justice in Masquerade, A POEM.  

A Butcher's Son's I— Capital,  
Poor Protestants for to enthrall,  
And England to enslave Sirs.   

Lose both our Laws and Lives we must,  
When to do Justice we intrust  
So known an Errand K— Sirs.   

Some hungry Priests he did once fell,  
With mighty strokes, and them to Hell  
Sent presently away Sirs.   

Would you know why, the reason's plain,  
They had no English nor French Coin,  
To make a longer stay Sirs.   

The Pope to Purgatory sends,  
Who neither Money have nor Friends,  
In this he is not alone Sirs.   

Four our I— to Mercy's not inclined,  
Less Gold change Conscience and his mind,  
You are infallibly gone Sirs.   

His Father once exempted was  
Out of all Juries, why? Because  
He was a Man of Blood Sirs.   

And why the butcherly Son, forsooth,  
Should now be Jury and I— both,  
Cannot be understood Sirs.   

The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks,  
Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox,  
Stoop to him in his Fury.   

But the bribed Son, like greasy Aulf,  
Knelt down and Worship's Golden Calf;  
And so does all the Jury.   

Better thou hadst been at thy Father's Trade,  
An honest livelihood to have made,  
In hamp'ring Bulls with Collars:   

Than to thy Country prove unjust,  
First sell, and then betray thy trust,  
For so many hard Rixdollers.   

Priest and Physician thou didst save,  
From Gallows, Fire and from the Grave,  
For which we can't endure thee.   

The one can ne'er absolve thy sins,  
And th' other, though he now begins,  
Of Knavery ne'er can Cure thee.   

But lest we all should end his life,  
And with a keen-whet Chopping knife,  
In a Thousand pieces cleave him:   

Let the Parliament first him undertake,  
They'll make the Rascal stink at stake,  
And so like a K— let's leave him.