The GENEVA BALLAD;
OR THE
Occasional Conformist Display'd.
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I.
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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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And tears Pretences out at Heels,
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Like Splaymouth, with his Brace of Caps,
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Whose Conscience may be scann'd, perhaps,
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By the Dimension of his Chaps.
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II.
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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 and bark;
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Was ever sike a Beuk-learn'd Clerk?
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Can speak all Lingua's in the Ark.
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III.
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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 Handkerchief a Squeeze,
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And draws John Calvin through the Nose.
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Motive on Motive he obtrudes,
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With Slip-stocking Similitudes;
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Eight Uses, and so he concludes.
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IV.
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When Monarchy began to bleed,
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And Treason got a fine New Name;
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When Thames was Balderdash'd with Tweed,
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And Pulpits did like Beacons flame;
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When Jeroboams Calves were rear'd,
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And Lord was neither lov'd nor fear'd,
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This Gospel-Comet first appear'd.
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V.
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Soon his Unhallow'd Fingers stript
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His Sov'reign Leige of Pow'r and Land,
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And, having smote his Master, slipt
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His Sword into his Fellow's Hand:
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So he that wears his Eyes, may note
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Oft-times a Butcher binds a Goat,
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But leaves his Boy to cut his Throat.
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VI.
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Poor England felt his Fury then
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Outweigh'd Q. Marys many Grains;
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His very Preaching slew more Men
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Than Bonners Faggots, Stakes or Chains.
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With Dogstar-Zeal, and Lungs of Boreas,
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He fought and taught, and what's notorious
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Destroy'd his Lord, to make him Glorious.
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VII.
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Hark! how he opens with full Cry!
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Haloo, my Hearts! beware of Rome.
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Cowards that are afraid to dye,
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Thus make Domestick Broils at Home.
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How quietly Great ANNE might Reign,
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Wou'd all their Hotsputs cross the Main,
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And preach down Popery in Spain.
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VIII.
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The Starry Rule of Heaven's fix'd.
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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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It's bad when Hornets dwell in Hives,
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But worse when Children play with Knives.
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IX.
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I wou'd 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 Priests milk me like a Cow,
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As buckle to th' Smectimnuan Laws,
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The bad Effects of th' Good Old Cause.
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That has Doves Plumes, but Vultures Claws.
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X.
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For 'twas the Holy Kirk that Nurs'd
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The Brownists and the Ranters Crew,
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Foul Error's Mothy Vesture first
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Was woaded in the Northern Blue:
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And what's the Enthusiastick Breed,
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But Men of Knipperdolings Creed?
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Th'are Covenanters run up to Seed.
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XI.
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Yet, they all cry they love the Queen,
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And make boast of their Innocence;
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Nothing so vile is to be seen,
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But may be colour'd with Pretence.
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But when all's done, one thing I'll swear,
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No Subject like th' Old Cavalier,
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No Traitor like Jack Presbyter.
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