THE TRAGICOMEDY OF TITUS OATS, Who sometime went under the Notion of The Salamanca Doctor: Who being Convicted of PERJURY And several other Crimes, at the Kings-Bench Bar, Westminster, May 16. 1685. had his Sentence to and in the Pillory, to be Vvhiped at the Cart's Arse, and to be sent back to Prison.  

PERJURY. PERJURY.   depiction of Titus Oates in the pillory 
SPECTATUM ADMISSI RISUM TENEATIS AMICI.   depiction of Titus Oates being whipped at the back of a cart  

WHet all your Wits, and Antidote your Eyes,  
Before you hazard here to play this Prize;  
Or gaze (like Eagles) on a Show so rare,  
No time brought forth an Object yet so fair;  
Lo! here's the Bug-Bear-Rampant of the PLOT,  
Which Whig on Tory (in a Shame) Begot;  
Here A-la-mode the Guardian of the Land  
In a New-fashioned Pulpit now doth stand;  
The Tub's o'erwhelmed, and all the Hoops are fling,  
And Deput- Jack he peeps out through the Bung.  
Barcochab's here, the Star of England's Sky,  
Deciphered now The Son of PERJURY;  
Th' Aegyptan-Cow, the Oaten-blasted Blade,  
Which hath (these several Years) eat up our Trade;  
The State's Anatomist, the Church Confusion,  
Who Dreamed a Plot, and Swore it was a Vision;  
A Doctor who Degree did ne'er Commence,  
A rhetorician that spoke never Sense;  
Like Proteus he still changeth to the time,  
His Pulse and Temper suits with any Clime;  
His Birth's equivocal, by Generation  
Seditions By-Blow, Loyaltys privation;  
A Linsey-Woolsey Emp'rick of the State,  
That hugs the Church, and knocks it o'er the Pate.  
He stands in state, and well becomes his station,  
Using a Truckling-Stool for Recreation:  
Now should he, in contempt of Peter's Chair,  
Leap from the Pillory to the Three-legged Mare,  
And with Empedocles desire to be  
But Canonised an Oaten-Deity,  
He would spring up (but that he is a Sot)  
A Mandrake, to conceive another PLOT.   

His Crime no Man can balance with a Curse,  
For still the Hydra doth deserve a worse:  
Then let him live a Minotaur of Men,  
Like Hirco-Cervus Couchant in his Den;  
The Monument of Mischief, and of Sin,  
To spread no farther than the Sooterkin  
Of old Sedition, set before our Eye,  
As Buoy and Beacon unto Loyalty;  
Yet at the Wheels of Fortune let him Dance  
A Jig of Penance that can make him Prance;  
Resenting all his Errors (though in vain)  
With fruitless wishes calling Time again;  
His Face is Brass, his Breech no Rod will feel,  
And who knows but his Back is made of Steel;  
His Soul is proof, perhaps his Body may  
Be made of Mettle harder than the Clay;  
Then put him to the touch, make Titus roar,  
The Chase is turned, now he's Son of a W—  
Then conjure him with Eggs and Kennel Dirt;  
And Contradictions that his Mouth did squirt;  
To tell his Name, we'll Christian him once yet,  
And mould and Agnoun which can with him fit;  
He is no Doctor, for by horrid Lies  
He cures Sedition, only Tinker-wise.  
He is no Papist, for he ne'er had Merit,  
Nor yet a Quaker, for he hath no Spirit.  
He is no Protestant, for want of Grace,  
To keep him from a falsifying face.  
He is no Turk, for always (like a Swine)  
He loved to wallow in a Tub of Wine.  
No name can fit him, therefore let him be  
The grumbling Ghost of Old Presbytery.    

London, Printed by J. M. and Published by Randal Taylor, MDCLXXXV.