The GENEVA BALLAD.
To the Tune of 48.
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OF all the Factions in the Town,
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Mov'd by French Springs or Flemish Wheels,
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None treads Religion upside down,
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Or tears Pretences out at heels,
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Like Splay-mouth with his brace of Caps,
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Whose Conscience might be scan'd perhaps
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By the Dimensions of his Chaps-
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He whom the Sisters so adore,
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Counting his Actions all Divine,
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Who when the Spirit hints, can roar,
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And if occasion serves can whine;
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Nay he can bellow, bray or bark;
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Was ever sike a Beuk-larn'd Clerk,
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That speaks all Lingua's of the Ark.
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To draw in Proselytes like Bees,
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With pleasing Twang he tones his Prose,
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He gives his Hand-kerchief a squeez,
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And draws John Calvin through his Nose.
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Motive on Motive he obtrudes,
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With Slip-stocking Similitudes,
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Eight Uses more, and so concludes.
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When Monarchy began to bleed,
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And Treason had a fine new name,
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When Thames was bolderdash'd with Tweed,
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And Pulpits did like Beacons flame;
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When Jeroboam's Calves were rear'd,
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And Laud was neither lov'd nor fear'd,
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This Gospel Comet first appear'd.
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Soon his unhallowed Fingers strip'd
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His Sov'reign Liege of Power and Land,
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And having smote his Master slip'd
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His Sword into his Fellows hand.
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But he that wears his Eyes may note,
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Ofttimes the Butcher binds a Goat,
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And leaves his Boy to cut her Throat.
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Poor England felt his Fury then
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Out-weigh'd Queen Mar'ys many grains;
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His very Preaching slew more men,
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Than Bonner's Faggots, Stakes and Chains.
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With Dog-star Zeal and Lungs like Boreas,
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He sought and taught; and what's notorious,
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Destroyed his Lord to make him Glorious.
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Yet drew for King and Parliament,
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As if the Wind could stand North South;
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Broke Mosess Law with blest intent,
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Murther'd and then he wip'd his mouth.
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Oblivion alters not his case,
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Nor Clemency nor Acts of Grace
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Can blanch an AEthiopian's Face.
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Ripe for Rebellion he begins
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To rally up the Saints in swarms.
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He bauls aloud, Sirs, leave your Sins,
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But whispers, Boys, stand to your Arms,
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Thus he's grown insolently rude,
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Thinking his Gods can't be subdu'd,
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Money, I mean, and Multitude.
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Magistrates he regards no more
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Than St. George or the Kings of Colen;
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Vowing he'l not conform before
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The Old-wives winde their Dead in woollen.
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He calls the Bishop Grey-beard Goff,
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And makes his Power as meer a Scoff,
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As Dagon, when his Hands were off.
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Heark! how he opens with full Cry!
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Hallow my Hearts, beware of ROME.
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Cowards that are afraid to die,
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Thus make domestick Broils at home.
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How quietly Great CHARLES might reign
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Would all these Hot-spurs cross the Main,
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And preach down Popery in Spain.
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The starry Rule of Heaven is fixt,
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There's no dissention in the Sky;
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And can there be a Mean betwixt
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Confusion and Conformity?
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A Place divided never thrives;
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bad where Hornets dwell in Hives,
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But worse where Children play with Knives.
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I would as soon turn back to Mass,
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Or change my Phrase to Thee and Thou;
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Let the Pope ride me like an Ass,
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And his Priest milk me like a Cow,
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As buckle to Smestymnuan Laws,
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The bad effects o'th' Good Old Cause,
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That have Dove's Plumes, but Vultur's Claws.
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For 'twas the Haly Kirk that nurs'd
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The Brownists and the Ranters crew;
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Foul Errors mostly Vesture first
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Was Oaded in a Northern blue.
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And what's the Enthusiastick breed,
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Or men of Knipperdolings Creed.
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But Cov'nanters run up to seed.
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Yet they all cry, they love the King,
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And make boast of their Innocence:
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There cannot be so vile a thing,
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But may be colour'd with Pretence.
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Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear,
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No Subject like th' old Cavalier,
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No Traytor like Jack
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