THE TRAGICK-COMEDY OF TITUS OATES, Who sometime went under the Notion of The Salamanca Doctor: Who being Convicted of PERJURY And several other Crimes, at the Kings-Bench Bar, Westminster, May 16. 1685. had his Sentence to and in the Pillory, to be VVhip'd at the Carts Arse, and to be sent back to Prison.
PERJURY. PERJURY.
SPECTATUM ADMISSI RISUM TENEATIS AMICI.
WHet all your Wits, and Antidote your Eyes,
Before you hazard here to play this Prize;
Or gaze (like Eagles) on a Show so rare,
No time brought forth an Object yet so fair;
Lo! here's the Bug-Bear-Rampant of the PLOT,
Which Whig on Tory (in a Shamm) Begot;
Here A-la-mode the Guardian of the Land
In a New-fashion'd Pulpit now doth stand;
The Tub's o're-whelm'd, and all the Hoops are flung,
And Deput-Jack he peeps out through the Bung.
Barcochab's here, the Star of Englands Sky,
Decipher'd now The Son of PERJURY;
Th' Aegyptan-Cow, the Oaten-blasted Blade,
Which hath (these several Years) eat up our Trade;
The States Anatomist, the Church Confusion,
Who Dream'd a Plot, and Swore it was a Vision;
A Doctor who Degree did ne'r Commence,
A Rhetoritian that spoke never Sence;
Like Proteus he still changeth to the time,
His Pulse and Temper suits with any Clime;
His Birth's equivocal, by Generation
Seditions By-Blow, Loyaltys privation;
A Linsey-Woolsey Emp'rick of the State,
That hugs the Church, and knocks it o're the Pate.
He stands in state, and well becomes his station,
Using a Truckling-Stool for Recreation:
Now should he, in contempt of Peter's Chair,
Leap from the Pillory to the Three-leg'd Mare,
And with Empedocles desire to be
But Canoniz'd an Oaten-Deity,
He would spring up (but that he is a Sot)
A Mandrake, to conceive another PLOT.
His Crime no Man can ballance with a Curse,
For still the Hydra doth deserve a worse:
Then let him live a Minotaur of Men,
Like Hirco-Cervus Couchant in his Den;
The Monument of Mischief, and of Sin,
To spread no farther than the Sooterkin
Of old Sedition, set before our Eye,
As Buoy and Beacon unto Loyalty;
Yet at the Wheels of Fortune let him Dance
A Jigg of Pennance that can make him Prance;
Resenting all his Errors (though in vain)
With fruitless wishes calling Time again;
His Face is Brass, his Breech no Rod will feel,
And who knows but his Back is made of Steel;
His Soul is proof, perhaps his Body may
Be made of Mettle harder than the Clay;
Then put him to the touch, make Titus rore,
The Chase is turn'd, now he's Son of a W—
Then conjure him with Eggs and Kennel Dirt;
And Contradictions that his Mouth did squirt;
To tell his Name, we'l Christian him once yet,
And mold and Agnoun which can with him fit;
He is no Doctor, for by horrid Lies
He cures Sedition, only Tinker-wise.
He is no Papist, for he ne'r had Merit,
Nor yet a Quaker, for he hath no Spirit.
He is no Protestant, for want of Grace,
To keep him from a falsifying face.
He is no Turk, for always (like a Swine)
He lov'd to wallow in a Tub of Wine.
No name can fitt him, therefore let him bee
The grumbling Ghost of Old Presbitery.
London, Printed by J. M. and Published by Randal Taylor, MDCLXXXV.