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Although the old maxim remains ftill 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; unlefs he takes water,
At Plymouth again they will find him.

What Reading hath coft, and Stamford hath loft,

Goes deep in the fequeftrations ;

Thefe wounds will not heal, with your new great feal, Nor Jepfon's declarations.

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

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 a half.


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

Where in the first place, ftood 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 poft, fave all that was loft,
But alas, we are paft deceiving

By a trick fo ftale, or elfe fuch a tale
Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.

This made Mr. Cafe, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping,
Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his
Which kept the Lord-mayor from fleeping.


Now fhut up fhops, 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 Pasfages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horfly, near Colchester, in Effex.

To the tune of " Tom of Bedlam."


LL 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-horfe 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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Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
With any cates unhallow'd,

Hadft thou fweetned thy gums

With pottage of plums,

Or profane minc'd pye hadst swallow'd :

Roll'd up

in wanton fwine's flesh,

The fiend might have crept into thee;
Then fullness of gut

Might have caus'd thee to rut,

And the devil have fo rid through thee.

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For if no refpect of perfons

Be due 'mongst fons of Adam,

In a large extent,

Thereby may be meant

That a Mare 's as good as a Madam.

Then without more ceremony,

Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her,


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