REFLECTIONS UPON The catholic Ballad.  

SInce Drolling is grown, such a Trade in the Town,  
That the Press goes without a Corrector;  
Sirs, have at your Sins, Here's a Gamester begins,  
Who rhymes at the Rate of a Hector.   

That( What do ye call it?) The catholic Ballad,  
Where Puns hang like Pebbles in Halter:  
'Mongst many that red it, it gained so much Credit,  
It may pass for a COFFE-HOUSE Psalter.   

Mens Humours, alas! are come to that pass;  
He writes best, who scribles most foully,  
With Sots and Buffoons, such paltry Lampoons  
Please better than Dryden or cow.   

'tis the Subject that takes, and the Matter that makes  
The thing sell, not the Skill of the Songster:  
But that impudent Whore, who befould Lilly's Door,  
Is not more unknown than this Youngster.   

Some would ha't a Divine, a old Friend of mine,  
But, if so, surely 't had been more witty,  
And that Son of the Kirk, would have given a vile jerk  
To the Mass-men for Firing the City.   

But this Bonny Blade, to his Muse calls for Aid,  
Who brings him her Lap full of metres:  
He that hears them would swear, such Doggerel Gear  
dropped down from the skull of Hugh Peters.   

Ridiculous Niget, to scoff at St. Bridget,  
Saying, He needs not her Assistance,  
But he that will Fool, with a Romish Edge-tool,  
Had need keep himself at a Distance.   

Let the Citizens flout, and the Country cry out,  
The Papists appeal from this Sentence,  
And say, 'tis not fair, the porphyry Chair  
Should be judged by the Stool of Repentance.   

If some will aver, the Pope cannot err,  
No Reason to Laugh at their Folly,  
When not one Quaker of ten, but believes William pen  
A●●nfallible, and twice as Holy.   

I mean William pen, that Wonder of Men,  
( If himself be not over-conceited)  
Who leads in his Lines, one and twenty Divines,  
Like Bears to the Stake to be baited.   

Yet I'll not persuade, to the Rosary Trade,  
For can I do any thing Madder?  
Than to bid you Adieu, like a Tike in a Teugh,  
And die with a slip from a Ladder.   

But, if you'l bewitch, the World and grow rich,  
I advice you to Quaking or Dipping,  
Or the sanctified Snivelling, that kind of Mock Deviling  
'tis better than Fasting and Whipping.   

They'l not be content, to be curbed by a Lent,  
Good People, I'll tell ye the Reason,  
Their work must go on, both now and anon,  
For Sedgwicking's ne'er out of Season.   

And when they transgress, they scorn to Confess,  
Which is a Popist Intrusion,  
They think to Rebel, and not go to Hell,  
For want of an Absolution.   

For in such a case, the King's Act of Grace,  
Is the best Cure that ever was heard on:  
Which Jolly old SMEC may sweer by his neck,  
Is more sweet than a catholic Pardon.   

If they have got there, Saint Peter's old Chair,  
Let 'em keep it, 'tis pity to wrong 'em,  
When our nimble spirits, that talk of new lights,  
Have Judas his Lantern among' em.   

He shall preach that's no Priest, and hunt Anti-christ  
quiter through the Revelation.  
Whilst we take the Church, and throw't out at the Porch,  
Oh, politic Reformation!   

The Box at the Door, that holds Alms for the Poor,  
Is an Eye-sore to our Spirit,  
For in it there lurks, the Doctrine of Works,  
That Men may be saved by their Merit.   

The Communion Table, we'l quickly disable,  
And the Font that looks like an old Roman,  
All down shall be thrown, but the Pulpit alone,  
And the Pulpit itself shall be common.   

Our cobblers shall teach, and our Weavers shall preach,  
Things fit for the Hang man or Printer:  
Nay( more than all this) every malapert Cis  
Shall boult Motives as loud as the Hinter.   

For there's but one way, their Tongues to alloy,  
accustomend to speak what they please-a.  
Then if thou wouldst know( man) how to silence a woman  
Thou mayst learn of 
Basiolo tacebit imo. Anglice, Kiss her A— to quiet her.  Theodore Beza.   

The stout spirit Byard, will never be tired,  
In the work of the Day he's grown Bolder,  
Than the Long-bearded Clerk, who carried the Mark  
Of his Martyrdom upon his Shoulder.   

Much more might be said, but that I'm afraid  
Of awaking the Wasps of the Nation:  
Let thus much of rhyme, suffice for this Time,  
Without Use or Application.    

London, Printed for E. T. and are to be sold in Little-Britain. 1675.