A COUNTER-BLAST TO THE fanatics, Those Prodigious Caterpillars, Hatched by the Jesuits, whose Father is the DEVIL, and Godfather the POPE.  
On their last Insurrection against the Life of his most Sacred MAJESTY, CHARLES the Second, KING of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc.  

HOw? the fanatics sway? they stab the King?  
Damned fools! could they imagine such a thing?  
Then, Sprats shall conquer Whales, the guilty Owl,  
The Eagles, and the Mice shall Lions rule.  
Courage my friends; Phanticks, like Venus' mole,  
Do add a lustre to a Loyal soul.  
Like Wisps, which scour better Vessels, They  
Do brush our sins, and then are cast away.  
They are but sauce to sweeter meat; by their  
Vices, more pleasing our Virtues are:  
Spawned by Belzebub, brought up from Hell,  
In Christ his Name, Christianity to Quell:  
King Jesus they are for, (so th' damned Crew,  
That Murdered him, was for King Jesus too)  
Fond Bedlams! what! could they think that Heaven,  
Would taint the world with Fanatic leaven?  
That Christ would be Crowned, King, and Sovereign,  
Byth' wicked, silly, base Fanatic Train?  
Are these St. John's, to cry, make strait the way,  
And in the mean time Murder, Kill and Slay?  
Think they, that God, his servant Charles would save  
From Tyrant Oliver's and grander Rebels grave?  
To give him up, to such poor Mirmydons, as these,  
Whose very looks would breed a new Disease.  
Away, vile brood of Heretics, go tell,  
Your master Jesuits (those Imps of Hell)  
That force of 
* Gunpowder treason.  Gunpowder could not destroy,  
Nor hurt, the sacred line of Charles le Roy:  
Much less such Schismatics, as you; whose race  
Is unto Dunn, and Tyburn a disgrace.  
But, why should I blurr paper with such blots  
Of impudence, the Kingdom's pest, and spots;  
dregs of the base sort, whose only fame,  
Is to act wickedness, in God's good Name?  
My Muse, abjure such Dunghill birds, as they,  
And leave them to infernal Hawks a prey.  
Behold! your gracious King! whom I am sent,  
To give all honest Israelites content:  
The Royal line! and their miraculous fate!  
These, these, are best for thee to Celebrate.  
'Tis true, two branches of the Royal Oak,  
Are 
* Since the Restauration.  passed to Heaven by the Fatal stroke;  
But three remain; thus God doth grace,  
Both Men and Angels with the Royal race.  
fanatics judge their death a curse for sin, why?  
Because for sin 'tis that fanatics die,  
Yet sure, if none but sinners die, why fade  
Fanatic Saints? for what was heaven made?  
But cease my daring Muse; the very word  
Fanatic, makes a true man draw his sword:  
'Tis able to hatch Witches, nay make Pluto  
Doubt where he's the greatest devil, or no:  
He's a single Devil, but in this one,  
fanatics, dwells more than a Legion.  
'Tis sin's Epitome, of ignorance the sum  
Of Evils genus generalissimum.  
Like Sampsons' Foxes by the tail, All sin,  
And sects do join in a Fanatic 's skin:  
Fanatic, and not be poisoned, to quote,  
A man had need first drink an Antidote.  
But since such Vermin hang, and Charles doth Reign,  
I'll sing the praise of my Dread Sovereign:  
Who though a Prince disguised, or sun i'th' clouds,  
He sojourned a while with foreign Crowds:  
Yet now his Own have Owned him their King,  
All Nations to his grace shall homage bring.  
Kings; nay victory itself, shall deem it pride,  
To be made subject unto such a guide:  
His presence is a heaven, in him's the sum,  
Of all our hopes, past, present, and to come:  
Comparisons by him get a degree,  
For he is greater than the greatest, He  
Hath made the Gods seem impotent, for they  
Can't give us greater bliss, than Charles his ray:  
Nor Rider's words, nor tuli's Eloquence,  
Can half express his grand magnificence,  
he's more than Men or Angels can rehearse,  
The fame and Phoenix of the universe.   

In brief.  
He doth as fare Excel all men in Piety,  
As the fanatics do in Villainy.   
Giles Duncombe of the Inner Temple Gent. Author of Scutum Regale, the Royal Buckler. Or, Vox Legis, a Lecture to Traitors.   

London, Printed Anno Dom. 1660.