NEWS FROM COLCHESTER.

Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Paffages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horfly, near Colchester, in Effex.

To the tune of " Tom of Bedlam."

ALL in the land of Effex,

Near Colchester the zealous,

On the fide of a bank,

Was play'd fuch a prank,

As would make a stone-horse jealous.

Help Woodcock, Fox and Naylor,

For brother Green 's a ftallion:
Now alas what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian?

Even to our whole profeffion
A fcandal '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 faints have damn'd all,
Yet when did they hear

That a damn'd cavalier

E'er play'd fuch a Christmas gambal ?

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

Hadft thou fweetned thy gums
With pottage of plums,

Or profane minc'd pye hadst swallow'd ;

Roll'd up in wanton fwine'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 fpiritual 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 refpect of perfons

Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,

In a large extent,

Thereby may be meant

That a Mare 's as good as a Madam.

Then without more ceremony,
Not bonnet vail'd, nor kifs'd her,

But

But took her by force,

For better for worse,

And us'd her like a fifter.

Now when in fuch a faddle

A faint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not say
'Tis a falling away,

May there not be fome back-fliding?

:

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 COMMON S.

The humble Petition of the POETS.

AFTER fo many concurring petitions

From all ages and fexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Haflerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though fet 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

And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivants fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
have got the priority.

But in that alfo you

Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it
Poetical license, and always did claim it.

By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonsense to fenfe, and falfhood to truth;
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;
This art fome poet, or the devil has taught ye:
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both houses have made it.
But that trust above all in poets reposed,
That kings by them only are made and depofed,
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing:
But when we undertake depofing or killing,

They 're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it;
And when we refume a fceptre or crown,

We are modeft, and seek not to make it our own.
But is 't not prefumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two?
For all those pretty knacks you compose,
Alas, what are they but poems in profe?

And between thofe and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense:
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)
You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it;
And though you are modeft and feem to abhor it,
"T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it :

Although