A Dialogue between
IACK KETCH and his Journey-Man; Concerning their Profession and present Affair in the world.
They are affraid they cannot send so many to Heaven, as Baxter, Lobb,
and Bull,
has sent to HELL.
[...]
JACK.
Come prithee
Nick,
Look sharp, be quick,
for now begins our Harvest;
Throw by thy Coat,
Thou'st have a Cloak,
for
Charles is now in earnest:
His Friends no more shall hang like dogs to please a bloody Faction;
Our damn'd
Phanatick Plotting Rogues,
shall breed no more distraction.
NICK.
Then use your Art,
And play your part,
and leave your course of Whoring;
Of Axe and Ropes,
Clear all the Shops,
be stocked without scoring:
You must not use three blows at one,
now Trading comes in faster;
Lest you be Hang'd for fumbling
John,
and I be made your Master.
JACK.
O peace good
Nick,
A Drunken trick,
but made well for the
Saints tho';
For they each drop,
Of
Blood lickt up,
and scrap'd the Scaffold also:
To make the factious fools believe,
a
Traytor dy'd a
Martyr;
But now the
Whigs to undeceive,
he dy'd more like a
Tartar.
NICK.
The worst I find,
Yet stays behind,
and hates to hang in order;
His Grace and Peers,
In Towns or Shires,
or sculks upon the Borders:
Argile, and
Meluin, Ferguson,
and
Rumbold the blind
Malster:
Nelthorp Elby, Cocheran,
are all run from the
Halter.
JACK.
Chesteeres and
Lobb's,
Two Whigish scabs,
they preached nought but
Treason,
At th' end o'th' Farce,
Now hangs an Arse,
at groaning
Tyburns Reason:
The roaring Bull throws by his Gown,
and wipes his greasie Whiskers:
While Mother
Criswel rubs him down,
and claps him 'twixt two sisters.
NICK.
Both
Gibs and
Row
And
Norton too,
are run to save their Bacon;
Would I were drunk,
With my sweet Punk,
were they but hang'd or taken:
Charlton of the old Rump,
and Treason still promoting,
He's come to town both
Legg and
Stump,
we'l spoyl his art of Voting.
NICK.
By Heavens
Iack,
Of all the pack,
he's like to bring us Cole boy,
For all his gang,
He'l Peach and Hang,
to keep out of the Hole boy:
He'l send for's party bundel'd up,
like loads of
Kentish Faggots,
Then with the Hatchet and the Rope,
we'l spoil their Fiery Maggots.
JACK.
If this Trade hold,
We'l want no Gold,
old
Stumps their chief Pay Master;
Of Every Rogue,
And Treacherous Dog,
that sought the Kings Disaster:
Five hundred pound I'le have at least,
if e're I take a Prentice,
Come let's go drink, our Trade's the best
we'l make 'um know what
Hemp is.
Printed for J. Dean, in Cranborn- Street, in Leicester-Fields near Newport- House, 1683