A Murnival of Knaves: OR, WHIGGISM Plainly Displayed, AND (If not grown shameless) Burlesqued out of Countenance.  
Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris & carcere dignum,  
Sivis esse aliquis, Probitas laudatur & alget.  Juv. Satyr. 1. 
London: Printed for James Norris, at the Kings-Arms without Temple-bar. 1683.   

TO THE Worshipful Mr. P. D. B.  
Most Worthy Patriots,  
I Presume to Dedicate this Pamphlet to you, (for I can call it no more, and I presume you will style it no less) considering your coupled Loyalty; and withal to inform you, that there is nothing contained herein, against the Loyal Party of that Emporium of Christendom, and Metropolis of London, but only the Dissenters: which I think I am in duty bound to do, and requires the Pen of a Cleveland, though never so Sarcastic, to reduce them to Obedience. I beseech you be not offended at my Endeavours, because they are honest, and no ways injurious, and little offensive, but what may pass the censure of a Scholastic tick without blame; at least, under the notion of a Licentia Poetica, if Burlesque Rhythme may be allowed it. I do not in the least question your approbation primâ fancy; but if you disrelish any thing herein, I am so much a Stoic, that I value not your Censure or Opinion: yet however, with permission, give me leave to acquaint you, that if you disapprove of it, I know who will not. This is all at present from  
Your Humble Servant, PHILLIP ANAX.  
POSTSCRIPT.  
IF the Author's Name in the close of the Epistle cramps your Understanding, let me advise you, as a friend, to consult the Worshipful Dr. OATES, (who has been of most (I had almost said all) Religions:) and if he has not forgot his Greek and Latin, as much as he has forfeited his Religion and Honesty, I believe he may be your Interpreter.   

A Murnival of Knaves, etc.  

WHen that the poor oppressed Press  
Groaned under the Cacoethes  
Of Scribbling; when Baboon and Pug  
Skirmisht in Paper-Dialogue;  
When Vile Tom's son did disembogue  
At one another Ruffian, Rogue,  
Profligate Villain, Fidler, Knave,  
Buffoon and Rascal, rail and rave  
In such foul terms as these; a Pack  
Enuf to break a Porter's back,  
Or shame at th' sharpest scolding rate  
The Wastcoteers of Beline's-gate:  
When one of these loose Pamphleteers  
Was very near losing his Ears,  
And did through Wood-loop-hole survey  
The Market on a welcome day;  
Nay, had he not begged off close-keeping.  
And Fine, good faith, had paid for's peeping:  
Then then 'twas. I blush in Burlesque Rhyme  
To think on't; but I'll tell the time,  
(Lest that the whigs should sneer and prate,  
And say this story is sans Date.)  
New style (to make no more ado,)  
It was i'th' year Fourscore and Two,  
The Ape of five times eight and one;  
And this to our stark shame was done,  
By Pladded Blow-Cap and Bog-Trotter,  
Whilst Resident here Haddu Ben Otter.  
Then Whig and Tory took the Field,  
Fought briskly, but would neither yield;  
The one of Caledonian Race,  
Tother has an Hibernian Face;  
True English Guelphs and Gibelines,  
Darting their Quills, like Porcupines.  
O how the Moor and Turk will fleer  
At Christians, when as once they hear,  
At one another how they jeer,  
And rant and taunt and domineer!  
Nay, Tease and Scold, and Rail downright  
At Hodge and smiling Heraclite,  
When half a quarter of their Sense,  
Will baffle whigs Impertinence;  
And all that Gang, except these two,  
Deserve to Hang, had they their due.  
Of these Dissensions what's the Cause?  
In truth a second Good old Cause,  
Started by some of Vxbridge-strain.  
(May it be ne'er started again)  
Persons and Names of Men I'll spare,  
But blame their Vices, that's Play fair:  
As to their Tone, their Garb, their Gate,  
I'll such a story true relate,  
And give Jack such a Character,  
That you'll need no Interpreter.  
Have you not heard a squeaking Ape,  
Tyre the Gods with shril-mouthed gape,  
As if the Heavens could not hear,  
Unless he rend the Hemisphere,  
Or that the Gods are now grown old,  
Or thick of hearing by catcht cold?  
'Tis Prodigy all o'er, yet true,  
Listen, you'll hear what he can do.  
