   Sawny. 

T●e Pope that faw Turk,  
●o sleely at weerk,  
With awe his faw Imps to pull down the Kirk,  
Now the Mange, our Scotch plague,  
On that Scarlet Whore-Hag,  
And Deel sole the wem, the lugs, and the crag  
of the Jesuit.   

For ●●d Jemmy's sad folly,  
With Jaggy and Dolly  
I'll dance a Scotch jig for bonny WILLY and MOLLY;  
With Jockey and Sawny,  
Aw lads teugh and brawny,  
Weese drub the faugh face, awe black, blue, & tawny,  
of the Jesuit.   Monsieur. 

O Le Rogue English trick!  
Dit de poor Catolick  
Should be kick, knock, & tump, and run down to Old Nick.  
But begar, de Vengeance  
Of my Ma'ter of France  
Shall lead English Heretick-dog a French Dance,  
for de jesuit.   

Shall L●wis sit still?  
Vat fo●l, tink he will,  
When old jeme, and he so long piss in a Quill?  
No, Bougre Garsoon,  
With Monsieur Dagroon,  
Begar we come o'er, and fight blood and won  
for de jesuit.   

Doughty jemmy monsieur,  
(Pox taka Myn-heer)  
Has losta de Crewn of the damn Angletere;  
In Eerl●nd, brave boy,  
With Vive le Roy  
We crewn him again a new Monarch dear-joy,  
for de jesuit.   Teague. 

BVb a boo! Bub! oh hone!  
The Brother of the son,  
And de Shield of me Mother de poor Teague undone!  
Pull down Mass-house and Altar,  
And burn Virgin Psalter,  
And make hang upon Priest, and no friend cut de Halter  
of poor Jesuit.   

When Teague first came o'er  
To de Engeland shore,  
Widgine 6, 7, 8 Thousand Irish Lads, all and more:  
Teague was promised good Fashion,  
Great Estate in the Nation,  
Widgine all London in his pocket, upon me shaulwashion  
by de Jesuit.   

But when the Boar Dutch,  
God Teague in his clutch,  
Stead of make great estate, & Chreesknows what much  
Damned Heretic Dogue  
Made Teague a poor Rogue,  
Turned him home to make starve w●dout shoe or broge;  
for de Jesuit.   

But I'll beg Captains Plaash  
Of de sweet Eyes and Faash  
Of me Dear-joy Tyrconnel his Majesty's Graash;  
And fight like a Hero,  
By me shaul a Mack-Nero,  
Cut Throat for Shaint Patrick, and sing Lilli burlero  
for de Jesuit.   Myn-heer. 
HOld cut-weason Skellom,  
And let Myn-heer tell 'om,  
For Englond's great Hog● & ● Lord Willem  
And the dear English-mons,  
Their Church, Laws, and Londs,  
Urn Duch-londers fight with all hoarts & honds,  
against the Jesuit.  Englishman. 

Sayest thou so, Friend Myn-beer?  
Then adieu to all fear,  
France, Ireland, Pope, Devil, come all if you dare:  
Come Lads, let's be jogging,  
The French Ears want lagging,  
And Teague, and Tyrconnel's false Hide must have flogging  
for the jesuit.   

Whilst kind Dutch Tarpaulin  
With English-boys fall in,  
And both our stout Navys proud Britain shall wall in:  
No Pope shall destroy us,  
Nor Monsieur annoy us,  
With William and mary blest Reign to o'rejoy us.  
Farewell jesuit.    

Printed by A. M. for R. Mayhurst in Little Britain, 1589   

Licens●d and Entered according to Order.