Excerpt from The Whigs Supplication, Or, the Scots Hudibras: A Mock Poem, In Two Parts

I am many ways wronged: and first, by transcribers, who, stealing copies of my lines, have transmitted them every where, like pictures on the wrong side of arras hangings, spoiled with thrumbs and threads, or like faces disfigured by the pox, great or small, as ye please: or like sermons repeated by children and serving lasles in a Presoyterian family-exercise, or like one of Bishop Andrews' Sermons, repreached the other day by an expectant in his Episcopal trial for the ministry.

I am, secondly, wronged by false copies, and that by men either malicious, to bring me to trouble, or ignorant, not apprehending my (cope, who, instead of mending my lines, have marred them all, and who striving to pull me out of the mire, have thrown me into the well, not to warn me, but to drown me, or into the fire, not to dry me, but to burn me.

Thirdly, I am most of all prejudged by the late Dutch war, which occasioned the bringing in of such superfluity of brandy, which, entering the brain of some of the worshippers of Bacchus, hath there hatch ed glosses of my lines, like that of Orleans, destroying the text.

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