Helter Skelter or, The Devil vpon Two Sticks: a comedy, As it is spitefully Acted between High-Church and Low-Church, in Most Taverns about London [by Edward Ward] |
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 | Helter Skelter |  |
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Helter Skelter: OR, The Devil upon Two Sticks;
A COMEDY, &c..
High-Churchman.
Here Drawer, bring us t'other Quart,
I love the Church with all my Heart,
'Tis She maintains the Power Royal,
And teaches Subjects to be Loyal;
Altho' some canting Drones and Asses,
Revile her Common-Pray'rs as Masses,
And thro' Fools Consciences call'd Squeamish,
Condemn her spotless Faith as Romish.
I say, such Scandals are but Fictions,
Malicious Whiggish Contradictions:
And I'll be bound my self, by Jove,
Not only to assert, but prove,
She savours of no Popish Leven,
But is the surest Guide to Heaven.
I love the Church with all my Heart,
'Tis She maintains the Power Royal,
And teaches Subjects to be Loyal;
Altho' some canting Drones and Asses,
Revile her Common-Pray'rs as Masses,
And thro' Fools Consciences call'd Squeamish,
Condemn her spotless Faith as Romish.
4
Malicious Whiggish Contradictions:
And I'll be bound my self, by Jove,
Not only to assert, but prove,
She savours of no Popish Leven,
But is the surest Guide to Heaven.
Come, Drawer, fill a Glass to th'brim,
Let the Low sink, and High-Church swim,
For we that are the Sons o'th' High,
Shall surely once surmount the Sky,
Whilst the dark Zealots of the Low,
Shall downwards to the bottom go.
In this salubrious Glass of Claret,
The best of Cordials I'll averr it,
I wish Prosperity with all
My Heart, to th'Church Episcopal,
And hope the Crown the same will nourish,
That the true Faith may ever flourish.
Huzza! here goes a merry Bumper,
Come pledge me, Sir, or you're a Rumper.
Let the Low sink, and High-Church swim,
For we that are the Sons o'th' High,
Shall surely once surmount the Sky,
Whilst the dark Zealots of the Low,
Shall downwards to the bottom go.
In this salubrious Glass of Claret,
The best of Cordials I'll averr it,
I wish Prosperity with all
My Heart, to th'Church Episcopal,
And hope the Crown the same will nourish,
That the true Faith may ever flourish.
Huzza! here goes a merry Bumper,
Come pledge me, Sir, or you're a Rumper.
5
Methinks, good Sir, you're mighty warm,
I'd have you think I wish no harm,
To th'Bishops, or the Church, God mend 'em,
Or any Hotspurs that defend 'em.
But I must plainly tell you this, Sir,
I'll drink no Wine but what I please, Sir,
No High-Fly'r of you all, Gad take me,
If I refuse to drink, shall make me.
Nay, I'll not pledge, for all your grinning,
Such Popish Healths as you're beginning:
I'd have you think I scorn to fear,
Any Tantivy-Ranter here.
Ay, nod your Head, and knit your Brow,
We've Liberty of Conscience now.
Come, Neighbour Cant, God save the Queen,
We value no such fiery Men,
God grant her Grace, as well as Breath,
To Live and Reign like Elzabeth.
6
Blood, Sir, for all you talk so big,
I say, you're but a Canting Whig,
A rank dissembling Presbyterian,
The Spawn of some old Oliverian,
Whose Heart maliciously is bent
Against both Church and Government;
And tho' you seem to wish the Crown
So well, you'd gladly pull it down,
And drink the Q****s Health, yet you'd rather
Betray the Daughter, like the Father;
For all the Wheedles and God bless ye's,
Found in your glavering Addresses;
Adorn'd with florid canting Stuff,
We know your inside well enough.
I say, he's Rumpish that abuses
The High-Church, or her Health refuses,
And that he wou'd be glad to see
Once more the Scene of Forty-Three;
And who approves the Blood then spilt,
Must be a Partner in the Guilt,
7
By now consenting to the matter.
