DAGON's Fall: Or the KNIGHT Turned out of COMMISSION.  
GOod God what means this sudden Alteration!  
The Fop that has so long disturbed the Nation,  
By's Pride, and Pomp, and Power, is now Turned out,  
And hardly pitied by the silly Rout.  
He was as Stout, and lofty as old Hector,  
Usurped the Power of our damned Protector;  
As fierce and Cruel as a Tyger's whelp,  
He wanted neither strength, nor art, nor help  
To do and undo; he was grown so great,  
That the Creation was amazed to see't.  
He had his Coach and Horses, Footmen too,  
And into th' City road, to make a show;  
But little thought when drawn by W—  
His fatal downfall it had been so near.  
To put a Sword into a Madmans' hand,  
It may make Bloody work within the Land.  
Papists and Protestants were all alike,  
Both sent to lodge with Church and thin-jawed Dyke.  
No Day scarce passed without some mischief done,  
Into all Companies the Fool did run.  
The Gaoler sure gave him a snack of Fees,  
For Prisoners flocked even like a Swarm of Bees.  
Here ten were sent him for a Popish Plot,  
There two more for to please a Buggering Sot.  
Then a new Plot is feigned, and more secured,  
'Uds flesh, my Friends, this cannot be endured!  
Printers, Apprentices, and many more,  
In all I do believe near twice two score.  
They are all Plotters, yet by Jove not one,  
Can tell you what was said, or what was done.  
The Gatehouse is become a Babel now,  
Confusions came upon us none known how.  
But he that wrought the mischief now is found,  
'Twill puzzle any man to prove him sound.  
He's rotten at the heart i'll lay my life,  
No wonder he begot us all this strife.  
Well, now the cause is gone, the effect will cease,  
I hope we shall enjoy our former peace.  
This little Leaven leavened the whole lump,  
And made us fear another saucy Rump.  
He studied out new Plots, and for what ends?  
Only to please his Prerbyterian friends.  
Ah but my Friend, thou thy last Dice hast thrown,  
For which the Presbyters begin to groan,  
Thy busy active Soul (I do not jest)  
Had lately sent it a Quietus est.  
And that which doth thy grief and sorrow double,  
Thou art not Rich for all thy needless trouble.  
Soul take thine ease, thou very well may'st sing,  
For thou hast got a Writ of ease from th' King:  
Thou hast much Goods laid up for many years,  
Sing that and I will give thee both my Ears.  
Leave but the Factious out, go through the City,  
Thou wilt not find a Man inclined to pity.  
Hang him cries one, he was a busy Knave,  
He she'wd no mercy, nor he none shall have.  
Mischief was all his aim, and his design,  
When he brought Hickey to a glass of Wine.  
The mischief which soeagerly he sought  
For others, he himself too dearly bought:  
But I am almost weary of my Rhimes,  
For I consider these are Traitorous times.  
Had but this busy Fool his late Commission,  
This would have cost me a devout Submission;  
I had been surely sent to Goal for Treason  
As Thompson was, and had a greater reason:  
But God be thanked curst-Cows have short Horns,  
He must and shall endure our Flouts and Scorns.  
We may go boldly on, and fear no fall;  
No painted Staff will answer at his call.  
Now he is down, down with him, now 's the Season;  
For if he rise he'll Goal us all for TREASON.  
FINIS.