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EBBA 32876

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
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The Third Part, To the same Tune.
Written by a Lady of Quality.
The Plot is vanish'd like to a bashfull Sprite,
Which with false flashes, Fools could only fright.
The wise, (whose clearer Souls can penetrate,)
Find's shadows drawn before Intrigues of State.
God bless our King, the Church, and Nation too,
Whil'st perjur'd Villains have what is their due.
To the TUNE of Packingtons Pound.

THe Presbyter ha's bin so active of late,
To twist himself into the Mysteries of State,
Giving birth to a Plot to amuse the dark world
'Til into Confusion three Kingdom's are hurl'd;
It is so long since,
He Murther'd his Prince,
That the unwary Rabble he hopes to convince,
With Jingling words that bears little sence,
Deluding them with Religious pretence.

Their scribling Poet is such a dull Sot,
To blame the poor Devil for hatching the Plot;
The Mutther o' th' King, with many things more,
He falsely would put on the Jesuits score:
When all that have Eyes,
Be they foolish, or wise,
May see the sly Presbyter through his disguise;
Their brethren in Scotland has made it well known,
By Murthering their Bishop, what sins are their own.

The Poet, whose sences are somewhat decay'd,
Takes Joan for a Jesuit in Masquerade;
His Muse ran so fast, she ne're look'd behind her,
Or else to a Woman she would have prov'd kinder.
His fury's so hot,
To Hunt out the Plot,
That fain he would find it where it is not,
Although I've expos'd it to all that are wise,
He has stifled his Reason, and blinded his Eyes.

An old Ignis fatuus, who leads men astray,
And leaves them i' th Ditch, but still keep's his way,
In politique head first framed this Plot,
From whence it descended to Presbyter Scot,
Who quickly took Fire,
And as soon did expire,
Having grave factious fools their zeal to admire;
Who for the same cause would freely fly out,
But Plotting's more safer to bring it about.

Here's one for Religion is ready to fight,
That believes not in Christ, yet swear's he's i' th right:
If our English Church (as he says,) be a Whore,
We're sure 'twas Jack Presbyter did her deflowr;
He'd fain pull her down,
As well as the Crown,
And prostitute her to every dull Clown;
To bring in Religion that's fit for the Rabble,
Whilst Atheisme serves himself that's more able.

A Pestilent Peer of a levelling Spirit,
Who only the Sins of his Sire doth inherit;
With an unsteady mind, and Chymerical brain,
Which his broken Fortune doth weakly sustain,
He Lodg'd i' th' City
Like Alderman brave,
Being fed up with faction to which he's a slave;
He never durst fight, but once for his Whore,
Which his feeble courage attempted no more.

Another, with Preaching and Praying wore out,
Inspir'd by th' Covenant is grown very stout;
Th' old cause to revive it is his designe,
Though the fabrique of Monarchy he undermine:
He tortur'd his Pate,
Both early and late,
I' th' Tower, where this mischief he hope to create;
But to Countrey dwelling he now doth retire,
To Preach to Domestiques whilst they do admire.

Another, with head both empty and light,
For the good Old cause is willing to Fight;
I' th' Choise of fit members for th' next Parliament,
He spit out his zeal to the Rabbles content,

[Whilst his Wife in great State]
Chose a Duke for her Mate,
For whose sake a Combustion he needs would create
For since his indulgence allows her a Friend,
He'd make him as great as his wish can extend.

There's one, whose fierce courage is fal'n to decay
(At Geneva inspir'd,) he's much led away;
He would set up a Cypher instead of a King:
From Presbyter zeal such folly doth spring.
He once did betray,
A whole Town in a day;
And since did at Sea fly fairly away:
He had better spin out the rest of his Thread,
In making Pot-Guns, which disturb not his Head.

Some others, of Fortunes both disperst and Low,
With big-swelling Titles do's make a great show;
A flexible Prince they would willingly have,
That to Presbyter Subjects should be a meer slave;
They'd set him on's Throne,
To tumble him down,
They scorn to submit to Scepter and Crown;
And into confusion, or Common-wealth turn,
A People that hastens to be undone.

If such busy heads that would us confound,
Were all advanc'd high, or plac[']d under-ground;
We'd honour our King, and live at our ease,
And make the dull Presbyter do what we please:
Who has cheated our Eyes,
With borrow'd disguise,
Till of all our Reason they'd taken Excise;
But let's from their slavery strive to be free,
And no People can er'e be so happy as we.


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