ADDRESS Of THANKS to Father PETERS AND THE Lord Chancellor, FROM The Protestant Religion and English Liberties.  

WHile grateful Courts would spurn those mitres down  
Who on the sacred Temples placed the Crown;  
Whilst even those mitres so ungrateful be  
They stubbornly refuse to crouch to Thee.  
Let not, blessed Saint! thy lofty Shrine refuse  
The juster Tribute of an humble Muse,  
Who long has laboured with a painful Birth  
To pay thee all the Thanks of heaven and Earth.  
For our Religion and our property  
What could have more been done by Heaven or Thee?   

Let none beyond themselves by Envy hurled  
Say,— This you did as Judas saved the World:  
Malicious Eyes still doubt the best intent;  
We'l look on what you've done, not what you meant.  
If Hell oblige, let's give the Devil his due,  
And do as much, by th' Hangman's leave, for you.  
aclowledge all those Miracles yo've done  
Enough to o'restock—  
A Legend bigger than the Golden one.   

Audacious Mob! what makes thee shout and roar?  
What makes thy muddy Sea outrun its shore!  
Along they roll, their Surges scatter wide,  
And harmless Father Peters swells the tide.  
Scarce bear they greater spite at Corker's Gate,  
Scarce honest Harry Hills more hearty they hate.   

When all the Jayls and Jakes must plundered be  
To raise a Guard, blessed Father! worthy Thee:  
Such Rags of Men as Dunghills would not own,  
But blushy for fear their Kindred should be known:  
Who, least they something should, of Man, confess,  
The Dirt hides even their Primitive Nakedness:  
No sooner a New svit of clothes, and Flesh  
Warms the poor Snakes, but they forget again  
Their Birth-place, and begin to think they're Men,  
Throw down their Bandileers, their Fingers bite,  
And Swear they'll ne're for Father Peters fight.   

The braver Few by kinder heaven endued  
With English Souls, if not with English Blood;  
Ormond, and Denmark, many a mighty Name,  
And Cornbury, the first-belov'd of famed,  
Who long, till Patience grew a Crime, had born  
The servile Yoke, at last with nobler scorn  
Shake off the ungenerous kerb, no longer they  
King Peters or King Jeffreys will obey:  
Mistake the Court, draw all their sleepy Swords,  
And make the Princes Tent their House of Lords.   

The Husbands dare not trust thee for their lives,  
●… ast thou work Miracles among their Wives.  
●… ur rich Society bribe the heavenly Maid,  
●… d from your stock, and hers lend too much aid;  
●… ilst the good Wives whet even their Teeth and Nails,  
●… o● ought, alas! thy pious Fraud avaiis;  
that Courtly Grin which decks thy Holy Face,  
That glavering Address and forced Grimace;  
All, all in vain: So thick their Curses flee,  
●here's not one part unwounded left in Thee;  
And cou●d they but thy hated carcase tear,  
Thy relics they, like Scanderbeg's, would wear.   

O! whither shall oppressed Virtue fly?  
Why are the Angels idle? tell me, Why?  
Why comes not Raphael to remove our Fears,  
And lug thee off by thy two goodly Ears;  
At little Modena then set thee down;  
Or, if so high, he chance t' o'reshoot the Town,  
Thou of thy own accord wilt be depressed  
●y thy pure sympathy to th' House of Est.   

But why this noise and clutter, this ado,  
For one so good, so Innocent as you?  
●ust Justice once again Huzzah's o'er power?  
Where are the Judges? where the Chancellor?  
Poor WEM is trying his new armor on,  
Or takes thy Fate and Lodgings when thou'rt gone;  
Or does his vigilant Crony entertain,  
And teach him, when he's clear, to hid his chain:  
Or packing up his Goods, t'avoid the shower,  
And Refuge takes in Newgate or the Tower.  
Or Affidavits( least the other fails)  
Is hammering for a Second Prince of Wales.   

Thy Cause would the poor Judges but perplex,  
Who are at th' Insurance-Office for their Necks.  
O Jenner! Jenner! who could Tears withhold?  
Who'd lost at once, like Thee, his Pardon and his Gold?  
No Life! no Heaven! Bid both at once Farewell!  
England to Tyburn sends thee, Rome to Hell.   

If these are hanged, or creep, or hid, or flee,  
Or shake, or stink, blessed Saint! as well as Thee;  
Thy worth, blessed Saint! has raised a Friend unknown,  
If not to guard thee till the Storm's o'reblown,  
Yet e're thou goest to pay thee all thy own.  
When thou arriv'st at Purgatory door,  
Let thy good Catholick-Mother clear her score:  
But since 'tis known we've little Trading there,  
The Protestants intend to pay thee here.   

Long had the English Genius stupid grown  
In slavish Bonds lain, fettered to the Throne;  
Thrown up that Power which once it nobly shared,  
Those Laws thrown up which once that Power did guard:  
As passive as a Spaniel, tutour'd to't,  
Whoever deign'd to kick, 'twould kiss its Foot,  
Whilst the bold Barons grumbled in their Graves,  
And their pale Ghosts even blushed to've got such slaves,  
'twas you who roused us all: So hard, so fast  
The eager Jesuit kicked, we felt at last;  
Your Remedy was sharp, but yet 'twas sure,  
A desperate Wound must have a desperate Cure.   

enslaved at home all Europe saw our Chain;  
They saw, and sighed, and sympathiz'd in vain,  
Whilst the French Tyrant did the balance hold,  
And rugged Steel out-weigh'd with heavier Gold.  
Our lion, locked within his native Den,  
Lashes himself for want of Beasts or men.  
The eager Spirits, when sealed so close, ferment,  
And burst the very Glass for lack of vent.  
Hence different Parties, and intestine Jars,  
And Names, and Marks, and deep dishonest Scars.  
This, Holy Father! this was seen by you;  
'twas seen, and then no doubt 'twas pitied too.  
You pitied just as Jesuits use to do,  
Out of mere kindness did the weakest join,  
and fairly shew'd 'em both the grand Design:  
till in their Anger both take Wit and Grace.  
Throw by their Swords, and hearty embrace,  
And hang such Vermin up, or from 'em chase,  
And whilst they haunt about your cursed Crew,  
You now make sport for them, as they've for you.  
Nor shall the Peter-Pence of Thanks alone  
Into thy sacred Treasury be thrown.  
O! wou●d thy fiery Nature be content  
To wait a little for a Parliament,  
( And not provoke choice Grub-street Wits to feign  
New Hue and Crys to call thee back again)  
' Twon'd ease both thee and us of all our Fears,  
And to a Farthing pay thee thy Arrears.   

till then farewell, and live on charity,  
till Justice sends thee something worthy Thee:  
till Holy Red-cap, or White-cap fo●lorn  
From Rome, or Tyburn thy fair Brows adorn.   
FINIS.