Low-Churchman.
I say, Sir, you're a meer Shite-fire,
You a good Subject, you a Lyar,
A flanting, ranting Perkenite,
A Popish Slave, a Jacobite,
That would have all the Nation groan,
Beneath the Whore of Babylon:
What tho' a King once lost his Head,
Why shou'd the Blame on us be laid?
Why did not your Church-Militant,
That o'er your Wine so rave and rant,
Behave themselves like better Soldiers,
And fight to keep it on his Shoulders?
Are we to blame because you lost,
What many Thousand Lives had cost?
Why did not all your Forces rally,
To stop the Mischiefs that befel ye,
But tamely stand, and sighing see
Your Martyr's sad Catastrophe?
8
Your Church, whose Emblem, tho' a Dragon,
To show it is her Constitution
To uphold Popish Persecution,
Yet are her Sons such dastard Romans,
They fight us best in Doctor's-Commons,
Where their Court-Spiritual's the Field,
The Pen the Sword, and Gold the Shield:
But now be prais'd we're out of danger,
And fear no high-flown Bishop's Anger,
No fiery Churchman's Information,
No griping Proctor or Citation;
But can serve God, where e'er we please,
In spight of Enemies like these;
Therefore your high-flying Words shan't fright us,
Your Church is gag'd and cannot bite us.
High-Churchman.
I tell you, Sir, for all your bawling,
You're an old canting Kniperdoling,
A Calves-head Knave, a Flash, a Bounce,
A grey-hair'd, grave, illit'rate Dunce.
9
And set the Nation by the Ears,
Pluck down the Church by Heaven appointed,
And trample on the Lord's Anointed,
Murder and plunder all his Friends,
And Treason preach to gain their Ends?
And when your Swords, thro' vile disasters,
Had made you England's bloody Masters,
Did not you then, with frantick Joy,
The Monuments o'th' dead destroy,
And like a heathenish pack of Knaves,
Disturb their Ashes in their Graves,
Ransack God's Altars with your Forces,
Prophane his Churches with your Horses,
Break sacred Windows in your Fury,
Painted long since to Heavens Glory,
Because malicious Fools, in spight,
Cry'd out they gave a Popish Light?
And when, like wild rebellious Devils,
You'd done all these infernal Evils,
And had the sov'reign Power subdu'd,
By drinking up the Nation's blood,
10
Or use that Pow'r you had ingross'd?
At first 'twas seated in the Rump,
From thence did into th'Army jump;
Then was it plac'd in Regulators,
They had the Canvassing of Matters;
From thence again i'th' Parliament,
To Cromwel next, by their consent:
Thus back and forwards was it handed,
And round about the Nation banded,
Not knowing how to long maintain
The Pow'r they did so basely gain;
But was at last forc'd with dishonour,
To give it back to its right Owner.
So busie Monkeys that have seen
Their Master handle what is keen,
Will, in his absence, take in hand,
What silly Brutes don't understand.
But when they've hurt some tender part,
And see the Blood, and feel the smart,
They gladly lay down what they found,
And lick to heal the painful Wound.
11
I say, Sir, you're a Popish Biggot,
A Tyrant's Slave, a Loyal Maggot,
A sneaking, servile Tom-a-doodle,
That has no Brains within thy Noddle,
A zealous, poor, Crown-serving Tony,
Fit only to give Kings thy Money;
A Cow'rdly non-resisting Bubble,
Aw'd by the fear of Death or Trouble;
A Worm for Majesty to tread on,
An Ass for Burthens to be laid on,
A Government's most useful Tool,
A sacred Monarch's humble Fool,
A Bishop-ridden Jack a-dandy,
A Papist, Sir, I understand ye,
A Foot-ball, stufft with Loyal Zeal,
For Priests to kick 'twixt Heaven and Hell.
