Address of thanks to Father Peters and the Lord Chancellor from the Protestant religion and English liberties This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B16675 of text R41853 in the English Short Title Catalog. Textual changes and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life. The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish. This text has not been fully proofread Approx. 9KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. EarlyPrint Project Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO 2018 B16675 Wing A546A ocm 19679875

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 Early English books online text creation partnership. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. B16675) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 205578) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1696:1) Address of thanks to Father Peters and the Lord Chancellor from the Protestant religion and English liberties 1 broadside. s.n., [London? : 1688] In verse. Place and date of publication suggested by Wing. Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.

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 eng Great Britain -- Church history -- 17th century -- Poetry. eebo Address of thanks to Father Peters and the Lord Chancellor from the Protestant religion and English liberties n/a 1688 1 1342 12 0 0 0 0 0 89.42 D The rate of 89.42 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the D category of texts with between 35 and 100 defects per 10,000 words. 2014-02 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2014-04 Sampled and proofread 2014-04 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2015-03 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
ADDRESS Of THANKS to Father PETERS AND THE Lord Chancellor , FROM The Protestant Religion and English Liberties . WHile grateful Courts wou'd spurn those Miters down Who on the sacred Temples plac'd the Crown ; Whilst ev'n those Miters so ungrateful be They stubbornly refuse to crouch to Thee . Let not , bless'd Saint ! thy lofty Shrine refuse The juster Tribute of an humble Muse , Who long has labour'd with a painful Birth To pay thee all the Thanks of Heav'n and Earth . For our Religion and our Propertie What cou'd have more been done by Heaven or Thee ? Let none beyond themselves by Envy hurl'd Say , — This you did as Judas sav'd the World : Malicious Eyes still doubt the best intent ; We 'l look on what you 've done , not what you meant . If Hell oblige , let 's give the Devil his due , And do as much , by th' Hangman's leave , for you . Acknowledge all those Miracles yo 've done Enough to o'restock — A Legend bigger than the Golden one . Audacious Mob ! what makes thee shout and roar ? What makes thy muddy Sea outrun its shoar ! Along they roll , their Surges scatter wide , And harmless Father Peters swells the Tyde . Scarce bear they greater spite at Corker's Gate , Scarce honest Harry Hills more heartily they hate . When all the Jayls and Jakes must plunder'd be To raise a Guard , bless'd Father ! worthy Thee : Such Rags of Men as Dunghills wou'd not own , But blush for fear their Kindred shou'd be known : Who , least they something shou'd , of Man , confess , The Dirt hides ev'n their Primitive Nakedness : No sooner a New Suit of Cloaths , and Flesh Warms the poor Snakes , but they forget agen Their Birth-place , and begin to think they 're Men , Throw down their Bandileers , their Fingers bite , And Swear they 'll ne're for Father Peters fight . The braver Few by kinder Heav'n indu'd With English Souls , if not with English Blood ; Ormond , and Denmark , many a mighty Name , And Cornbury , the first-belov'd of Fame , Who long , till Patience grew a Crime , had born The servile Yoke , at last with nobler scorn Shake off the ungenerous Curb , no longer they King Peters or King Jeffreys will obey : Mistake the Court , draw all their sleepy Swords , And make the Princes Tent their House of Lords . The Husbands dare not trust thee for their lives , ●… ast thou work Miracles among their Wives . ●… ur rich Society bribe the heavenly Maid , ●… d from your stock , and hers lend too much aid ; ●… ilst the good Wives whet ev'n their Teeth and Nails , ●… o● ought , alas ! thy pious Fraud avaiis ; that Courtly Grin which decks thy Holy Face , That glavering Address and forc'd Grimace ; All , all in vain : So thick their Curses flee , ●here's not one part unwounded left in Thee ; And cou●d they but thy hated Carkass tear , Thy Relicks they , like Scanderbeg's , wou'd wear . O! whither shall oppressed Virtue fly ? Why are the Angels idle ? tell me , Why ? Why comes not Raphael to remove our Fears , And lugg thee off by thy two goodly Ears ; At little Modena then set thee down ; Or , if so high , he chance t' o'reshoot the Town , Thou of thy own accord wilt be depress'd ●y thy pure sympathy to th' House of Est. But why this noise and clutter , this adoe , For one so good , so Innocent as you ? ●ust Justice once again Huzzah's o're pow'r ? Where are the Judges ? where the Chancellor ? Poor WEM is trying his new Armour on , Or takes thy Fate and Lodgings when thou 'rt gone ; Or does his vigilant Crony entertain , And teach him , when he 's clear , to hide his chain : Or packing up his Goods , t' avoid the shower , And Refuge takes in Newgate or the Tower . Or Affidavits ( least the other fails ) Is hammering for a Second Prince of Wales . Thy Cause wou'd the poor Judges but perplex , Who are at th' Insurance-Office for their Necks . O Jenner ! Jenner ! who cou'd Tears withhold ? Who 'd lost at once , like Thee , his Pardon and his Gold ? No Life ! no Heaven ! Bid both at once Farewell ! England to Tyburn sends thee , Rome to Hell . If these are hang'd , or creep , or hide , or flee , Or shake , or stink , Bless'd Saint ! as well as Thee ; Thy worth , Bless'd Saint ! has rais'd a Friend unknown , If not to guard thee 'till the Storm's o'reblown , Yet e're thou go'st to pay thee all thy own . When thou arriv'st at Purgatory door , Let thy good Catholick-Mother clear her score : But since 't is known we 've little Trading there , The Protestants intend to pay thee here . Long had the English Genius stupid grown In slavish Bonds lain , fetter'd to the Throne ; Thrown up that Power which once it nobly shar'd , Those Laws thrown up which once that Power did guard : As passive as a Spaniel , tutour'd to 't , Whoever deign'd to kick , 't would kiss its Foot , Whilst the bold Barons grumbled in their Graves , And their pale Ghosts ev'n blusht to 've got such slaves , 't was you who rouz'd us all : So hard , so fast The eager Jesuit kick'd , we felt at last ; Your Remedy was sharp , but yet 't was sure , A desperate Wound must have a desperate Cure . Enslav'd at home all Europe saw our Chain ; They saw , and sigh'd , and sympathiz'd in vain , Whilst the French Tyrant did the Ballance hold , And rugged Steel out-weigh'd with heavier Gold . Our Lyon , lock'd within his native Den , Lashes himself for want of Beasts or men . The eager Spirits , when seal'd so close , ferment , And burst the very Glass for lack of vent . Hence different Parties , and intestine Jars , And Names , and Marks , and deep dishonest Scars . This , Holy Father ! this was seen by you ; 't was seen , and then no doubt 't was pitty'd too . You pitty'd just as Jesuits use to do , Out of meer kindness did the weakest joyn , and fairly shew'd 'em both the grand Design : 'Till in their Anger both take Wit and Grace . Throw by their Swords , and heartily embrace , And hang such Vermin up , or from 'em chace , And whilst they haunt about your cursed Crew , You now make sport for them , as they 've for you . Nor shall the Peter-Pence of Thanks alone Into thy sacred Treasury be thrown . O! wou●d thy fiery Nature be content To wait a little for a Parliament , ( And not provoke choice Grub-street Wits to feign New Hue and Crys to call thee back again ) ' Twon'd ease both thee and us of all our Fears , And to a Farthing pay thee thy Arrears . 'Till then Farewel , and live on Charitie , 'Till Justice sends thee something worthy Thee : 'Till Holy Red-cap , or White-cap fo●lorn From Rome , or Tyburn thy fair Brows adorn . FINIS .