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Indulgences, Pardons, and such Holy Lumber,

As cheap now in Rome, as our Cabbages grown, With musty old Relicks of Saints without Number,

For barely the looking upon to be shewn; Thefe, were you an Atheist, must needs overcome ye, Which first were made Martyrs, and afterwards Mummy.


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They'll fhew you the Place so much sung by the Poets, And the Rock from whence Martyrs were knock'd on

the Head They'll shew. you the Place too, nay, and some will

avow it, Where once a She-Pope was brought fairly to Bed; For which, eyer Gnce, to prevent Interloping, lo a Chair of Succellion they suffer a Groping.


What a Sight 'tis to see the Gay Idol accoutred,

With Mitre, and Cope, and ewo Keys by his Side? Be his Inside what it will, yet the form of his Outward Shews Servus Servorum, no Hater of Pride; Vina



These Keys into Heav'n will as surely admit
As the Clerk of a Parish to a Pew in the City.



What a Sight 'tis to see the Old Man in Procession,

Thro' Rome in such Pomp as her Cæfars did ride ? Mere scattring of Pardons, here Crossing, there Blessing,

With all his Spiritual Trainid-bands by his side; As Confeffors, Cardinals, Monks fat as Bacon, From Rev'rend Arch-Bishop, to Rosy Arch-Deacon.


And when at New Babylon fome Time you have been, And in Punks, and in Pardons, all your Rhino have

spent, And when you have seen what is to be feen,

You'll return not so Rich, tho' as wise as you went ; And 'twill be but small Comfort, after all your Expence, That your Heirs will do the same just an Hundred Years


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S. O N G


OME hither


Fools of the State,
Dull Souls that do nothing but Think,
No longer on Trifles debate,

Grow wise and find all Things in DRINK.

The Man that sets up for Free-thinking,

May miss of his Aiin like an Ass; But he that delights in Deep-drinking,

Finds all he can wish in his GLASS.

In Praise of a Country LIFE. By a LADY.

How very happy is the Country Swain,


, Free from the Envy and the Pride of Court,. Bless'd in his little Flocks and fruitful Grain,

With Joy beholds his Kids and Heifers sport:
The heavy Ears of Cořn he bending sees,
The cuter'd Stalks of Beans and well hung Pease,

The lusty Swathes of Hay the Scyth cuts down,
And plentegus Crops do all his Wishes crown;
Whilft Lambs do eccho to their bleating Bwes,
His Fields and Orchards he with Pleasure Views;
Where, to his Hand, the Fruit bends down its Boughs,
As if it said, Take all my Stock allows;
His lovely Cottage and his chearful Wife,
And pratling Boys, augment his Joys of Life,
When round their little Fire with home-brew'd Ale,
They pass the pleasant Eve with merry Tale;
No Plots, no Treasons, nor the Cares of State
Disturb their Reft, or keep their Sense awake;
Could the Ambitious Man but truly know
What sweet Delights in Solitude do grow,
He'd straigth retire, and with one Loving She,
Despise the pompous Courts, and smooth-tongu'd Flat-





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OUR noble Present of right Red-Streak,
Which strong enough to make a C a T to


Came Yesterday by trusty James, Sir,
With Porter laden from the Thames, Sir,
Five dozen Bottles! What d'ye mean, Şir
Why, 'tis a Present for the Queen, Sir ;
Why, you're th' most gen'rous Man alive,
A Lawyer too! you'll never thrive;


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