THE
PRESENT STATE
OF
ENGLAND:
A Pleasant New True Ballad,
To the Tune of, The Taylor and his Lass: Or, It was in the Prime, Of Coucumber Time.
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JAck Presbyters up, And hopes at one Swoop,
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To swallow King, Bishop, and All-a:
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The Miter and Crown, Must both tumble down,
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Or the Kingdom he tells you will Fall-a.
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Sure 'tis a hard Fate, That to prop up the State,
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We must pull down the State-Religion:
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But the Saints have a new one, More holy and true one,
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Composed of Fox and Wigeon.
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An Engin they've got, Call'd a Damn'd Popish Plot,
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Shall bring in a Through-Reformation:
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Which though 't be half Fable, It mads the poor Rabble,
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And puts out of Wits half the Nation.
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Thus their Work's quickly done, For each Mother's Son
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That to Church, or to King is Loyall,
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Shall straight be Indicted, Or else be sore Frighted,
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To be brought to their Fiery Tryal.
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'Tis no more but pretend, He's to Popery a Friend;
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The Brethren cry loud, he's a Traytor;
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And their sure Evidences, Bring against him Pretences:
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And all of a Treasonable Nature.
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Th' Impeachers are such, So Honourable and Rich,
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That no Bribe can to Falshood invite 'em:
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Tho they Contradict themselves, And every Body else,
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A good Lusty Vote can Right 'em.
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No Matter for Blood, Their Oaths shall Stand Good,
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In Despite of all Circumstances:
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The City-Cabals, Say they cannot swear False;
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And each Pamphlet their Honour enhances.
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Who dares to deny, But One single Lye,
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Of the Many they swear on their Credit:
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He's brought on his Knees, Is Rebuk't, and pays Fees;
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And must cry Peccavi he did it.
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If any's so bold, Their Tricks to unfold,
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Or offers to prove them Lyars;
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Straight up steps another, And swears for Rogue-Brother,
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And flings the poor Wretch in the Bryars.
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Thus Villains, 'bout Ten, The worst Scum of Men,
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While the Godly Party Maintain 'em,
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All England do Govern, And each such a Sovereign,
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The King must not speak again 'em
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Old Noll, and Dad Nick, Have taught them the Trick
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To make Plots, and then to Reveal 'em:
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Thus runs round the Jigg, Of Politick whigg,
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Sure Pardon if they do not Conceal 'em.
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Then Inspir'd they bring in, For sad Men of Sin,
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Any one that is Honest and Loyal:
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But if Pardon's deny'd, All flock on Fitz-Side,
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To Hector the Mercy Royal.
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Thus most Men for Fears, Dare not for their Ears,
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But whigg and his Rout to second;
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Which if they Refuse, They're far worse than Jews,
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And Papists or Traytors are reckon'd.
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And every poor Ape, Who for Changes does gape,
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And to be Preferr'd by the Party:
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To help Good-Old-Cause, Wide stretches his Jaws,
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With loud Lyes to shew himself Hearty.
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And those Worthies Three, Care, Curtis, Langley,
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Do Publish them fast as they make 'em:
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The being in Print, Signifies something in 't;
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And the Rabble for Gospel mistake 'em.
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Meanwhile ---Pendent Laughs, And at ---Byter scoffs
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And at's Hot-Headed Zeal does flout-a;
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The Coxcomb to see, Thus shaking the Tree,
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While he's ready to gather the Fruit-a.
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Let Papists be Hang'd, And Presbyters D------,
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And may goggl'd-Ey'd Traytors perish:
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But let True Hearts sing, Long Live Charles our King
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The Church, and the State to Cherish.
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