The world turn'd upside down, or, A briefe description of the ridiculous fashions of these distracted times by T.J., a well-willer to King, Parliament, and kingdom.

The VVorld turned up-side-down.

THe Picture that is printed in the front Is like the Kingdom, if you look upon't: For if you well do note it as it is, It is a Transform'd Metamorphosis. This monstrous Picture plainely doth declare This Land (quite out of order) out of square: His breeches on his shoulders do appeare, His doublet on his lower parts doth weare; His boots and spurs upon his armes and hands, His gloves upon his feet, (whereon he stands) The Church o're-turn'd, (a lamentable show) The Candlestick above, the light below; The Cony hunts the Dogge, the Rat the Cat, The Horse doth whip the Cart, (I pray marke that) The Wheelbarrow doth drive the man (oh base) And Eeles and Gudgeons flie a mighty pace. And sure this is a Monster of strange fashion, That doth surpasse all Ovids Transformation. And this is Englands case this very day, All things are turn'd the clean contrary way; For now, when as a royall Parliament, (With King, and Peers, and Commons whole consent) Have sate above six years, with paines and cares, And charge, to free us from our griefs and feares; For when many a worthy Lord and Knight, And good Esquire (for King, and Countreyes Right) Have spent so much time with great toyle, and heed, All Englands Vicious garden how to weed.

So like a Wildernesse 'twas over-runne, That though much hath been done; all is not done. The Devill doth perswade, entice and lurke, And force bad men to set good men aworke. That whilst the Worthies strive to right our wrongs, And give to each man, what to him belongs; Whil'st they take paines to settle all things heere, An Irish Devill doth madly domineere. From Hells blacke Pit, begirt with Romish Armes, Thousands of Locusts are in Troups and Swarmes, More barbarous then the Heathens, worse then Iewes, Nor Turkes or Tartars would such tortures use, Sure that Religion can no waies bee good, That so inhumanely delights in Blood: Nor doth that Doctrine from the Scriptures spring, For to rebell against God and the King. Nay (further) murder, ravish, spoile, deflowre, Burne and lay wast depopulate, devoure, Not sparing Infants at the breast or wombe, (To die where first they liv'd, their birth, their tombe) 'Tis said no Serpent, Adder, Snake, or Toade, Can live in Ireland or have their aboade: 'Tis strange that she those Vipers doth not kill, That gnawes her bowells, and her blood doth spill, Can Irish Earth kill all things venemous, And can shee nurse such Vermin Mischievous: Her owne sonnes Native, worse then strangers borne, They have their Mothers Entrailes rent and torne, Yet still her indulgencie, harbours those, And feeds those Rebells that do breed her woes: God (in thy mercie) give her strength and ayd, And courage, make her foes and ours dismay'd, Thou Lord of Hosts, thine owne cause take in hand, Thy foes (thine Antichristian foes) withstand;

Defend thy truth, and all our Armies guide; Our Enemies to scatter and devide. Thus leaving Ireland (with my hearty prayers) To Btitaine backe againe my Muse repaires: Where I perceive a Metamorphosis, Is most preposterous, as the Picture is, The world's turn'd up-side-downe, from bad to worse Quite out of frame, The Cart before the Horse. The Felt-maker, and sawcie stable Groome Will dare to pearch into the Preachers roome; Each Ignorant, doe of the Spirit boast, And prating fooles brag of the Holy Ghost, When Ignoramus will his Teacher teach, And Sow-gelders and Coblers dare to preach, This shewes, mens wits are monstrously disguis'd, Or that our Countrey is Antipodis'd. When as the Lords Prayer is almost neglected, And all Church. Government is quite rejected, When to avoid a Romish Papists name, A man must be unmannerly, past shame, When he that doth shew reverence, doth offend, And he seemes best, that will not bow or bend, When he that into Gods House doth not come, As to a Stable, or a Tipling Roome, Is counted for a Popish Favorite, And branded so, despis'd, and scorn'd with spite. When he that (of his waies) doth conscience make, And in his heart doth world, flesh, seind forsake, Loves God with all his soule; adores no pelfe, And loves his Neighbour, as he loves himselfe; This man is rare to finde, yet this rare man Shall have the hatefull name of Puritan: When execrations pierce the firmament, And oathes doe batter 'gainst heavens battlement:

