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And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivants fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
But in that alfo you have got the priority.
Next, an old cuftom, our fathers did name it
Poetical license, and always did claim it.
By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonfenfe to fenfe, and falfhood to truth;
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;
This art fome poet, or the devil has taught ye:
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both houses have made it.
But that trust above all in poets reposed,
That kings by them only are made and depofed,
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing:
But when we undertake deposing or killing,

They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it:
And when we refume a fceptre or crown,

We are modeft, and seek not to make it our own.
But is 't not prefumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two?
For all thofe pretty knacks you compose,
Alas, what are they but poems in profe?

And between thofe and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the fenfe :
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)
You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it;
And though you are modest and seem to abhor it,
T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it :


Although the old maxim remains still in force,
That a fanctify'd cause must have a fanctify'd course,
If poverty be a part of our trade,

So far the whole kingdom poets you have made,
Nay even fo far as undoing will do it,

You have made king Charles himself a poet:

But provoke not his Mufe, for all the world knows, Already you have had too much of his profe.


Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,

How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder? When a hundred and ten flew five thousand men, With the help of lightning and thunder?

There Hopton was flain, again and again,

Or elfe my author did lye;

With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are living, To God, and his fervant Chidleigh.

But now on which fide was this miracle try'd,

I hope we at last are even;

For Sir Ralph and his knaves are rifen from their graves, To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame Of the gout three months together;

But it prov'd, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever.


For now he out-runs his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him ;
But they follow after; unless he takes water,
At Plymouth again they will find him.

What Reading hath coft, and Stamford hath loft,

Goes deep in the fequeftrations;

These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal, Nor Jepfon's declarations.

Now, Peters and Cafe, in your prayer and grace,
Remember the new Thankfgiving;

Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
Or fhortly you'll dig for your living.



́OU heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and

Which made the lye fo much the louder :
Now lift to another, that miracle's brother,
Which was done with a firkin of Powder.

O what a damp it ftruck through the camp
But as for honeft Sir Ralph,

It blew him to the Vies, without beard or eyes,
But at least three heads and half.


When out came the book, which the News-monger took From the Preaching Ladies letter,

Where in the first place, stood the Conqueror's face, Which made it fhew much the better.

But now without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol they say you may find him,
Great William the Con, fo faft he did run,
That he left half his name behind him.

And now came the post, fave all that was lost,
But alas, we are past deceiving

By a trick fo ftale, or else fuch a tale

Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.

This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping,

Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his eyes,
Which kept the Lord-mayor from sleeping.

Now fhut up shops, and spend your last drops,

For the laws not your caufe, you that loath 'em, Left Effex fhould start, and play the second part Of the worshipful Sir John Hotham.



Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Paffages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horfly, near Colchester, in Effex.

To the tune of " Tom of Bedlam."

ALL in the land of Effex,

Near Colchester the zealous,

On the fide of a bank,

Was play'd fuch a prank,

As would make a stone-horse jealous.

Help Woodcock, Fox and Naylor,

For brother Green 's a ftallion:
Now alas what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian ?

Even to our whole profeffion
A fcandal 'twill be counted,
When 'tis talk'd with difdain,
Amongst the profane,

How brother Green was mounted.

And in the good time of Christmas,

Which though our faints have damn'd all,
Yet when did they hear

That a damn'd cavalier

E'er play'd fuch a Christmas gambal ?

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