The CABAL:
OR,
A Voice of the POLITICKS.
A most pleasant New Play Song.
Here take a view of such as fain wou'd be
Counted State-Wits, but want their Policy;
And yet go clad in Cloaks of Knavery.
Here's all the smoaking, sneaking, dribling Crew,
Painted, and set before the Readers view;
Who wou'd be something that you never knew.
To a Pleasant New Play-house Tune.
|
NOw England grows mad,
|
with strange Faction divided,
|
Each one has his Humor,
|
and Raves if deny'd it:
|
The Whigg in Cabals,
|
does mutter Mis-prision,
|
And Tory with Dammees,
|
holds Whigg in Derision.
|
Each Fop would be counted
|
a Grave Politician,
|
And prates his loud Non-sence,
|
without Intermission;
|
Whilst smoaking his Nose,
|
o're fumes of dull Coffee,
|
Pretended State-Reasons,
|
a thousand he'l quaff ye.
|
Another beyond him,
|
sits soberly Piping,
|
Whilst his dull Wits,
|
to the purpose do ripen:
|
Then outs with his Budget,
|
and tells you a Story,
|
And still in the mid'st,
|
falls a Ranting at Tory.
|
And vows he is Wicked,
|
whilst in the same breathing,
|
Himself to the Devil,
|
he's fairly bequeathing,
|
By using his Lungs
|
for to blow up Sedition,
|
Betwixt Prince and People,
|
to raise a Division.
|
Another beyond him,
|
o're Pamphlets sits brooding,
|
Spending his Verdict,
|
still as he's persuing:
|
And swelling like Julius,
|
the late famous Caesar,
|
Swears he could make Comments,
|
were he but at leisure.
|
Another crys Hark!
|
did you hear of the Wonder?
|
Yes, faith, says his Neighbour,
|
they say it did Thunder:
|
Aye, that's a sure Sign,
|
says the Coffee-House-keeper,
|
That we e're long
|
shall have Mackerel Cheaper.
|
Another comes in
|
at a Door that is private,
|
And listens to hear
|
what the Politicks drive at:
|
With his Mouth at half cock,
|
he demurely stands gaping,
|
And when he sees time,
|
he most loudly does open.
|
And Rails against all
|
that profess themselves Loyal,
|
Swearing to Babylon,
|
that they hie all:
|
But if a Stranger
|
does happen to enter,
|
They then are silent,
|
as Earth's deepest Center.
|
These, these are the Bubles
|
that trouble our quiet,
|
And suck in Sedition,
|
more nat'ral than Diet:
|
Who would prescribe Rules,
|
such as none did know yet,
|
And are Politicians,
|
had they Wit to shew it.
|
|
|
|
|
|