A New BALLAD.
To the TUNE of,
PACKINGTON's POUND.
|
I.
|
WHen the Twenty brave Pleaders, cull'd out of the Throng,
|
For their quickness of Parts, and their voluble Tongue,
|
Had read all their Speeches, and rehears'd all their Wit,
|
And left their Wise Lordships in Judgment to sit:
|
A Prelate adroit
|
At Text or Debate,
|
Summon'd Eight trusty Brethren in Council to meet,
|
They whip on their Cloaks, and to Hockley they go,
|
To know what his Kirkship wou'd have them to do.
|
II.
|
When they came, all the Waiters were order'd away,
|
And they drank to Low-Church in a Gallon of Tea:
|
Quoth he, I've long wish'd to see you all here;
|
For Matters of Moment require our Care.
|
The Godly Lay-Five,
|
Who all Methods contrive,
|
That the PROTESTANT CHURCH may still Flourish and Thrive:
|
By me their sure Nuncio do send you this Greeting,
|
And pray'd me to tell you how to Vote the next Meeting.
|
III.
|
Our Friends have now routed this Priest and his Cause,
|
In spight of his Homilies, Lawyers and Laws:
|
Strong L------ch------re shew'd Art, gentle D---l---n had Grace,
|
Had Oil in his Tongue, and a Blush in his Face:
|
S------h------e soft as a Dove,
|
Fam'd for Arms and for Love.
|
With sweetest Perswasion the Ladies did move.
|
But oh! what a Spirit? What a Rhetorick Divine;
|
In lofty Sir J------s and Lord W------m did shine?
|
IV.
|
Let us then, my good Lords, to each other be true,
|
And shew in Church-Matters what Bishops shou'd do:
|
I'll tell what by me and Great William was done,
|
And prove him a Traytor that calls Folks Volpone.
|
I'll tell them a Tale,
|
That to meet them shan't fail,
|
Of a Dame made a Victim to High-flying Zeal:
|
'Twould move Flesh and Blood for to see her Undress'd,
|
And hew'd all to pieces by a Hot-headed Priest.
|
V.
|
For us 'twould be shameful in Silence to fit,
|
When a Priest is a Roasting, we shou'd help turn the Spit.
|
Do you, my Lord O------d, against Monarchs be keen;
|
But as you love Worcester, except the good QUEEN.
|
This perhaps by the by,
|
In your Way may not lie,
|
But my West and the Hoadlys will Matters supply.
|
That you're for a gentle, mild Sentence, give out:
|
When the Question is put, you know how to Vote.
|
VI.
|
On you, Brother N------h we chiefly depend,
|
The Right of our Puritan Friends to defend:
|
Now strive to excel both your Patron's Renown:
|
Be as Just as the Father, and as Wise as the Son.
|
From you honest C------ich
|
We shou'd claim a fine Speech,
|
On this Ranting High Sermon the Commons impeach;
|
But now Easters at hand, we expect not a Word,
|
Since the Parish bids more than we can afford.
|
VII.
|
Of the rest here the Junto no Questions do make,
|
For on this only Card their All lies at Stake:
|
Some Lay Peers they doubt will be apt for to flinch,
|
But are sure that your Lordships will budge not an Inch:
|
What tho' we all once
|
Did Resistance renounce,
|
And for not being Passive, poor Julian did trounce:
|
Sure we never took up our Opinions for Life,
|
For better, for worse, as a Man takes his Wife.
|
VIII.
|
Thus incens'd at the Doctor, these Right Reverend Teachers,
|
Vow'd they'd make him a Warning to all High-Church Preacher
|
But oh! how they look'd when their Friends hung an Arse.
|
And their deep plotted Tragedy turn'd to a Farce:
|
With Amazement they found
|
Their Cause at a Ground,
|
And the Hall with loud Eccho's of Joy to resound,
|
Then slunk to their Coaches, the Doctor did follow,
|
They went off with a Whoop, and He with a Hallow.
|
|
|
|
|
|