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2.

Convert Paul's church into the mews,
Make a new colonel of old fhoes,

Let him &c.

Who hath commiffion to convey
Both fexes to Jamaica,

There to beget new babes of grace
On wenches hotter than the place,
Who carry in their tails a fire,

Will rather fcorch than quench defire,
Let him &c.

An Old S O N G. By way of Dialogue.

SA

AY, Puritan, if it should come to pass,
That thou must hear, or play, or mafs,
Which wou'dft thou chufe ?

A. Truly in such a doubtful case,
It would become a babe of

grace,
To do as the spirit shall infuse.

2. But were here in thy Friday dish A capon, or a piece of fish,

Which wou'dft thou eat?

A. Capons are for the babes of grace,
Give finful Papifts ling and plaise,
Such fuperftitious meat.

Cho. Here's a Puritan catechifed right,

Who loves his gut, but doth the spirit flight.

2. Say, Puritan, if it fhould be thy hap,
To be enjoin'd a corner cap,
Wouldst thou deny?

A. Yes, I profefs, Babylon's whore
That idol did erect, nay more,

It favours of antiquity.

2. But wouldft not be content to wear The cap that hideth fin, not hair,

Sirnamed Calott?

A. Yes, if it ben't of Spanish leather made,

Surely it cannot be gainfaid

By any true zealot.

Cho.

Cho. Here's a Puritan catechifed right,

Who loves his fchifm, but doth the spirit flight.

2. Say, Puritan, doft love the choir, And holy bellows that infpire

The organ fweet?

A. Truly no, they're Satan's inftruments,
Not fit for Sion's holy tents,

The faithful think 'em not fo meet.
2. But wouldít not thou use any guile,
To hear a brother preach a mile
From text or fenfe?
A. Yes, fo he rail religiously
'Gainft furplice and conformity,
The fpirit will difpenfe.

Cho. Here's a Puritan catechifed right,

Who loves his humour, but doth the fpirit flight.

2. Say, Puritan, at glorious paint

In church window wouldft not faint
At fuch a fight?

A. The free or painted glafs, for there
Idolatry is full as clear,

To pure eyes as is the light.

2. But if a painted fifter lies

Proftrate, wouldst thou caft thy eyes
On her with Ruth?

A. Well may the fpirit fo digeft

A glance, a kifs, and feel the rest,

So it be naked truth.

Cho. Here's a Puritan catechifed right,

A

Who loves a painted whore, all other paint doth flight.

The Romish Priest deny'd Hell-Room.

Romish priest that dy'd the other day,

His foul to hell went prefently away,

The devil that then ftood centinel,

Askt him, from whence he came and why to hell?
I am a prieft, quoth he, come to sustain
In thefe dark cells juft and eternal pain.

Corpora!

Corp'ral, quoth the devil, and began to roar,
Corp'ral, make hafte, for here's a priest at door!
The corporal afrighted, cryed, away!

Be gone, thou prieft, for here thou may't not ftay:
For he who upon earth did prove fo evil
To eat his God, will eat in hell the devil.

TE

The Reformation.

ELL me not of lords and laws,
Rules or reformation,

All that's done's not worth two ftraws
To the welfare of the nation;

If men in pow'r do rant it ftill,
And give no reason but their will
For all their domination;

Or, if they do an act that's juft,
'Tis not because they wou'd, but must,
To gratify fome party's luft,

Or meerly for a fashion.

All our expence of Blood and purfe
Has yet produc'd no profit;

Men are still as bad, or worse,

And will whate'er comes of it;
We've fhuffl'd out, and shuffl❜d in
The perfon, but retain the fin,

To make our game the furer;
Yet spite of all our pains and skill,
The knaves all in the pack are ftill,
And ever were, and ever will,
Tho' something now demurer.

And it cannot but be so,

Since thofe toys in fashion;
Are of fouls fo bafe and low,
Meer bigots of the nation;

Whofe defigns are pow'r and wealth,

At which by rapine, fraud, and stealth,

Audaciously they vent're ye;

They

They lay their confciences afide,
And turn with ev'ry wind and tide,
Puff'd on by ignorance and pride,
And all to look like gentry.

Crimes are not punish'd 'cause they're crimes,
But 'cause they're low and little ;
Mean men for mean faults in these times
Make fatisfaction to a tittle,
While thofe in office and in-power,
Boldly the underlings devour,

Our cobweb-laws can't hold 'em ;
They fell for many a thousand crown
Things which were never yet their own,
And this is law and cuftom grown ;
'Cause those do judge who fold 'em.

Brothers ftill with brothers brawl,
And for trifles fue 'em,
For two pronouns that spoil all,
Contentious meum and tuum ;
The wary lawyer buys and builds,
While the client fells his fields,
To facrifice his fury;

And when he thinks t'obtain his right,
He's baff'd off, or beaten quite,
By th' judges will, or lawyer's flight,
Or ign'rance of the jury.

See the tradefman, how he thrives
With perpetual trouble;

How he cheats and how he strives
His eftate t'enlarge and double;
Extort, opprefs, grind, and encroach,
To be a fquire and keep a coach,
And to be one o'th' Quorum,
Who may with's brother-worships fit,
And judge without law, fear, or wit,
Poor petty thieves, that nothing get,

And yet are brought before 'em.

And

And his way to get all this,

Is meer diffimulation;

No factious lecture does he mifs,

And scapes no fchifm in fashion:
But, with fhort hair and fhining shoes,
He with two pens and's note-book
goes,
And winks, and writes at random ;
Thence, with fhort meal and tedious grace,
In a loud tone and publick place.

Sings Wisdom's hymns, that trot and pace
As if Goliah fcann'd 'em.

But when death begins his threats,
And his confcience struggles,
To call to mind his former cheats,
Then at heaven he turns his juggles;
And out of all's ill-gotten ftore
He gives a dribbling to the poor,
An hofpital or school-house ;
And the fuborn'd prieft, for his hire,
Quite frees him from th' infernal fire,
And places him in th'angels choir:
Thus these jack-puddings fool us!

All he gets by's pains, i'th' clofe,
Is, that he dy'd worth fo-much;
Which he on's doubtful feed bestows,

That neither care nor know much :
Then fortune's favourite, his heir,
Bred bafe, and ignorant, and bare,
Is blown up like a bubble;

Who, wondring at's own fudden rise,
By pride, fimplicity, and vice,

Falls to his fports, drink, drabs, and dice,

And makes all fly like stubble.

And the church, the other twin,
Whose mad zeal enrag'd us,

Is not purified a pin

By all thofe broils in which fh'engag'd us:

We

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