Thanks upon Thanks: OR, THE SUBURBS's JOY FOR THE City's Election.
YOUR Joy (grave
Citizens) is Ours, we find;
This Choyce to
You, This Choyce to
Vs proves Kind!
We give Commission, that Our Thanks should wait on
The Kind Electors of Sir
Robert Clayton,
Sir
Thomas Player, Pilkington, and
Love:
Thus We Our Joy, by This Return do prove.
For to throw
Papists out, is all Your Aim;
Your Thoughts are Ours, they are the very same:
You Burn the
Pope, We come to see him Burn'd;
Our Wrath, like Yours, against his Tribe is turn'd.
We hate a
Jesuit, a
Priest We hate;
We cou'd Crack
Mussle-Shells upon his Pate:
We hate the
Mass, and ev'ry thing like that;
Had I but time (Sirs,) I wou'd tell You what.
But now I'le tell You, We do Love all those,
That are Abhorrers of a
Roman Nose;
And such, last
Fryday, it appears You Chose.
We
Thank you for Your Choice; This is the way
To pack both
Pope and
Devil quite away.
They gain no Ground, where such Men do appear:
They do no
Bulls from
Roman Empires fear.
Such Men, We do believe, they are, as stand
Zealously for the Int'rest of our Land.
Their Courage, Wit, and Parts have all been Try'd;
I'me sure, they
Four wou'd have been Deify'd,
Had they done half so much for th'
Roman Crew,
As They have done for Us, and done for You.
Wisely they did Behave themselves, we find;
All of one Way, all of one Heart, and Mind.
They shook off Fear, and trampl'd upon Awe;
On Their Side stood the
Gospel, and the
Law.
[Page 2] This made them Bold as
Lyons; every Man,
Through Thorns and Bryars, for the
City ran!
Mildly, and Modestly, they play'd their Parts:
I do not wonder, that They won Your Hearts.
Had You Elected others in their steed,
Surely you'd done a very Evil Deed:
For, Who cou'd equalize the Parts and Care
Of
Clayton, Pilkington, of
Love, and
Player?
Your Choyce was like You, Grave, Discreet, and Wise;
That all Men see, that have not
Popish Eyes.
And We, with all Our Hearts, do now Rejoyce,
That You have made so Good, so Bless'd a Choyce.
I know that some Men's Hearts, for Grief, do Bleed,
That You so soon, that You so well Agreed.
But who are they? Why? They are Imps of Hell,
Who when you Act like Angels, think not well.
They are the Spawn of a devouring
Pope,
That Merit nothing better than a Rope.
The Seed of Evil Doers, who dayly strive
To keep the
Priests and
Jesuits Alive;
Men void of Grace, Wit, Honesty, and Sense,
Who itch to pay the
Pope his
Peter-pence.
These Men are they, who are not pleas'd to see,
That you so well, in your good Choice agree.
Such we have too too many here (
God knows)
Who long for nothing more than Blood and Blows:
I wish they had them, were they but Destroyed,
Then Peace and Plenty would be soon enjoy'd.
The time may come, the time I hope to see,
That
King and
Parliament may well agree:
Then have at such uneasy Knaves as those,
Who long have been the
King, and Kingdoms Foes.
God give the
King to see those Mischief-makers,
That they of
Stafford's Fate may be Partakers.
Then will the City Flourish, Suburbs Sing
Praises to
God, and Thanks unto our
King.
Oh! How I long methinks to see that day,
When
Papists pack their Awls to go away;
May every City do as you have done;
This is one way I'me sure to make them Run.
May ev'ry County chuse such Worthy Men,
Chuse them, and Chuse, Chuse them yet agen;
Chuse them as oft as they're Dissolv'd, and then,
Wee'l have an Hundred to a
Roman Ten.
May they make such a Choice in ev'ry Burrough,
May they Chuse such ev'n all the Kingdom thorough.
Then farewel
Pope, farewell thy Plots to boot;
We shou'd have Peace, when thou wou'dst go without.
J. B.
London, Printed in the Year, 1680.