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Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Oh 'tis a patient beast!
When we have gaul'd and tir'd the mule,
To the Five Members of the Honourable
The humble Petition of the POETS.
AFTER fo many concurring petitions
From all ages and fexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Hafslerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though fet form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their fouls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the blefs'd form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us : For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you for the confidence only to crave it. Next in courfe, we complain of the great violation Of privilege (like the rest of our nation) But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.
And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
They 're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
We are modeft, and feek not to make it our own.
And between those and ours there's no difference,
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,
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,
What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath loft,
These wounds will not heal, with your new great feal,
Now, Peters and Cafe, in your prayer and grace,
Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.
heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning and Thunder,
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'
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, stood 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,