Part 36

Soon his unhallow’d fingers stript His sovereign-liege of power and land; And, having smote his master, slipt His sword into his fellow’s hand; But he that wears his eyes may note Oft-times the butcher binds a goat, And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then Outweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains; His very preaching slew more men Than Bonnar’s 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 Moses’ law with blest intent, Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth: Oblivion alters not his case, Nor clemency nor acts of grace Can blanch an Ethiopian’s face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins To rally up the saints in swarms; He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins, But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms: Thus he’s grown insolently rude, Thinking his gods can’t be subdued— Money, I mean, and multitude.

Magistrates he regards no more Than St George or the King of Colon, Vowing he’ll not conform before The old wives wind their dead in woollen: He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff, And makes his power as mere a scoff As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry, Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome! Cowards that are afraid to die Thus make domestic brawls at home. How quietly great Charles might reign, Would all these Hotspurs 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, ’Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives, But worse when 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 Smectymnian laws, The bad effects o’ th’ Good old Cause, That have dove’s plumes, but vulture’s claws.

For ’twas the holy Kirk that nursed, The Brownists and the ranters’ crew; Foul error’s motley vesture first Was oaded {98} in a northern blue; And what’s th’ enthusiastick breed, Or men of Knipperdolin’s creed, But Cov’nanters run up to seed!

Yet they all cry they love the King, And make boast of their innocence: There cannot be so vile a thing But may be cover’d with pretence; Yet when all’s said, one thing I’ll swear, No subject like th’ old Cavalier, No traytor like Jack-Presbyter.

THE DEVIL’S PROGRESS ON EARTH, OR HUGGLE DUGGLE.

From Durfey’s “Pills to Purge Melancholy.”

Frier Bacon walks again, And Doctor Forster {99} too; Prosperine and Pluto, And many a goblin crew: With that a merry devil, To make the Airing, vow’d; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laugh’d aloud.

Why think you that he laugh’d? Forsooth he came from court; And there amongst the gallants Had spy’d such pretty sport; There was such cunning jugling, And ladys gon so proud; Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants’ dealings It was his full intent: And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the croud. Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city To see all there was well; Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for hell; And Panders chosen magistrates, And Puritans allow’d. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth: But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man plough’d. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste Took post away to hell, And call’d his fellow furies, And told them all on earth was well: That falsehood there did flourish, Plain dealing was in a cloud. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The devils laugh’d aloud.

A BOTTLE DEFINITION OF THAT FALLEN ANGEL, CALLED A WHIG.

From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and Epigrams, by Ned Ward, A. D. 1717.

WHAT is a Whig? A cunning rogue That once was in, now out of vogue: A rebel to the Church and throne, Of Lucifer the very spawn.

A tyrant, who is ne’er at rest In power, or when he’s dispossess’d; A knave, who foolishly has lost What so much blood and treasure cost.

A lying, bouncing desperado, A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado; That’s ready primed, and charged to break, And mischief do for mischief’s sake:

A comet, whose portending phiz Appears more dreadful than it is; But now propitious stars repel Those ills it lastly did fortel.

’Twill burst with unregarded spight, And, since the Parliament proves right, Will turn to smoke, which shone of late So bright and flaming in the State.

THE DESPONDING WHIG.

From Ned Ward’s Works, vol. iv. 1709.

WHEN owles are strip’d of their disguise, And wolves of shepherd’s cloathing, Those birds and beasts that please our eyes Will then beget our loathing; When foxes tremble in their holes At dangers that they see, And those we think so wise prove fools, Then low, boys, down go we.