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His Looks most primitively wear
An ancient Abrahamick Ayre;
And, like bad Copies of a Face,
The good Original disgrace :
A Hawks-bill Nose divides his Checks,
And tunes his Cant whenc'er he speaks,
Whilft on his Breast one Hand he lays,
That Fools may credit what he says;
Tho' Int'rest always bribes his Tongue,
To represent Things right or wrong,
And is the Loadstone that attracts
The Saint to all he speaks or acts.
As Beauty draws the arn'rous Youth
To swear repugnant to the Truth,
And, Zealot like, to grace his Lyes
With upcast Looks and feigned Sighs.

His Head stands mounted on a Neck As stubborn as a Post or Stake, That will not suff'r 'im to bow down To Altar, Mitre, or the Crown,

A ferm

Affirming stifly, they're no more
Than Trappings of the Scarlet Whore:
Yer has a Joint that always bends,

When 'tis to gain his own bie Ends.
- Thus when there's nothing to be got,

Submission is a deadly Fau't;
But upon e'ery new occasion,
When Int'rest is the grand temptation

Then Conscience gives a dispensation.
B. His Coat, whose Colour is most grave,

Yer carries in its Sleeve a Knave;
Tho'new, derives its ancient Fashion
From good old Times of Reformation,
When Blunderbus and Basker-Hilt
More Blood than Fire and Faggot spilt,
And Zealots, by Diffention Civil
Got th’uper-hand of Pope and Devil.
His Hat, whose Paint-house Brims secure
His formal Weeds from rainy Show'r,
Hangs on his Occiput most quaintly,
To make the Knave appear more saintly,

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And

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And from the light of Back Beholders, Skreens his long Neck and stooping

(Shoulders His Hair in greesy Locks hangs down As ftrair as Candles, from his Crown, And shades the Borders of his Face, Whose outwards Signs of inward Grace Are only visible in spightful Grimaces very stern, and frightful; As if he thought no Man could be A zealous Foe to Popery, Except his Looks declare his Malice To Altar, Candlesticks and Chalice.

The Band he wears is very broad, Exceeding far the common Mode, Just such as Kniperdolin wore On Doubler-Collar heretofore, When e'ry Madman that could cant Of Saving-Grace, was thought a Saint, Provided he could cry aloud But Reformation to the Crowd,

That some Arch Villian by his Craft,
Like Nol, might raise himself aloft,

And under that deceitful Curse
* Of mending, make all Matters worse;
* As Tinkers, when they undertake

To stop one Hole, two bigger make.
That e’ry piece of Work may end
In something that is new to mendi

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His Head is full of Fears and Fictions, HisConscienceform’d of Contradictions, Is therefore never long content

With any Church or Government, ! But fancies e'ery thing that is,

For want of mending, much amniss.
So consequentially would vary
All things to something quite contrary,
As if he thinks, whate'er we crave
Is better far than what we have ;
And therefore still is disagreeing
With e'ery thing that is in being.

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Thus

Thus, like the Moon that's always

(ranging, Seems destin'd to perpetual changing, And restless as the sublune Tide, In crooked Channels loves to glide.

His stubborn Pride and zealous Folly Arise from Temper melancholy, Which in his Looks imprint a Sadness, That shews him near ally'd to Madness: Therefore he does not chuse or cull His Faith by any Scripture Rule ; But by the Vapours that torinent His Brains, from Hyprocondria sent, Which into Dreams and Visions turn, And make his Zeal fo fircely burn, That Reason loses the ascendant, And all within grows independant. So when the Lees of Ale or Wine Condense below, the Liquor's fine ;

But

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