Classic Poem

C O me, come, ye Cock-brain'd Crew, that can suppose
No truth, but that which travells through the Nose;
That looks on Gods Anointed with those Eyes,
You view your Prentices; ye that can prize
A Stable with a Church; that can Impeach
A Grave Devine, and hear and Hostler preach:
Are ye all mad? has your Fanatick zeal
Stifl'd your stock of Sences at a Meal?
Have ye none left to look upon these Times?
With Grief, which you, and the unpunisht Crimes
Have brought upon this miserable Land?
Are ye all Bruits? not apt to understand
The neighbouring stroke of Ruine, till't be past?
And you become the Sacrifice at last?
What would you have? can Reformation border
On Sacriledge? or Truth upon Disorder?
Can Rifleing, and Religion dwell together?
Can the way hence be said the next way thither?
Go, ply your Trades, Mechanicks , and begin
To deal uprightly, and Reform within;
Correct your prick-ear'd Servants; and perswade
Your long lov'd Arm-fulls; if you can thus trade
In Pigges and Poultry: let them cease to smooth
Your Rumpled Follies, and forbear to sooth
Your pious Treasons, thus to kick and fling,
Against the Lords Anointed , and your King .
That neither loves for Fashion nor for Fear ,
As far from Roundhead , as from Cavalier .