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When out came the book, which the News-monger took

From the Preaching Ladies letter, Where in the first place, 'ftood the Conqueror's face,

Which made it fhew much the better.

But now without lying, you may paint him flying,

At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, fo fast he did run,

That he left half his name behind him.

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And now came the post, save all that was loft,

But alas, we are past deceiving
By a trick fo ftale, or else such a tale

Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.
This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,

In the pulpit to fall a weeping, Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his eyes,

Which kept the Lord-mayor from fleeping.

Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,

For the laws not your cause, you that loath 'em, Left Ellex should start, and play the second part

Of the worshipful Sir John Hotham.

NEWS NEWS FROM COLCHESTER.

Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Par

sages betwixt a Quaķer and a Colt, at Horsly, near Colchester, in Efex.

To the tune of “ Tom of Bedlam.”

ALL in the land of Edex,

Near Colchester the zealous,
On the side of a bank,

Was play'd such a prank,
As would make a stone-horse jealous.

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Help Woodcock, Fox and Naylor,
For brother Green 's a stallion :

Now alas what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian?

Even to our whole profession
A scandal 'twill be counted,

When 'tis talk'd with disdain,

Amongst the profane,
How brother Green was mounted.

And in the good time of Christmas,
Which though our saints have damn'd all,

Yet when did they hear

That a damn'd cavalier
E’er play'd fuch a Christmas gambal ?

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Had

Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
With any cates -unhallow'd,

Hadft thou sweetned thy gums

With pottage of plums,
Or profane minc'd pye hadft swallow'd ;

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Roll'd

up in wanton swine's flesh, The fiend might have crept into thee;

Then fullness of gut

Might have caus’d thee to rut,
And the devil have fo rid through thee.

But, alas ! he had been feafted
With a spiritual collation,

By our frugal mayor,

Who can dine on a prayer,
And fup on an exhortation.

'Twas mere impulse of spirit,
Though he us’d the

weapon

carnal :
Filly foal, quoth he,

My bride thou shalt be :
And how this is lawful, learn all

For if no respect of perfons
Be due ʼmongst fons of Adam,

In a large extent,

Thereby may be meant
That a Mare 's as good as a Madam.

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Then without more ceremony,
Not bonnet vaild, nor kiss'd her,

But But took her by force,

For better for worse,
And us'd her like a fifter.

Now when in such a saddle
A faint will needs be riding,

'Though we dare not say

'Tis a falling away,
May there not be some back-sliding?

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Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat;

Oh 'tis a patient beast !
When we have gaul'd and tir'd the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,

We'll have the spoil at least.

To the Five Members of the Honourable

HOUSE

OF COMMONS.

The humble Petition of the POETS.

AFTER so many concurring petitions,

From all ages and fexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Hallerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th’ bottom of their souls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the bless’d form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us : For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you for the confidence only to crave it. Next in course, we complain of the great violation Of privilege (like the rest of our nation) But ’tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken ; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.

And

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