THE REFORMATION.  
A satire.  Tempora mutantur, & Nos mutamur in Illis. 

HOW Roman-like did our Old Rebel die,  
With His last breath profaning Majesty?  
And braving heaven itself, He w'd not stay  
( Lest 'twere a piece of cowardice) to Pray.  
And cannot all this Gallantry Engage  
Some Zealot, spurred up to poetic Rage?  
But not a word— there's not one Ballad made,  
C— s I see, will have but slender Trade,  
For Rhymers now begin to Renegade.  
I wondered not at Converts of the Citts,  
Yet still I thought those epidemic Wits  
would ne're have Grace enough for Proselytes.  
But edifying catch does seldom fail,  
And when All miss, He's certain to prevail.  
Jack's a great Bug-bear— for his very sight  
Did our bold Whiggish Oracles so fright,  
That there's not one of all the Canting Fry,  
Can writ a failing Brother's Elegy.  
Nay, lesser yet— Their Club will not afford  
A farewell Speech; unless 't be for a Lord.  
The meaner Tyburn Saints have nought to say,  
Besides their Pater-Noster, and Away—  
Away they march to their True Friends below,  
Cursing the blabbing H— rd as they go.  
But Sh— smiles to see 'em come so thick,  
For He's resolved to play another trick,  
And have one 'bout at politic Old neck:  
For Steph— Vows they cannot live in Hell,  
Except they make the Little Dev'ls Rebel,  
And after, Vote It to a Common-weal.  
'Tis pleasant, Faith, to see a Babe of Grace  
Masking Geneva-Looks with Loyal Face;  
Then gravely tell you, that He never stood  
Too fierce a Stickler for the Brother-Hood  
And ne're meant Mischief, but for public Good.  
Thus Pious Wh— deeply red in Lives,  
French Leagues, Scotch Covenants, and Narratives,  
Though( the next Oxford Sitting) He designed  
T'impeach minced pies as Popishly inclined,  
Has now made Tender Conscience so comply,  
He'll allow Surplice, across, and Litany.  
Nay any thing, for th' Godly Reformade  
Seems so to hate the Salamanca Trade,  
That now a Passive Lecture He'll digest,  
As well as Meroz at Forbidden Feast,  
Though Jackel spoken with Sacred nonsense blessed.  
Next B— l wisely turning with the Tide,  
Thinks to shake off the once-Beloved-Side,  
And doth the whole Design so much resent,  
You'd almost Swear, He loved the Government:  
Yet still He closely favours the Intrigue,  
And quits the Sh— from this Holy League.  
are— that early Martyr for the Cause,  
So mauled in Jack'napes Lane by Popish Claws,  
Was pitied, till some Tell-tales understood  
That He, like Priest of Baal, in zealous mood,  
First scratched Himself, and then did Murder cry,  
And hanged a Brace of Tories by the by,  
No Engine kills like a Religious lie.  
But He, and Stout Sir Tr—( that could Vote  
For Freedom with as Popular a Note  
As any of the House) begin to shrink,  
Humbling themselves with Penitential Chink.  
So W— ms, who the same brave Motto wore  
As catiline, and Cassius, did before,  
Doth now His Latin posy Paraphrase,  
Will's For the King,( If not against His Gr—  
And Tr— laying down that Great Command,  
Will All His Taunton Forces now Disband.  
And thus, Forsooth, whilst Loyalty's in Fashion,  
W' are like to have a Hopeful Reformation,  
But Subtle Roger bids Us have a Care,  
'Tis dangerous yet to Trust these Saints too far,  
'Tis Ten to One, if Jove's Great Mercy can  
Of Whig, or Trimmer, make an Honest Man.    

LONDON, Printed for Charles Corbet, at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1684.