I'll war'nt you're such a Loyal Slave,
You'd serve the Crown with all you have,
Lay down your Life, or your Estate,
To make your Prince profusely Great;
Or fight like Butcher's favourite Brindle,
Rather than Prelacy should dwindle;
Nay, die a Martyr for the Church,
Before you'd leave her in the lurch:
E'en hug thy high flown Loyal Fury,
I'm no such block-head, Ill assure ye,
Loyalty's but an Imposition,
A Popish Whim, meer Superstition,
A piece of Priest-craft long neglected,
By every Man of sence rejected:
Kings by the People first were made,
And should no longer be obey'd,
Than whilst they mind our Preservation,
And act for th'welfare of the Nation,
Truly maintaining their Compaction,
Without Encroachment or Exaction;
But if at any time we find 'em
Grasp at more Pow'r than we design'd 'em,
Or that they've broke thro', or forsaken,
The solemn Vows and Oaths they've taken;
Or if they prove such Storks or Logs,
Complain'd of by old Æsop's Frogs,
The suffering People may dismount
Such Kings, and call them to account;
For can a Man of Moderation,
Think it a heavenly Obligation,
That we, the Sons of Christ, must pay
Homage to'n arbitrary Sway,
And that the Land must be undone,
To gratify the Pride of one.
Poh! Nonsence, foolish Foppery,
Nay, downright dev'lish Popery,
To think we must be Slaves to them
That wear the Peoples Diadem.
No, no, we know much better things;
Than e'er to make such Gods of Kings:
Jure Divino's out of fashion,
And laugh'd at now by the whole Nation;
God only made them Men, 'tis we
That yield them their Authority.
It's Conquest gives a right to Rule,
The Throne's such a precarious Stool,
That whosoever sits thereon,
Must always have his Dagger drawn;
For if the People can by force,
Dethrone the Victor, or do worse,
Their native freedom to recover,
Their Right's the same with his all over;
'Tis not to say he made us Swear,
That we would true Allegiance bear,
And that we are his Slaves, in troth,
Because we've taken such an Oath.
No, since we can't dispute his Title,
We're forc'd to flatter him a little,
And only do what he desires,
To gain those Points our Case requires;
Not that an Oath can binding be
Extorted in Necessity:
For Bonds in Prison are not good,
There is no reason that they shou'd:
What tho' a Thief upon the Road
Robs me, and makes me swear by G**d,
I'd ne'er discover him, should I find him,
Do you believe this Oath is binding?
No, by my Troth, for all I'd sworn,
I'd make him take a Tyburn turn.
And after all your mighty Rattles,
Of Norman Victories and Battles,
A Conqueror, 'twixt me and you,
Is but the greater Thief o'th' two.
Nor can the Oaths he puts upon us,
When by the Sword he'as over run us,
Bind us t'acknowledge his Protection,
Longer than he can force Subjection;
But when we find his Strength doth fail,
And we can o'er his Pow'r prevail,
We have the self same Title then
To Govern, as he had to Reign.
And if we pull the Tyrant down,
And from his Temples snatch the Crown,
We take no more than what's our own:
Yet you, poor Loyal Fools, will cry,
We've done much Wrong to Majesty.
'Tis true, if he has pow'r to quell
Our Arms, he'll say that we rebel;
And then 'tis we that must be halter'd,
Because in our attempt we falter'd.
But if Success should crown our Matters,
The King and's Friends are then the Traytors:
For th'Law, we've seen it often try'd,
Is always on the strongest side;
Therefore 'tis Fortune's love or spight,
That makes the Matter wrong or right:
She handy-caps all Earthly Powers,
And as it falls, 'tis yours or ours:
Thus things, in spight of all our Fancies,
Begin and end in Lots and Chances,
A Tyrant's Slave, a Loyal Maggot,
A sneaking, servile Tom-a-doodle,
That has no Brains within thy Noddle,
A zealous, poor, Crown-serving Tony,
Fit only to give Kings thy Money;
A Cow'rdly non-resisting Bubble,
Aw'd by the fear of Death or Trouble;
A Worm for Majesty to tread on,
An Ass for Burthens to be laid on,
A Government's most useful Tool,
A sacred Monarch's humble Fool,
A Bishop-ridden Jack a-dandy,
A Papist, Sir, I understand ye,
A Foot-ball, stufft with Loyal Zeal,
For Priests to kick 'twixt Heaven and Hell.
