Justice in Masquerade,
A POEM.
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A Butcher's Son's J--- Capital,
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Poor Protestants for to enthrall,
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And England to enslave Sirs.
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Lose both our Laws and Lives we must,
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When to do Justice we intrust
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So known an Errant K--- Sirs.
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Some hungry Priests he did once fell,
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With mighty stroaks, and them to Hell
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Sent presently away Sirs.
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Would you know why, the reason's plain,
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They had no English nor French Coin,
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To make a longer stay Sirs.
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The Pope to Purgatory sends,
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Who neither Money have nor Friends,
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In this he is not alone Sirs.
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For our J--- to Mercy's not enclin'd,
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'Less Gold change Conscience and his minde,
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You are infallibly gone Sirs.
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His Father once exempted was
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Out of all Juries, why? Because
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He was a Man of Blood Sirs.
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And why the butcherly Son, forsooth,
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Should now be Jury and J------ both,
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Cannot be understood Sirs.
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The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks,
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Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox,
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Stoop to him in his Fury.
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But the brib'd Son, like greasy Aulf,
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Kneels down and Worships Golden Calf;
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And so does all the Jury.
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Better thou had'st been at thy Fathers Trade,
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An honest lively-hood to have made,
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In hamp'ring Bulls with Collers:
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Than to thy Country prove unjust,
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First sell, and then betray thy trust,
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For so many hard Rixdollers.
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Priest and Physitian thou didst save,
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From Gallows, Fire and from the Grave,
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For which we can't endure thee.
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The one can ne're absolve thy sins,
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And th' other, though he now begins,
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Of Knavery ne're can Cure thee.
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But lest we all should end his life,
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And with a keen-whet Chopping knife,
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In a Thousand peices cleave him:
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Let the Parliament first him undertake,
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They'l make the Rascal stink at stake,
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And so like a K------ let's leave him.
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