The ASS beaten for BAWLING; OR, A REPLY from the CITY TO THE CRY of the COUNTRY.  
To Smectymnuus the Club of Divines, or Divines of the Club.  

TO you, because you are one manifold,  
A twisted Halter, and because weare told  
You understand the nonsense of the Criers,  
As they do yours, send we that are Replyers.  
Take up your Colts, you know them by their mark,  
Bid them give audience, that is stand and hark.   

Fleabitten Grace with your out-lying ears,  
The KING's Disturbers, and Gods Pillagers,  
Bawl not, but hear the Cries of millions dead,  
Our blood has been your drink, our flesh your bread.  
And are your maws too tender for the stones  
Of the now Priest? that could eat Churche● once?  
Complain ye now of Canting ye Jack Daws  
That set Religion to a tune The Cause  
Ye Wolves Synodical, self-Hallowing Cast,  
If ye could pray ye should, so ye would fast.  
Our Church is like to fall into the Myre  
If she must follow such a fatuus fire,  
Dark Lantern lights, such whose well-shadowed sin  
Begun the Dance that Cashind Cromwell in.  
Mistake us not, we do not mean those zealous  
And tender souls, that fearing still, were jealous:  
Who set the Kingdom all o'fire, and made  
No conscience what CHARLES suffered, how betrayed.  
Let such have double honour, Capitol Geese,  
'Cause they'll be gagling, Pulpits two a piece,  
But this we like not that ye stand and bark  
To keep the wearied Dove out of the Ark:  
And that your tender conscience brooks not giving  
The Priest his Church, now you have had his living,  
For he poor Man shall not enjoy't he fears  
So many Months, as ye have had it years.  
I but the Ravens come too, and they'll croak  
So that a second judgement they'll provoke.  
'Twas the first turned them out, what follows then?  
The next must be your coming in again.  
Where are your wits? yet you again to School  
there's a scourge for you, and a pretty tool  
With a Chris-cross in't, There when you have been  
Well whipped and scourged for this your modern sin  
Of simple railing at the Men of God,  
I'll take a care for burning of the Rod  
Till then be not so mad I pray thee Smec.  
To let such Coxcombs break the Church's neck;  
God and the King's a book that doth concern,  
The Preacher, that would others teach, to learn;  
'Tis not their splaymouth nor their oboe nose  
Their them and haus, and such like forms as those  
We quarrel at, nor black Caps set in print  
On the notched Poll, there may be nothing in't  
These fooleries we own, but yet a Saint  
Is not cut out of every one doth cant;  
Were Arrogance and Faction wanting, how  
Should Ignorance take Blockheads from the Blow,  
And arm them back and breast against their King?  
These graces are thy Saints Smec. That's the thing  
Which blooming, Peartree makes his Livery  
Mouth indefatigable, were all such as He!  
Now pardon us good Smec, we do not this  
To make the Presbyter seem as he is  
A zealous R— nor do we disown  
Or hates his ways that level at a Throne  
But as we would, Rome should not tyrannize,  
And be ourselves a Rome put in disguise:  
And every Man a Pope in his precinct,  
Nor shall the Scotch Kirk think to be distinct  
But truckle under us; duly we and truly  
For Bishops pray, that they would be unruly.  
And to our holy work put their own hand,  
Promoting the distractions of the Land.  
For to speak truth, we cannot wear a bridle,  
And suffer others preach, and we stand idle:  
Nor is it possible we should agree  
Unless we can have Bishops, such as we  
That would Priests railing make, and factious too,  
With whom good Caesar knows not what to do.  
Men free from charity, and love of peace  
Smec. if thou leav'st us any, leave us these  
That robbing Peter, and not paying Paul  
We may get, what? why e'en the Devil and all  
But now, this very hour the world must end,  
Take no more care for Sunday Pudding friend.  
Nor as was, done in days of the Protector  
Ninteen probationers preach for one Lecture  
The deep Soraction snow must now turn black  
Dark be ye dazzling Lamps, Phoebus go back  
And fetch thy Mourning Cloak, the Moon bow die  
Fire cannot burn, nor Roundheads cannot lie.  
Earth shift thy Poles and thaw the Muscovites,  
In the Armenian planes. And now the Lights  
Are out, let all things to confusion tumble,  
And rudely like the family conjumble.  
They may beget an Ass, Styx will so arm,  
And freeze, that he shall feel Lawd but lukewarm.  
Of whom the Brethren that conformed not  
All in his time, cried out he was too Hot.   

God save K. CHARLES and keep him from the clutches  
Of him that at the KING'S Religion grudges.   

POSTSCRIPT.  
NOW, to this railing Ass more shall be spoke,  
When he has got a Living or a Cloak,  
Only this Country's mouth feeds in our Cubboards,  
And brings his Cry no further than the Suburbs.  
Advertisements and Supplements w'ave read,  
He looks to's Ears, we must look to our Head.  
Now no more Mumming sirrah, d'off your Vizard,  
Know we have eyes can pierce into your Gizzard.  
By stroking of our Beards you are not like,  
To make us be secure and let you strike  
He that calumniates the meaner sort,  
Looks ill on all, and aught to suffer for't.  BY Edm. Cooper Of Limestreet, Doctor of Physic.   

LONDON: Printed by J. Brudenell, dwelling in Maiden-head-Ally near Newgate, 1661.