He can outgape banged unbraced Drums  
With sticks two, fingers eight, two Thumbs,  
Thunder- outnoise with's deepmouthed Bass,  
Outbray the Phlegmatic dull Ass;  
With a strange noise laying Hens outcackle,  
Gossip's Out-chat in Prittle-prattle,  
(Whose Music, if compared to thee,  
Is pretty, taking Harmony;)  
Outgrunt the Babe of Farrowing Sow,  
Outlow little Irish Runt or Cow,  
Outbellow too her Consort-Bull,  
Outscold the strong-lunged Drab and Trull,  
Outbay in full cry Packs of Dogs,  
Outcroak the ugly Toads and Frogs,  
Th'Inhabitants of Fens and Bogs;  
Outhollow Huntsmen in full speed,  
Outhum the Bittern in a Reed,  
Outroar the Waves dashing against Rock,  
Outscreak the gay-plumed Bird Peacock,  
Outbawl Ships Crew in Storms at Sea,  
Without a Peripneumonie;  
Outhowl Hell's Hound with triple sconce,  
Outshout Routs yelping all at once;  
Outsqwaul, by help of potent Tipple,  
The froward Infant weaned from Nipple;  
The Lion and great Gun outroar,  
Through his large, wide-mouthed Cannon-bore;  
Outscream a Holy, Zealous Sister,  
When with lips sanctified has kissed her,  
And tapped and spigoted her Bung-  
Hole, neighbour to Confines of Dung;  
Outmew grim Malkin can this Fop,  
Making Amours on the house top;  
Outsqueak unoiled door, ungreased Cart-  
Wheel, in Gend ballads bearing part;  
Outsound the Cataracts of Nile,  
Deafening all round they say a Mile;  
Outyawn a wide Hiatus too  
With ease which you or I can't do.  
Nay this Clerks bawling, harsh-nosed Tones,  
Are far more dismal than the Groans  
Of Men dying o'th' Foul Disease,  
(Whose aching Bones disturb all ease)  
The Racking Gout, the Stone or Colic;  
But this in him's a holy Frolic.  
Should a Turk hear't, by's Father's Beard  
He'd swear 'twas the worst voice e'er heard;  
By Alla and by Mahomet,  
He'd not that hideous noise forget;  
Papists by th' Mass; the wand'ring Jew  
Pawns Tetragrammaton 'tis true;  
And with true Christians, all conclude,  
The Gentry, Commons, Multitude,  
'Tis but an hypocritick Tone,  
Mixed with a feigned Sighs and Groan,  
To gain their Parties great Applause,  
And to maintain the Good old Cause,  
Contrary to established Laws.  
And wonder too how it can be,  
They don't, who hear him constantly,  
Lose th' otocoustick Faculty.  
Thus you have all the various Notes,  
Warbled through Puritanick Throats,  
As deepmouthed Bass, soft Mean, shrill Treble,  
And all not worth small stone called Pebble.  
'Tis the Dissenters new Sol Fa,  
And every Note above Ela;  
Or if you please, 'tis nothing but  
The Presbyterians Gamut.  
Now Railing Rabshakeh surcease,  
Leave off your Flouts for shame, Peace, Peace.  
His Auditors it plainly appears,  
Have all of them Sanctified ears.  
I've done with his Stentorian voice,  
And glad I am out of the noise.  
But now I'll launch into the Seas  
Of his rare other Qualities,  
His rich Endowments and his Arts,  
His Corporal and mental parts:  
He has Fingers Ten, and eke Ten Toes,  
(A French Twang in an English Nose)  
If not Adonibezeckt by  
Just Judgement for his villainy.  
Spits forth in Pulpit Superstition,  
Bauls out Rebellion and Sedition,  
Belches more Flames and Fire too,  
Than Mongibel and Strombolo;  
A Kirk-Buffoon, can wink and pray,  
And blindfold teach to Bliss the way:  
Heaven's Newsmonger, can tell a Tale,  
And banged about with his Tong-flaile,  
Strengthened by Female-Candles, and  
Fortified with the fat o'th' Land;  
Has good Church-vailes, but yet no sense,  
By white-aproned Benevolence.  
Can squeeze his Eyes close; shriule up Nose,  
Th'Organ through which he sings in Prose;  
Whose Canting makes some laugh, some weep,  
And some ofttimes fall fast asleep.  
His Preachments stuffed with Hums and Haws,  
And patched up with the Good old Cause,  
(That Babe of Grace, Brat of their Loins,  
Got 'twixt Scotch and Geneva Groins)  
With Lord! in Prayer, O Lord thou know'st  
We know nought, Lord, Great Lord of Hosts!  
Thus breaking off, leaves sense and Wit  
To be found out by th'Hearers; yet,  
Let the Profane say what they will,  
He makes a Moving-Sermon still,  
And before th'end is left i'th' lurch,  
And People all drop out o'th' Church,  
But some awd Wives, 'bout six or seven,  
Just by the Pulpit, bound for Heaven,  
But God knows when, who all things knows,  
No body else (as I suppose)  
If they have none but such Guides blind,  
As these, to Cultivate the Mind;  
Crying through zeal, Ah Precious Man!  
How plain, when as he first began,  
He made the Text and Context too,  
Both to weak me, and eke poor you?  
What work he made on't? Oh such work,  
As might convert a Jew or Turk!  
How he did tumble o'er the Text,  
Tho i'th' Original perplexed;  
And mined it small, to th' end it might  
Digest with th' weakest Appetite?  
What Comforts, nay, what Truths Soulsaving  
Flow from him, worth hearing and having!  
It pierced my heart, and made me Groan,  
As well as Goody Such-a-one.  
But Aged Dames, go to, go to,  
You overdo, in truth you do;  
For't has been said b'unlucky spittle,  
You could not hear one word or tittle;  
For you were all born, or deaf grown,  
By Sickness not fit to be known.  