When imprecations, and damn'd blasphemies, In sundry cursed volleys, scale the skies, When men more bruitish then the Horse or Mule, Who know not to obey, presume to rule, Thus Church and Common-wealth, and men, all are (Much like the Picture) out of frame or square. And if 'twere possible our fathers old Should live againe, and tread upon this mould, And see all things confused, overthrowne, They would not know this Countrey for their own. For England hath no likelihood or show Of what it was but seventy years ago; Religion, manners, life, and shapes of men, Are much unlike the people that were then, Nay, Englands face, and language is estrang'd, That all is Metamorphis'd chop'd, and chang'd, For like as on the Poles the World is whorl'd, So is this Land the Bedlam of the World; That I amazed, and amated am, To see Great Britain turn'd to Amsterdam, Mens braines and wits (two simples beat together) From thence, mix'd and compounded, are sent hither. For Amsterdam is landed (as I heare) At Rye, or Hastings, or at Dover Peere, At Harwich, Ipswich, Sandwich, or at Weymouth, And at Portsmouth, Dartmouth, Plymouth, Falmouth, At Yarmouth, and at the Ports of Tinmouth, And Westward unto Bristow, and to Monmouth; From all these Mouthes, and more, mad sects are sent, Who have Religion all in pieces rent, One would have this, another would have that, And most of them would have they know not what. God give us peace, and ease us of our paine, And send those Sects, from whence they came againe.

The Papist and the Schismatique; both grieves The Church, for shee's like Christ (between two Thieves) I tooke the Covenant twice of late, Where I protested not to innovate. T'avoid all Popish Rite, and to express Obedience to what Englands Church profess, My Loyalty unto my King is bent With duty to the Peeres and Parliament, With Prayers, and my best service for them all, That on them may heavens chiefest blessing fall, That with one heart, as one man, with one mind, (For Gods great glory) they may be combinde, And never vary, but go boldly on, To end the good worke which they have begun. This is the Sum (with ne'er shall be forsooke) Of what I in the Covenant have tooke, But, for all this, I may be mannerly In Gods House, and be free from Papistrie; I hope I may put off my hat, and bee Allow'd to kneel, and pray, and bow my knee, When as divine Command bids, onely then I le bow to God, and not to Saints or Men, And from those duties I will never vary, Till death, or order do command contrary. Th' Almighties Name be ever prais'd and blest, That Romish Superstition is supprest, We have no Abbies, Abbots, Friars or Monks, Nor have we Nuns, or Stews allow'd for Punks, We have no Masses, nor no Mas-Priests heere, But some are hang'd, and some are fled for feare. All those that are so bold to stay behind, I wish they may like entertainement find; Beades, Bables, Relliques, Tapers, Lamps or Lights, We have no superstitious Romish Rites,

We seeke our Pardons from our heavenly hope, And not by workes or favour from the Pope; To Saints we make no prayer or intercession, And unto God alone we make Confession; We hold no reall Presence in the Bread. And wee doe know King Charles our supreame head (Beneath God, who hath plac'd him in his Throne) For other Supreame, we acknowledge none. No purgatory, Image, Wood, or Stone, No Stocke, or carved Blocke, we trust upon, Nor is our Church discretion here so little, As to baptize with creame, with salt and spittle. We have as many Sacraments, as Heaven Ordain'd; which are but two, and Rome hath seven. We doe not christen Bells, and give them Names Of Simon, Peter, Andrew, Iohn, and Iames; We use no Pilgrimage, or Holy-water, Nor in an unknowne tongue our prayers scatter; All these, and many more, in Rome are us'd, Which are by us rejected and refus'd. And yet too many faults, alas remaines, Which are the Churches, and the Kingdomes staines, The Church Tryumphant is most cleare from spots, The poore Church Militant hath still some blots, Here's all unperfect, something's still amisse, And nothing's bleft, but in Eternall Blisse. Meane time, till wee amend, and leave our crimes, The Picture is the Emblem of the times.

FINIS.