A NEW-YEARS-GIFT FOR Mercurius Politicus.
THe Season of the year require's
Both gratitude and
grate-ful fires,
To warme the Body and the mind
Of friends, both
debonary and kind.
Each man consult's for him what's best,
And now recount's his
Interest.
The
Nobles to their
Kings present
Some precious
Gemm, or Ornament;
The Peasants of their
Lords address
Their rural Christ-mas
Charites;
The Clients to their
Lawyers give
Such thanks, whereby their Causes thrive;
Who, to their Persons will be nigh,
Approve, their
Interest will not
Lie;
For if you will a Saint appear,
Your offring must renew the year;
Sir John! he cannot hold forth right,
Unless cramm'd
Capons him invite.
Is't possible a
Ju
[...]ice can
At New-years-tide turn
Pellican?
Or that the
Clerks revenew be
Kisses from
Bawdes without a see?
No, no! their rents are better paid,
Else
Peace might for
Poor-John go trade.
Will any think,
Will Lilly write's
For
Sweden, (though the King now bite's
His fingers ends, and would have feign
His Chain at
Golden-burg again,)
B
[...]t that the old years Starrs portend,
The King at
Dco
[...]ns-day will him send
A
Medal, for a
Xenium,
Made of the
Danes old
Kettle-Drum.
No man (that's wise,) but will review
His
Interest, whether false, or true,
Either in
State affaires, or lesse,
(But
Fooles, you know, they cannot guess.)
Then since that
Maxim is so clear,
Adieu to the old
Julian year.
My
Int'rest leads me to preferre
The
New-year in thy
Character.
POLITICƲS INTELLIGENCER;
(As famous as old
Megg Spencer,)
Pragmaticus; The Spy; what not?
Britanicus; The Counter-plott
Of Hell; the
Hawkers various
Legion;
The
Mercury o'th' infern Region;
One that's
new come from
New-gate for
To be the
Scots Compurgator;
To Sate the
Case of England right,
And clear the
Presbyterians fight;
To make the
Royallists confess
King
Charles to be
Eteocles;
And the rude
Levellers convince
That
Lucifers their lawful Prince;
No Regiment like a
Free-State,
Valour and Arts to propagate.
None but the King's long
Parliament
To be our
Supream Government!
All this and more, in Forty nine,
Is vough'd from
Francis Guicciardine
By
Thee, thou many-headed
Beast,
Thou
Pimp for ev'ry
Interest!
No sooner yet old
Noll conspire's
To wing his
Phanton desires,
And to Usurp the
Supreme Power,
But then
Le Vostre Servitour!
The
Case is alter'd then
(My Lord!)
A Parliament! the most abhorr'd,
Contemptible, prodigious
Rout.
The Mockery, reproach, and flout
Of our new
Turn-coat▪ Pamphlettor,
In praise of his
Lord Proditor.
But when God's providence depos'd
Our short-reign'd
Lords, and (unsuppos'd,)
Restor'd the noble
Parliament,
Come let me speak! Mar. Nedham,
Gent.
Recraft's his cursed perfidie,
And say's, that
Interest will not lie:
And who but he! (for old
John Cann
No more can do, than can a man!
He write's against the
Cavalliers,
And pull's the
Presbyterians eares:
He cures the wounds, which late he gave
To th'
Parliament's repute: The brave
She General, my
Lady Doll,
He brings to the
Tower without control.
But when ambition move's the
Sphaer,
And
Lambert will have no
Com-peer;
And that a second violence
(Acted with traytr'ous insolence,)
Is offer'd to the
Parliament,
(One day, we hope, which they 'l resent!)
Who but
POLITICƲS again!
Sir
Arthur, and
Hab. Morley's slain!
Monck, Lawson, Land, and Sea's subdu'd!
The Cittizens (like
Buzzards) mewed!
The
Devil and his
Damm to-boot
Have brought the
Lunars under foot!
Our Newes do's more in Print, than we
From
Ports-mouth, or else where can see!
We call
Free-Parliaments, and then
Send them as
free to th'
Moon agen,
Or to the Grand
Abyss; for yet
At
Wallingford they have not set.
Thou Juggling damn'd Imposter! pray,
Thou yet mayst live one
New-years day;
And not like Doctor
Lamb be palted,
Till
Tiburne ha's thy
Crest exalted.
Expect no mercy, or reprieve!
It's better than thou shouldst deceive
The world again, the world should be
Annihilate: What Need have we
Of such an
Arch-Ardelio, when
There are so many honest men?
Who friends are to the good
Old Cause,
Our native Liberties, and Lawes;
And are not mercenary
Sephs,
No
Robinsons, nor
Deanes, nor
Goffs.
If thou survive, th'art such a Pest,
As will all Nature's frame infest,
That's habitable; Begg we then,
Thou mayst be quickly Trust.
Amen.
It's time ill spent to treat on Thee,
'Till th'ast been at the Triple-tree:
And then thy Life we-'l descant on,
After thy last Confession:
And all the Ballad-mongers, (Slaves
To thee, and such a Pack of Knaves,)
In doleful Tone thy
Dirge shall sing,
Of
Pagan Fisher's own making!
For he'l
Pentameters (most sure,)
As good as
Ovid ha's, procure.
‘Impunitas peccati praebet ansam peccandi.’
W. KILBURNE.
LONDON, Printed by Thomas Milbourn in Jewen-Street, near Jacobs-Well.