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Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with eaſe
They turn thoſe Plyant Puppets as they pleaſe.
With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed,
Such ſhall be ſure to meet—but when there's Need.
When a lick State, and ſinking Church call for 'em,
Then 'tis our Tories moſt of all abhor 'em.
Then Pray'r, that Chriſtian Weapon of defence,
Gratefull to Heaven, at Court is an Offence,
If it dare ſpeak th' untamper'd Nations ſence.
Nay Paper's Tumult, when our Senates ceaſe ;
And ſome Men's Names alone can break the Peace.
Petitioning diſturbs the Kingdom's Quiet;
As chooſing honeſt Sheriffs makes a Hyott.
To puniſh Raſcals, and bring France to Reaſon,
Is to be hot, and preſc things out of Seaſon;
And to damn Popery is Iriſh Treaſon.
To love the King, and Knaves about him hate,
Is a Fanatick Plot againſt the State.
To Skreen his Perſon from a Popiſh Gun
Has all the miſchief in't of Forty One,
To ſave our Faith and keep our Freedom's Charter,
Is once again to make a Royal Martyr.
This Logick is of Tories deep inditing
The very beſt they have—but Oaths, and Fighting.
Let 'em then chime it on, if 'twill oblige yee,
And Roger vapour o're us in Effigie.
Let'ern in Ballads give their folly Vent,
And ſing up Nonſence to their Hearts content.
If for the King (as All's pretended) they
May here drink Healths, and curſe, ſure We may pray.
Heaven once more keep him then for Healing Ends
Safe from old Foes-----but moſt from his new Friends!
Such Proteſtants as propp a Popiſh Cauſe,
And loyal men, that break all Bound of Laws !
Whoſe Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed,
And when they 've ſcarce left him a Cruſt of Bread,
Their corrupt Fathers foreigne Steps to follow,
Cheat even of ſcraps, and that laſt Sopp would ſwallow.
French Fetters may this Iſle no more endure,
Spite of Rome's Arts ſtand England's Church ſecure,
Not from ſuch Brothers as deſire to mend it,
But falſe Sons, who deſigning worſe to rend it
With leud Lives, and no-Fvrtunes would defend it.

                           F I N I S.