I'll war'nt you're such a Loyal Slave,
You'd serve the Crown with all you have,
Lay down your Life, or your Estate,
To make your Prince profusely Great;
12
Rather than Prelacy should dwindle;
Nay, die a Martyr for the Church,
Before you'd leave her in the lurch:
E'en hug thy high flown Loyal Fury,
I'm no such block-head, Ill assure ye,
Loyalty's but an Imposition,
A Popish Whim, meer Superstition,
A piece of Priest-craft long neglected,
By every Man of sence rejected:
Kings by the People first were made,
And should no longer be obey'd,
Than whilst they mind our Preservation,
And act for th'welfare of the Nation,
Truly maintaining their Compaction,
Without Encroachment or Exaction;
But if at any time we find 'em
Grasp at more Pow'r than we design'd 'em,
Or that they've broke thro', or forsaken,
The solemn Vows and Oaths they've taken;
Or if they prove such Storks or Logs,
Complain'd of by old Æsop's Frogs,
13
Such Kings, and call them to account;
For can a Man of Moderation,
Think it a heavenly Obligation,
That we, the Sons of Christ, must pay
Homage to'n arbitrary Sway,
And that the Land must be undone,
To gratify the Pride of one.
Poh! Nonsence, foolish Foppery,
Nay, downright dev'lish Popery,
To think we must be Slaves to them
That wear the Peoples Diadem.
No, no, we know much better things;
Than e'er to make such Gods of Kings:
Jure Divino's out of fashion,
And laugh'd at now by the whole Nation;
God only made them Men, 'tis we
That yield them their Authority.
It's Conquest gives a right to Rule,
The Throne's such a precarious Stool,
That whosoever sits thereon,
Must always have his Dagger drawn;
14
Dethrone the Victor, or do worse,
Their native freedom to recover,
Their Right's the same with his all over;
'Tis not to say he made us Swear,
That we would true Allegiance bear,
And that we are his Slaves, in troth,
Because we've taken such an Oath.
No, since we can't dispute his Title,
We're forc'd to flatter him a little,
And only do what he desires,
To gain those Points our Case requires;
Not that an Oath can binding be
Extorted in Necessity:
For Bonds in Prison are not good,
There is no reason that they shou'd:
What tho' a Thief upon the Road
Robs me, and makes me swear by G**d,
I'd ne'er discover him, should I find him,
Do you believe this Oath is binding?
No, by my Troth, for all I'd sworn,
I'd make him take a Tyburn turn.
15
Of Norman Victories and Battles,
A Conqueror, 'twixt me and you,
Is but the greater Thief o'th' two.
Nor can the Oaths he puts upon us,
When by the Sword he'as over run us,
Bind us t'acknowledge his Protection,
Longer than he can force Subjection;
But when we find his Strength doth fail,
And we can o'er his Pow'r prevail,
We have the self same Title then
To Govern, as he had to Reign.
And if we pull the Tyrant down,
And from his Temples snatch the Crown,
We take no more than what's our own:
Yet you, poor Loyal Fools, will cry,
We've done much Wrong to Majesty.
'Tis true, if he has pow'r to quell
Our Arms, he'll say that we rebel;
And then 'tis we that must be halter'd,
Because in our attempt we falter'd.
16
The King and's Friends are then the Traytors:
For th'Law, we've seen it often try'd,
Is always on the strongest side;
Therefore 'tis Fortune's love or spight,
That makes the Matter wrong or right:
She handy-caps all Earthly Powers,
And as it falls, 'tis yours or ours:
Thus things, in spight of all our Fancies,
Begin and end in Lots and Chances,
As to your proud and lazy Prelates,
So much ador'd by Popish Zealots,
I tell you plainly I abhor 'em,
And think there's no occasion for 'em.