He, when the Spirit moves, can Pray  
Extrumpore three hours per day;  
And if in all that time, of Sense  
One word drops from him, I from thence-  
Forth to hear him will b'always bound,  
Tho I'd first be set quick i'th' ground.  
He can en cuerpo Prate, when Zeal  
Hath warmed him throughly, and then ree●  
Cross Diameter o'th' Pulpit, role  
From th' Arctic to th' Antarctic Pole  
Of his Suggestum, teach you th' way  
Unto Terra Incognita.  
He's th' walking Monument or Gin  
Of Actual and Original Sin,  
Who with starched Gravity and Grace  
Moves to a holy Cinque-a-pace:  
Nay he can dance Geneva-Jigs  
To Bagpipes that outsqueak stuck Pigs;  
Yet thinks 'tis not when he does do't,  
The Sensuality o'th' foot;  
If you judge so, you're much i'th' dark,  
'Tis a Zealous Frisk before the Ark,  
Lavalto, Capriol or Kick,  
No Mimies or Jack-Puddings Trick;  
He's no such Person, Sir, I ll vouch ye,  
But a Religious Mammamouchie.  
Bishop in Surplice, worse him scares  
Than Spirits in sheets, or Garden-Bears;  
Hates Choristers with sweet Sol, Fa,  
His Tones being ten Notes 'bove Ela;  
But twangs through th' Nose, like unset Chimes,  
Hopkins and Sternholds grovelling Rhymes.  
Th' Organ well-tuned brings him to Fits,  
And stare like one quite out of's Wits;  
Or in plain language, Sir (a sig  
For gaudy words) glares like dead Pig.  
His upper-Garment's Cap Calot,  
Tipped with white like black Jack or Pot,  
And lined with loggerheaded Sot:  
Sergeant Divine o'th' Cois that can  
Outspawl, outspit Asthmatic Man.  
The outer's a black Cloak to hide  
Knavery, els two long, three wide,  
Which swaths the Corpse of Bigot Lad,  
Like Mangy Scot leapt up in Plad.  
Cloak, whose base Tenant ne'er was Loyal,  
Nor can endure Duke that's Royal!  
Cloak, that dost all Rebellion shroud,  
In one that's Spiritually Proud!  
Cloak, that doth walking Treason wrap,  
And sometimes too a Swinging Clap!  
Cloak, whose Jack-Pudding-Tricks we know  
Makes Monarchy a Puppet-Show!  
Cloak, who dost hate each Ruling Thing,  
And wouldst set up a Grand-Dogue King!  
Cloak, where all Vices crowded dwell!  
Cloak, only for the Devil of Hell!  
Therefore I leave thee sans farewell.  
Round Railing Throat he ever wore  
A Band, like that 'bout neck of Moor,  
Which by that Crew is called Round-Robin;  
With Bandstrings small dangling like Bobin,  
Wherewith he play's all's Prattling while,  
Enuf to make your Worship smile;  
Nay more, were't not before the Altar,  
Enuf to make Towzer break Halter.  
The ornaments round top of Fist,  
Which some more properly term Wrist,  
Are Cuffs, so called, in number twain,  
Just and no more, without Lace, Plain,  
Of Sleasy Holland so deep and wide,  
They'd serve for Muckender hung by's side,  
To wipe him in's hot fit (no harm,  
I hope) and reach to keep him warm  
Fro' th' Carpus to the middle arm.  
I think I need not make more stir  
About this Linsey-Wolsey Sir,  
You'll know him by this Character.  
I think I promised it before,  
And therefore I will do't no more.  
But now I'm come unto the A—  
Of this untoward Balad-Farse,  
He shall not die the death of Dog,  
Sans Epitaph, or Epilogue,  
Call't which you please, I don't much matter,  
I'll say as Taffy does, Have at her.  
He is a Foe to Profane people,  
And goes to Houses yclept Steeple;  
A Skittish Jade, but he'll not tyre,  
Tho as Stew— Wh— he swinks for hire.  
A Pulpit-Boutefeu, Church-Cracker,  
A Fervid, painful Cushion-Thwacker;  
The Kirks Fisgig, Wildfire, or so,  
The States new Cacafuego,  
And so resolve to let him go.  
Now that I have ranged thus far  
With General Particular,  
Pardon me cause'ts a foolish Trick,  
As well as Roman Catholic;  
I'll leave them quiet, and be gone,  
Resolving to assault poor Don.  
The first that treads this Burlesque Stage,  
Is the State-Mimick of our Age,  
A pretty Pigmy, lank with care,  
Like Juggler looks in Bartle-Fair,  
Or th' Chitty-faced poor thing appears,  
When Horsed like Creature before Bears;  
He winks to understand the Sense  
Of what is given in Evidence,  
With ominously Neck awry,  
Would you know? faith I know not why.  
On whom kind Nature did engrave  
The true proverbial mark of Kn—  
Who winks with one eye, looks with t'other,  
'S not to be trusted, though noun Brother.  
All Creatures hear with Ears? you lie;  
For little Tony hears with's eye;  
No Treason's this, nor Blasphemy:  
A winking, pinking, dapper Don,  
Sire of th' Association;  
A Brat o'th' little Lord's cold brains:  
Methinks th' Abhorrers of such strains  
At length should shame this Pygmie-Elf  
To an Abhorrence of himself.  
