A NEW SONG: BEING A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG and TORY.  
Concerning the Election of Sheriffs.  TORY, 

Come, let us all at last agree, Debate's a Cursed Fashion:  
'Tis only base Disloyalty, Infects the King and Nation.   Whig. 

HOw! What, in such a Case Unite?  
'T would be a plain Repentance:  
A Whig, can ne'er turn Proselyte,  
Before he hears his Sentence.   Tory. 

Whence are you thus inspired with Zeal?  
Sure 'tis the Devil's Motion;  
Two Sheriffs ne'er made a Common-weal,  
That's but a Formal Notion.   Whig. 

In troth, the depth you do not see,  
Of all our Stir and Fury;  
Our Guilty Crimes must ne'er go Free,  
But by a well-picked Jury.   Tory. 

If then it be self Preservation,  
That you from Sheriff's claim,  
Why may not We, and half the Nation,  
Expect and seek the same!   Whig. 

Alas! with us 'tis otherwise,  
Though we don't draw our Swords;  
We may be hanged for being wise,  
Or speaking dangerous Words.   Tory. 

But now you see, by the Effect,  
Since all is past and done,  
That North and Richardo are true Elect,  
And have the Conquest won!   Whig. 

Then needs must Tyburn have us all,  
For which we were created;  
For when You rise, We needs must fall,  
And with our Noise be hated.   Tory. 

Take heed then of the good Old Cause,  
Be sure to rule your Tongue;  
These honest Men must rule by the Laws,  
Which ne'er will do you wrong.   Whig. 

Tell me no more of wholesome Laws,  
Which hold with Reason still;  
By Factions I must get Applause,  
And gratify my Will.   Tory. 

Come Whig, 'tis time to leave this way,  
And change your bad Condition;  
In all things now the King obey,  
And not your own Ambition.    

London, Printed for T. P. in the Year 1682.