JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE; OR, SCROGGS UPON SCROGGS.

A Butcher's Son's Judge Capital Poor Protestants for to enthral, And England to enslave, Sirs; Lose both our Laws and Lives we must When to do Justice we entrust So known an arrant Knave, Sirs.

Some hungry Priests he did once fell, With mighty Strokes sent 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's not alone, Sirs; For our Judge to Mercy's no inclin'd, 'Less Gold change Conscience and his Mind, You are infallibly gone, Sirs.

His Father once exempted was Out of all Juries [6]; why? because He was a Man of Blood, Sirs; And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth) Shou'd now be Jury and Judge 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 brib'd Son, like greasie Oaph, Kneels down and worships Golden Calf, And so do's all the Jury.

Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade, An honest Livelihood to have made, In lamp'ring Bulls with Collars, Than to thy Country prove unjust, First sell, and then betray, thy Trust, For so many hard Rix-Dollars.

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 (tho' he now begins) Of Knav'ry ne'er can cure thee.

But lest we all shou'd 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 Knave, let's leave him.

[Footnote 6: By an old law, butchers and surgeons were unable to serve on juries.]