REFLECTIONS
UPON
The Catholick 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 Rhimes at the Rate of a Hector.
|
That (What do ye call it?) The Catholick Ballad,
|
Where Puns hang like Pebbles in Halter:
|
many that read it, it gain'd 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 fouly,
|
With Sots and Buffoons, such paltry Lampoons
|
Please better than Dryden or Cowly.
|
the Subject that takes, and the Matter that makes
|
The thing sell, not the Skill of the Songster:
|
But that impudent Whore, who befould Lillys 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 Meeters:
|
He that hears them would swear, such Doggerel Gear
|
Dropt down from the Scull 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 Porphiry Chair
|
Should be judg'd by the Stool of Repentance.
|
If some will averr, the Pope cannot err,
|
No Reason to Laugh at their Folly,
|
When not one Quaker of ten, but believes William Penn
|
As infallible, and twice as Holy.
|
I mean William Penn, 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'le not perswade, to the Rosary Trade,
|
For can I do anything Madder?
|
Than to bid you Adieu, like a Tike in a Teugh,
|
And Dye with a slip from a Ladder.
|
But, if you'l bewitch, the World and grow rich,
|
I advise you to Quaking or Dipping,
|
Or the sanctifi'd Sniveling, that kind of Mock-Deviling
|
'Tis better than Fasting and Whipping.
|
They'l not be content, to be curb'd by a Lent,
|
Good People, I'le tell ye the Reason,
|
Their work must go on, both now and anon,
|
For Sedgwicking's n'er out of Season.
|
And when they transgress, they scorn to Confess,
|
Which is a Popish Intrusion,
|
They think to Rebel, and not go to Hell,
|
For want of an Absolution.
|
For in such a case, the Kings Act of Grace,
|
Is the best Cure that ever was heard on:
|
Which Jolly old SMEC may swear by his neck,
|
Is more sweet than a Catholick Pardon.
|
If they have got there, Saint Peter's old Chair,
|
Let 'em keep it, 'tis pity to wrong 'em,
|
When our nimble Sprites, that talk of new lights,
|
Have Judas his Lantern among 'em.
|
He shall preach that's no Priest, and hunt Anti-christ
|
Quite thorough the Revelation.
|
Whilst we take the Church, and throw't out at the Porch,
|
Oh, Politick 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 sav'd 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 Coblers shall teach, and our Weavers shall preach,
|
Things fit for the Hang-man or Printer:
|
Nay (more than all this) every Malepert Cis
|
Shall bolt Motives as loud as the Hinter.
|
For there's but one way, their Tongues to allay,
|
Accustomed to speak what they please-a.
|
Then if thon wouldst know (man) how to silence a woman
|
Thou maist learn of *Theodore Beza.
|
*Basiolo ta-
|
cebit imo.
|
Anglice,
|
Kiss her A---
|
to quiet her.
|
The stout spirit Byard, will never be Tyr'd,
|
In the work of the Day he's grown Bolder,
|
Than the Long-bearded Clerk, who carry'd the Mark
|
Of his Martyrdom upon his Shoulder.
|
Much more might be say'd, but that I'm afraid
|
Of awaking the Wasps of the Nation:
|
Let thus much of Rhime, suffice for this Time,
|
Without Use or Application.
|
|
|
|
|
|