Jack PRESBITER.
To the Tune of, Some said the Papist had a Plot, etc.
Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.
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JAck Presbyter pricks up his Ears,
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And flourishes now his Flail;
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The Beast has now laid by his Fears,
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And curls his wanton Tail:
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O for the Church, and Crown, he cries,
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The Day is all our own;
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The Scottish Clans begin to rise,
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And Bishops they must down.
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But hold, good Sir, be not too hot,
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Nor count before your Host,
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Least you at last should pay the Shot,
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For all your mighty Boast:
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We han't forgot your former Feats,
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Nor sanctify'd Trapans,
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Religions Tricks, and Holy Cheats,
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With all your Canting Shams.
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Remember how the Game begun,
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In Forty One of old,
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When you with th'Hare did seem to run,
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But with that Hound did hold;
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You swore to fight for, and defend
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The Person of the King;
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But perjur'd Traytors, in the end,
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Him to the Block did bring.
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That blessed Martyr's Royal Blood,
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Does still for Vengeance call,
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And on the damn'd Geneva Brood,
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The Curse in time will fall.
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Give them but Rope they'll hang themselves,
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So hasty is their Fate;
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Or Ketch will ketch those snevelling Elves,
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In Mouse trap of the State.
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A scurvy, sow'r, ill-natur'd Race,
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These Presbyterians are;
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You may read Faction in their Face,
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If you can them out-stare;
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For with Predestinating Eyes,
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Like Bazalisks they kill,
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There's Poyson in their Glances lies,
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By which they wound at will.
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Beware of them, all you that prize,
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The King, the Church, and Laws,
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For they'll tell you ten thousand Lies,
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to prop the good Old Cause:
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They'll promise much, but none perform,
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when Sword is in their Hand;
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We must expect a peppering Storm,
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if er'e they get Command.
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T'th' Works of Grace, the Brethren then,
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With Heart and Hand will fall;
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Each Hedg-hog Saint, will sneak in's Den,
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But his Brissels turn to all;
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Plund'ring and Sequestration too
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will then seem very meet;
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Titles to Bishops Lands they'll shew;
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Church-bread is wond'rous sweet.
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These things, and more we must expect,
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Of our unkinder Fate,
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Shou'd ever mount Presbiter Jack
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In Saddle of the State;
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No King wou'd er'e be safe in's Throne:
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Then mark well what I Sing,
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The Miter only props the Crown,
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No Bishop, then no King.
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