A New Satyricall BALLAD OF THE Licentiousness of the Times.

To the Tune of, The Blinde Beggar of Bednall-Green.
THe devil has left his puritanical dress,
And now like an Hawker attends on the Press,
That he might through the Town Sedition disperse,
In Pamphlets, and Ballads, in prose and in Verse.
'Tis surely so, for if the Devil wan't in't,
There would not be so many strange things in print:
Now each man writes what seems good in his Eyes,
And tells in bald Rimes his Inventions and Lies.
Some relate to the World their own causeless fears,
Endeavouring to set us together by the ears,
They strive to make Factions for two great Commanders,
Tho one be in Holland, the other in Flanders.
They bawl and they yaul aloud through the whole Town,
The rights of Succession and Claims to the Crown,
And snarling and grumbling like Fools at each other,
Raise Contests and Factions betwixt Son and Brother.
Here one doth on this side his Verses oppose,
Up starts another and justs with him in prose,
On Rumor a Jade, they get up, and mount her,
And so like Don Quixot with Wind-mills Encounter.
Our Sun is not setting, it does not grow dark yet,
The King is in health still, and gone to New-Market,
Let then idle Coxcomb's leave off their debating,
What either side says is unmannerly prating.
Another tho he be but a senseless Widgion
Will like an Arch-bishop determine Religion:
What ere his opinion is that must be best,
And strait he Confutes, and Confounds all the rest.
I'the Coffee house here one with a grave face,
When after salute, he hath taken his place,
His Pipe being lighted begins for to prate,
And wisely discourses the affairs of the State.
Another in fury the board strait doth thump,
And highly extolls the blest Times of the Rump;
The Pope and all Monarchs he sends to the Devil,
And up in their places he sets Harry Nevill.
Another who would be distinguish'd from Cit,
And swearing God dam me, to shew him a wit,
(Who for all his huffing one grain hath not got)
Scoffs at all Religion, and the Popish plot.
One with an uncivill satyrical Jest,
To be thought a wit, has a fling at the Priest,
He jears at his Betters, and all men of note,
From th' Alderman to the Canonical coat.
A politick Citizen in his blew gown,
As gravely in shop he walks up, and down,
Instead of attending the wares on his staul,
Is all day relating th'intreagues at White-hall.
And though to speak Truth he be but a Noddy,
He'd have you to think that he is some-body,
With politick shrug, ev'n as bad as a Curse,
He crys out, Oh! the Times, no Mortal saw worse.
Then comes a wise Knight as the whole Citty's Factor,
Speaks Prologue in prose, too grave for an Actor,
And being sore frighted, in a learned speech,
To stand to their Arms all the Citts doth beseech.
The Cobler in stall, did you but hear him prate,
You'd think that he sate at the helm of the State,
His awl lay'd aside, and in right hand a pot.
He roundly rips up the Soul of the Plot.
But it is not enough to see what is past,
For these very Men become Prophets at last,
And with the same eyes can see what is meant,
To be Acted and done in the next Parliament.
His Worship so wise, who a Kingdome can Rule,
Is by none dear Wife at home made a Fool,
For though he doth see through dark Mists of the State,
He can't see the Horns that she plants on his pate.
The Women too prate of the Pope and the Turk,
Who should play with their Tails, or else be at work,
But two Noble Virtues they've attain'd to, I think,
To handle State matters, and take off their drink.
Petition the Players to come on the Stage,
There to represent the vice of the Age,
That people may see in Stage looking-Glasses,
Fools of all sorts, and these pollitick Asses.
And thus I have shown you the vice of the Nation,
Which wants of these Things a through-Reformation,
But when that will be I cannot determine,
For plenty breeds Vice, as soul Bodies breed Vermine.
Men may prate and may write, but 'tis not their Rimes,
That can any ways change or alter the Times,
It is now grown an Epidemical Disease,
For people to talk and to write what they please.
God bless our Good King who our little World Rules,
And is not disturb'd rt the Actions of Fools,
It very much helps a Wise Man's Melancholly,
To see and observe and to Laugh at their Folly.

London, Printed in the Year, 1679.

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