The Character of A Torey.  
A TORY is a Monster with an English Face, a French Heart, and an Irish Conscience. A Creature of a Large Forehead, Prodigious Mouth, Supple Hams, and no Brains.  
The Countryman's Description of him, was both Rhyme and Reason; 
Roary, Whorey, Sworey, Scorey,  
That's a TOREY:   
For Noise and Debauchery, Oaths and Beggary, are the Four Elements that Compose him: His Arms are those of Issacher, An Ass Couchant; and his Mark is a Red-Ribbon in his Capp, to show, That he belongs to the Scarlet Whore, by her Bloody Livery; or else, you may take it for a Wedding favour, That whenever Popery and Tyranny shall make a Match, he would fain be a Brideman.  
He seems Descended from Esau, since he is so ready to Truck away an Invaluable Birthright for a French Kickshaw, and a Nauseous Mess of Italian Pottage. Or if you will run his Pedigree higher, you may call him a Noddite, one of the Race of Cain the Murderer, that would fain be Persecuting his Brother, merely because he is more Righteous than Himself.  
Take our TORIES in the State, and they are Caterpillars that Devour every Green thing in a Flourishing Kingdom, and would Stab Liberty and Property to the Heart, That they themselves, like Beasts of Prey, might live wholly upon Spoil and Rapine; fit only to be Subjects to Nabuchadnezzar, when bereaved of Human Sense, he Herded with the Wild Asses of the Desert. Though they boast themselves Englishmen, yet they Act in all things as Antipodes to their Native Country; and seem rather Bog-trotters Transplanted, the Spawn of some Red-shanks, or the By-blows of the Old Lazy Lord-Danes, that once Domineered over our Ancestors: They are a sort of Wild Boars, that would root out the Constitution, and break the Balance of our happy Government; and render that Despotic, which hitherto has been both Established and bounded by Law. Fauxes in Masquerade, that with Darklanthorn Polices, would at once blow up the Two Bulwarks of our Freedom, PARLIAMENTS and JURIES; making the First, only a Parliament of Paris: and the Latter, but mere Tools, to Echo back the pleasure of a Judge. They are so certain, That Monarchy is Jure Divino; That they look upon all People living under Aristocracies, or Democracies, to be in a State of Dammation. And fancy, That the Grand Signior, the Czar of Muscovy, and the French King dropped down from Heaven with Crowns on their Heads, and that all their Subjects were Born with Saddles on their Backs. Your True TORY is as fond of Slavery, as others are of Liberty, and will be at as much Pains and Charge to obtain it; for he Envies the Happiness of Canvas Breeches and Wooden Shoes; and extremely Admires the Mercy of the Inquisition. He Rails at Magna Charta as the Seedplot of Sedition; Swears, That it was first obtained by Rebellion, and that all our Forefathers were Rogues and Fools, and did not understand Prerogative. He wonders, why People should squander away their time at the Inns of Court, or what need there is either of the Common Law, or the Statute-Book, the King might at any time, with quicker dispatch declare his Pleasure in any Point or Controversy, and each Loyal Subject were bound to Acquiesce, on pain of Damnation. Yet after all, his boasted Loyalty extends no further than a Drunken Health; He Roars and Swaggers, but does not Serve the King: He promises Mountains, and by Lies and Misrepresentations, gives False Measures, but performs nothing: Nor is it the Cause, but the Crust, that he Barks for.  
Then in Relation to the Church,— TORY is either a Crab-Protestant, that crawls backwards as fast as he can to Rome; or at best, but the Catts-foot wherewith the Romish Monkeys Claw the Protestant Religion till the Blood comes: one that does their Drudgery though he has not always the Wit to see it, and all the Wages he must expect, is Polypheme's Courtesy, To be Devoured Last. He is a Flambeau kindled by the Jesuits, and fling in, to make a Combustion amongst us. Whilst we were Hunting down their Plot with a full Cry, they slipped in this Deepmouthed Hound, who spending on a false Scent diverted the Chase, and so the Popish Puss squats safe in her Form: and now quitting the Pursuit of the Foxes, he gins to Worry the Sheep. He pretends high for the Church of England; but as he understands not her Doctrine, so he Dishonours her by his Lewd Conversation: What a pretty Pious Confession of Faith is it, to hear a Bully Cry,— God-Dam-Mce, I am of the Church of England, and all the Presbyterians are Sons of Whores. Indeed, the only proof both of his Religion and Courage, is, That he Swears most frequently by that Tremendous Name, at which, lesser Devils Tremble: and his Christianity consists in Cursing all those that he is pleased to call fanatics, and fanatics he calls all those, that are not content to be either Papists or Atheists. His Tongue is always Tipped with Dam— me, and Forty one; and so hot, (being set on Fire of Hell) that he is fain to drink Healths, (sometimes to the Pope, and sometimes to the Devil,) Sixty times an Hour to quench it; and then Belches out Huzza's as fast, as Mount Strombulo does Fire and Brimstone.  
Whilst he Clamours at Dissenters for not coming to Church, he thinks 'tis Canonical enough to Sleep over the Lordsday to Digest the Fumes of Saturdays Debauch, or take a walk in Guild-Hall-yard, peep in at the Preacher, and presently Retire to the Tavern for a whet to Dinner, or else to meet the Club of Witty Good-mockers by Fleet-Ditch side, and Droll away the day in Blasphemy, Ridiculing Religious Duties, or Inventing Jack-Pudding Lies of some pretended Nonconformists Preaching. If he be somewhat of a more Serious Temper, he is as very a superstitious Bigot, as any in the Papacy, he would rather have no Preaching than that the Surplice should be left off, and thinks his Child not 〈…〉 it be not done with the sign of the Cro●s, he counts Opus operatum ●●cient, and if he have but been at Common-Prayer, and made his Responses loud enough to drown the Clerk, and had the Parson's Blessing, his Task is done and all is safe. Flesh on a Friday is more Abomination to Him, than his Neighbour's Bed, and he Abhors more not to Bow at the Syllables of the word Jesus, than to Swear by the name of God.  
He has got a New English Dictionary Framed by the Indefatigable Skill of Heraclitus and the Observator, whereby he Traversties' the most Loyal honest Sense into Blasphemy and Treason. Talk soberly of Religion, and he Elaps you over the Face with Heresy, Schism, Fanaticism and Faction, or roundly calls you Confounded Whigg, and so you are Confuted. Urge never so modestly Legal Fundamental Rights, and mention Irregularities, though in a place appointed to Remedy them, he cries out, Rebellion! Treason! You Depose the King! You Arraign the Government etc. Mention the Commons of England and the General Sense of the Nation, and he exclaims, Damn the Mobile and your Appeals to the Rabble; And yet at the same time Courts and Applauds Tag Rag and Long-tail, the Cooks and Chandler's of New Sarum, and such other Worshipful Patriots, for declaring their three halfpenny Judgements of the highest Affairs of State, in their Addresses. And as for the two last Parliaments, every petty Chapman, or Apprentice-Boy, takes upon him to Censure the grave Proceed of those Venerable Senates, as malapertly as if they had been but a Company of Fiddlers.  
Yet still he fears not God, so much as a Parliament: But the reason why he Blasphemes the one, and Rails at the other, is because as he really believes not a Future Judgement in the other World, So he puts far off the other (to him) evil day in this, and hopes to Escape the Justice of both, by the Mediation of Saint Noli Prosequi.   

LONDON: Printed for William Inghal the Elder, Bookbinder. 1681.