THE Common-HUNT, OR, THE PURSUIT OF THE POPE.  
RELIGION having suffered long,  
Scarce knowing who had done her wrong;  
Her Proselytes together flew  
By th' Ears, to kill they knew not who.  
Here lay, making a heavy stir,  
Fifth-Monarchy and Presbyter;  
There Independent, after Pause,  
Demanding for the Good old Cause:  
Next Anabaptist, and his Train,  
Put in for Dipping o'er again;  
While Yea and Nay, with his new Light,  
Quarrels, although he dare not fight;  
Next enters, after many knocks,  
Episcopacy Orthodox;  
She,  Lady of the soil,  
Composes the unhappy Broil.  
Now all is well, and all goes right,  
There's no need now to hate or fight,  
Now Proselytes may all agree,  
And live in Love and Liberty:  
But hold, poor Church! and thou shalt find,  
That thy worst Enemy's behind,  
Who with his superstitious Crew  
Does seek thee utterly t' undo.  
'Tis he who, in Queen Mary's Regions,  
Sent Saints to Heaven by whole Legions:  
'Tis he who did, in Eighty eight,  
Strike both at England's Church and State:  
'Tis he who did, in Powder Plot,  
At England aim, but missed his shot:  
'Tis he who has so oft, at Pleasure,  
Exhausted England's well got Treasure:  
'Tis he whose greatest Envy is  
'Gainst England's fair Metropolis:  
'Tis he, that Dam'ner great of souls,  
Who Christianity Controls:  
'Tis he who did in Sixty Six,  
His flaming Sword in London fix:  
'Tis he who, big with fire and Nitre,  
It's Suburbs Sacrificed to th' Mitre:  
'Tis he, who Nursing Mother sent  
Unto our Church, with this intent,  
Not to be kind to it, but rather  
T'orelay the Babe, and kill the Father:  
'Tis he, grand Patron of Confusion,  
Who works in Houses Dissolution:  
'Tis he who, true Arch-Rebel Monger,  
'Gainst elder Brother sets the younger,  
And nothing less than Saint-ship brings  
To Villains that dare kill their Kings:  
He who, at distance, can Prefer  
In any Realm a Treasurer,  
And Murder Minister of Justice  
That dare act up to what his Trust is:  
And yet, though he have nothing less,  
No Name fits him, but Holiness.  
Now then, So Ho! methinks I see  
This Monster in Effigy,  
Th' Unkenneled Fox with speed pursue,  
He stinks already, Boys Halloo;  
Fling in fresh Zeal and Loyalty,  
The Leaders of the Chase to be,  
Let all Mouths open, that ful-cry  
We may run down this Enemy;  
Stop all his Grounds, that he may be  
Defenceless 'gainst his Destiny:  
His Jesuitick Cubs Immure,  
If Jesus Flock you would secure;  
Spare not for Horseflesh, follow on,  
The Day already is half gone;  

Chase him through every Disguise,  
He'll piss on's Tail to blind your Eyes,  
But run him home, for soon he Dies;   
If he chance t'Earth, dig after him,  
The Country will with Spades come in.  
Never then let your Spirits droop,  
Till you have caught, uncased, and cried who whoop.  
FINIS.