The SCOTCH Riddle Unfolded: OR, Reflections upon R. VV. his most Lamentable BALLAD, CALLED The LOYAL NONCONFORMIST.  

STand up Smectymnuus, and hear thy trial;  
Thy monstrous Title puts me to a pause:  
Was ever any Nonconformist Loyal?  
Love he the King that disobeys his Laws?   

Yet he can Swear, and yet he fears to Swear;  
For Solemn Oaths they must have sacred grounds:  
The Oaths of Scotland cost poor England dear,  
That Swore from Faith and Troth, to Blood and Wounds.   

'Tis truth, old Boreas never could blow West;  
And you may note a Non-Conformists mouth  
What ere he says, what ere he doth protest,  
Stands (like Emanuel Chapel) North and South.   

He fears an Oath, as Lawyers do a bribe,  
Though he dissembles a Religious dread;  
For 'tis well known that all that factious Tribe,  
Swallowed the Covenant Hand over head.   

That Covenant, in which the People Swore  
They knew not what: 'Twas such another thing  
As Satan's Oracles, of Torletons' Lore,  
That cried Forbear, yet whispered Kill the King.   

That cursed Covenant, which he that now  
Abjures is free; but he that keeps it finds  
Himself a baffled Samson, and his Vow  
A Dalilah, for whom it binds it blinds.   

How vainly do their lose pretences gild  
That Warbeck principle, called Conscience, which,  
Like Joan of Arc, leads Troops into the field,  
She styles herself a Saint, yet proves a Witch.   

If Truth hath any virtue to convince:  
If Pulpits can speak better things than Tubs:  
This Conscience owes Allegiance to her Prince;  
The King of Hearts command the Queen of Clubs.   

But is't not strange the Bramble should defend  
Jove's sacred Tree, that lately did aspire  
Not only th' Ivy, but the Oak to rend,  
And (like a Traitor) set the Wood on fire,   

Yet talked of Loyalty; but what he meant  
Some Conjurer expound, but to Obey  
Moses and flee from wicked Korah's tent,  
Is Holy Writ, and not Apocraphâ.   

Nor care I though th' Apocrapha were not,  
And yet I do believe that Ancient story  
Of Bell and Dragon cannot be forgot,  
If there be extant ere a Directory.   

The Maccabees shall flourish like Italians,  
And after ages shall not be bereft  
Of chaste Susanna, and her pair of Stallions,  
Whilst we have Church, or they have Elders left.   

What our great Prelates do, and what they are,  
God and the King shall question; we're forbid:  
Yet they that do the worst, do better far  
Than the Smectymnian party wish they did.   

Their Bishoprics (against the false Kirk's will)  
Have outlived Sedwick's Doomsday; and I hope  
Each Diocese will keep her Crosier still,  
And not let every Parish have a Pope.   

What was St. Peter's Office, what his Trade,  
The Gospel gives us a most clear Narration;  
It doth not say his Fishing Nets were made  
Of Treason, Sacrilege, or Sequestration.   

That he ne'er taught the Presbyterian way  
Doth well appear by his Divine Epistles:  
And (though he Preached as often as they say)  
He never Preached for Bodkins, Spoons, and Whistles.   

Peace then foul Mouth's, be still unhallowed pates;  
Make not the Church the subject of your Jeers,  
But reckon Dr. Bastwick and his mates  
Uncircumcised of heart, though not of ears.   

Proud Presbyters; remember, Thirty pieces  
Was all the fees the Jews ere gave your Patron:  
If London Sheep had born no better fleeces  
Dame Calamy had been a Threadbare Matron.   

Yet who is't does not think your snivelling Brother  
Would swing his Handkerchief over Paul's steeple,  
And wear as high s Mitre as another,  
But he's a Pharisee and fears the People.   

As for Church Vestments, Hemp we will bestow  
On Snarling Priests that mouth against the King,  
And he that comes into the Church by th' Bow,  
'Tis Justice that he should go out by th' string.   

But if the Gallows ere should have her right:  
As who knows what may be (dear Smec. perhaps  
IT may be thy day) 'twould be a pretty sight  
To see the Hangman wear a brace of Caps.   

Was any of Paul's Books or Parchments found  
In byfield's Registry (my good Divines?)  
Although his Cloak was long and swept the ground,  
'Twould be too short to cover your designs.   

Hence than ye Caterpillars, Dregs of Men,  
Hence Pulpit Bloodhound, hence Seditious pack:  
Bow Bells shall never say Return again,  
Although perhaps the Ropes may call ye back.   

And farewell Wild, with all thy learned Metres,  
Posterity shall laugh, and picture thee  
On the same Sign with Archee, and Hugh Peter,  
And underwrite this Motto, We be three.    

Printed in the Year; 1666.