THE PRESENT STATE OF ENGLAND: A Pleasant New True Ballad.  
To the Tune of, The Tailor and his Lass: Or, It was in the Prime, Of Coucumber Time.  

JAck Presbyter's up, And hopes at one Swoop,  
To swallow King, Bishop, and All-a:  
The Mitre and Crown, Must both tumble down,  
Or the Kingdom he tells you will Fall-a.   

Sure'tis a hard Fate, That to prop up the State,  
We must pull down the State-Religion:  
But the Saints have a new one, More holy and true one,  
Composed of Fox and Widgeon.   

An Engine they've got, Called a Damned Popish Plot,  
Shall bring in a Through-Reformation:  
Which thought be half Fable, It mads the poor Rabble,  
And puts out of Wits half the Nation.   

Thus their Work's quickly done, For each Mother's Son  
That to Church, or to King is Loyal,  
Shall strait be Indicted, Or else be sore Frighted,  
To be brought to their Fiery Trial.   

'Tis no more but pretend, He's to Popery a Friend;  
The Brethren cry loud, he's a Traitor;  
And their sure Evidences, Bring against him Pretences:  
And all of a Treasonable Nature.   

Th' Impeachers are such, So Honourable and Rich,  
That no Bribe can to Falshood invite 'em:  
Tho they Contradict themselves, And every Body else,  
A good Lusty Vote can Right 'em.   

No Matter for Blood, Their Oaths shall Stand Good,  
In Despite of all Circumstances:  
The City-Cabals, Say they cannot swear False;  
And each Pamphlet their Honour enhances.   

Who dares to deny, But One single Lie,  
Of the Many they swear on their Credit:  
He's brought on his Knees, Is Rebuked, and pays Fees;  
And must cry Peccavi he did it.   

If any's so bold, Their Tricks to unfold,  
Or offers to prove them Liars;  
Strait up steps another, And swears for Rogue-Brother,  
And flings the poor Wretch in the Briars.   

Thus Villains, 'bout Ten, The worst Scum of Men,  
While the Godly Party Maintain 'em,  
All England do Govern, And each such a Sovereign,  
The King must not speak again 'em   

Old Noll, and Dad Nick, Have taught them the Trick  
To make Plots, and then to Reveal 'em:  
Thus runs round the Jig, Of Politic Whig,  
Sure Pardon if they do not Conceal 'em.   

Then Inspired they bring in, For sad Men of Sin,  
Any one that is Honest and Loyal:  
But if Pardon's denied, All flock on Fitz-Side,  
To Hector the Merey Royal.   

Thus most Men for Fears, Dare not for their Ears,  
But Whigg and his Rout to second;  
Which if they Refuse, They're far worse than Jews,  
And Papists or Traitors are reckoned.   

And every poor Ape, Who for Changes does gape,  
And to be Preferred by the Party:  
To help Goud-Old-Cause, Wide stretches his Jaws,  
With loud Lies to show himself Hearty.   

And those Worthies Three, Care, Curtis, Langley,  
Do Publish them fast as they make'em:  
The being in Print, Signifies something in't;  
And the Rabble for Gospel mistake 'em   

Meanwhile— Pendent Laughs, And at— Byter scoffs,  
And at's hotheaded Zeal does flout-a;  
The Coxcomb to see, Thus shaking the Tree,  
While he's ready to gather the Fruit-a.   

Let Papists be Hanged, And Presbyters Damned,  
And may goggl'd-eyed Traitors perish:  
But let True Hearts sing, Long Live Charles our King,  
The Church, and the State to Cherish.   
FINIS.   

First Printed at Edinburgh; And reprinted at London, in the Year, 1681.