Augusta's Restoration from Her City-Calenture, By an Emittick PILL OF QUO WARRANTO from Westminster.
The Tune is,
Now, now the Fight's done, Or,
The Delights of the Bottle.
[...]
[...]
AƲGƲSTA our fam'd Metropolitan Saint,
That does no Perfection, but Gratitude want;
So long with Retirement from Troubles was Blest,
She Contracted a Surfeit of Plenty and Rest:
Grew sick of her Ease, and all her Physitians,
Confess'd her Distemper was only
Seditions.
II.
Of a Purge and a Vomit they all did Conclude,
And some cooling
Emultions to sweeten her Blood;
But they were so long in Consulting her Cure,
That her Feaver did Rage to a
Callenture:
A Doctor was asking what Planet did Rule,
When
Augusta cry'd out
Quo Warranto you Fool.
III.
Sir
Patience much interested in her Affair,
Because 'tis well known, he was once her Lord Mayor;
He turn'd up his Eyes, and cry'd farewel Old
Tony,
This City will ne'r again have such a Crony:
Tho' much may be said of
Pop—on Du—se,
Then
Augusta she Laught, and cry'd hang up th Choice.
IV.
The
Chamberlain hoping
Augusta to please,
Threw up his Accounts, which was nothing but Keys;
I am sorry, quoth he, for to see such Disorder,
But do you say the rest, pray good Mr.
Recorder:
The Knight said no more, but away he did Bundle,
As fast as he could to
Moor-Fields to his Trundle.
V.
Poor
Be—l and
Cornish they only did say,
If
Augusta were pleas'd, Doctor
Oats he would Bray;
Ban—r stood by and desir'd her consent,
Ignoramus, quoth she, 'tis too late to Repent:
If you and your Jurys for Pardon can hope,
He deserves to be Hang'd that's afraid of a Rope.
VI.
By this time the News to Great
Caesar was brought,
How
Augusta lay sick, and no Cure could be wrought;
His Scarlet Physitians appointed a day,
To conclude with her Friends of the speediest way:
They all did conclude this Malignant Disease,
Was too too much Freedom, Indulgence, and Ease.
VII.
For which they prepar'd her a rare Purging Pill,
And all the grave Doctors Subscrib'd to the Bill;
It went 'gainst her heart, but it Work'd in a trice,
Then up came
Po—on, and down went
Du—se:
Thus upward or downward, till all she had eaten,
Came
Co—sh and
Be—l, Sir
W—d, and Sir
Cl—
[...]n.
VIII.
Shaftsbury's Jury, and
College the Martyr,
H—in and
Pl—r, and at last came the
Charter;
Nay, now, quoth the Doctors, no doubt you'l do well,
These lay on your stomach and made it Rebell:
But that they may never offend you no more,
Pray turn them together down your Common-shore.
IX.
She sigh'd for to think that such dear Friends must part,
Yet Humbly confest she was lighter at heart;
And begg'd that great
Caesar would graciously please,
To think she no more would complain of her Ease:
And vow'd that she ne'r would deserve his Reproach,
For his Doctors had made her as sound as a Roach.
FINIS.
Printed for Peter Trimme [...], 1683.