The Wiltshire BALLAD:  
OR,  
A New Song Composed by an Old Cavalier,  
Of Wonders at Sarum, by which doth appear,  
That th' old Devil came again lately there,  
To Raise a Rebellion,  
By way of Petition;  
But by Music's Divine and powerful Charms,  
Which Satan and's Saints abhor; such Alarms  
Were made, that he fled, and they all kept from harms.  
FRom Salisbury, that low-housed Town,  
Where Steeple is of high Renown,  
Of late was brought unto the Crown  
A Lesson:  
'Twas drawn up by three worthy Wights,  
Members they were, and two were Knights,  
Great Trencher Men, but no one Fights  
Monpes—  
Through discontent his Hand did set,  
First to this Scroll without Regret;  
Then Pilgrim-like travelled to get  
Some others.  
From House to House, in Town and Close,  
Our zealous Preservator goes,  
Tells them of Dangers and of Foes;  
But smothers  
The true intent of what they bring;  
Who begged the House may sit; a thing  
Which only can preserve the King,  
When Nothing  
Destroys him more; for should he give  
Consent, he'd never that Retrieve,  
But part with his Prerogative;  
A low thing  
Make himself by't, the Rabble get  
Into his High Imperial Seat,  
They'd make him Gloriously Great,  
We know it:  
They served his Father so before,  
These Saints would still increase the store  
Of Royal Martyrs, Hum! no more,  
We know it.  
The Herd of Zealots long to see  
A Monarch in Effigy,  
A Project which appears to be  
Most Witty;  
And they at Helm aspire to Sat,  
There Govern without Fear or Wit,  
King and un-King, when they think fit;  
That's pretty.  
To see ('twould make a Stoic smile)  
Geneva-Jack thus moil and Toil  
To Lord it in our British Isle  
Again Sir;  
And Pulpit-Cuff us, till we Fight,  
Lose our Estates and Lives outright;  
And when all's done, he gets all by't,  
That's plain Sir.  
The Colonel, who came from place, where  
A Quaker buggered four legged Mare,  
Who o'th' old Leaven had his share,  
Petitioned:  
For which, both he, and Knight Sir Gil—  
I'll boldly say't, (blame not my Quill)  
To say no more, were very ill  
Conditioned.  
But this, I hope, nor makes, nor mars,  
Charles knows what's meant by all these Jars,  
And these Domestic, Paper-Wars,  
Conceive it:  
Tom of Ten Thousand is come in,  
Sure such a Hero much will win,  
On Skulls as thick, as his is Thin,  
Believe it.  
The People would have power to call  
Parliaments, and Dissolve them; all  
Regalia's posses; what shall  
The Saint Sir,  
Not have the power of Peace and War?  
Religion steer? Holy we are,  
And Rich, the King shall we (be't far)  
Acquaint Sir?  
This was the Humble Holy Guise  
Of the Religiously Precise,  
Which made them Gallop to Mic. Wise,  
To Sign it.  
Thisselth— and Sir How, said he,  
And you Sir Knight, named first should be,  
The dregs of Treason, Juice of Bee,  
Nor Wine yet,  
This Morning have refreshed my Pate  
Or Heart, I'm so unfortunate,  
My Head aches early, though whenits late,  
I take it,  
With Cheerful and a thoughtless Soul  
Of poisoned Zeal or Treason foul,  
And drink the King's Health in a Bowl,  
And make it  
With Jovial, Loyal Heart go round,  
In Mirth and Music then abound;  
In Scholarship I'm not profound.  
My Name Sirs  
I cannot write; yet set I shall  
A Tune to your new Madrigal,  
And fetch't from Forty One withal.  
No blame Sirs.  
Was in that Holy, like this Time,  
For from poor Tom flows honest Rhyme,  
And in the Tune there was no Crime;  
'Twas take 'em  
Derrick, the Tune that they did sing,  
Derrick, who in June with a swing  
Cured strange Distempers, and a String;  
Forsake 'em.  
Thus the sage Council of Mic. Wise,  
Turned up the whites of Zeal-burned Eyes,  
But did not Honest Men surprise,  
They Laughing,  
Said, Time's the Life of Music, Mic.  
And thou hast hit it in the Nick,  
By touching on this Crop-eared Trick.  
Our Quaffing  
Shall at the Angel be this Night,  
David's Harp did Saul's Devil' fright,  
And thine and Wine shall cure our Spirit  
Fanatic.  
We'll leave the Rule unto the King,  
Pray for his Health, a Loyal thing;  
Let great Charles Rule: who this won't sing,  
is Lunatic.  
Which does me to the Doctor bring,  
Whose Name made 'mongst the rest nothing,  
To him I give now in the Spring  
Good Advice.  
When Worm Cephalick Restless grows,  
Let him lose Blood in Tongue or Toes,  
Or take our Dr. Derrick's Dose,  
Once, not Twice.  
For once as certainly doth Kill,  
As Potion made by him, or Pill:  
And thus my Muse doth make her Will.  
O may this City!  
'Cause She refused that Toy to Sign,  
Never want Health, Wealth, or Good Wine,  
Nor our King's Smiles, nor the Divine;  
Thus ends my Ditty.   

LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1680.