THE DISSENTER TRULY DESCRIBED.  
WHat shall a Glorious Nation be overthrown,  
By Troops of Sneaking Rascals of our own?  
Must Civil, and Ecclesiastic Laws,  
Once Truckle more under the good Old Cause?  
Shall these ungrateful Varlets think to Live,  
Only to clip Royal Prerogative?  
Shall all our Blood turn Whey, whilst we do see  
Men both Affront, and Stab the Monarchy?  
I'm all inflamed with a Poetic Rage,  
And will Chastise the Follies of the Age.  
Thoughts crowd so fast upon me, I must Write  
Till I've displayed the Gaudy Hypocrite.  
He's one that scarcely can be called a Man,  
And yet's a Pious, Holy Christian.  
He's big with Saving Faith (he says,) yet He  
Has not one spark of common Charity.  
'Gainst Reason he perpetually Whines.  
Because it Contradicts his Black Designs.  
He disesteems dull Morals; For a Saint  
My well beloved Brethren must not want.  
Soul-warming Thoughts; so warm that they did dwell,  
First in the Womb, than at the Breasts of Hell.  
He Flouts the Common Prayers, yet the poor Fool,  
Himself, not Them, does turn to Ridicule.  
He hates a Form, yet loves his dear Nonsense;  
Nauseates his God with his Impertinence.  
With Eyes turned up, Mouth Screwed, and Monkey-Face,  
He Loudly Bawls to God for Saving Grace.  
With Mien so Base, and Scurvy, as if even  
His Apish Postures only would please Heaven.  
And then his sniveling Tone, to the most High,  
He does conclude is Curious Melody.  
If things succeed not as his Humour would,  
He straight grows Angry, and he Huffs his God:  
And this, (as if God knew not what to do,)  
And that would have been for thy Glory too.  
Then Muffled in his Cloak, Roger gins  
In's Sermon, to dawb forth, Soul-killing Sins;  
Murder, and Theft, and Pride, and Gluttony, etc.  
Which in their Lives none more Applauds then Herald  
Yet if you do Survey the List with care,  
You'll quickly find Rebellion is hid there.  
And when he's pressed to Duties for some Hours;  
He ne'er puts in Obey the Higher Powers.  

At Surplice, and Lawn-Sleeves, he takes Offence,  
Because they are the Types of Innocence;  
For that he hates, and with it men of Sense.   
The Reverend Prelates he still vilifies,  
'Cause they detect his Cursed Villainies.  
Hang them, they Bark, come let us pull them down,  
For this same Mitre does Support the Crown.  
They're the King's Truest Friends, yet thought it good,  
To drown his Kingdoms in a Sea of Blood.  
They the King's person would protect, they said,  
Yes, yes, forsooth by Cutting off his Head;  
And this they did Inspired by Zeal alone,  
To fasten Christ in his Triumphant Throne.  
As if Damned Lies, False Oaths, and Base Deceit,  
Propped up his Throne, and made him Truly Great.  
As if the Devil himself that acted them,  
Did bring the Lustre to his Diadem.  
Nay they go on yet with the same Intents,  
By moulding to their Minds New Parliaments.  
Some of the Great, they by their Whimsies guide,  
To like their Treason, and to stem their Pride.  
In other things, like methods they pursue,  
For even the Sh'riffs, must be fanatics too.  
The Judges too, they'd to their Party gain,  
Did they want either Honesty, or Brain.  
And when their Wheedling Tricks do fail on these,  
They poison soon some Country Justices.  
Then had they once the dear Militia,  
They'd mount the Saddle, and make Charles obey:  
Thus first they'd make Him but a very Straw,  
And then at List Control, and give him Law.  
In fine, they are the Foes of Royal State,  
Order is the great Object of their Hate.  
Nor God, nor Men, these Furies seek to Please,  
They'd Bruise the Crown, and Tear our Surplices.  
They'd Vndermine the Church's Harmony,  
And Ride a full Carrier to Popery.  
They all Mankind, except Themselves Despise,  
Chief the Great, for being Good and Wise.  
Some Subtle have, and some have Giddy Souls,  
Some Fools, some Knaves, and some are Knaves and Fools.  
These Vermin would even the best things Command,  
And Suck up all the Sweetness of the Land.   

LONDON, Printed for N. Thompson, Anno Dom. 1681.