Thanks upon Thanks: OR, THE Suburbs' JOY FOR THE City's Election.  

YOUR Joy (grave Citizens) is Ours, we find;  
This Choice to You, This Choice to Us proves Kind!  
We give Commission, that Our Thanks should wait on  
The Kind Electors of Sir Robert Clayton,  
Sir Thomas Player, Pilkington, and Love:  
Thus We Our Joy, by This Return do prove.  
For to throw Papists out, is all Your Aim;  
Your Thoughts are Ours, they are the very same:  
You Burn the Pope, We come to see him Burned;  
Our Wrath, like Yours, against his Tribe is turned.  
We hate a Jesuit, a Priest We hate;  
We could Crack Mussle-Shells upon his Pate:  
We hate the Mass, and every thing like that;  
Had I but time (Sirs,) I would tell You what.  

But now I'll tell You, We do Love all those,  
That are Abhorrers of a Roman Nose;  
And such, last Friday, it appears You Chose.   
We Thank you for Your Choice; This is the way  
To pack both Pope and Devil quite away.  
They gain no Ground, where such Men do appear:  
They do no Bulls from Roman Empires fear.  
Such Men, We do believe, they are, as stand  
Zealously for the Interest of our Land.  
Their Courage, Wit, and Parts have all been Tried;  
I'm sure, they Four would have been Deified,  
Had they done half so much for th' Roman Crew,  
As They have done for Us, and done for You.  
Wisely they did Behave themselves, we find;  
All of one Way, all of one Heart, and Mind.  
They shook off Fear, and trampled upon Awe;  
On Their Side stood the Gospel, and the Law.  
This made them Bold as Lions; every Man,  
Through Thorns and Briars, for the City ran!  
Mildly, and Modestly, they played their Parts:  
I do not wonder, that They won Your Hearts.  
Had You Elected others in their steed,  
Surely you'd done a very Evil Deed:  
For, Who could equalise the Parts and Care  
Of Clayton, Pilkington, of Love, and Player?  
Your Choice was like You, Grave, Discreet, and Wise;  
That all Men see, that have not Popish Eyes.  
And We, with all Our Hearts, do now Rejoice,  
That You have made so Good, so Blessed a Choice.  
I know that some Men's Hearts, for Grief, do Bleed,  
That You so soon, that You so well Agreed.  
But who are they? Why? They are Imps of Hell,  
Who when you Act like Angels, think not well.  
They are the Spawn of a devouring Pope,  
That Merit nothing better than a Rope.  
The Seed of Evil Doers, who daily strive  
To keep the Priests and Jesuits Alive;  
Men void of Grace, Wit, Honesty, and Sense,  
Who itch to pay the Pope his Peter-pences.  
These Men are they, who are not pleased to see,  
That you so well, in your good Choice agree.  
Such we have too too many here (God knows)  
Who long for nothing more than Blood and Blows:  
I wish they had them, were they but Destroyed,  
Then Peace and Plenty would be soon enjoyed.  
The time may come, the time I hope to see,  
That King and Parliament may well agree:  
Then have at such uneasy Knaves as those,  
Who long have been the King, and Kingdoms Foes.  
God give the King to see those Mischief-makers,  
That they of Stafford's Fate may be Partakers.  
Then will the City Flourish, Suburbs Sing  
Praises to God, and Thanks unto our King.  
Oh! How I long methinks to see that day,  
When Papists pack their Awls to go away;  
May every City do as you have done;  
This is one way I'm sure to make them Run.  

May every County choose such Worthy Men,  
Choose them, and Choose, Choose them yet again;  
Choose them as oft as they're Dissolved, and then,   
we'll have an Hundred to a Roman Ten.  
May they make such a Choice in every Burrow,  
May they Choose such even all the Kingdom thorough.  
Then farewell Pope, farewell thy Plots to boot;  
We should have Peace, when thou wouldst go without.   
J. B.   

London, Printed in the Year, 1680.