Being an Excellent New POEM, Containing
The Character of TITUS OATES,
Who sometimes went under the Notion of the Salamanca Doctor: With a Discription of his Chair of State; With the Sentence passed upon him
for Perjury and other such Ab[o]m[i]nable and Impudent Pranks and Crimes, which are not Handsome nor fitting to be mentioned among Christians.
Titus Oates for Perjury, was Arraigned at the Kings-Bench-Bar, Westminster, on Saturday May the 16th. 1685,
and being twice found Guilty before My Lord Chief Justice and others, had his Sentence as followeth:
On each Indictment, Fined 1000 Marks. On Munday the 18th, of May, to walk about Westminster-Hall with a Pa-
per upon his Forehead, mentioning his Crime: And afterwards stripp'd of his Canonical Habit, to stand in the Pillory before
the Hall Gate, between the hours of 11 and One, for the space of an hour. Tuesday the 19th at the Royal Exchange.
Wednesday the 20th. to be Whipt from Aldgate to Newgate. Fryday the 22. from Newgate to Tyburn. August the 9th.
to stand at Westminster. August the 10th. at Charing-cross. August the 11th. at Temple-Bar. September the 2d. at
the Royal Exchange. April the 24th. 1686. to stand in the Pillory at Tyburn, facing the Gallows. To lye in Goal during
life. And to Stand Annually in the Pillory, August the 9th. at Westminster. August the 10th, at Charing-cross. August
the 11th, at Temple-Bar. September the 2d, at the Royal Exchange.
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APproach good people, here's (for pence a peece)
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A Show more strange then was the Golden-Fleece
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Bartholomew's at hand, yet all his Fare,
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Could never show an Object yet so Rare.
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Here standeth Cerberus the Pope's Controler,
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Pulling his Neck out of the Wooden Colar;
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Who hath more Tongues, and fitted all for Lies,
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Then hath Briarius Hands, or Argos Eyes.
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He Bark'd all Britain Blind, made England Dance,
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A Tragick-Comedy which did Enhance
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Rebellions Intrest, tho it was all in vain,
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Since Loyalty hath turn'd the Chase again.
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Here is the Bug-Bear-Rapant of the PLOT,
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Which Whigg on Tory (in a Shamm) Begot;
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Here Al-a-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 Prick-Lug Jack he peeps out through the Bung.
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Barcochab's here, the Star of Englands Sky,
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Decypher'd now The Son of PERJURY;
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Th' AEgyptian 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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A Linsey-Woolley Emprick 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 the 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-Diety,
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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 then 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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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 fit him, therefore let him be
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The grumbling Ghost of Old Presbitery:
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