A Riddle of STATE; OR, THE Parliament Triumphant. To the Tune of, The Pink Petticoat lac'd Round.
|
O Brave Parliament!
|
That Antidotes our Fate;
|
And cures all our Maladies,
|
In Church, as well as State:
|
The Terrour of the Catholicks,
|
The Overthrow of Rome;
|
The Guardian of Protestants,
|
And all Christendom.
|
In came Bob-tail,
|
The Boast of the Town;
|
And she was clad with Midnight,
|
And mask'd with the Moon.
|
She looked like a Mair-Maid,
|
And squinted with her Eye:
|
But would not pass a Complement,
|
Nor tell the Reason why.
|
Then came Charity,
|
(A sober lovely Lass)
|
And Pleaded much for Conscience,
|
That She might have a Pass.
|
But up 'rose Discord,
|
And gave her the lye;
|
Pray, Madam, come another time,
|
But now stand by.
|
Then came Jealousie,
|
(The Mother of Mischief)
|
And, impudently, termed
|
State-Policy a Thief.
|
"She gave a Beggar Sixpence,
|
yet on Tryal found,
|
"That She had pick'd his Pockets
|
full Five Pound.
|
Then came N.------,
|
Patch'd with her Crimes;
|
And She had on a Petticoat,
|
Was turn'd ten times.
|
Her Limbs were made of Laziness;
|
Her Pockets full of Gold.
|
She picked up the Parliament,
|
For all the Whore was old.
|
Then came Presbytery,
|
Whom everyone did Mock;
|
For she had pinn'd unto her britch
|
The Whore of Babels Smock.
|
The Parliament did pity her,
|
Because they saw her Poor;
|
But up 'rose Bob-tail,
|
And kick'd her to the Door.
|
Next came Popery,
|
Her Face painted fair;
|
But when she turn'd about her Tail,
|
They saw her Buttocks bare:
|
Her Smock was of Conspiracy,
|
She wore a Scarlet Gown;
|
But, e're she ty'd her Top-knot,
|
They whipt her out of Town.
|
Then came Cynosure,
|
And humbly did pray,
|
To dissipate her Darkness
|
By one Bright Ray:
|
But Aries the Club-man
|
Ecclipsed the Sun:
|
And Phoebus could not shine, for
|
The Devil upon Dun.
|
Then came Gemini,
|
And fell upon their Knees;
|
And humbly accosted
|
The Noble King of Bees:
|
But, with a starn look,
|
He thus did reply,
|
cannot take Wings,
|
the Parliament fly.
|
O Happy is that Subject,
|
That eats his Honey-comb;
|
Ne'r troubl'd with the Publick,
|
But lives in Peace at home:
|
He's happy that can rule himself,
|
A Monarch in his Mind.
|
Contentment is a Treasure, which
|
High Spirits seldom find.
|
|
|
|
|
|