The Issue both of's Head and Tail  
(If weakness can beget a Male,  
Or be so weaponed with a Tool  
To make a Child, I should say Fool)  
Compare, and then let me prevale  
With you to hear me out my Tale.  
The Son's Purse-proud and Fortune-fat,  
Now Fortune favours you know what.  
The Sire's a Crafty Chit, a Grave  
(In plain unwelted Saxon) Kn—  
So that 'twould strangely puzzle all  
The Rabble Astrological  
To Schematize to thee, or me,  
The Son's Wit, or Sire's Honesty.  
Yet the last some accursed Fate  
Doth ominously praedestinate,  
Or Haggard Witch, some Daemon Vile,  
Or the Ill Genius of this Isle  
Preserves this Bagatel to be  
The Tapped Plague of these Kingdoms three.  
Yet he could never ha' survived  
So long, but that he is Cat-lived.  
His Soul's a Blank (pardon th'Expression)  
Apt to receive any Impression  
Of Maxims fetched from Rome or Hell,  
By Loyola, or Machiavelli.  
A Charles to day, to morrow Nol;  
Nay let them Queen Quean Orange-Mol,  
All's one to him, let the World prate-on,  
As long as he can save his Bacon.  
By help of Bow-dyed Conscience dapple,  
With all these Humours he can grapple,  
Nay with as many more as these;  
O thou Brave, Pygmie-Hercules!  
The spawn of him of whom 'twas said  
By Witty Peg of France since dead,  
More Heretics he did create  
In Church, than Florentine in State!  
He has run through the Torrid Zone  
Of Forty eight, and Forty one.  
But here I think I err in time,  
Only to gratify my Rhyme.  
Hang't, 'tis but a Poetic Trick,  
And often used in Rhetoric,  
Which we dare say (though done perforce)  
'Tis but the Cart before the Horse,  
And so is not a pin the worse.  
Has seen a Cobbler Lordifid ',  
Hath long Conversed with Count Pride,  
(And as it hath been lately said  
By Statesman Sage, who is since dead,  
If it seems good to powerful Fate,  
A Dray-horse may be a Horse of State;  
And some of them, who then did Rule,  
Had Reason less than Horse or Mule.)  
Nay, he hath had the lucky fate  
To sit with the Council of State,  
And Committee of Safety too,  
Which was no easy Task to do;  
The Jointed-Baby, Bartle-Bauble  
Adored by the Giddy Rabble,  
The prime Court-Puppet of the City,  
Both wise in their conceit, and witty;  
Promoter of each Sect and Schism,  
The Directory, Catechism,  
Made by Westminster-Sanhedrim,  
And (when with Zeal filled to the brim)  
Their Orator, or rather Prater,  
Oracle, Grand Associater.  
The Hector of the Good old Cause,  
An Enemy to wholesome Laws;  
A Friend (if any) unto those  
Who are the Nations Public Foes.  
None sitter is to Rule the Rost  
Than such a one, who hath engrossed  
All the Intrigues of Politic  
In Monarchy and Anarchy.  
Where's sleepy Conscience all the while?  
Thou Jack o'both sides in this Isle!  
With Conscience great, or Conscience small,  
Or Conscience seared, that's worst of all,  
Or just like Conscience none at all.  
Nay farther, for I needs must tell ye,  
He has a Commonwealth in's Belly,  
Which by some State-Emetics may  
Be violently purged away,  
Or otherwise he'll lingering lie  
Of this State-Tympany, and die.  
Unto that end I'll have a bout,  
And try to fright away his Gout;  
Cowardly Gout! for shame retreat,  
Rack not his Pettitoes with heat  
And Pain; for he God wot's grown cold,  
And Nature's crumbling him to Mould  
By thee, yet let him die in peace,  
Rather than live thus our disease;  
No matter which way, so we're rid  
Of this Sham-plotting Whirligig;  
This little Lord, but huge grand Whig,  
The People's Dagon, Demi-God,  
The Rabbles Darling, small Birch-rod  
Of Loyalty, a Whistling Blade,  
The Page of Honour, Lancepresade  
Of Valour, Pickaninny-Peer,  
Who minds his Hits, Fight Dog, fight Bear  
Patron of all Dissenters, and  
The Demogorgon of Whigland;  
For which, 'tis said, he must resign  
His better share in Caroline;  
Nay he shall be, an't please the Pigs  
The Anti-Yorkist of the Whigs,  
Or else be Canonised by me  
The Whigs little St. Anthony.  
This Polish-Kingling since, they say,  
Who scarce could creep, is run away,  
('Twould vex a Dog to lic and peep,  
And see a skewered Pudding creep)  
To spend to's monumental praise  
The ragged remnant of his days,  
Till amongst the Boorish Belgian Rout  
His stinking snuff of life goes out;  
Where he may be of Devils the worst  
In all their Cacarchie accursed,  
Provided he proves moderate,  
And with his horns push not the State.  
I like his choice, 'tis very well,  
He has the shorter cut to Hell;  
For 'tis the lowest Moorish Bog,  
That e'er was Tenanted by Frog:  
Now he and they can't but agree,  
Being Rebels ab origine.  