The Shepherd's Crook their Lordships wear,
To signify their Pastoral Care,
Is of no other service grown;
Unless to hook the Church to th'Crown;
Nor does their sitting in the H****
To th'Publick, signify a Louse,
Only in Matters of debate,
That happen to enflame the State,
They add to the Lord's Scale of Power,
And make their House outweigh the Lower:
Or as they see good reason why,
Make the Low-Church outweigh the High.
I am not willing to forget
The mighty good they did of late,
But fear they'll prove such pious Men,
As to undo it all again.
To tell you truly I suspect 'em,
And cannot cordially affect 'em.
But dare to own before my Betters,
I love no Card'nals Caps or Miters.
So much ador'd by Popish Zealots,
I tell you plainly I abhor 'em,
And think there's no occasion for 'em.
The Shepherd's Crook their Lordships wear,
To signify their Pastoral Care,
Is of no other service grown;
Unless to hook the Church to th'Crown;
Nor does their sitting in the H****
To th'Publick, signify a Louse,
Only in Matters of debate,
That happen to enflame the State,
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And make their House outweigh the Lower:
Or as they see good reason why,
Make the Low-Church outweigh the High.
I am not willing to forget
The mighty good they did of late,
But fear they'll prove such pious Men,
As to undo it all again.
To tell you truly I suspect 'em,
And cannot cordially affect 'em.
But dare to own before my Betters,
I love no Card'nals Caps or Miters.
High-Churchman.
Now Rage thy envious Heart has fir'd,
I'll war'nt thou think'st thy self inspir'd
And that the base rebellious Babble,
In spight thou'st utter'd at the Table,
Is fill'd with so much charming sence,
And such convincing Arguments,
That nothing can withstand the force
Of thy Fanatical Discourse.
But I must tell thee, thou'rt a Dolt,
A Fool for shooting such a Bolt:
You fire at random in the dark,
And fall a Mile beside the Mark,
Show by your Talk that you're a scurvy
Knave, that would turn us topsy turvy,
A restless Wretch, that wants to tower
Above thy Merit or thy Power,
Possess'd with that strange stupifaction,
As t'wish thy native Land's distraction,
T'enrich thy self by others ruin,
And thrive by honest Mens undoing.
I wonder who first taught thee Treason,
And how thou suck'st in so much Poyson,
To think the People may dethrone
The King, and make his Pow'r their own;
And that each proud fanatick Fool,
May teach his Sovereign to Rule;
And if he slights the Form he shows him,
He then in Justice may depose him,
If he his Game so well can play,
As gain but strength to win the Day;
So any Rebel, you will own,
Has a just Title to the Crown,
If once by force he can but gain it,
And has but Power to maintain it.
Rare Doctrine! sure from Hell first brought,
By some Incarnate Devil taught;
Some Guile of Lucifer's, design'd
To spoil the Peace of Human-kind,
To foment Feuds to Civil Wars,
And set whole Kingdoms by the Ears:
For where such Notions do encrease,
There can be no such thing as Peace.
Such Tenets multiply Enthusions,
Who nourish by their curs'd Illusions,
Nothing but Miseries and Confusions.
I'll war'nt thou think'st thy self inspir'd
And that the base rebellious Babble,
In spight thou'st utter'd at the Table,
Is fill'd with so much charming sence,
And such convincing Arguments,
That nothing can withstand the force
Of thy Fanatical Discourse.
18
A Fool for shooting such a Bolt:
You fire at random in the dark,
And fall a Mile beside the Mark,
Show by your Talk that you're a scurvy
Knave, that would turn us topsy turvy,
A restless Wretch, that wants to tower
Above thy Merit or thy Power,
Possess'd with that strange stupifaction,
As t'wish thy native Land's distraction,
T'enrich thy self by others ruin,
And thrive by honest Mens undoing.
