A Scourge for the JACOBITES: A satire.  

licenced May 5. 1692.   

COME lash my Muse with a tissic Pen,  
The wilful Nonsense that still lurks in Men  
composed of Contradiction, foolish Spite,  
Whose Reason's lost, and is called JACOBITE.  
Assist ye Powers that I may them display,  
And bring their darkest Follies to the day.  
I'll first describe him as he ' ppears to view,  
Next search him thoroughly, out, and inside too.  
His Mean's dejected, hang'd-down Head and Ears;  
His Humour ebbs and flows with joy and fears;  
puffed up with thoughts of Fleets and Men, that are  
To land the Lord knows how, or when, and where.  
He swells, he huffs, and puffs, and struts about,  
Till he's disgorged his poisoned Notions out.  
Talks big of France, and of its mighty King,  
Whose famed, or shane, throughout the World doth ring;  
What Towns, what Armies ever can withstand  
The unconq'ring Arms of his and James's hand,  
Whose Courage equal's known by Sea and Land,  
That where they cannot run, they'll surely stand.  
You of all others should be least o'erjoyed;  
If French or Irish land, ye're all destroyed.  
The enraged Mob will do themselves this Right,  
Each puny Boy'll devour a JACOBITE.  
Blind, sordid Biggot; can, yet will not see  
Thy growing Ruin and Catastrophe  
Daily creeps on thee, whilst just Heavens Decree  
Crowns our Great WILL with all prosperity,  
And gives him more than Human Victory.  
'Tis he alone whom Heaven has designed  
To be the darling-Good for all Mankind:  
Miracle of Mercy to his worst of Foes,  
Who daily do his glorious Reign oppose;  
Yet still he lets them live to run their Fate,  
And shows they are beneath his Royal hate.  
Patron of Justice, Equity and Right,  
terror to Foes, in Council, and in Fight:  
Justly beloved, justly obeyed by all,  
But thou base treacherous unthinking Animal.  
Despicable, indigent, and useless thing,  
Does neither service to thyself, or King.  
For what thou whisper'st, writes, or talk'st aloud  
In Coffee-House, Secret Cabal, or Crowd,  
Does only show thy Base Degenerate Mind,  
Justly abhorred, and cursed by all Mankind.  
With Lucifer on'd think ye are combined  
To ruin all, not sparing your own kind.  
How could ye else by Grumbling seek for Ease  
From French Remedies, worse than the Disease?  
Ye all pretend to feel, tho' 'tis too plain  
Reformation's wanting only in your Brain:  
What canst thou wish for, that we had before,  
That we possess not, and a Richer Store?  
'Tis thy own fault that thou enjoy'st no more.  
Ye, like cursed Curs, who in the Manger lye,  
Growl, snarl, and bite the Beast that standeth by,  
Envying each Grass he there receives for Food,  
Tho' the whole Truss can do himself no good.  
Shadow of Man! for that is all that can  
Be found of thee to show thou wert a Man,  
Thy Reason, judgement, Senses, all are lost,  
Since thy vain, fordid, selfish Humour's crost:  
Regardless to the Welfare of Mankind,  
Those Thoughts ye banish from your Soul and Mind;  
And sacrifice Laws, Liberties, and all  
That we can wish, possess, or sacred call;  
With sham-pretence of Service that ye'd do him,  
Who like the Devil ye serve, but won't go to him:  
Rebellious Fool! what canst thou hope to find?  
For turn of State will never turn thy Mind  
From that Base villainy that lurks throughout  
Thy poisoned Soul and carcase, won't go out;  
Nor can it die, and thou survive, cursed Elf!  
Rather than not do ill, thou't hang thyself;  
Tho' that's the least of Ills thou ere canst do,  
To hang thyself, and all thy Fellows too:  
Nor can ye blame the King or State for more,  
Than that ye live, and were not hanged before.  
Ye spurn at Mercy that is daily shown  
To ye, the worst of Men, yourselves must own,  
These are the Marks, by which ye all are known.  
Ah! Happy Albion, thrice blessed Isle!  
Could we this Excrementious Brood exile;  
Or would they cease to be! Grant Heaven they may  
Like Rusty Iron, eat themselves away.   
FINIS.   

London: Printed for Rich. Butler. 1692.