A New Satyricall
BALLAD
OF THE
Licentiousness of the Times.
To the Tune of, The Blinde Beggar of Bednall-Green.
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I.
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THe devil has left his puritanical dress,
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And now like an Hawker attends on the Press,
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That he might through the Town Sedition disperse,
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In Pamphlets, and Ballads, in prose and in Verse.
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II.
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'Tis surely so, for if the Devil wan't in't,
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There would not be so many strange things in print:
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Now each man writes what seems good in his Eyes,
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And tells in bald Rimes his Inventions and Lies.
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III.
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Some relate to the World their own causeless fears,
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Endeavouring to set us together by the ears,
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They strive to make Factions for two great Commanders,
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Tho one be in Holland, the other in Flanders.
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IV.
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They bawl and they yaul aloud through the whole Town,
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The rights of Succession and Claims to the Crown,
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And snarling and grumbling like Fools at each other,
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Raise Contests and Factions betwixt Son and Brother.
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V.
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Here one doth on this side his Verses oppose,
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Up starts another and justs with him in prose,
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On Rumor a Jade, they get up, and mount her,
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And so like Don Quixot with Wind-mills Encounter.
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VI.
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Our Sun is not setting, it does not grow dark yet,
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The King is in health still, and gone to New-Market,
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Let then idle Coxcomb's leave off their debating,
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What either side says is unmannerly prating.
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VII.
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Another tho he be but a senseless Widgion
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Will like an Arch-bishop determine Religion:
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What ere his opinion is that must be best,
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And strait he Confutes, and Confounds all the rest.
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VIII.
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I'the Coffee house here one with a grave face,
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When after salute, he hath taken his place,
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His Pipe being lighted begins for to prate,
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And wisely discourses the affairs of the State.
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IX.
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Another in fury the board strait doth thump,
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And highly extolls the blest Times of the Rump;
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The Pope and all Monarchs he sends to the Devil,
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And up in their places he sets Harry Nevill.
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X.
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Another who would be distinguish'd from Cit,
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And swearing God dam me, to shew him a wit,
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(Who for all his huffing one grain hath not got)
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Scoffs at all Religion, and the Popish plot.
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XI.
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One with an uncivill satyrical Jest,
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To be thought a wit, has a fling at the Priest,
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He jears at his Betters, and all men of note,
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From th' Alderman to the Canonical coat.
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XII.
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A politick Citizen in his blew gown,
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As gravely in shop he walks up, and down,
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Instead of attending the wares on his staul,
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Is all day relating th'intreagues at White-hall.
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XIII.
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And though to speak Truth he be but a Noddy,
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He'd have you to think that he is some-body,
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With politick shrug, ev'n as bad as a Curse,
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He crys out, Oh! the Times, no Mortal saw worse.
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XIV.
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Then comes a wise Knight as the whole Citty's Factor,
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Speaks Prologue in prose, too grave for an Actor,
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And being sore frighted, in a learned speech,
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To stand to their Arms all the Citts doth beseech.
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XV.
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The Cobler in stall, did you but hear him prate,
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You'd think that he sate at the helm of the State,
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His awl lay'd aside, and in right hand a pot.
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He roundly rips up the Soul of the Plot.
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XVI.
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But it is not enough to see what is past,
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For these very Men become Prophets at last,
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And with the same eyes can see what is meant,
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To be Acted and done in the next Parliament.
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XVII.
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His Worship so wise, who a Kingdome can Rule,
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Is by none dear Wife at home made a Fool,
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For though he doth see through dark Mists of the State,
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He can't see the Horns that she plants on his pate.
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XVIII.
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The Women too prate of the Pope and the Turk,
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Who should play with their Tails, or else be at work,
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But two Noble Virtues they've attain'd to, I think,
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To handle State matters, and take off their drink.
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XIX.
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Petition the Players to come on the Stage,
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There to represent the vice of the Age,
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That people may see in Stage looking-Glasses,
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Fools of all sorts, and these pollitick Asses.
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XX.
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And thus I have shown you the vice of the Nation,
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Which wants of these Things a through Reformation,
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But when that will be I cannot determine,
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For plenty breeds Vice, as foul Bodies breed Vermine.
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XXI.
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Men may prate and may write, but 'tis not their Rimes,
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That can any ways change or alter the Times,
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It is now grown an Epidemical Disease,
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For people to talk and to write what they please.
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XXII.
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God bless our Good King who our little World Rules,
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And is not disturb'd rt the Actions of Fools,
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It very much helps a Wise Man's Melancholly,
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To see and observe and to Laugh at their Folly.
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