More Lampoons.  

The Hieroglyphic.  
COme Painter take a Prospect from this Hill,  
And on a well-spread Canvas show thy Skill:  
Draw all in Colours as they shall appear,  
And as they stand in merit place them there.  
Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field;  
And, as directed, so let that be filled.  
First, draw a Popish Army brisk and gay,  
Fight, and beat, destroyed, and run away.  
Then draw a Hearse, and let it stand in view,  
The Mourners more, far more than they're in show,  
Cursing their Fate, their Stars and in that fear,  
Show, if thou canst, how these damned Sets prepare  
To run, or stay and skulk in holes alone:  
By them, this Motto, Gallows claim thy own.  
Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil show  
Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.  
Now draw a crowd of Priests prepared to run,  
Like broken Merchants when their stock is gone;  
Some howling out their Prayers, forget and say,  
Save us St. Catch: Are all our Saints away?  
Draw 'em in hurry, running to and fro,  
Posting to Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.  
Next draw a crowd of Lords. This Label by,  
The great Design is lost. Alas, they cry,  
Who'd serve a Cause of such cursed destiny.  
Now draw four Priests, show how they Rome adore,  
And each Man's Scarf hang to be seen before.  
Two brace of Bishops, fallen to despair,  
Armed Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.  
Now show the Judges, and with them thy Skill,  
That all who see it done may say, 'Tis well;  
In Caps and Gowns, as they in order's fate  
'Twixt Heaven and Earth do thou them elevate:  
For their grave Noddles can Dispense with that.  
Now draw the little Rogues, the scoundrel Crew,  
Kts. Knaves, & Beggars, they must have their due,  
Gadbury, Butler, ay, and R— too.  
Amidst this crowd, on a sit spot of Land,  
To crown the work, let a large Gallows stand:  
All trembling by, armed with their guilt and fears,  
Kneel to this Image, and pour out their Prayers.  
And then die by Suffocation.   

To the respective Judges.  
Dignified things, may I your leaves implore,  
To kiss your Hands, & your high Heads adore;  
Judges you are, but you are something more.  
May I draw near, and with rough-hewed Pen,  
Give a small Draught of you, the worst of Men:  
Tell of your Merits, and your mighty Skill,  
And how your Charms all Courts of Justice fill.  
Your Laws, far stronger than the Commons Votes,  
So finely flows from your Dispensing Throats.  
What Rome will ask, you must not her deny:  
If Hell command you too, you must comply.  
There's none but you would in this Cause combine,  
Things made like Men, but act like Brutes & Swine.  
Law Books are trash, a Student he's a drudge:  
Learn to say, Yes, he's an accomplishied Judge;  
He wins the Scarlet Robe, and wears it too;  
Ay, and deserves it well, for more's his due;  
All that completes a Traitor dwells in you.  
Thus you like Villains to the Benches get,  
And, in defiance to the Laws, you sit,  
And all base actions that will please commit:  
There must you toil for Rome, and also try  
Your Irish Sense and Cobweb Policy,  
Complete your Crimes; and then you're fit to die.  
True Loyal Babes! Pimps to the Church of Rome.  
Trisilians Heirs: Heirs to his crimes and doom.  
Was ere the Hall filled up with such a Brood,  
All dipped in Treason, Villainies or Blood:  
Worse than Fanatic Priests; for they being pressed  
By a Wise Prince, Preached to Repeal the Test,  
Then here's the difference, 'twixt you Popish Tools,  
You're downright Rogues: They, only Knaves and Fools.  
FINIS.    

Printed, 1688.