I wonder who first taught thee Treason,
And how thou suck'st in so much Poyson,
To think the People may dethrone
The King, and make his Pow'r their own;
And that each proud fanatick Fool,
May teach his Sovereign to Rule;
And if he slights the Form he shows him,
He then in Justice may depose him,
If he his Game so well can play,
As gain but strength to win the Day;
19
Has a just Title to the Crown,
If once by force he can but gain it,
And has but Power to maintain it.
Rare Doctrine! sure from Hell first brought,
By some Incarnate Devil taught;
Some Guile of Lucifer's, design'd
To spoil the Peace of Human-kind,
To foment Feuds to Civil Wars,
And set whole Kingdoms by the Ears:
For where such Notions do encrease,
There can be no such thing as Peace.
Such Tenets multiply Enthusions,
Who nourish by their curs'd Illusions,
Nothing but Miseries and Confusions.
Kings were at first by Heav'n appointed,
And by God's holy Priest anointed:
Not plac'd by th'People o'er the Land,
But govern'd by Divine Command.
The Lord himself by Revelation,
Gave to his Priest the nomination,
Without the Subjects approbation.
But when the People he abus'd,
And the great Pow'r he had misus'd,
So that just Heaven disapprov'd him,
God himself judg'd him and remov'd him
By giving {up} a Dream or Vision,
To his High-Priest, a new Commission
To openly declare his Word,
Reveal'd unto him by the Lord,
That Heaven had denounc'd in Anger,
So ill a King should reign no longer;
And that the Lord had now appointed
Another Prince to be Anointed.
On the Kings misrule or defection,
God gave the People no Election,
They were oblig'd to be content
With such a King as Heaven sent,
And to approve his Government.
For if the People by their Voice
Made Kings, and they should Rule by choice,
They'd Vote their Monarchs up and down,
And so precarious make the Crown,
That e're they'd long one King obey'd.
They'd chuse another o'er his Head;
So that the Throne would be a Chair,
Much fitter for my good Lord-May'r.
Besides, allow that Monarchie
Should (as you wish) elective be,
In our divided wrangling Nation,
So full of Strife and Emulation,
How would two Parties, that oppose
Each other as inveterate Foes,
That disunite in ev'ry thing,
Agree in chusing of a King?
Both would their Fav'rites countenance,
And each side would their own advance;
They'd ne'er concurr in any One,
And if we've Two we'd's good have none:
Then if two Parties by their Voices,
To please themselves make diff'rent Choices,
How must they then dispute their Right,
Unless it be by open fight?
The Sword must be the Arbitrator,
And Conquest must decide the Matter;
So terminate, in spight of Votes,
In cutting one anothers Throats.
Thus ev'ry popular Election
Would end in Misery and Distraction.
The City scarce can chuse her May'rs,
But fall together by the Ears;
Nor Country Boors and Clowns content them-
Selves to chuse those that represent them,
Lest every such Election closes
With broken Heads and bloody Noses.
What Evils then must needs befal us,
Were we to chuse the Kings that Rule us?
Should England e'er prove so defective,
As once to make her Crown Elective,
Whoever we should chuse as King,
Would find he stood so tottering
That he must like a Tyrant Rule,
And make us Slaves or be our Fool.
And by God's holy Priest anointed:
Not plac'd by th'People o'er the Land,
But govern'd by Divine Command.
The Lord himself by Revelation,
Gave to his Priest the nomination,
Without the Subjects approbation.
20
And the great Pow'r he had misus'd,
So that just Heaven disapprov'd him,
God himself judg'd him and remov'd him
By giving {up} a Dream or Vision,
To his High-Priest, a new Commission
To openly declare his Word,
Reveal'd unto him by the Lord,
That Heaven had denounc'd in Anger,
So ill a King should reign no longer;
And that the Lord had now appointed
Another Prince to be Anointed.
