The COURT of ENGLAND Or, The Preparation for the happy CORONATION of King WILLIAM and Queen MARY.  Englishman. 

COme Gallants, let's tender  
Those Hearts we surrender  
At the blessed Coronation of our Faiths great Defender,  
Now Glory shall Rule:  
No more Popish Edge-tool;  
Thanks Heaven, of a knave we've at last made a Fool, of a Jesuit.   

Th' High-Commission-Court Shame,  
Jeff●s, Devil and Dam,  
Once mauled our poor Church with the Pope's battering Ram;  
But the great Sleeves of Lawn  
No more shall be drawn  
Into Nooses and Goals by the impudent Spawn of a Jesuit.   

Who but they and their Crew  
Poor James could undo,  
And lose him his Honour and Diadem too;  
By Petres false measure,  
Th' unfortunate Caesar,  
Turned (alas) out a grazing, like Nabuchadnezzar, by the Jesuit.   

With your Chancellor false Steward,  
Rome's Scholar so toward,  
Your Castlemain Nuntio and your Cardinal Howard,  
You have outdone the shot  
Of your Gunpowder Plot,  
And blown up the credulous James; have ye not? ye false Jesuit.   

Our Freedoms and Charters  
Were the first of your martyrs,  
For Rome had begun to take up her head Quarters  
Her vengeance to wreak,  
All Faith we must break,  
For Law, Oaths, and Gospel are all Bonds too weak for a Jesuit.   

With your sly false preambles,  
For your dear Stakes and Shambles,  
And goring 3 Kingdoms With the old Thorns and Brambles;  
What Engines infernal  
In the Popish Diurnal,  
Could fill the whole word with Treasons eternal but the Jesuit.   Taffy. 

A Shesuit, that Sheater,  
Rogue, Villain, and Traitor!  
By the flesh of her pones, her Welsh blood rises at her;  
Very fine, Shentlefolks,  
A Welsh Heir, with a Pox,  
Was her get her a Prince in a Shuglers' Box? Cunning Shesuit.   

Has her Forehead no blush on  
Such Proshects to push on,  
As was raise her Welsh Heir to Three Crowns from a Cushion  
To who, splutternails,  
Does her tell her shame Tales?  
Has her none to put trick on but her Nation of Wales, Roguy Shesuit.   

Oh! to pay her old score,  
Had her Son of a whore  
On a Ladder as high as her own Penmenmour  
Was her once but trussed up,  
Till her cut the Rope,  
Her might hang there till doom's day, herself and her Pope for a Shesuit.   Sawny. 

THe Pope that saw Turk.  
So steely as weerk,  
With awe his saw Imps to pull down the Kirk,  
Now the Mange, our Scotch plague,  
On that Scarlet Whore-Hag,  
And Deel splie the wem, the lugs, and the crag of the Jesuit.   

For awed Jemmy's sad folly,  
With Juggy and Dolly  
Ise dance a Scotch jig for bonny Willy and Molly  
With Jockey and Sawny,  
Aw lads teugh and brawny,  
weese drub the faugh face, awe black, blue, & tawny, of the Jesuit.   Monsieur. 

O De Rogue English trick!  
Dat the poor Catolick  
Shoned be kick, knock, & tump, & run down to Old Nick.  
But begar, de Vengeance  
Of my Ma'ter of France  
Shall lead English Heretick-dog a French Dance, for de Jesuit.   

Shall Lewis sit still?  
Vat fool, tink he will,  
When old James and he so long piss in a Quill?  
No, Bougre Garsoon,  
With Monsieur Dagroon,  
Begar we come o'er, and fight blood and won for de Jesuit.   

Doughty Jemmy monsieur,  
(Pox taka Myn-heer)  
Has lost a the Crown of the damn Angletere;  
In Eerland, brave boy,  
With Vive le Roy  
We crewn him again a new Monarch dear-joy for de Jesuit,   Teague. 

BVb a boo! Bub! oh hone!  
The Brother of the son,  
And de Shield of me Mother de poor Teague undone!  
Pull down Mass-house and Altar,  
And burn Virgin Psalter,  
And make hang upon Priest, and no friend cut de Halter of poor Jesuit▪   

When Teague first came o'er  
To the Engleand shore,  
Wid. 6, 7, 8. Thousand Irish Lads, all and more:  
Teague was Promised good Fashion,  
Great Estate in the Nation,  
Widgine all London in his pocket, upon me shaulWashion by de Jesuit.   

But when the Boar Dutch,  
God Teague in his clutch,  
Stead of make great estate, and Chrees knows what much●  
Damned Heretic Dogue  
Made Teague a poor Rogue,  
Turned him to make starve widout shoe or broge; for the jesuit.   

But I'll beg Captaint Plaa●h  
Of de sweet Eyes and Eaash  
Of me Dear-joy Tyrconnel his Majesty's Graash;  
And fight like a Hero,  
By me shaul a Mack-Nero,  
Cut Throat for Shaint Patrick, and sing Lilli burlero for the jesuit   Mynheer. 

HOld cut-weason Skellom.  
And let Myn-heer tell 'om,  
For Englonds great ●ogan & Mogan Lord Willem  
And the dear English-mons,  
Their Church, Laws, and Londs,  
Van Dutch-londers fight with all hearts & honds 'gainst the jesuit.   Englishman. 

Sayest thou so, Friend Myn-heer?  
Then adieu to all fear,  
France, Ireland, Pope, Devil, come all if you dare:  
Come Lads let's be jogging,  
The French Ears want lugging,  
And Teague, and Tyrconnel's false Hide must have flogging for the jesuit.   

Whilst kind Dutch Tarpaulin  
With English-boys fall in,  
And both our stout Navys proud Britain ●shal wall in:  
No pope shall destroy us,  
Nor Monsieur annoy us,  
With William and mary blest Reign to● o'rejoy us Farewell jesuit.