THE
GENEVA Ballad.
To the Tune of 48.
|
OF all the Factions in the Town,
|
Mov'd by French Springs or Flemish Wheels,
|
None treads Religion upside down,
|
Or tears Pretences out at heels,
|
Like Splaymouth* with his brace of Caps,
|
Whose Conscience might be scan'd perhaps
|
By the Dimensions of his Chaps.
|
* Splaymouth
|
a Presbyte-
|
rian Parson.
|
He whom the Sisters so adore,
|
Counting his Actions all Divine,
|
Who when the Spirit hints, can roar,
|
And if occasion serves, can whine;
|
Nay, he can bellow, bray and bark.
|
Was ever sike a Beuk-learn'd Clerk,
|
That speaks all Linguas of the Ark?
|
To draw in Proselytes like Bees,
|
With pleasing Twang he tones his Prose,
|
He gives his Handkerchief a squeez,
|
And draws John Calvin through his Nose.
|
Motive on Motive he obtrudes,
|
With Slip-stocken Similitudes.
|
Eight Uses more, and so concludes.
|
When Monarchy began to Bleed,
|
And Treason had a fine new name;
|
When Thames was balderdash'd with Tweed,
|
And Pulpits did with Beacons flame;
|
When Jeroboams Calves were rear'd,
|
And Laud was neither lov'd nor fear'd,
|
This Gospel-Comet first appear'd.
|
Soon his unhallowed Fingers strip'd
|
His Sovereign Liege of Power and Land,
|
And having smote his Master, slip'd
|
His Sword into his Fellows hand.
|
But he that wears his Eyes may note,
|
Oftentimes the Butcher binds a Goat,
|
And leaves his Boy to cut her Throat.
|
Poor England felt his fury than
|
Out-weigh'd Queen Marys many grains;
|
His very Preaching slew more Men,
|
Than Bonners Faggots, Stakes and Chains.
|
With Dog-star Zeal and Lungs like Boreas,
|
He fought and taught; and what's notorious,
|
Destroy'd his Lord to make him Glorious.
|
Yet drew for King and Parliament,
|
As if the Wind could stand North-South;
|
Broke Mosess Law with blest intent,
|
Murther'd and then he wip'd his Mouth.
|
Oblivion alters not his case,
|
Nor Clemency not Acts of Grace
|
Can blanch an AEthiopians Face.
|
Ripe for Rebellion he begins
|
To rally up the Saints in swarms,
|
He bauls aloud, Sirs, leave your Sins,
|
But whispers, Boys, Stand to your Arms;
|
Thus he's grown insolently rude,
|
Thinking his Gods can't be subdu'd,
|
Money, I mean, and Mutitude.
|
Hark! how he opens with full Cry!
|
Holloo my Hearts, beware of ROME.
|
Cowards that are afraid to die
|
Thus make domestick Broils at home.
|
How quietly Great ANNE might Reign,
|
Would all these Hot-spurs cross the Main,
|
And preach down Popery in Spain?
|
The starry Rule of Heaven is fixt,
|
There's no Dissension in the Sky:
|
And can there be a mean betwixt
|
Confusion and Conformity?
|
A Place divided never thrives:
|
bad where Hornets dwell in hives,
|
But worse where Children play with knives.
|
I would as soon turn back to Mass,
|
Or change my praise to Thee and Thou;
|
Let the Pope ride me like an Ass,
|
And his Priests Milk me like a Cow;
|
As buckle to Smectymnuan Laws,
|
The bad effects o'th' Good Old Cause,
|
That have Doves Plumes, but Vulturs Claws.
|
For 'twas the Haly Kirk that nurs'd
|
The Brownists and the Ranters Crew;
|
Foul Errors motly Vesture first
|
Was Oaded in a Northen Blue.
|
And what's the Enthusiastick breed,
|
Or Men of Knipperdolingss Creed,
|
But Covenanters run up to seed?
|
Yet they all cry, they love the Queen,
|
And make boast of their Innocence:
|
There cannot be so vile a thing,
|
But may be colour'd with pretence.
|
Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear,
|
No Subject like th' old Cavalier,
|
No Traitor like Jack Presbyter.
|
|
|
|
|
|