On the Kings misrule or defection,
God gave the People no Election,
They were oblig'd to be content
With such a King as Heaven sent,
And to approve his Government.
For if the People by their Voice
Made Kings, and they should Rule by choice,
They'd Vote their Monarchs up and down,
And so precarious make the Crown,
21
They'd chuse another o'er his Head;
So that the Throne would be a Chair,
Much fitter for my good Lord-May'r.
Besides, allow that Monarchie
Should (as you wish) elective be,
In our divided wrangling Nation,
So full of Strife and Emulation,
How would two Parties, that oppose
Each other as inveterate Foes,
That disunite in ev'ry thing,
Agree in chusing of a King?
Both would their Fav'rites countenance,
And each side would their own advance;
They'd ne'er concurr in any One,
And if we've Two we'd's good have none:
Then if two Parties by their Voices,
To please themselves make diff'rent Choices,
How must they then dispute their Right,
Unless it be by open fight?
The Sword must be the Arbitrator,
And Conquest must decide the Matter;
23
In cutting one anothers Throats.
Thus ev'ry popular Election
Would end in Misery and Distraction.
The City scarce can chuse her May'rs,
But fall together by the Ears;
Nor Country Boors and Clowns content them-
Selves to chuse those that represent them,
Lest every such Election closes
With broken Heads and bloody Noses.
What Evils then must needs befal us,
Were we to chuse the Kings that Rule us?
Should England e'er prove so defective,
As once to make her Crown Elective,
Whoever we should chuse as King,
Would find he stood so tottering
That he must like a Tyrant Rule,
And make us Slaves or be our Fool.
As for Ecclesiastick Pow'rs,
My Thoughts repugnant are to yours;
The Church could ne'er in safety stand,
In such a loose divided Land,
Had she not Bishops to support her,
Against dissenting Crowds that thwart her,
Good Fathers singled out by Heaven,
To whom the Hierarchy is given,
The best of Guides our Schools send forth,
Men of great Learning, Zeal, and Worth,
Pillars o'th' Church, and props of State,
So good, they cannot be too Great.
Divinely excellent we see,
And Pious to the last degree;
Loyal to th'Queen, to th'Nation just,
As faithful to their sacred Trust;
And charitably kind to those
(Your Tribe I mean) their spightful Foes;
Who tho' they labour'd for you hard,
On Wool-packs, and at Council-Board,
Yet you can't yield 'em one good Word.
But—
My Thoughts repugnant are to yours;
22
In such a loose divided Land,
Had she not Bishops to support her,
Against dissenting Crowds that thwart her,
Good Fathers singled out by Heaven,
To whom the Hierarchy is given,
The best of Guides our Schools send forth,
Men of great Learning, Zeal, and Worth,
Pillars o'th' Church, and props of State,
So good, they cannot be too Great.
Divinely excellent we see,
And Pious to the last degree;
Loyal to th'Queen, to th'Nation just,
As faithful to their sacred Trust;
And charitably kind to those
(Your Tribe I mean) their spightful Foes;
Who tho' they labour'd for you hard,
On Wool-packs, and at Council-Board,
Yet you can't yield 'em one good Word.
But—
24
'Wouns, hold your Popish tittle-tattle,
'Twould make one swear to hear you rattle;
Nay, put a Saint into a Passion,
To listen to your vile Oration.
Why, what a Pox (forgive good L**d
My speaking such a wicked Word:
But what good Man on Earth can be
From such vain filthy Language free,
In such provoking Company.)
I say, Sir, you're a Perkenite,
And talk like any Bedlamite:
You're Mad, and know not what you say,
But rave like one that would betray
Our English Liberties and Rights,
Into the hands of Jacobites,
And make us all poor slavish Creatures,
To heath'nish Crowns and Popish Miters:
But e're such Times shall come about,
We'll make the Devil of a rout;
Alarm your Ears with such strange Thunder,
That should turn all your hopes to wonder:
For all I'm old, I thank the Lord,
I'm able still to wield a Sword,
Or cock a Musquet in the Field,
And would do both, before I'd yield
The Pow'r of England should be given
To any Papist under Heaven.
