Lampoons.
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Over the Lord D----rs Door.
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UNhappy Age, and we in it,
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When Truth doth go for Treason;
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Every Blockheads Will for Law,
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And Coxcombs Sense for Reason.
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Religions made a Paud of State,
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To serve the Pimps and Panders,
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Our Liberty a Prison Gate,
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And Irish-men Commanders.
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O wretched is our Fate!
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What Dangers do we run,
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We must be Wicked to be Great,
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And to be Just, undone.
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Tis thus our Soveraign keeps his Word,
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And makes the Nation Great;
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To Irish-men he trusts the Sword,
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To Jesuits the State.
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Over the Lord S-------rys Door.
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IF Cecil the Wise,
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From his Grave should arise,
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And look the fat Beast in the Face,
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Hed take him from Mass,
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And turn him to Grass,
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And swear he was none of his Race.
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IM come my future Fate to seek,
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Speak then, Coelestial Blockhead speak.
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Hadst thou not consulted with the Witch at Rome,
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Thou needst not thus, like Saul, to Endor come
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To seek out (Brother Solid-head) thy doom,
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The Hearts of all thy Friends are gone;
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Gazing they stand, and grieving round thy Throne,
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And scarce believe thou art the Martyrs Son.
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Those whom thou favourest, merit not thy Grace;
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They, to their Interest, Sacrifice thy Peace,
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And will in Sorrow make thee end thy days.
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Tempt not thy Fate too far, do not rely
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On force or fraud; Why shouldst thou Monarch, why,
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Live unbelovd, and unlamented dye?
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The Ghost.
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A Papist dyd, as twas Jehovahs Will,
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And his poor Soul went trudging down to Hell!
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Where, when he did arrive, just at the Entry,
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He found a Mastive Devil standing Centry,
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With flaming Eyes, and Face as black as Soot,
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A Musqueteer with a great Cloven Foot:
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And who goes there? I, a poor Papist Ghost,
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Thats come to dwell upon the Stygian Coast.
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Stay where you are, and do not press so hard,
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For I must call the Captain of the Guard;
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He gave me Orders to let none come in,
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But only such as should have leave from him.
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The Captain calld, accordingly came forth,
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A Devil of entegrity and Worth,
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Who all in noblest Scarlet being drest,
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With a most delicate fine Embroiderd Vest,
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He asks the Ghost, with a great Voice, as loud
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As mighty Thunder, breaking from a Cloud,
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What was the busness? Sir, I am come to dwell,
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If you will please to give me leave, in Hell.
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Damn you, you whorson Dog, said he to him,
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I love my Master, and you shant come in;
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For if above you Eat your God, I fear,
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Should you come in, youd Eat the Devil here.
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A Dialogue between a Loyal Addressor,
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and a Blunt Whiggish Clown.
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UNgrateful Wretch! Canst thou pretend a cause
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To fear the loss of Liberty and Laws?
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Has not the King been at a vast expence
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To raise the Gallant Troops in thy Defence?
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Did he not promise in a Proclamation,
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To rule by Law ats Coronation?
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Clown. But has he not already damnd the Test?
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And sure that Princes Word is but a jest,
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Who Rules an Army, and Obeys a Priest;
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Nor can his Solemn Oath make us much safer;
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His Sword is Steel, his God is but a Wafer.
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