A New Satirical BALLAD OF THE Licentiousness of the Times.  
To the Tune of, The Blind Beggar of bednal-green.  

I.  
THe devil has left his puritanical dress,  
And now like an Hawker attends on the Press,  
That he might through the Town Sedition disperse,  
In Pamphlets, and Ballads, in prose and in Verse.   

II.  
'Tis surely so, for if the Devil waned in't,  
There would not be so many strange things in print:  
Now each man writes what seems good in his Eyes,  
And tells in bald Rhymes his Inventions and Lies.   

III.  
Some relate to the World their own causeless fears,  
Endeavouring to set us together by the ears,  
They strive to make Factions for two great Commanders,  
Tho one be in Holland, the other in Flanders.   

iv  
They bawl and they yaul aloud through the whole Town,  
The rights of Succession and Claims to the Crown,  
And snarling and grumbling like Fools at each other,  
Raise Contests and Factions betwixt Son and Brother.   

V  
Here one doth on this side his Verses oppose,  
Up starts another and justs with him in prose,  
On Rumour a Jade, they get up, and mount her,  
And so like Don Quixot with Wind-mills Encounter.   

VI  
Our Sun is not setting, it does not grow dark yet,  
The King is in health still, and gone to Newmarket,  
Let then idle Coxcomb's leave off their debating,  
What either side says is unmannerly prating.   

VII.  
Another though he be but a senseless Widgion  
Will like an Archbishop determine Religion:  
What ere his opinion is that must be best,  
And straight he Confutes, and Confounds all the rest.   

VIII.  
I'the Coffee house here one with a grave face,  
When after salute, he hath taken his place,  
His Pipe being lighted gins for to prate,  
And wisely discourses the affairs of the State.   

IX.  
Another in fury the board straight doth thump,  
And highly extols the blessed Times of the Rump;  
The Pope and all Monarches he sends to the Devil,  
And up in their places he sets Harry Nevil.   

X.  
Another who would be distinguished from Cit,  
And swearing God damn me, to show him a wit,  
(Who for all his huffing one grain hath not got)  
Scoffs at all Religion, and the Popish plot.   

XI.  
One with an uncivil satirical Jest,  
To be thought a wit, has a fling at the Priest,  
He jeers at his Betters, and all men of note,  
From th' Alderman to the Canonical coat.   

XII.  
A politic Citizen in his blue gown,  
As gravely in shop he walks up, and down,  
Instead of attending the wares on his staul,  
Is all day relating th'intrigues at Whitehall.   

XIII.  
And though to speak Truth he be but a Noddy,  
He'd have you to think that he is somebody,  
With politic shrug, even as bad as a Curse,  
He cries out, Oh! the Times, no Mortal saw worse.   

XIV.  
Then comes a wise Knight as the whole city's Factor,  
Speaks Prologue in prose, too grave for an Actor,  
And being sore frighted, in a learned speech,  
To stand to their Arms all the Citts doth beseech.   

XV.  
The Cobbler in stall, did you but hear him prate,  
You'd think that he sat at the helm of the State,  
His awl laid aside, and in right hand a pot.  
He roundly rips up the Soul of the Plot.   

XVI.  
But it is not enough to see what is past,  
For these very Men become Prophets at last,  
And with the same eyes can see what is meant,  
To be Acted and done in the next Parliament.   

XVII.  
His Worship so wise, who a Kingdom can Rule,  
Is by none dear Wife at home made a Fool,  
For though he doth see through dark Mists of the State,  
He can't see the Horns that she plants on his pate.   

XVIII.  
The Women too prate of the Pope and the Turk,  
Who should play with their Tails, or else be at work,  
But two Noble Virtues 've attained to, I think,  
To handle State matters, and take off their drink.   

XIX.  
Petition the Players to come on the Stage,  
There to represent the vice of the Age,  
That people may see in Stage looking-Glasses,  
Fools of all sorts, and these politic Asses.   

XX.  
And thus I have shown you the vice of the Nation,  
Which wants of these Things a through-Reformation,  
But when that will be I cannot determine,  
For plenty breeds Vice, as soul Bodies breed Vermin.   

XXI.  
Men may prate and may write, but 'tis not their Rhymes,  
That can any ways change or alter the Times,  
It is now grown an Epidemical Disease,  
For people to talk and to write what they please.   

XXII.  
God bless our Good King who our little World Rules,  
And is not disturbed rt the Actions of Fools,  
It very much helps a Wise Man's Melancholy,  
To see and observe and to Laugh at their Folly.    

London, Printed in the Year, 1679.