Yet if he c'er return again,  
And cross the Pond, which some call Main,  
May he and's Myrmidonian Whigs  
Be soused in't, and made food for Grigs;  
But he hath since cut such a Shame,  
That they ha' made this nocent Lam  
A Burgh-Master of Amsterdam.  
In Batrachomyomachie,  
Whether it be by Land or Sea,  
If Frogs and Mice once more fall out,  
Then he would be, without all doubt,  
Chosen within those Country's Low,  
On one side Generalissimo.   

Now we have done with little Man  
Zachaeus, a right Publican,  
Exit; and enter on the Stage  
The Mighty Anak of this Age;  
Who first appears in fur-fac'd-Gown,  
Great Officer of London-Town,  
(Or as some please to term it City;  
But in good sooth, the more's the Pity)  
Of May-pole-Stature, high Renown,  
Who is so base and sordid grown,  
That some by old Tradition dare,  
And others positively swear,  
He'd craving Colon satisfy  
With a Six-penny-Mutton-pie:  
Yet if he was resolved to Feast,  
And to Regale that Canine Guest,  
Th' Ordinary Club at height must be  
Inflamed with sum of pence thrice three,  
(But here's the Devil on't, good Sir,  
What will become o'th' Caterer?  
Poor Rogue! he'll be harassed with care  
For to Adjust this Bill of Fare.)  
So that this great Jolt-head of Veal  
Will die indebted many a Meal  
To his poor Carcase, that will crave  
Bread, for the Lord's sake, in the Grave.  
It might ha' proved a Gorgeous Prey  
Unto those Animalcula,  
Who Banquet in all Tombs on dust,  
But in his Monument Fast they must.  
The Phrygian Fabler all agree  
Taught Birds and Beasts their A B C,  
Might teach those Infects for to wish,  
(Being deprived of such a Dish)  
That Mighty Jove would let him be  
The pendent Fruit of Fatal Tree,  
Devoured, in answer to their prayer,  
By blood-beakt-Canibals o'th' Air.  
He's fraught with nought but Plot and Shame,  
Disgrace, both of his Sire and Dam;  
The Nation's Shame and the Cities Slain,  
Which can't be rinsed out by the Main;  
Scorn of his Sex, Nature's By-Blow,  
The Chief of Cuckolds all a row,  
Who has the cursed thirst of Gold,  
As naturally as he of old;  
Nay and withal (for all your Jeers)  
His Punishment too, Asses Ears.  
Therefore some other thing will be  
Invented by the Deity  
To make this wretched Miser feel  
Nemesis angry Lash of Steel.  
The day after Simon and Judas,  
(Saint I omit, to please the Rude  
Ill-mannered Whigs, whom Jack doth teach  
To use the Irreverence of their Breech  
(I'll say no more t'avoid Commotion)  
I'th' highest Act of their Devotion)  
Were he on foot he would appear  
The Gawdiest Pageant that is there;  
But mounted on his Palfrey Stout,  
The only Centaur mongst the Rout,  
And when on Steed once fixed and set,  
Looks like Baboon, not Marmoset.  
The latter is a thing too small  
To represent great Lout withal.  
In Ignoramus he's well read,  
As some are in old Hollinshed;  
And knows how to patch up the Panel,  
For which some wish him lap't in Flannel;  
Or his Executors pay five pound,  
And break his heart, tho' under ground:  
For he that would not Club his shilling  
For Corpse alive, will ne'er be willing,  
When dead, and laid among the Crowd,  
Be charged with such a costly Shroud,  
Or give such a Prodigious Sum  
For's Voyage to Elysium:  
Nay others judge he will not spare  
The Ferryman of Hell his Fare;  
But rather wander all alone  
On gloomy banks of Acheron.  
He is the City's Demagogue,  
Whom some call Fool, but most call Rogue.  
Wit he has little; but if any,  
'Tis only how to turn the penny.  
But Rogue enuf; a Sneaking Fop,  
A sordid Miser, mere Milksop.  
He's very Cabalistical  
In Tavern-Clubs, Harangues them all,  
(For English-Prate, if you'll afford  
Such a good, modish Gallic Word)  
With whites of Eyes, expanded Hands,  
And Speech Larded with If's, Butts, andds,  
With gross Rebellion, horrid Treason,  
During all that Nocturnal Season,  
'Bove Statute-Madness, gross Nonsense,  
And such a Stock of Impudence,  
That without rudeness of a lie,  
Some of the Gang cry Pish, nay Fie!  
This done, all's done, and too much too,  
Yet not then without much ado.  
But when Bow's Curfew rings thrice three,  
That doth refresh their memory;  
'Tis late, and some Tory may say,  
They turn the Night into the Day.  
Then they arise with wearied Crupper,  
And some of them reel home to Supper;  
But this same Chairman scorns to be  
Guilty of such extravagancy.  
Then he begins like Acres-wise  
To drop, as every one his size,  
So break up th' Evening-Exercise.  
And then they all shake-hands, and part  
With every one an aching heart,  
Saying, If Popish Heir appear,  
We all of us shall be, I fear,  
Involved in blood up to each ear.  
