OF all the factions in the town Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels, None turns religion upside down, Or tears pretences out at heels, Like _Splaymouth_ with his brace of caps, Whose conscience might be scann’d perhaps By the dimensions of his chaps; He whom the sisters do adore, Counting his actions all divine, Who when the spirit hints can roar, And, if occasion serves, can whine; Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark; Was ever _sike a Beauk-learn’d_ clerk That speaks all linguas of the ark? To draw the hornets in like bees, With pleasing twangs he tones his prose; He gives his handkerchief a squeeze, And draws John Calvin thro’ his nose; Motive on motive he obtrudes, With slip-stocking similitudes, Eight uses more, and so concludes. When monarchy began to bleed, And treason had a fine new name; When Thames was balderdash’d with Tweed, And pulpits did like beacons flame; When Jeroboam’s calves were rear’d, And Laud was neither loved nor fear’d, This gospel-comet first appear’d. Soon his unhallow’d fingers stript His sovereign-liege of power and land; And, having smote his master, slipt His sword into his fellow’s hand; But he that wears his eyes may note Oft-times the butcher binds a goat, And leaves his boy to cut her throat. Poor England felt his fury then Outweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains; His very preaching slew more men Than Bonnar’s faggots, stakes, and chains: With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas, He fought, and taught, and, what’s notorious, Destroy’d his Lord to make him glorious. Yet drew for King and Parliament, As if the wind could stand north-south; Broke Moses’ law with blest intent, Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth: Oblivion alters not his case, Nor clemency nor acts of grace Can blanch an Ethiopian’s face. Ripe for rebellion, he begins To rally up the saints in swarms; He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins, But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms: Thus he’s grown insolently rude, Thinking his gods can’t be subdued— _Money_, I mean, and _multitude_. Magistrates he regards no more Than St George or the King of Colon, Vowing he’ll not conform before The old wives wind their dead in woollen: He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff, And makes his power as mere a scoff As Dagon when his hands were off. Hark! how he opens with full cry, Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome! Cowards that are afraid to die Thus make domestic brawls at home. How quietly great Charles might reign, Would all these Hotspurs cross the main And preach down Popery in Spain.