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EBBA 36613

British Library - Thomason Tracts Ballads
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The State Mountebanke.

IF any body-politique
Of plenty, or of peace be sick,
Ther's a Physitian come to Towne
Of far stretcht fame, and high renown;
Though cal'd a Mountebanke, 'tis ment
(Both words being French) a Parliament,
Who from Geneva, and Amsterdam,
From Germany and Scotland came;
Now lies in London, but the place
(If men say true) is in his face.
His Scaffold stands on Tower hill,

Where he on Strafford tri'd his skill;
Off went his head, you'l thinke him slain,
But straight 'twas voted on again.
Diurnals are his weekly bils
Which shew how many he cures and kils;
But of th' Errata wee'l advise,
For cure read kill, for truth read lies.
If any Traitor be diseas'd
With a sore neck, and would be eas'd,
Here is a pill he cals a Vote,
Take it extempore, 'twill do't.
If any conscience be too strict,
Here's severall bils from Lectures pickt,
Which swallow'd down, will stretch it full
As far as 'tis from hence to Hul.
Is any by Religion bound,
Or Law? and would be looser found,
Here is a Glyster which we call
His priviledge o're topping all.
Is any mony left or plate,
Or goods? bring't in at any rate;
Hee'l melt three shillings into one,
And in a minute leave you none.
Here's powder to inspire your lungs,
Here's water that unties your tongues;
(Spite of the Law) 'twill set you free,
To speake reason only lispingly.
Here's Leetches, which if well appli'd,
And fed, stick closely to your side,
Till your superfluous blood deeay,
Then they will breake and drop away.
But here's a soveraigne Antidote
(Be sure your Soveraigne never know't)
Apply it as your Doctor pleases,
'Twill cure all wounds, and all diseases.
A drug none (but himselfe e're saw.
'Tis cal'd a Fundamental Law.
Here's glasses to delude the sight,
Darke lanthornes, here bastard light;
This (if you conquer) trebles men,
(If lose) an hundred seems but ten.
Here's Opium to lull asleep,
And here ly dangerous plots in steep.
Here stands the safety of the City,
There hangs the invisible Committee.
Plundring's the new Philosophers stone,
Turns wares to gold, and gold to none.
And here's an Ordinance that shall
At one full shot enrich us all.
He's skilled in the Mathematicks,
And with his circles can do tricks,
By raising spirits that can smell
Plots that are hatcht as deep as Hel;
Which only to themselves are known,
(The Divel's ever kind to's owne.)
All this he gratis doth, and saith
Hee'l only take the Publick faith.
Flock to him then, make no delay,
The next fair winde he must away.

Finis.

Oxford, Printed for Wil. Web. 1643.

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