THE COMMITTEE or Popery in Masquerade.    

THE EXPLANATION.  

BEhold Here, in This Piece, the Plague, the Fate  
Of a Seditious Schism in Church, and State:  
Its Rise, and Progress; with the dire Event  
Of a Blind Zeal, and a Packed Parliament.  
It was This Medley that Confounded All;  
This damned Concert of Folly and Cabal,  
That Ruined us: For ye must know, that Fools  
Are but State-Engins; Politicians Tools  
Ground to an Edge, to Hack, and Hue it out;  
Till by Dull Sots Knaves Ends are brought about.  
Think on't, my Masters; and if e'er ye see  
This Game played o'er again, then Think of Me.   

You'll say This Print's a satire. Against Whom?  
Those that Crowned Holy Charles with Martyrdom.  
By the same rule the Scripture you'll Traduce,  
For saying Christ was Crucifi'd by th' jews:  
Nay, and their Treasons too agreed in This;  
By Pharisees Betrayed; and with a Kiss:  
Conscience, the Cry; Emanuel was the Word;  
The Cause, the Gospel, but the Plea, the Sword.   

[A] Now lay your Ear close to that Nest of Heads.  
Look, don't ye see a Streaming Ray, that sheds  
A Light from the Cabal down to the Table;  
T' inspire, and Push on an Enthusiast Rabble?  
In That Box sits a junto in Debate,  
Upon their Sovereigns and Three Kingdoms Fate:  
They're Hot, and Loud enough. Attend 'em pray,  
From point to point; and tell us what they say.   

Is it Resolved then that the King must Down?  
Not for a World; we'll only take his Crown:  
He shall have Caps, and Knees still; and the Fame  
Of a fair Title, and Imperial Name:  
But for the Sword; the Power of War, and Peace;  
Life and Death; and such Fooleries as These;  
We'll beg These Boons our selves: And Then, in Course,  
What cannot be Obtained by Prayer, we'll Force.  
It rests, now, only; by what Arts and Friends,  
Methods, and Instruments, to gain These Ends.   

First, make the People Sure; and That must be  
By Pleas for Conscience, Common Liberty:  
By which Means, we secure a Popular Voice  
For Knights and Burgesses, in the Next Choice.  
If we can get an Act, Then, to Sat on  
Till we Dissolve ourselves, the work's Half-done.  
In the mean while, the Pulpits, and the Presses  
Must ring of Popery, Grievances, Addresses,  
Plots of all Sorts, Invasions, Massacres,  
Troops under Ground, Plague-Plaisters, Cavaliers:  
Till, Mad with Spite and jealousy, the Nation  
Cry out, as One Man, for a Reformation.   

Having thus gained the Rabble; it must be our  
Next Part, the Common-Council to secure:  
And then; let King, Law, Church, and Court-Cabal  
Unite, and do their Worst; we'll Stand 'em All.  
Our Design's This; to Change the Government;  
Set up our Selves; and do't by a Parliament.  
And This t' effect needs only Resolution;  
We'll leave the Tumults to do Execution.  
The Popish Lords must Out, Bishops must Down;  
Strafford must Die; and Then, have at the Crown.  
We will not leave the King, One Minister;  
The House, One Member; but what We Prefer:  
No nor the Church, One Levite; Down they go:  
We, and the Prentices will have it so.   

[B] This was scarce sooner Said, than the thing Done:  
For up starts Little Isaac, in the Room  
Of Loyal Gourney, with a Sword in's hand;  
The Ensign of his New-usurpt Command:  
Out of his Mouth, a Label, to be True  
To the Design of the Caballing Crew:  
[C] His Holiness at's Elbow; Heart'ning on,  
A Motly Schism; Half-Pope, Half-Puritan;  
Who, while they talk of Union, bawl at Rome;  
Revolt, and set up Popery at Home.   

[D] Now, bring your Eye down to the Board; and see  
Th' Agreement of that Blessed Fraternity:  
Cov'nanters All; and by That Holy Band  
Sworn Enemies to th' Established Law o'th' Land.  
These are the Men that Plague all Parliaments  
For the Impossible Expedients  
Of making Protestant Dissenters, One,  
By Acts of Grace, or Comprehension:  
When by their very Principles, each other  
Thinks himself bound to Persecute his Brother.  
They never Did, they never Can Unite  
In any one Point, but t' o'erthrow the Right:  
Nor is't at all th' Intent of Their Debate  
To fix Religion, but t' embroil the State;  
Ill Accidents and Humours to improve,  
Under the fair Pretexts of Peace, and Love;  
To serve the Turn of an Usurping Power.  
But read the Minutes, and They'll tell ye More.   

