A DOSE for CHAMBERLAIN, AND A Pill for the DOCTOR; Being an ANSWER to two Scurrilous Pamphlets, Written against the AUTHOR of the ASS' COMPLAINT, &.  

WHat ails this bawling Puppy thus to prate?  
I think the Genius of Billingsgate  
Hath lately crept into his Soul; Alas!  
That City Dogs should bait the country Ass?   

And doth the beast stand silent whilst this Proctor  
For Earl and Balaam, which the busy Doctor  
derk his dull sides; and not so much as Kick  
The Sexton, nor the Pisspot Empiric?  
'Tis strange he speaks not, Is his back so strong  
To bear abuses that he holds his tongue?   

Come, I'll b' his Orator for in some cases  
The Lawyers use to plead for none but Asses.   

Now what says Chamberlain that Pamplet-monger,  
What dost thou tell the silly Ass of Hunger,  
Should he (like thee turn Parish-Clark, and cozen  
Poor Souls, and sell his Prayers six pence a Dozen,  
Dine upon Midwife's fees, and grease his chaps  
With Gossip's charity and Female Scraps,  
Then would his Panch like thine be quickly fraught;  
And Men would say, he's better fed then taught.   

Thou Priest in Ginger bread, should he but plead  
For Drunken sots that cannot Preach but read  
Such as thyself, O then the foul-mouthed whelp  
Would fawn upon the Ass, and cease to yelp.  
Then peace thou journyman o'th' Reading pew  
Tell us not of a Giddyheaded crew  
Or Sick-brained Sectaries for all men know  
'Twas such as Chamberlain that made them so;  
Dumb Dogs drive out their Parrishes, to Roam;  
He needs must leg that hath no bread at home,   

But stay I know what Sir john doth intend,  
He'd have the Bishops take him for their friend;  
Devils pretences, always were divine; 
I wish it be not so in Cornhill.   
A knave may have an Anglê for his Sign;  
But Reader take it on a Christians word,  
When such men kiss they'll soon betray their Lord;   

But stay what means the Doctor? has he left  
His Legal murder and his Venial theft,  
His plotting with his Druggest and the Nurse,  
Not for to purge the body but the purse.  
And turned a Satirist? I'd thought the man  
Had been confined unto a Close-stool Pan,  
But 'tis a mad world, when Hell breaks loose and he  
That is a Quack, talks of Divinity;  
Then leave your scribbling Sirrah send your verses  
Unto your Patients to wipe their A—  
The Ass' Author scorns to stroke your Beard,  
he'll foul his hands that meddles with a T—  
Heaven keep this City from Quacksalving Knaves,  
That send sound men to their untimely graves.   

Here did I think to make an end, but hark,  
I have one word more to the Parrish-Clerk;  
Let Preachers say God save King Charles, and then,  
'Twill be your Cue Sir Clerk to say, Amen.   
WILLIAM COOK.