A Dialogue between JACK CATCH and his Journeyman; Concerning their Profession and present Affair in the world.  
They are afraid they cannot send so many to Heaven, as Baxter, Lob, and Bull, has sent to HELL.  JACK. 
Come prithee Nick,  
Look sharp, be quick,  
for now begins our Harvest;  
Throw by thy Coat,  
Thou'st have a Cloak,  
for Charles is now in earnest:  
His Friends no more shall hang like dogs to please a bloody Faction;  
Our damned Fanatic Plotting Rogues,  
shall breed no more distraction.  NICK. 
Then use your Art,  
And play your part,  
and leave your course of Whoring;  
Of Axe and Ropes,  
Clear all the Shops,  
be stocked without scoring:  
You must not use three blows at one,  
now Trading comes in faster;  
Lest you be Hanged for fumbling John,  
and I be made your Master.  JACK. 
O peace good Nick,  
A Drunken trick,  
but made well for the Saints though;  
For they each drop,  
Of Blood licked up,  
and scraped the Scaffold also:  
To make the factious fools believe,  
a Traitor died a Martyr;  
But now the Whigs to undeceive,  
he died more like a Tartar.  NICK. 
The worst I find,  
Yet stays behind,  
and hates to hang in order;  
His Grace and Peers,  
In Towns or Shires,  
or skulks upon the Borders:  
Argile, and Meluin, Ferguson,  
and Rumbold the blind Malster:  
Nelthorp Elby, Cocheran,  
are all run from the Halter.  JACK. 
Chesteeres and Lobb's,  
Two Whigish scabs,  
they preached nought but Treason,  
At th' end o'th' Farce,  
Now hangs an Arse,  
at groaning tyburn's Reason:  
The roaring Bull throws by his Gown,  
and wipes his greasy Whiskers:  
While Mother Criswel rubs him down,  
and claps him 'twixt two sisters.  NICK. 
Both Gibs and Row  
And Norton too,  
are run to save their Bacon;  
Would I were drunk,  
With my sweet Punk,  
were they but hanged or taken:  
Charlton of the old Rump,  
and Treason still promoting,  
He's come to town both Leg and Stump,  
we'll spoil his art of Voting.  NICK. 
By Heavens jack,  
Of all the pack,  
he's like to bring us Cole boy,  
For all his gang,  
He'll Peach and Hang,  
to keep out of the Hole boy:  
He'll send for's party bundeled up,  
like loads of Kentish Faggots,  
Then with the Hatchet and the Rope,  
we'll spoil their Fiery Maggots.  JACK. 
If this Trade hold,  
We'll want no Gold,  
old Stump their chief Pay Master;  
Of Every Rogue,  
And Treacherous Dog,  
that sought the King's Disaster:  
Five hundred pound I'll have at least,  
if e'er I take a Apprentice,  
Come let's go drink, our Trade's the best  
we'll make 'em know what Hemp is.   

Printed for J. Dean, in Cranborn- Street, in Leicester-Fields near Newport- House, 1683