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Although the old maxim remains ftill in force,
So far the whole kingdom poets you have made,
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.
A WESTERN WONDER.
Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,
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,
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,
Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.
OU heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and
Which made the lye fo much the louder :
O what a damp it ftruck through the camp!
It blew him to the Vies, without beard or eyes,`
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,
And now came the poft, fave all that was loft,
By a trick fo ftale, or elfe fuch a tale
This made Mr. Cafe, with a pitiful face,
Now fhut up fhops, and spend your last drops,
NEWS FROM COLCHESTER.
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,
Of converting the Pope,
Even to our whole profeffion
How brother Green was mounted.
And in the good time of Christmas,
Which though our faints have damn'd all,
That a damn'd cavalier
E'er play'd fuch a Christmas gambal ?
Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
Hadft thou fweetned thy gums
With pottage of plums,
Or profane minc'd pye hadst swallow'd :
in wanton fwine's flesh,
The fiend might have crept into thee;
Might have caus'd thee to rut,
And the devil have fo rid through thee.
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,