A Riddle of STATE; OR, THE Parliament Triumphant.  
To the Tune of, The Pinks Petticoat laced Round.  

O Brave Parliament!  
That Antidotes our Fate;  
And cures all our Maladies,  
In Church, as well as State:  
The Terror of the Catholics,  
The Overthrow of Rome;  
The Guardian of Protestants,  
And all Christendom.   

In came Bob-tail,  
The Boast of the Town;  
And she was clad with Midnight,  
And masked with the Moon.  
She looked like a Mairmaid,  
And squinted with her Eye:  
But would not pass a Compliment,  
Nor tell the Reason why.   

Then came Charity,  
(A sober lovely Lass)  
And Pleaded much for Conscience,  
That She might have a Pass.  
But up' rose Discord,  
And gave her the lie;  
Pray, Madam, come another time,  
But now stand by.   

Then came Jealousy,  
(The Mother of Mischief)  
And, impudently, termed  
State-Policy a Thief.  
" She gave a Beggar Sixpence,  
" And yet on Trial found,  
" That She had picked his Pockets  
" Of full Five Pound.   

Then came N.—,  
Patched with her Crimes;  
And She had on a Petticoat,  
Was turned ten times.  
Her Limbs were made of Laziness;  
Her Pockets full of Gold.  
She picked up the Parliament,  
For all the Whore was old.   

Then came Presbytery,  
Whom every one did Mock;  
For she had pinned unto her britch  
The Whore of Babel's Smock.  
The Parliament did pity her,  
Because they saw her Poor;  
But up' rose Bob-tail,  
And kicked her to the Door.   

Next came Popery,  
Her Face painted fair;  
But when she turned about her Tail,  
They saw her Buttocks bare:  
Her Smock was of Comspiracy,  
She wore a Scarlet Gown;  
But,  she tied her Top-knot,  
They whipped her out of Town.   

Then came Cynosure,  
And humbly did pray,  
To dissipate her Darkness  
By one Bright Ray:  
But Aries the Clubman  
Eclipsed the Sun:  
And Phoebus could not shine, for  
The Devil upon Dun.   

Then came Gemini,  
And fell upon their Knees;  
And humbly accosted  
The Noble King of Bees:  
But, with a starn look,  
He thus did reply,  
" We can not take Wings,  
Till the Parliament fly.   

O Happy is that Subject,  
That eats his Honeycomb;  
Ne'er troubled with the Public,  
But lives in Peace at home:  
He's happy that can rule himself,  
A Monarch in his Mind.  
Contentment is a Treasure, which  
High Spirits seldom find.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year MDCLXXXIX.