More Lampoons.
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COme Painter take a Prospect from this Hill,
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And on a well-spread Canvas shew thy Skill:
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Draw all in Colours as they shall appear,
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And as they stand in merit place them there.
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Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field;
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And, as directed, so let that be fill'd.
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First, draw a Popish Army brisk and gay,
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Fighting, and beat, destroy'd, and run away.
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Then draw a Hearse, and let it stand in view,
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The Mourners more, far more than they'r in shew,
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Cursing their Fate, their Stars. and in that fear,
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Shew, if thou canst, how these damn'd Sots prepare
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To run, or stay and skulk in holes alone:
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By them, this Motto, Gallows claim thy own.
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Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil shew
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Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.
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Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil shew
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Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.
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Now draw a croud of Priests prepar'd to run,
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Like broken Merchants when their stock is gone;
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Some howling out their Prayers, forget and say,
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Save us St. Ketch: Are all our Saints away?
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Draw 'em in hurry, running to and fro,
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Posting to Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.
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Next draw a croud of Lords. This Label by,
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The great Design is lost. Alas, they cry,
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Who'd serve a Cause of such curst destiny.
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Now draw four Priests, shew how they Rome adore,
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And each Mans Scarf hang to be seen before.
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Two brace of Bishops, fallen to despair,
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Arm'd Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.
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Now shew the Judges, and with them thy Skill,
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That all who see it done may say, 'Tis well;
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In Caps and Gowns, as they in orders sate
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'Twixt Heaven and Earth do thou them elevate:
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For their grave Noddles can Dispence with that.
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Now draw the little Rogues, the scoundrel Crew,
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Knights Knaves, & Beggers, they must have their due,
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Gadbury, Butler, ay, and R--- too.
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Amidst this croud, on a fit spot of Land,
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To crown the work, let a large Gallows stand:
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All trembling by, arm'd with their guilt and fears,
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Kneel to this Image, and pour out their Prayers.
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And then die by Suffocation.
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To the respective Judges.
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DIgnifi'd things, may I your leaves implore,
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To kiss your Hands, & your high Heads ador[e]
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Judges you are, but you are something more.
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May I draw near, and with rough-hew'd Pen,
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Give a small Draught of you, the worst of Men:
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Tell of your Merits, and your mighty Skill,
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And how your Charms all Courts of Justice fill.
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Your Laws, far stronger than the Commons Votes,
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So finely flows from your Dispensing Throats.
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What Rome will ask, you must not her deny:
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If Hell command you too, you must comply.
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There's none but you would in this Cause combin[e]
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Things made like Men, but act like Brutes & Swin[e]
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Law Books are trash, a Student he's a drudge:
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Learn to say, Yes, he's an accomplish'd Judge;
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He wins the Scarlet Robe, and wears it too:
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Ay, and deserves it well, for more's his due;
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All that compleats a Traytor dwells in you.
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Thus you like Villains to the Benches get,
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And, in defiance to the Laws, you sit,
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And all base actions that will please commit:
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There must you toil for Rome, and also try
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Your Irish Sense and Cobweb Policy,
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Compleat your Crimes; and then you'r fit to die.
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True Loyal Babes! Pimps to the Church of Rome.
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Trisilians Heirs: Heirs to his crimes and doom.
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Was ere the Hall fill'd up with such a Brood,
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All dipt in Treason, Villanies or Blood:
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Worse than Fanatick Priests; for they being prest
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By a Wise Prince, Preach'd to Repeal the Test.
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Then here's the difference, 'twixt you Popish Tools
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You'r downright Rogues: They, only Knaves and Fools
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