SCANDAL PROOF, OR An Heroick Poem On the Renowned Champions of the Good Old CAUSE Impudent Dick Janeway, and the rest of the Factious [...]
COme on ye Scribling Rebels of the Age,
Come on I say, advance upon the Stage;
Arm'd with Phanatick Malice Zeal and Rage.
Display your Merits to the Publick View,
Tell 'em 'tis You'r their Champion, none but You
Dare Counter-Plot the Popish Plotting Crew,
Faith 'twas great pity there was not a Tryal
Between that pack of Priests, who did deny all,
And You Phanatick Scriblers who Belly-all:
I mean that Zealous Sanctified Gang,
Comus, and Hal- Old Elephant, and Lang-
Is (who precious Saints) no doubt in time may Hang.
And make as Fine a Show, as Whitebread did
With th' other Precious four, whose Souls are fled
Into an other World; yet 'twas unkind
To leave such Holy Brethren thus behind,
Without Directions, where their Friends to find.
Alas poor Harmless Devils, what a Pother
They make to Troop so hasty after th'other:
Who dy'd great Rogues, yet ne'r deny'd their Trade,
As you do, who their Mistery Invade,
Proving your selves Jesuits in Masquerade.
I Laugh to see how you'd the World deceive,
If they would all your Lying Tricks believe;
As how you'r th' only Men, that stand i'th' Gap,
There to repel th' approaching Thunder-Clap
Of Popery, which Threatens all the Nation,
With no less than a Total Inundation;
Unless prevented by your Reformation.
This is a precious hopeful Age, no doubt,
When such an Impious, Daring Rebel Rout;
Such Wretched Tools as You shall undertake
A Reformation in the Church and State.
Yet 'tis but what we must expect from You,
Who in plain Terms, (to give the Devil his due)
Pretend to Love the King, but hate him too.
Among the rest of this Phanatick Knot
Of Factious Whigs, Faith I had quite forgot;
To mention that Egregious Rascal Dick,
That Wondrous Lying Son of Damn'd Old Nick:
Impartial Rakehell whose Romantick Skill
Excells the other Lying Knights o'th' Quill:
So like a Janus, does Dick Janeway look,
We see his Double Face in every Book;
In which wee'r Weekly Plagu'd with's Impudence,
Offensive to all Loyal men of Sense,
Who hate both Dick, and's Damn'd Impertinence.
Well then, go on thou Cursed Rogue in Grain,
Proceed to Write in thy own Lying Strain.
'Tis Meritorious; thou deserv'st Applause,
By Propping up the Sinking Damn'd Old Cause,
Which not prevented, Ruines the King and Laws:
Go tell the th' awaken'd World, (but 'tis in vain)
You Love (alas you Lye) Great Charles his Raign:
How canst thou Love the King, or can your Brood
Of Whigs, when Treason Taints your Soul and Blood,
Ye Damn'd Antipodes to all that's good.
But Thou amongst the rest art such a Fool,
Poor Silly Rogue! They use thee for a Fool:
A certain necessary Implement,
To Print and own the Lyes that they Invent;
A Foppish Brazen Fool, that's led Astray
By every Cunning Whig that shews the way:
With what Officious Care thou Plagu'st thy Brains,
To get the Name of Villain for thy pains;
Like that Inglorious Rogue that set on Flame
Diana's Temple; which to the Villains shame
He only did, to gain a Cursed Fame:
Such is thy Cursed Care, thou damned Fop,
Whose Pate more fit for Scullens Broom, or Mop;
Merits the Glorious Name of Busie Sot,
And (Calves-Head-like) deserves to go to Pot.
Thou Dull Insipid Coxcomb, worse then Beast,
What Guts and Carbidge hath thy Brains possest;
To make thy Scribling Whelpship so Uncivil,
So unlike man, and so much like the Devil:
Sure thou'rt the Spawn of some Ill Natur'd Gipsy,
Got in a Barn, perhaps where each was Tipsy;
Hatcht up with th' noise of Tory, Rory, Randy,
The pure effects of Ale, and Beer, and Brandy;
And ever since thou'st been the Devils Imp,
Dissenters Bully, and Phanaticks Pimp:
A perfect Staulking Horse unto all those,
That Hate the King, and Love the Kingdoms Foes:
A Drudging Journy-man, a Slave to th' Pope,
Next Heir in Law to the Heer Van Ketch his Rope;
One whom the Devil, for his Excellent Work
Is more beholding to, then Pope or Turk.
Mayst thou at length receive thy Merits Due,
As Ample as the Popish Plotting Crew;
So Janeway, fare thee well, until I see
Thy Rogueship made St. Dick at Tyburn Tree.
London, Printed for Don Pedro Valesco, Tasco Rasco Rero, Don John of Austria's Cozens, Ʋuncles, Sisters Son, being his own Nephew, MDCLXXXI.