'Twould make one swear to hear you rattle;
Nay, put a Saint into a Passion,
To listen to your vile Oration.
Why, what a Pox (forgive good L**d
My speaking such a wicked Word:
But what good Man on Earth can be
From such vain filthy Language free,
In such provoking Company.)
I say, Sir, you're a Perkenite,
And talk like any Bedlamite:
You're Mad, and know not what you say,
But rave like one that would betray
Our English Liberties and Rights,
Into the hands of Jacobites,
And make us all poor slavish Creatures,
To heath'nish Crowns and Popish Miters:
But e're such Times shall come about,
We'll make the Devil of a rout;
25
That should turn all your hopes to wonder:
For all I'm old, I thank the Lord,
I'm able still to wield a Sword,
Or cock a Musquet in the Field,
And would do both, before I'd yield
The Pow'r of England should be given
To any Papist under Heaven.
Go, you're a Romish Tory, Sir,
A meer Cathedral Worshipper,
That goes to Church to hear a Jargon
Of Popish Masses with the Organ;
As if you thought (by your advancing
Fine Tunes) your Saints above lov'd Dancing.
I say, such Musical High-Flyers,
Are worse than Jesuits or Fryars.
And are nought else, in good Mens Eyes,
But down right Papists in disguise.
Your idle Talk provokes my Anger,
I'll keep you Company no longer:
You may perhaps have some design,
There's Nine-pence for my Pint of Wine:
And so good Night t'ye, Mister High-Church,
I'm sure I ne'er shall be of Thy Church.
[Exit.
A meer Cathedral Worshipper,
That goes to Church to hear a Jargon
Of Popish Masses with the Organ;
As if you thought (by your advancing
Fine Tunes) your Saints above lov'd Dancing.
I say, such Musical High-Flyers,
Are worse than Jesuits or Fryars.
And are nought else, in good Mens Eyes,
But down right Papists in disguise.
Your idle Talk provokes my Anger,
I'll keep you Company no longer:
26
There's Nine-pence for my Pint of Wine:
And so good Night t'ye, Mister High-Church,
I'm sure I ne'er shall be of Thy Church.
High-Churchman.
[To the rest of the Company.]
Good Night! Did ever Mortal Ear,
Such strange Rebellious Notions hear,
Imbib'd from stupid envious Teachers,
Whose Malice only made them Preachers?
England, unhappy would'st thou be
Beneath such Mens Authority!
Be wise and shun the sad Disasters,
Of having such Fanatick Masters,
Who abuse Justice, scoff at Reason,
Hate Loyalty, and nourish Treason;
And brand all those that thwart their Knavery,
With love of Popery and Slavery.
Such strange Rebellious Notions hear,
Imbib'd from stupid envious Teachers,
Whose Malice only made them Preachers?
England, unhappy would'st thou be
Beneath such Mens Authority!
Be wise and shun the sad Disasters,
Of having such Fanatick Masters,
Who abuse Justice, scoff at Reason,
Hate Loyalty, and nourish Treason;
And brand all those that thwart their Knavery,
With love of Popery and Slavery.
27
May Heav'n Protect the Church and State,
From what such Saints would fain be at,
That the Queen long may Rule the Nation,
And Her Arms gain such Reputation,
As to establish Europe's Peace,
And make all Foreign Discords cease:
Also with one pacifick Smile,
Our Home-Divisions reconcile,
And ever bless our fruitful Isle.
From what such Saints would fain be at,
That the Queen long may Rule the Nation,
And Her Arms gain such Reputation,
As to establish Europe's Peace,
And make all Foreign Discords cease:
Also with one pacifick Smile,
Our Home-Divisions reconcile,
And ever bless our fruitful Isle.
FINIS.
| Helter Skelter | |