THE TRAGICK-COMEDY
OF
TITUS OATES,
Who sometime went under the Notion of The Salamanca Doctor;
Who being Convicted of PERJURY
And several other Crimes, at the Kings-Bench-Bar, Westminster, May 16.1685. had his Sentence to
Stand in the Pillory, to be Whip'd at the Carts Arse, and to be sent back to Prison.
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WHet all your Wits, and Antidote your Eyes,
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Before you hazard here to play this Prize;
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Or gaze (like Eagles) on a Show so rare,
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No time brought forth an Object yet so fair;
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Lo! here's the Bug-Bear-Rampant of the PLOT,
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Which Whig on Tory (in a Shamm) Begot;
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Here A-la-mode the Guardian of the Land
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In a New-fashion'd Pulpit now doth stand;
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The Tub's o're-whelm'd, and all the Hoops are flung,
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And Deput-Jack he peeps out through the Bung.
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Barcochabs here, the Star of Englands Sky,
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Decipher'd now The Son of PERJURY;
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Th' AEgyptan-Cow, the Oaten-blasted Blade,
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Which hath (these several Years) eat up our Trade;
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The States Anatomist, the Church Confusion,
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Who Dream'd a Plot, and Swore it was a Vision;
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A Doctor who Degree did ne'r Commence,
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A Rhetoritian that spoke never Sence;
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Like Proteus he still changeth to the time,
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His Pulse and Temper suits with any Clime;
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His Birth's equivocal, by Generation
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Seditions By-Blow, Loyaltys privation;
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A Linsey-Woolsey Emp'rick of the State,
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That hugs the Church, and knocks it o're the Pate.
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He stands in state, and well becomes his station,
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Using a Truckling-Stool for Recreation:
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Now should he, in contempt of Peters Chair,
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Leap from the Pillory to the Three-leg'd Mare,
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And with Empedocles desire to be
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But Canoniz'd an Oaten-Deity,
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He would spring up (but that he is a Sot)
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A Mandrake, to conceive another PLOT.
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His Crime no Man can ballance with a Curse,
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For still the Hydra doth deserve a worse:
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Then let him live a Minotaur of Men,
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Like Hirco-Cervus Couchant in his Den;
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The Monument of Mischief, and of Sin,
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To spread no farther than the Sooterkin
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Of old Sedition, set before our Eye,
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As Buoy and Beacon unto Loyalty;
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Yet at the Wheels of Fortune let him Dance
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A Jigg of Pennance that can make him Prance;
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Resenting all his Errors (though in vain)
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With fruitless wishes calling Time again;
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His Face is Brass, his Breech no Rod will feel,
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And who knows but his Back is made of Steel;
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His Soul is proof, perhaps his Body may
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Be made of Mettle harder than the Clay;
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Then put him to the touch, make Titus rore,
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The Chase is turn'd, now he's Son of a W---
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Then conjure him with Eggs and Kennel-Dirt,
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And Contradictions that his Mouth did squirt;
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To tell his Name, we'l Christian him once yet,
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And mold and Agnoun which can with him fit;
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He is no Doctor, for by horrid Lies
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He cures Sedition, only Tinker-wise.
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He is no Papist, for he ne'r had Merit,
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Nor yet a Quaker, for he hath no Spirit.
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He is no Protestant, for want of Grace,
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To keep him from a falsifying face.
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He is no Turk, for always (like a Swine)
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He lov'd to wallow in a Tub of Wine.
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No name can fitt him, therefore let him b[ee]
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The grumbling Ghost of Old Presbitery.
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