Does Ribbons; could I in Sir _Empyrick's_ Tone
Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;
Or roar like _Marshal_, that _Geneva_ Bull,
Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full:
Yet to express a _Scot_, to play that Prize,
Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice.
Before a _Scot_ can properly be curst,
I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.
_Scots_ are like Witches; do but whet your Pen,
Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.

Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take
The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake,
I'll bait my _Scot_ so, yet not cheat your Eyes;
A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.
No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation
Fosters no Venom since that _Scots'_ Plantation;
Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain,
Since they came in England has Wolves again.
Nature her self does _Scotch_-men Beasts confess,
Making their Country such a Wilderness;
A Land that brings in Question and Suspence
God's Omnipresence but that _Charles_ came thence,
But that _Montrose_ and _Crawford's_ Royal Band
Aton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land.
Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots,
There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots,
As in a Picture where the Squinting Paint
Shews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint;
He that Saw Hell in's Melancholy Dream,