[E] Take a view, next, of the Petitioners.  
But why, (you'll say) like Beasts to th' Ark in Pairs?  
Not to expose the Quaker, and the Maid,  
(By Lust to those Brutalities betrayed)  
As if those two Sects more addicted stood  
To Mares, and Whelps, than other Flesh and Blood:  
No, But they're coupled Here, only to tell  
The Harmony of their Reforming Zeal.   

[F] Now wash your Eyes, and see their Secretarius  
Of Uncouth Visage; Manners most Nefarious;  
Placed betwixt Pot and Pipe, with Pen and Paper;  
To show that he can Scribble, Tope, and Vapour:  
Beside him, (craving Blessing) a Sweet Baby;  
(Save it!) the very Image of the Daddy!  
He deals in Sonnets, Articles, takes Notes,  
Frames Histories, Impeachments, enters Votes,  
Draws Narratives, (for Four Pound) very well;  
But then 'tis Forty more, to Pass the Seal.  
Beside his Faculty, at a Dry Bob,  
That brings him many a comfortable Job.   

[G] Mark, Now, Those Clubmen; That Tumultuous Rout  
Crown, Bible, Magna Charta, under Foot!  
Those Banners, Trophies; and the Execrable  
Rage, and Transports of an Incensed Rabble!  
Here, the Three States in Chains; and There, the Head  
Of a Good King, by Rebels Murdered.  
And all this while, the Creatures of Those Knaves,  
That blew the Coal, themselves, the greatest Slaves.  
What Devil could make Men Mad, to This Degree?  
Only mistaken Zeal, and jealousy.  
Liberty, Conscience, Popery, the Pretence;  
Rapine, Blood, Sacrilege, the Consequence.   

[H] Let's Cross the way, Now, to the Doctor's Side.  
'Tis a good, pretty Girl, that holds his Head!  
What's his Disease, Sweetheart? Nay, That's a Question;  
His Stomach's Foul, perhaps, 'tis Ill Digestion;  
But 'tis a mercy, 't comes so finely away:  
Here's Canons, Surplices, Apocrypha!  
Look what a Lump there lies of Common-Prayer.  
Ay, but the Cross in Baptism, that lies There:  
O, how he Reached; and still, as I provoked him,  
He'd Heave for Life; 'twas Ten to One 't had Choked him!  
Nay verily; This Stuff, in Holderforth,  
May be as much as a man's Life is worth.   

How Do ye Sir? Why somewhat more at Ease,  
Since I've Discharged these Legal Crudities.  
But if your Stomach be so extremely Nice;  
What Course d'ye take? O, I have Good Advice:  
All the Dissenting Protestant-Divines;  
There's not a man in the whole Club, but Joyns.  
This Pect'ral, ●ou must know, keeps me alive;  
Sequestered Livings are Preservative!  
But for the Sovereign Remedy of all,  
The Only, neverfailing Cordial;  
There 'tis upon That Shelf: That Composition  
Th' Assembly Took, it self, in my Condition.  
The Tears of Widows, Orphans Hearts, and Blood  
They made their daily Drink, their daily Food:  
Behold our Christian Cannibal's Oblation,  
To auspicate their Moloch Reformation.   

[I] Well! But what means This Excremental Swarm  
Of Humane Infects? How they Fret, and Storm;  
Grin at the Vomit; and yet for all this Pother;  
At the same Time, lie teizing one another.  
Alas! 'Tis too, too true, you've hit my Grief:  
And there's no Help, no Help for't; no Relief.  
While They joined Hands with Us, against the Crown,  
And Church; How sweetly the Lords Work went on!  
But when we came to plant our Directory,  
‛ Bless me, what Freaks they played! you know the Story.  
Oh! of themselves, they're even a viprous Brood;  
Begot in Discord, and brought up with Blood.  
'Twas We that gave 'em Life, Credit, and Name,  
Till the Ungrateful Brats devoured their Dam.   

What could ye look for else? For 'tis Dominion,  
That you do all contend for, not Opinion.  
If you'll have any Government; then say,  
Which Party shall Command, and which Obey.  
Power is the thing ye both Affect, and Hate,  
Every one would, ye Cannot, All be Great.  
This is, in short, the Sum of the Contest;  
Still He that's Up, 's an Eyesore to the Rest.  
Presbytery breeds Worms: This Maggot-Fry  
Is but the Spawn of Lawless Liberty.  
Licence, is like a Sea-Breach to your Grounds;  
Suffer but One Flaw, the whole Country Drowns.    

LONDON: Printed by Mary Clark, for Henry Brome, at the Gun in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1681.