The GENEVA BALLAD.
To the Tune of 48.
OF all the
Factions in the Town,
Mov'd by
French Springs or
Flemish Wheels,
None treads
Religion upside down,
Or tears
Pretences out at heels,
Like
Splay-mouth with his brace of Caps
Whose Conscience might be scan'd perhaps
By the Dimensions of his Chaps.
He whom the Sisters so adore,
Counting his Actions all Divine,
Who when the Spirit hints, can roar,
And if occasion serves can whine;
Nay he can bellow, bray or bark.
Was ever
sike a Beuk-larn'd Clerk,
That speaks all
Lingua's of the Ark.
To draw in Proselytes like Bees,
With
pleasing Twang he tones his Prose,
He gives his Hand-kerchief a squeez,
And draws
John Calvin through his Nose.
Motive on Motive he obtrudes,
With
Slip-stocking Similitudes,
Eight Uses more, and so concludes.
When
Monarchy began to bleed,
And
Treason had a fine new name;
When
Thames was
balderdash'd with
Tweed,
And Pulpits did like Beacons flame;
When
Jeroboam's Calves were rear'd,
And
Laud was neither lov'd nor fear'd,
This
Gospel-Comet first appear'd.
Soon his unhallowed Fingers strip'd
His Sov'reign Liege of Power and Land,
And having smote his Master, slip'd
His Sword into his Fellows hand.
But he that wears his Eyes may note,
Oftimes the Butcher binds a Goat,
And leaves his Boy to cut her Throat.
Poor
England felt his Fury then
Out-weigh'd Queen
Mary's many grains;
His very Preaching slew more men,
Than
Bonner's Faggots, Stakes and Chains.
With
Dog-star Zeal and Lungs like
Boreas,
He fought and taught; and what's notorious,
Destroy'd his Lord to make him
Glorious.
Yet drew for
King and
Parlement.
As if the Wind could stand
North-South;
Broke
Moses's Law with blest intent,
Murther'd and then he wip'd his mouth.
Oblivion alters not his case,
Nor Clemency nor Acts of Grace
Can blanch an
Aethiopian's Face.
Ripe for Rebellion he begins
To rally up the Saints in swarms,
He bauls aloud,
Sirs, leave your Sins,
But whispers,
Boys, stand to your Arms,
Thus he's grown insolently rude,
Thinking his Gods can't be subdu'd,
Money, I mean, and
Multitude.
Magistrates he regards no more
Than St.
George or the Kings of
Colen;
Vowing he'l not conform before
The Old-wives wind their Dead in Woollen.
He calls the Bishop,
Grey-beard Goff,
And makes his Power as mere a Scoff,
As
Dagon, when his Hands were off.
Hark! how he opens with full Cry!
Halloo my Hearts, beware of ROME.
Cowards that are afraid to die
Thus make domestick Broils at home.
How quietly Great
CHARLES might reign,
Would all these Hot-spurs cross the Main,
And preach down Popery in
Spain.
The starry Rule of Heaven is fixt,
There's no Dissension in the Sky:
And can there be a Mean betwixt
Confusion and Conformity?
A Place divided never thrives:
'Tis bad where Hornets dwell in Hives,
But worse where Children play with Knives.
I would as soon turn back to Mass,
Or change my Phrase to
Thee and
Thou;
Let the Pope ride me like an Ass,
And his Priests milk me like a Cow:
As buckle to
Smectymnuan Laws,
The bad effects o'th' Good Old Cause,
That have Dove's Plumes, but Vultur's Clawes.
For 'twas the
Haly Kirk that nurs'd
The
Brownists and the
Ranters Crew;
Foul Errors motly Vesture first
Was Oaded in a Northern Blue.
And what's th' Enthusiastick breed,
Or men of
Knipperdoling's Creed,
But Cov'nanters run up to seed?
Yet they all cry, they love the King,
And make boast of their Innocence:
There cannot be so vile a thing,
But may be colour'd with Pretence.
Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear,
No Subject like th' old Cavalier,
No Traitor like
Jack —