THE Loyal Livery-mens' HUE and CRY AFTER Sir john Presbyter.  

WIth Hair in Characters, and Lugs in Text;  
With a splay Mouth and a Nose Circumflexed,  
With a set Ruff of Musket bore, that wears  
Like Cartrages or linen Bandeliers,  
Exhausted of their Sulphurous Contents,  
In Pulpit Fire-Works, which that Bomball vents;  
The Negative and Covenanting Oath,  
Like two Moustaches issuing from his Mouth:  
The Bush upon his Chin (like a carved story,  
In a Box Knot) cut by the Directory;  
Madam's Confession hanging at his Ear,  
Wiredrawn through all the Questions, How and Where:  
Each Circumstance, so in the hearing felt,  
That when his Ears are Cropped he'll count 'em Gelt:  
The weeping Cassock scared into a Jump,  
A sign the Presbyter's worn to the stump:  
The Presbyter, though charmed against mischance,  
With the Divine Right of an Ordinance:  
If you meet any that do thus attire 'em,  
Stop them, they are the Tribe of Adoniram.  
What Zealous frenzy did the Senate seize,  
That tore the Rotchet to such Rags as these?  
Episcopacy minced, reforming Tweed  
Hath sent us Runts, even of her Churches breed;  
Lay-Interlining Clergy, a device  
That's Nickname to the Stuff called Lops and Lice.  
The Beast at wrong End Branded, you may trace  
The Devils footsteps in his Cloven face.  
A face of several Parishes and Sorts,  
Like to a Sergeant shaved at Inns of Court.  
What mean the Elders else, those Kirk-Dragoons,  
Made up of Ears and Bands like Ducatoons?  
That Hierarchy of Handicrafts begun?  
Those new Exchange-men of Religion?  
Sure they're the Antic-heads, which placed without  
The Church, do gape and disembogue a spout:  
Like them above the Commons-House have been  
So long without, now both are Gotten in.  
Then, what Imperious in the Bishop Sounds,  
The same the Scotch Executor rebounds.  
This Stating Prelacy, the Classic rout,  
That spoke it often, ere it spoke it out.  
So by an abbeys Skeleton of late,  
I heard an Echo Supererogate,  
Through Imperfection, and the voice restore,  
As if she had the Hicp o'er and o'er.  
Since they our mixed Diocesans Combine,  
Thus to ride double in their Discipline;  
That Paul's shall to the Consistory call,  
A Dean and Chapter out of Weavers-Hall;  
Each at the Ordinance for to assist,  
With the Five Thumbs of his Great-changing Fist.  
Down Dagon Synod with thy motley ware,  
Whilst we do swagger for the Common-Prayer,  
That Dovelike Embassy, that wings our sense  
To Heaven's Gate in shape of Innocence.  
Pray for the Mitred Authors, and defy  
These Demicasters' of Divinity.  
For where Sir John with Jack of-all-trades Joyns,  
His Finger's thicker, than the Prelate's Loins.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for Robert Miller at the Blue Bible in Bedford Street Covent-Garden, 1683.