MAD FASHIONs, odd FASHIONS, All out of Fashions, OR, The Emblems of these Distracted times.  
By John Taylor.  
LONDON, Printed by John Hammond, for Thomas Banks, 1642.   

Mad fashions, od fashions, all out of fashions, OR, The Emblems of these distracted times.  
THe Picture that is Printed in the front  
Is like this kingdom, if you look upon't  
For if you well do note it as it is,  
It is a transformed metamorphosis.  
This Monstrous Picture plainly doth declare  
This land (quite out of order) out of square.  
His Breeches on his shoulders do appear,  
His doublet on his lower parts doth wear;  
His Boots and Spurs upon his arms and Hands,  
His Gloves upon his feet (whereon he stands)  
The Church o'er turned (a lamentable show)  
The Candlestick above, the light below,  
The coney hunts the dog, the Rat the Cat,  
The Horse doth whip the Cart (I pray mark that)  
The Wheelbarrow doth drive the man (oh Base)  
And eels and Gudgeons fly a mighty pace.  
And sure this is a Monster of strange fashion,  
That doth surpass all Ovid's Transformation.  
And this is England's case this very day,  
All things are turned the clean contrary way;  
For Now, when as a royal Parliament,  
(With King, and Peers, and Commons whole consent)  
Have almost sat two years, with pains and Cares,  
And Charge, to free us from our griefs and fears,  
For when many a worthy Lord and Knight,  
And good Esquire (for King and countries Right)  
Have spent so much time with Great toil, and heed,  
All England's, Vicious garden how to weed,  
So like a wilderness 'twas overrun,  
That though much hath been done; All is not done.  
The devil doth persuade, entice and lurk,  
And force bad men to set good men a-work.  
That whilst the Worthies strive to right our wrongs,  
And give to each man, what to him belongs;  
Whilst they take pains to settle all things here,  
And Irish devil, doth madly domineer.  
From hell's black Pit, begirt with Romish arms,  
Thous●nds of Locusts are in troops and swarms,  
More Barbarous than the Heathen, worse than Jews,  
No Turk or Tartars would such Tortures use.  
Sure that Religion can no ways be good,  
That so inhumanly delights in Blood:  
Nor doth that doctrine from the Scriptures spring,  
That subjects should rebel against their King.  
Nay (further) murder, ravish, spoil, deflower,  
Burn and lay waste, depopulate, devour,  
Not sparing Infants at the Breast or womb,  
(To die where first they lived, their Birth, their tomb)  
'Tis said no Serpent, Adder, Snake, or toad,  
Can live in Ireland, or hath there abode:  
'Tis strange that she those Vipers doth not Kill,  
That Guawes her bowels, and her blood doth spill,  
Can Irish Earth Kill all things venomous,  
And can she nurse such Vermin Mischievous:  
Her own sons Native, worse than Strangers Borne,  
They have their mother's entrails rent and torn,  
Yet still her indulgency, harbours those,  
And feeds those rebels that do breed her woes:  
God (in thy Mercy) give her strength and aid,  
And courage, make her foes and ours dismayed,  
Thou Lord of Hosts, thine own cause take in hand,  
Thy foes (Thine Antichristian foes) withstand;  
Defend thy truth, and all our Armies guide,  
Our enemies to scatter and divide.  
Thus leaving Ireland (with my hearty prayers)  
To Britain back again my Muse repairs:  
Where I perceive a Metamorphosis,  
Is most preposterous, as the Picture is,  
The world's turned upside down, from bad to worse,  
Quite out of frame, The cart before the Horse.  
The Fe●t-maker, and saucy stable groom  
Willd●re to perch into the Preachers room,  
Each Ignorant, do of the Spirit Boast,  
And prating fools brag of the holyghost,  
When Ignoramus will his Teacher Teach,  
And sowgelders, and cobblers dare to preach,  
This shows, men's wits are monstrously disguised,  
Or that our country is antipodised.  
When holy Common Prayer, is by the rabble  
Accounted porridge, and unfruitful Babble,  
When our belief is not so much as sed,  
When as the Ten Commandments are not read,  
When as the Lord's Prayer is almost neglected,  
When as all decency is quite rejected,  
When to avoid a Romish Papists name,  
A man must be unmannerly, past shame,  
When he that doth show Reverence, doth offend,  
And he seems best that will not bow or bend,  
When he that into God's House doth not come,  
As to a Stable, or a tippling room,  
Is counted for a Popish favourite,  
And branded so, despised, and scorned with spite.  
