O All all you the Zealots of Country and Town,
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That in godly disguises walk up and Down;
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Whom Ambition, or Folly, or Madness inspire,
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To Sing, Curse ye Meroz, in Protestant Quire.
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That Invite one another by Tickets in Print,
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To dispute it by Claret and Arguments Dint;
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By Gammons and Pasties, and Joles, to Define
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Whether Crown should descend in the right or wrong Line.
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Whether Princes may Reign, unless Rebels permit,
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Unless Coopers and Tapsters, and Upstarts think fit.
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Come hither, and Patiently hear what you Are,
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For of all things, you know not your own Character.
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And did you but know your selves to be such,
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Neither Pope nor the Devil could fright you, so much
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As your own Images, your selves would fright:
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So Cruel, so Arbitrary, so full of spite,
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That in each Lineament, of a Professor,
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You would Curse, and Cry out, of a Popish Successor.
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A Whig is old Lucifer in Masquerade,
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Old Satan and He, are both of a Trade:
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Both put on the shape of an Angel of Light,
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To Cheat and Cajole in a Garment of White;
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Only this differs, in Devil and Saint,
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One is the Life of Sin, the other Paint:
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The Devil can Cant and Whine, Pretend and Snevil,
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And Whigs are but Jack-Puddings to the Devil,
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He on the high Rope with a Pole does go,
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And in Chalk Jumps makes a more skilful show;
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While they with Hob-nail-Impudence pretend,
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Their Masters Feats, without a Pole to mend.
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He Apes the Saints, and They the Devil Ape,
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They change and barter one anothers Shape;
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Only he cleaverly his Pranks does Play,
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Conceals his Art in Sanctified Array.
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They in Satanick dress the Devil out-doe,
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And are the grosser Hypocrites o the two.
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In Treason and Sedition both conspire,
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Both dress the Plots i the same Hellish-fire.
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And may they both, defeated of their Aim,
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If neither Satan, nor his Imps Reclaim,
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Fry both together in that Rebels Flame.
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