Give me leave now tell y'a story  
Of a Mischievous Waggish Tory  
Who one night ('twas not very late)  
Palabrous was, that's full of prate,  
And did Inveigh egregiously  
Against this same Alderman-Would-be.  
Now all the while that he did Chatter  
About this great and weighty Matter,  
It chanced in Kitchin-corner stood  
His Man, like Image made of wood,  
Who gaped and sucked in the discourse,  
Took it for better or for worse,  
As Men do Wives. Torie, they say,  
His worth most truly did display,  
His Virtues, Parts, the great and less,  
As also his Closefistedness.  
His Man i'th' fire-nook, who heard all,  
With Patience very great, not small,  
Told's Master more, no doubt, than all.  
(For stories Snow-ball-like do gain  
By being rolled from brain to brain.)  
At which enraged, he soon did leap  
From Newgate-street unto West-cheap,  
Where Tom and Dick, and Jack and Hal  
Keep their Rebellious Cabal.  
I wonder thou canst live among  
A Wicked Crew, a Whiggish Throng,  
Thus uninfected (Faith and Troth)  
Being near the Castled Behemoth,  
That Catabaptist Whig, that can  
Outly, outcheat each Mortal Man,  
And that same quondam Gate-housed Fop,  
That o'er the way keeps a large Shop,  
Who is no Christian, nor yet Jew;  
And that some will aver is true;  
As well as Promise and Py-Crust,  
When made, that broken be they must.  
But to be faithful in my work,  
By's Head you'll guests him to be Turk.  
What makes thee prove a Tory still?  
Faith! 'tis thine obstinate noun self-will.  
But to the Man, read him who list,  
A Trojan false as ever pissed;  
A Man, if he deserves that name,  
So Profligate and void of Shame,  
That he'll pretend to any thing,  
But Fear God, and Honour th' King.  
As he grows old he will grow Bolder,  
'THead by th' Pole's higher than Shoulder.  
That Elevation of the Pole  
May much advantage his own Soul,  
And prove more grateful to the State,  
Than that of old, or this of late,  
If Souls access to Heaven have  
More from the Gallows than the Grave.  
He's Skilled in Mischief like Rome's Pope,  
Or Priests with a Canonic Cope.  
He's one of those that would, in sum,  
Extirpate Kings as did old Rome;  
And for a poor thing too, they say,  
A Supposed chaste LUCRETIA,  
Then set up a Democracie  
(The Darling of the Mobile)  
To Rule, and without more ado  
The Tyrant's play, and Devils too.  
Next Father Graybeard he appears  
With inch of hair and Swaggering ears,  
But Peruqued now shrowds like Man Sage  
The Baldness of his Lust and Age.  
Tom Popular, let me thee advise  
To hearken to the Orphans Cries;  
'Cause Charles does his, Tom Fool, must you  
Shut up the City-Chequer too?  
Your Nest now sure well-feathered is  
By serving our Metropolis;  
Therefore the Babes will cry Pray Pay,  
For it is now past Twelvemonth-day.  
In City Maiden-Fields called More  
Lives one has been a Bawd and Whore,  
(And yet's no Tenant of the Grave)  
As long as he been R— and K—  
A Haunter to Creswellian Stews,  
A shame to Christians, Turks, and Jews,  
Where he with Lustful appetite  
Revealed, till past the Noon of Night,  
That Brisk Aurora began to peep  
On slothful Mortals fast asleep,  
(Except Gold-finder, or Black-sweep,  
Burse-Sentinel with Bandeleer,  
And Lanthorned, Rusty-Halberdeer.)  
Casting her eyes about her, she  
Espied, and as soon blushed to see  
This Superannuated satire,  
White, hairless-pated Erra-Pater,  
Locked in the Embraces of her Arms,  
Who had a Mine of Graceful Charms;  
The Fulsom'st sight that e'er was seen,  
To see old Sixty grope Sixteen.  
City-Priapus, Campaigne-Bull,  
Prostitute to each Hackney-Trull,  
Hast thou the Impudence to think,  
Rank He-Goat, Carrion that does stink  
Above ground, that thou'rt fit to be  
The Guardian of Virginity?  
Methinks the colder Snow of Age  
Should cool at least thy Codpiece Rage,  
If not quite quench thy Amorous Fire,  
Weak in the Act, strong in desire.  
Had he but Youth, and strength of Chine,  
He might contend with Messalina,  
Who, when o'er-rid by twice twelve, cried  
I'm tired, but yet not satisfied:  
Nay some do groundedly Post-sage,  
That had he lived within that Age,  
When there was one, and one alone,  
Called Petticoated-Papess-Joan,  
He soon to Rome had made his flight  
(Without what th' Adage says is light)  
To try her Antichristian Charms.  
Old Soldiers love to be in Arms.  
And pray, why may not London-Knight,  
To sat Inord'nate Appetite,  
Venture as far for Germane Punk  
With credit, as a Germane Monk,  
Whose Virtue and Prolific Skill,  
If but as brisk as Lust and Will,  
He may depend o'th' Priests Success,  
And re-impregnate Holiness?  