When He that (of his waves) doth conscience make,  
And in his heart doth world, flesh, fiend forsake,  
Loves God with all his soul; adores no pelf,  
And loves his Neighbour, as he loves himself,  
This man is Rare to find, yet this Rare man  
Shall have the hateful name of Puritan;  
When execrations pierce the firmament,  
And oaths do batter 'gainst heaven's Battlement:  
When Imprecations, and dambed Blasphemies,  
In sundry cursed volleys scale the Skies,  
When men more brutish than the Horse or Mule,  
Who know not to obey, presume to Rule,  
Thus Church and commonwealth, and men, all are  
(Much like the Picture) out of frame or square.  
And if 'twere possible our father's old  
Should live again, and tread upon this mould,  
And see all things confused, overthrown,  
They would not know this country for their own.  
For England hath no likelihood, or show  
Of what it was but seventy years ago;  
Religion, manners, life and shapes of men,  
Are much unlike the people that were then,  
Nay England's face and language is estranged,  
That all is metamorphised, choped and changed,  
For like as on the Poles, the world is whorled  
So is this Land the Bedlam of the world;  
That I amazed, and amated am,  
To see Great Britain turned to Amsterdam,  
Men's brains and wits (two simples beat together)  
From thence (Mixed and compounded) are sent hither.  
For Amsterstam is landed (as I hear)  
At Rye, or Hastings, or at Dover peer,  
At Harwich, Ipswitch, Sandwich, or at Weymouth,  
At Portsmouth, Dartmouth, Exmouth, Plymouth, Farmouth,  
At Yarmouth, and at all the Ports to Tinmouth;  
And westward unto Bristol and to Monmouth;  
From all these mouths and more, mad sects are sent,  
Who have Religion all in pieces Rent,  
One would have this, Another would have that,  
And most of them would have they know not what.  
God give us peace, and ease us of our pain,  
And send those sects, from whence they came again,  
The Papist, and the schismatic; both grieves  
The Church, for she's like Christ (Between two Thieves.)  
I took the Protestation twice of Late,  
Where I protested not to Innovate.  
‛ Tavoide all Popish Rites, and to express  
Obedience to what England's Church profess,  
My Loyalty unto my King is bent  
With duty to the Peers and Parliament.  
With Prayers, and my best service for them all,  
That on them may heaven's chiefest blessings fall,  
That with one heart, as one man, with one mind,  
(For God's great glory) they may be combined,  
And never vary, but go boldly on,  
To end the good work, which they have begun.  
This is the Sum (which ne'er shall be forsook)  
Of what I in the Protestation took.  
But, for all this, I may be mannerly  
In God's House, and be free from papistry;  
I hope I may put off my hat, and be  
Allowed to Kneel, and Pray, and Bow my Knee,  
When as divine Command bids, only then  
I'll Bow to God, and not to Saints, or Men.  
And from those duties I will never vary  
Till death, or Order do command contrary.  
Th' almighty's Name be ever praised and blessed,  
That Romish superstition is suppressed,  
We have no abbeys, Abbots, Friars, or Monks,  
Nor have we Nuns, or stews allowed for Punks,  
We have no Masses, or no Mass-Priests here,  
But some are hanged, and some are fled for fear.  
All those that are so bold to stay behind,  
I wish they may like entertainment find;  
Beads, babbles, relics, Tapers, Lamps or Lights,  
We have no superstitious Romish Rites,  
We seek our Pardons from our Heavenly Hope,  
And not by works, or favour from the Pope;  
To Saints we make no prayer, or Intercession,  
And unto God alone we make Confession;  
We hold no real Presence in the Bread,  
And we do know King Charles our supreme head  
(Beneath God, who hath placed him in his Throne)  
For other supreme, we acknowledge none.  
No Purgatory, Image, Wood or Stone,  
No Stock, or carved Block, we trust upon,  
Nor is our Church discretion here so little,  
As to baptise with Cream, with salt and spital.  
We have as many Sacraments, as Heaven  
Ordained; which are but two, and Rome hath seven.  
We do not christian Bells, and give them Names  
Of Simon, Peter, Andrew, John and James;  
We use no Pilgrimage, or holywater,  
Nor in an unknown tongue our Prayers scatter;  
All these, and many more, in Rome are used  
Which are by us rejected and refused.  
And yet too many faults, alas remains,  
Which are the Churches, and the kingdom's stains,  
The Church Triumphant is not clear from spots,  
The poor Church militant hath still some blots,  
here's all unperfect, something's still amiss,  
And nothing's blessed, but in eternal bliss.  
Mean time, till we amend, and leave our crimes,  
The Picture is the Emb●em of the Times.  
FINIS.