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Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Pas

sages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horsly, near Colchester, in Effex.

ting

To the tune of “ Tom of Bedlam.”

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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.

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

Now alas what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian?

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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 such a Christmas gambal ?

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I'S

Had

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

Hadst thou sweetned thy gums

With pottage of plums,
Or profane minc'd pye hadst 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 persons
Be due 'mongst sons 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 vail'd, 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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But when him we enrol

For a Saint, Filly Foal
Shall pass herself for a Martyr.

Rome, that spiritual Sodom,
No longer is thy debtor,

O Colchester, now

Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the Letter?

A S O N G.

MORPHEUS, the humble God, that dwells

, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down ; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I say, thou powerful God,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipt in the Lethéan lake,
O’er his wakeful temples shake,
Left he should sleep, and never wake.

Nature (alas) why art thou so
Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.

On

On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER's Works.

whom Have turn'd to their own substances and forms : Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang’d to fire, We shall behold more than at first entire ; As now we do, to fee all thine thy own In this my Muse's refurrection, Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race, more wounds Hath fuffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds ; Which firft their brains, and then their belly fedy And from their excrements new poets bred. But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn Like ghosts of murder'd bodies does return T'accuse the murderers, to right the itage, And undeceive the long-abused age, Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit Gives not more gold than they give dross to it: Who, not content like felons to purloin, Add treason to it, and debase the coin. But whither am I stray'd ? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other mens dispraise ; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilç Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, fons, and kindred Nain. Then was wit's empire at the fatal height, When labouring and finking with its weight,

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