Who doubts it? but by th' Halyrood,  
'Twould prove a Monstrous, Spurious Brood;  
A Holy, Anglo-German-Brat,  
Dutch Sooterkin, and English Rat,  
Which must, in spite o'th' Casuist,  
Be named the Calvino-Papist.  
Well, Huguenot! thou sneering Fool!  
They've now a Porphr'y Cucking-stool;  
That, till the very Day of Doom,  
Shall no Tiresias be in Rome  
For to defile that Holy Chair  
With any false Priests, or foul Player.  
Rome! the grand Mart of Pious Frauds,  
Th' Emporium of Pimps, Whores and Bawd's  
Nest of a cursed Gaming Crew:  
Then Rome take P— or P— take you,  
For he's or yours, or some Fiend's due.  
Others there are that dare assure,  
That when he's in the Grave secure  
(Being such a Prodigy of Lust)  
He'll Fumble with the Worms in dust,  
And get (O pretty sight to see!)  
A numerous, crawling Progeny.  
There's one thing more against him in charge,  
Wherein I will be brief, not large,  
Or rather an Advice, that he  
Would learn to practise Loyalty.  
Know the vast distance, Saucebox, come,  
'Twixt Royal James and Rascal Tom;  
What, make no difference, wretched wight!  
'Twixt a Great Prince and a Poor Knight?  
A common City-Servant known;  
Who e'er found him a Faithful one?  
Unleader'd now thou mayst be made,  
Or turn an Aged Lancepresade.  
Die, Die for shame, thou'st lived too long,  
Turbulent Commoner of the Throng,  
That we may all with good Presage  
From that time date our Merry-age.  
Thus you see Exit Dwarfish Don,  
The May-pole-Miser too is gone;  
And eke also amongst the Herd  
Our most Salacious Dad-Gray-Beard;  
Of all Sedition, Villainy,  
And Mischief, the Triumvirs.  
To make this Trine a perfect Square,  
Which Learned call Quadrangular,  
Harken with reverence and Fear,  
Divinity brings up the Rear:  
Come Black-Coat-Bumpkin, Grave Fopdoodle,  
Shake ears affixed to empty Noddle.  
Of a Bad Father the Worst Son,  
The Proteus' of Religion:  
Spawn of an Anabaptist Dipper,  
Of the Kirk's Catch an Vnder-skipper,  
Once a Lay-Saint-Audomarist,  
A Papist and a Calvanist;  
Now this, then that, indeed what not?  
Even any thing but good, God wot.  
As stories tell, (and 'tis no Flame)  
O'th' Famous man of Rotterdam;  
The Papists all so dubious were  
Of his Religion, that i'th'aer  
They hanged his Corpse 'twixt Heaven and Hell,  
Knowing not which t'allot him well;  
Much more ought this Lay-Priest to be  
Served so for his Inconstancy,  
Till the last Trump (a dubious Case)  
Summons him to his proper place;  
There to receive his deserved doom,  
For kindness done to Us and Rome.  
This Reverend Doctor of the Mancha,  
Prudent as Quixot's Sancha Pancha,  
Did gravely foot it round the Town,  
In Doctor's Scarf, and Doctor's Gown,  
With Janissaries two at heel,  
Tied to Morglays of Bilbo-steel;  
Therefore you cannot but him grant,  
To be of the Church-Militant;  
Now walks en Cuerpo, Honest Tite,  
Scorning to leave the Spaniard quite,  
'Cause he being every where denied,  
Was by the Don Doctorified;  
A Renegado (we'll go on)  
Who wants but Circumcision,  
Asperse good store, and Peasants true,  
To make him either Turk or Jew  
This Learned Sage Philosopher,  
Needs not read Alec. Rosse over.  
For this Religious, Goblin Elf  
Has a Pansebeia in himself.  
He is Religion's Tennis-ball,  
Bandied and tossed about by all,  
From England unto France and Spain,  
And thence to England back again,  
A Dulman, a mere Clerk obese,  
A walking Quagmire of Grease,  
So Bladdered by the Can and Pot,  
That he, like the Heraclot,  
Values no more the pricks of pins,  
Then Boys at Football kicks on shins:  
And for these Reasons they do say,  
He's made Archbishop of Bum-bay,  
'Cause his Posteriours large and great,  
Will very well fulfil that Seat.  
So that promoted to this place,  
He that had none is called his Grace.  
Though there were other Reason's store,  
Two, three or four, or less, or more,  
As followeth such as these are,  
(And they indeed are very rare)  
As wise as he that road in quest  
Of's Mother-Tongue, a pretty Jest,  
Or the fourfooted Creature dull,  
Trotting nine miles to suck a Bull.  
In Travel he hath all outdone,  
Has Lacquayed the unwearied Sun  
All Europe o'er, like a Divoto,  
True by the Figure pars pro toto,  
Active as Guts and Garbage can  
Be in so great, though little Man.  
He has a Voice as loud and yearn,  
As any Swallow on a Berne,  
With which he in a squeaking tone  
Saucily prates to every one;  
Thinking, Proud Fop! he has no betters,  
Because he is a Man of Letters.  
