More Lampoons.
The Hierogliphick.
COme Painter take a Prospect from this Hill,
And on a well-spread Canvas shew thy Skill:
Draw all in Colours as they shall appear,
And as they stand in merit place them there.
Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field;
And, as directed, so let that be fill'd.
First, draw a
Popish Army brisk and gay,
Fighting, and beat, destroy'd, and run away.
Then draw a Hearse, and let it stand in view,
The Mourners more, far more than they'r in shew,
Cursing their Fate, their Stars and in that fear,
Shew, if thou canst, how these damn'd
Sets prepare
To run, or stay and skulk in holes alone:
By them, this Motto,
Gallows claim thy own.
Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil shew
Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.
Now draw a croud of
Priests prepar'd to run,
Like broken Merchants when their stock is gone;
Some howling out their Prayers, forget and say,
Save us St.
Ketch: Are all our Saints away?
Draw 'em in hurry, running to and fro,
Posting to
Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.
Next draw a croud of Lords. This Label by,
The great Design is lost. Alas, they cry,
Who'd serve a Cause of such curst destiny.
Now draw four
Priests, shew how they
Rome adore,
And each Mans Scarf hang to be seen before.
Two brace of Bishops, fallen to despair,
Arm'd
Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.
Now shew the Judges, and with them thy Skill,
That all who see it done may say, 'Tis well;
In Caps and Gowns, as they in orders fate
'Twixt Heaven and Earth do thou them elevate:
For their grave Noddles can Dispence with that.
Now draw the little Rogues, the scoundrel Crew,
Kts. Knaves, & Beggers, they must have their due,
Gadbury, Butler, ay, and R— too.
Amidst this croud, on a sit spot of Land,
To crown the work, let a large Gallows stand:
All trembling by, arm'd with their guilt and fears,
Kneel to this Image, and pour out their Prayers.
And then die by Suffocation.
To the respective Judges.
DIgnifi'd things, may I your leaves implore,
To kiss your Hands, & your high Heads adore;
Judges you are, but you are something more.
May I draw near, and with rough-hew'd Pen,
Give a small Draught of you, the worst of Men:
Tell of your Merits, and your mighty Skill,
And how your Charms all Courts of Justice fill.
Your Laws, far stronger than the
Commons Votes,
So finely flows from your
Dispensing Throats.
What
Rome will ask, you must not her deny:
If Hell command you too, you must comply.
There's none but you would in this Cause combine,
Things made like Men, but act like Brutes & Swine.
Law Books are trash, a Student he's a drudge:
Learn to say, Yes, he's an accomplishi'd Judge;
He wins the Scarlet Robe, and wears it too;
Ay, and deserves it well, for more's his due;
All that compleats a Traytor dwells in you.
Thus you like Villains to the Benches get,
And, in defiance to the Laws, you sit,
And all base actions that will please commit:
There must you toil for
Rome, and also try
Your
Irish Sense and Cobweb Policy,
Compleat your Crimes; and then you'r fit to die.
True Loyal Babes! Pimps to the Church of
Rome.
Trisilian's Heirs: Heirs to his crimes and doom.
Was ere the Hall fill'd up with such a Brood,
All dipt in Treason, Villanies or Blood:
Worse than
Fanatick Priests; for they being prest
By a Wise Prince, Preach'd to
Repeal the Test,
Then here's the difference, 'twixt you
Popish Tools,
You'r downright Rogues: They, only Knaves and Fools.
FINIS.
Printed, 1688.