AN ANSWER
TO THE
GENEVA BALLAD
|
OF all the Drolsters in the Town,
|
Of Popish, or of Hobbian Race,
|
None draggs Religion up and down,
|
Or doth the Gospel such disgrace
|
As Spruce with Coat Canonical
|
Whose Conscience eccho's have at all,
|
Would a fat Benefice but fall.
|
He whom the Ruder Witts adore,
|
And count his vile Lampoons Divine;
|
Who Pimps in Rhime for the Old Whore.
|
And fain would patch up Dagon's shrine,
|
A sacred Proteus one that can,
|
Blend Gospel with the Alchoran,
|
And takes Texts from Leviathan.
|
Yet if he list, this Motley Clark,
|
Himself as loud as smec can bray,
|
The Church he slaunders in the dark,
|
But Hectors for her in the day:
|
Of Late he scoft at Miter'd Peers,
|
Pul'd the old Gray-beards by the ears,
|
And call'd them Heavens Overseers.
|
Yet now he fawns on them again,
|
And grins in rage his foaming chaps,
|
wishes poor Presbyter in Spain,
|
And tears his Edifying capps,
|
So Cowards kill where Hero's spare,
|
And Renogades always are
|
More fierce then native Turks by far.
|
Thus with each Heifer he can plow
|
A Papist or an Independant,
|
What point the Gales of profit blow,
|
He always steers, and there's an end on't,
|
Was ever syke a Priest among
|
All Gloster Coblers fulsome Throng,
|
To pawn his Conscience for a Song?
|
Whilst Presbyter with active fist,
|
Makes it his work to preach and pray;
|
This modefi'd Episcopist,
|
Shews 'tis to Heaven a Jollier way:
|
With organs and with Violin,
|
And Ballad new on merry pin,
|
He means to Wheedle souls from sin.
|
Geneva in a huff he kicks,
|
And swears by's reverend Cassac-Coat.
|
The Leaman-Lakes a second styx,
|
Where none but damned souls do float,
|
Though wise men think its waters be,
|
From all such secret venome free,
|
Nor half so blackish as Romes See.
|
Perhaps the man has cause to stickle,
|
Since Interest leads him to complain,
|
Fearing some Neighbouring Conventicle,
|
His Incomes to Low Ebb should Drain;
|
But be not, friend! at that dismaid,
|
Should preaching prove a sorry Trade,
|
Ballading is not quite decay'd.
|
He varnishes his envious hate
|
With a pretended loyal zeal,
|
But would in truth subvert the state;
|
And all embroil the common-weel;
|
His business is but to divide,
|
wound Protestants through Calvins side
|
That Popelings once more might us ride.
|
See how he slyly acts his part,
|
Commends Queen Maries bloody days:
|
And doubtless should we sound his heart,
|
Such Bonefires here afresh would raise.
|
But Heav'n defend those sad extreams,
|
We hope to keep unfilled Thames,
|
Free both from Tweds & Tiburs streams
|
Cease then impertinently to Rant,
|
We understand the Stale Intrigue:
|
Remember the Scotch Covenant,
|
Was copied from your gall:
|
Against blew bonnet swagger not,
|
We know who hatcht the powder-plot,
|
Nor yet is Irelands blood forgot.
|
Our Soveraigns pleasure we'l obey,
|
But scorn to Truckle unto thine;
|
Since Charles does liberty display,
|
How dare such Phamleteers repine?
|
Peace, Becket Junior, know your place,
|
Let no oblivion reach your case,
|
Who Cyphers make of acts of Grace.
|
The constant Rules of Heaven we know.
|
Whose Starrs in Various Orbs do move,
|
Which we may Copy here below,
|
Whilst several parties live in Love.
|
Without Yoak of Conformity,
|
We can keep Christian Unity,
|
As different Notes make Harmony.
|
Yet well may each good shepherd cry,
|
Unto his flocks beware of Rome,
|
When forraign wolves so oft we spy,
|
Making Domestick broils at home;
|
And in each corner of the Land,
|
Perceive those slye sheep-steelers stand,
|
To give them the Red-Letters brand.
|
With Holy Beads they teach to chaunt,
|
Their Ave's and their unknown prayers,
|
And all the while to Heav'n they mount,
|
Take special care to tell the stairs:
|
The Kitchin-wench comes into Matin,
|
And loyns her soul with shreds of Latin
|
Like greazy Fustion fac'd with Sattin.
|
Their whole Religion is so Odd,
|
It seems a Dark Mysterious Trade,
|
To Disturb Kings, and Worship God,
|
Only in shew and Masquerade:
|
A Chaos of Deformity,
|
Made up of blood, hypocrisie,
|
fraud, treason, and idolatry.
|
Yet you as soon to Mass would Gad,
|
Alas! it is all one to thee;
|
He that Religion never had,
|
May easily a Papist be,
|
Where purchas'd pardons set him fre[e]
|
Beyond a Raners Libertee,
|
To wallow in Debaucheree.
|
Though he contrive to hide his Plot,
|
We yet can apprehend the snare,
|
Through the sheeps-cloathing he has got,
|
His foxes Ears do plain appear:
|
Protestant Drones, look to your lives,
|
He'd fain be burning of your hives,
|
And counts the Scriptures dangerou[s] Knive[s]
|
We'l not Recriminate the case,
|
Nor make boast of our Loyalty,
|
But still with thankful hearts embrace,
|
Our Gracious princes clemency:
|
Yet hope to prove our innocence,
|
And actions void of just offence,
|
Against this slanderous Pretence.
|
When surplice was an useless thing,
|
And Miter a poor Relique lay,
|
The preaching Cloak brought back the Kin[g]
|
And turn'd our Dismal Night to Day:
|
Mun Calamy, and a few more,
|
Did then more on their Soveraigns sco[re]
|
Then troops of Railerists before.
|
|
|
|
|
|