A Rod for the Fools Back: OR, An Answer to a scurrilous Libel, called the CHANGELING.  

YE learned Doctors of th' Smectymnian Creed,  
Whose empiric once made Chests and Cup-boards bleed,  
Were Lee's Repentance, like your Faith, a Cheat  
Only to rook the Citizens of Plate,  
All your Reproaches were as justly due  
To him, as ever Tyburn was to you.   

But this it is which makes you Faction mad,  
He has appealed to what you never had;  
A thing called Charity, not hare-brained Zeal,  
That wounds much faster than the King can heal.   

Tell me ye poisonous Vermin of the Land,  
That hang like Vipers on th' Apostle's Hand,  
Whose rage will only with your lives expire:  
Nor can you be shaken off, but into th' fire.  
Is't not Enough that your Rebellious spirits  
Refuse to enter where the Church invites;  
But must you too keep others from the Door,  
What could the Turk, what could the devil do more?  
Will you go set a guard upon heavens ear,  
Can you make Votes for Non-Addresses there?  
Or was't Enacted by your Parliament,  
Zeal to rebel, and Treason to repent?  
Oh! 'tis a Scandal and a foul disgrace  
To see how Judas flies in Peter's face;  
And 'cause he has got the Pence, does proudly rant,  
Calls Peter Traitor, but himself a Saint.   

That Man of valour who laid down his Cross,  
Fled from his Colours, Kissed the Juncto's—  
Renounced his Prince, and (Stumbling at Love's Block)  
Played not the Pillar but the Weathercock;  
Is free from all these Libelers rude whips,  
Because he wears a Pad-lock on his lips,  
Whilst he, who frighted with the sad alarms  
Of guilt, comes weeping to his Mother's Arms,  
Is made the Jest, the Coffee-talk o'th' City,  
Not hugged with joy, nay not with love or pity.  
Take but the greatest Kora●s in that Pack,  
Who by Rebellion died their white Souls black;  
They may have Wives by th' belly or the back,  
Now and anon, eat Capons, and drink Sack;  
Make Wives their Husband's cuckold and undo,  
To make those labourers rich and lusty too.  
If sly as Foxes, impudent as Brass,  
They shall for reverend godly Pastors pass:  
While he whose tears have washed his black Soul white,  
Is called the Changeling, not the Proselyte.   

Forbear Kirk-hectors' now, and I could wish  
Ye had not cast Church-plumb-broth in our dish;  
When your own Tribe that never could digest  
The Superstition of a Christmas Feast,  
Could Eat whole Churches up like Gingerbread,  
Swallow the Stones, the Timber, and the Lead;  
Pick Praelats bones, eat flesh of Cavaliers,  
And Tope whole bottles of their Widow's tears;  
And swallow (to Augment the Bill of fare)  
A Solemn League that would have choked a Bear:  
Forged at Geneva, at Edinburgh agreed,  
By Pagan Saints on th' heathen side of Tweed:  
Bishops beware, these Picklocks of an Oath,  
Long for your Birthright, though they hate your Broth.   

Then let your Organs that were ne'er thought evil,  
But by the Kirk of Scotland and Saul's Devil,  
Sound louder yet until they have struck dumb  
The Presbyterian Trumpet and the Drum.  
I'd rather sing those Anthems that control  
The sad distempers of a troubled Soul,  
Then hear those snivelling Praters Hum and Ha;  
Like tinkling Cymbals on a Lecture day:  
Who Glossed their matchless Villainy with praise,  
And after Murder kept thanksgiving Days.  
When (like Lycaon) the presumptuous sinner,  
Slew men and then invited Jove to dinner.  
His Words were Swords, and his blasphemous prayer,  
Like Julian, cast up blood into the air.  
For when the Presbyter first tuned his Lyre,  
He (Nero like) set all the Town on fire;  
And taught the Kirk-Herodias such a Tread,  
It cost a Kings as well as Prophets Head.   

Now if the Turk should foot in England set,  
Jack Presbyter will be his Mahomet?  
And will well suit with that Impostors likeness:  
Both alike troubled with the Falling-sickness;  
For Sabbaths, he'll observe their Pagan rites,  
Sundays he ne'er designed for Prayers, but Fights.  
But if the Sultaness should chance to long  
For Friday Faces, what a lovely throng  
The Farewell Sermons will afford her now,  
In ranks, with wooden heads and brazen brow!   

But now 'tis time (dull Presbyterian Jack,)  
To take the Saddle from the Doctors Back.  
If Conscience ere was Horse, 'twas when the Rabble  
Reformed Paul's Church and turned it to a Stable:  
When the Assembly looked so like the Mews,  
And Folks frequented Sermons to hear News;  
The Priest skewed at his Text, and flew from thence  
Either to Treason or Intelligence:  
Kept not the King's Highway; The foaming ●ost  
In an hours space brought News from every Coast:  
How the fierce Guns did play, and the Drums rattle,  
And how the Lord himself did fight their Battle.  
For which the grateful Rump (as we are told)  
(Like Banks) have shod their Barbery's with Gold.   

Or when the Covenant Neighs, and (which is worse)  
In London Walls acted the Trojan Horse,  
Or when the fiery Jades (at Cromwell's word)  
(Like Diomedes Steeds) devoured their Lord.   

Peace then ye Schismatics, and here confess  
Your Scribbling hath too long debauched the Press:  
The fair Amnestia (whom ye so abuse)  
Like Hester, saved the lives of all you Jews:  
Then let this Converts failings be concealed,  
Touch not the sores which Caesar's hand hath healed.   

The Crime wherewith ye charge him, were it true,  
He acted it when he was one of you.  
O therefore let him now (like Peter's Cock)  
Be your Example, not your Laughingstock,  
And let him take the Halter and the Cart,  
To break his neck that hates his BROKEN HEART.   

And lastly for your Poet we'll provide.  
To write with Whipcord on his Vellum hide:  
And give the Dabbler for his Rhyming stuff,  
No Crown of Laurel, but an Oaken Ruff.   
FINIS.