A New MIRACLE OR Dr. Nomans' safe Return From the Grand Turk's Court at Constantinople.  
He went on Shipboard yesterday Morning, Arrived at Constantinople before Noon, disputed with the Grand Turk till Night, but by reason he could neither speak Latin, Greek, nor Hebrew— Nor tell his own Name, and for falling foul on the Turks Boys. And his Bums on the Turks Whores. He was forced to make his Escape through 40 Key holes, and Arrived in London the same Night— and writ these verses following, before he went to Supper; the first piece of Poetry that ever the Doctor undertook, and you'll find what a strain he writes— Extempore.  

A SONG To the Tune of Old Simon the King.  

ALL you that have formerly seen me,  
What a monster of Wonders I am  
You'll think the Devil is in me  
And wonder how here I came:  
The same Mouth in the midst of my Face,  
Some reason there is to divide it,  
It can no more hang, nor disgrace,  
Now my Chin turns up for to hide it.   

Last Night by Mahomet and Tap,  
I with the Grand Turk did dispute  
There's no one can blame me for that,  
He forced my Sirreverance to't.  
He Latin and Greek did Frame,  
To which I could not Reply,  
Then asked, was my Name,  
But the Devil a Name had I   

He asked who made me a Doctor,  
I told him I was no Pope.  
The Court fell into a Laughter  
And swore my Brain was too short.  
He asked what was my Education,  
I told him, to Swear and to Lie  
And Bugger all Bums in his Nation,  
And himself sometimes by the buy.   

He began to stare and look madder,  
And turned me amongst my Bums,  
I banged them about with my Ruder  
Till they broke in amongst his Nuns.  
I fell o'th' bones of his Boys,  
My Bums full tilt at his Whores,  
The Lamps blown out and Flamboys,  
And we at it upon the Flores.   

Th' Old Signior with Lantern came stumbling  
And saw in what posture we lay,  
The white Tails of his Misses were tumbling  
Th' Old Rogue knew not what to say.  
He called in all his Attendance,  
And Guards about the Court,  
Who i'th' midst of our game did offend us,  
And spoilt the best of our sport.   

They came with long Hangers & Switches,  
And swore they would Murder and Geld,  
Then I ran away without Breeches  
And all my Courage was quelled.  
Through forty Keyholes I vanished  
And left the Seraglio clear,  
Then mounted my Spirit well managed  
Came to London e'er day did appear.   

All this is Truth by Mahomet  
If e'er swore Truth before,  
And whoever makes questions upon, it  
He's a Papist and Son of a Whore.  
And now it can be no Crime,  
For a Blue Protestant to believe,  
That I was i'th' Strand the same time  
And in Spain, at S. De Olive.    
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for J. Dean, Bookseller in Cranborn-street, in Leicester-Fields, near Newport-House.