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And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
We are modeft, and seek not to make it our own.
And between thofe and ours there's no difference,
Although the old maxim remains still 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 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,
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, 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 post, fave all that was lost,
By a trick fo ftale, or else fuch a tale
Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.
This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his eyes,
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.
NEWS FROM COLCHESTER.
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:
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 ?