A Dialogue between Bowman the TORY, AND PRANCE the Runagado. A New SONG.  
 

Bowman.  
COme murdering Miles, where's your Sedan?  
Or where's the Man you had it from?  
Which you carried Godfrey in,  
with Ropes about your Necks Boys?  
Nay, where is Mr. Howse's Horse,  
Which had been Sold at Penticost,  
On which thou swore the Corpse rid Post,  
above two years before Boys?   

Prance.  
By all the Gods that I adore,  
Mahomet, and what ere I Swore,  
I never saw since, nor before,  
that Godfrey which was Murdered:  
For Moneys I did Swear and Lie,  
To give the PLOT a deeper Dye,  
Old Tory promised to stand by,  
and see our Matters ordered.   

Bowman.  
That Water-Witch it was his Spell,  
That Froze up Styx, the way to Hell,  
The Thames, the Seas, and every Cell,  
just to the Gates of Pluto:  
The Hellespont was Frozen o'er,  
To both the Axills, Sea, and Shore,  
That the world might ne'er have motion more  
to save the whigs as you do.   

Bowman.  
Your Hambden now is Guilty found,  
'Twill cost him Forty Thousand Pound,  
Pox! Money's but an empty Sound,  
when Knaves deserves to swing Prance,  
Had Forty pound been offered there,  
To all that would come in and Swear,  
He would have fallen to Ketches' share,  
to teach him Tyburn-string Dance.   

Prance.  
Sounds the Lords out of the Tower,  
In spite of all our Perjured Power,  
Damned Oats and I are scarce secure,  
all our Intrigues do Falter:  
Out of the Tower without an Oats,  
To give Advice, or Rump of Votes,  
'Zblood, we must cut our own Throats,  
to keep out of the Halter.   

Prance.  
Nay, that which plagues me worst of all,  
They kicked me out of Gold-Smiths-Hall,  
And swear that I disgrace them all,  
one Cursed Tory Scratched me;  
In every place where e'er I come▪  
Like Sheep from Wolveses from me Folks run,  
Three times a day I am Drunk alone,  
for fear Old Nick should fetch me.   

Bowman.  
Well Prance, now look but five years back,  
How many Necks thy Tongue made Crack,  
It's time for thine to go to wrack,  
for Perjury and Treason:  
Since thou abhorr'st both Cross and Mass,  
Thou may'st pull down thy Sign o'th' Cross,  
And Hang thyself at the same Post,  
it is but Right and Reason.   

Prance.  
I'll first see Rutland, Kenge and Thee,  
Hanged up for Tory Loyalty,  
I'd be both Hanged and Damned to see,  
with Towzer in the Number,  
After I would not live to Dine,  
But downright Drunk with Brandy Wine,  
Strait into th' Sea with Herd of Swine,  
for Circumstance I am under.    

Printed for J. Dean, in Cranborn-street, 〈◊〉 New●●●t-House, in Leicester-Fields: 1684.