He was so once; I must confess,  
When that it was his happiness  
To be Rome's Post-boy, and made choice  
Of to be Mercury from Artois.  
If this does make him Learned, so  
He is, but nothing else I know.  
He cannot say his Currat Lex,  
Nor, though he ought, O Vivat Rex.  
He frequently breaks Priscian's head,  
Inhumanely, though long since dead.  
In Holy Writ some Texts him gall,  
Particularly Swear not at all;  
Besides, another seems but strange  
Unto him, Be not given to Change;  
By which it plainly may be said,  
I'th' Sacred Pages he's Ill-read:  
Nay both these sentences would he  
Expunge, had he the liberty,  
Were it not for that dreadful Curse  
(Than which there cannot be a worse)  
Mentioned, which I suppose he knows,  
Of that Book, in the very close.  
More of his Virtues I could tell,  
For which the Doctor knows full well,  
He's cursed by Candle, Book, and Bell,  
And damned by th' Pope of Rome to Hell.  
Yet now that I have done with all,  
Particularly the Murnival,  
I must i'th' Tories Vindication,  
Whisper a word i'th' ear o'th' Nation;  
And that is truly only this,  
(Dissenters, take it not amiss)  
When Tories swear, indeed they swear,  
But only 'tis because they fear,  
And know, and hear most certainly,  
Whigs Cheat and Lie most damnably;  
Making Religion Noise and Buz,  
Enuf to vex a Man of Vz.  
But to excuse them from that Crime,  
(If an Excuse may be in Rhyme)  
I will assure you there may be  
Found amongst you as great Rogues as we,  
For Whoring, Swearing, Drinking too;  
For Lying we have nought to do,  
Nor Shamming, 'tis your constant Trade,  
And will be till the Earth be made  
A general fire, and it is true,  
As I said Hypocrite take thy due,  
And that I certainly thee tell,  
Thy portion's th'hottest place in Hell.  
Thus Whig Damns Whig, and yet they all  
Are Innocent, both great and small,  
But I must tell you that's a Lie,  
(Whig, I'm ashamed of you) and why.  
For tho' through ignorance of late,  
It has been Tom's unlucky Fate  
To be abused, I'll undeceive  
The Vulgar (if they will believe)  
'Twas whipping Zac— not whipping Tom,  
That first discovered Maidens Bum,  
And flogged it; though he, Pious Soul,  
Designed the opposite Porthole  
To enter, but he first would see  
How fair Posteriours might be,  
And then he rationally guest,  
The thing before was like the rest;  
A pretty way in truth to try,  
Whether a Maid with man would lie;  
Next the Clare-Market Priest comes in,  
Who never counted it a Sin  
To lie with Woman, Wife, Maid, Whore,  
And has (they say) bored many a score;  
But that the worst was when he tried  
To bless before he occupied;  
Who caught the Maid in private room,  
With Benediction of the Womb,  
Where he upon the very place,  
Like Wanton Priest ' got Babe of Grace,  
But 'twas not ill to lie with her,  
Because a true Jack Presbyter.  
Now give me leave for to desine,  
The Son o'th' Handkercherd Divine;  
Who swills until the Noon of Night,  
And gorges still his Appetite  
With Viands and Liquors; but yet then  
For to avoid the sight of Men,  
Sleeps where his Drunkenness he got,  
Like, Holy Presbyterian Sot;  
And then at last away he goes  
Upon his Feet, (I think with Toes,)  
But first 'tis possibly he may  
For's Lodging in the morning pray,  
And that is all; welcome, well gone,  
Of Holy Father Gracious Son.  
I care not for the Bullian Jigs,  
That in moorefield's are danced by Whigs;  
Of the same Coat, but will conclude,  
With one Layman o'th' Multitude.  
A Reverend, Grave Pythagoras,  
But in good sooth a very Ass;  
That is endowed with as much sense,  
And Learning, (for all his presence)  
As amongst Schoolboys is one and twenty,  
That can repeat As in praesenti.  
Yes he has been a Statist too,  
Yes certainly with much ado;  
A Man of great Integrity,  
That will not pay, nor tell you why,  
Though a just Debt, only I won't,  
Is this your Honesty, pox on't.  
One that shall sip from place to place,  
Until his Worship does disgrace  
His Worship and his Manhood too,  
And yet shall rail at me, or you,  
Though I have known him, that I'll say,  
Take drunken Journeys thrice a day,  
And going home at night 'tis verum,  
Hath Scarified his Index rerum.  
But in a Tory 'tis a Crime  
Unpard'nable, a Fault sublime;  
Yet in a Whig it is but small,  
A Failing, may be none at all.  
Great Monarch! hear now the sad plaint  
Of your poor people, sick and faint  
For Parliament and Privilege,  
Which nought can cure, but Catch and Sledge;  
Grant their Request if you think fitting,  
Or send them home to mind their knitting.   
FINIS.   

BOOKS Printed for J. Norris, In the Year 1683.  
A satire against the Association, and the Guildhall Riot, 4o.  
The Noble Stranger, a Novel, 8o.  
A Tract against the Absolute Decree of Reprobation, in Lat. 8o.  
An Idea of Happiness, in a Letter to a Friend.