The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester :: :: University of Virginia Library

SATIRES and LAMPOONS

Mistress Knights Advice to the Dutchess of Cleavland in Distress For A Prick.

Quoth the Dutchess of Cleavland to Councillor Knight
I'de faine have a Prick knew I how to Come by't
But you must be secret and give your advice
Though Cunt be not Coy, reputation is Nice.

Knight.

To Some Celler in Sodom your Grace must retire
Where Porters with Black Potts sett round the Cole Fire
There open your Case, and your Grace cannot faile
Of a dozen of Pricks for a dozen of Ale

Dutchess
Say you soe quoth the Dutchess.

Knight
Ay by God quoth the whore

Dutch.

Then give me the Key that unlocks the back doore
Ide rayther be Fuct by Porters and Carmen
Then thus be abus'd by Churchill and German.

[[Letter from Mistress Price to Lord Chesterfield]]

My Lord

These are the Gloves that I did mention
Last night, and t'was with the intention
That you should give mee thankes and wear them
For I most willingly can spare them.
When you this Packet first doe see
Dam mee, crie you shee has writ to mee
I had better be at Bretby still
Than troubled with love against my will
Besides this is not all my sorrow
Shee writ to day, shee'l come to morrow,
Then you consider the adventure
And think you never shall content her

But when you doe the inside see
You'l find things are but as they should be
And that tis neither love nor passion
But only for your recreation.

Upon Nothing

Nothing thou Elder Brother even to Shade
Thou hadst a being ere the world was made
And (well fixt) art alone of ending not afraid.

Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not
When Primitive Nothing, somthing straight begott
Then all proceeded from the great united what—

Somthing, the Generall Attribute of all
Severed from thee its sole Originall
Into thy boundless selfe must undistinguisht fall.

Yet Somthing did thy mighty power command
And from thy fruitfull Emptinesses hand
Snatcht, Men, Beasts, birds, fire, water, Ayre, and land.

Matter, the Wickedst offspring of thy Race
By forme assisted flew from thy Embrace
And Rebell-Light obscured thy Reverend dusky face.

With forme and Matter, Time and Place did joyne
Body thy foe with these did Leagues combine
To spoyle thy Peaceful Realme and Ruine all thy Line.

But Turncote-time assists the foe in vayne
And brib'd by thee destroyes their short liv'd Reign
And to thy hungry wombe drives back thy slaves again.

Though Misteries are barr'd from Laick Eyes
And the Divine alone with warrant pries
Into thy Bosome, where thy truth in private lyes

Yet this of thee the wise may truly say
Thou from the virtuous Nothing doest delay
And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.

Great Negative how vainly would the wise
Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,
Didst Thou not stand to poynt their blind Phylosophies.

Is or is not, the two great Ends of ffate
And true or false the Subject of debate
That perfect or destroy the vast designes of State—

When they have wrackt the Politicians Brest
Within thy Bosome most Securely rest
And when reduc't to thee are least unsafe and best.

But (Nothing) why does Somthing still permitt
That Sacred Monarchs should at Councell sitt
With persons highly thought, at best for nothing fitt,

Whilst weighty Somthing modestly abstaynes
ffrom Princes Coffers and from Statesmens braines
And nothing there like Stately nothing reignes?

Nothing who dwell'st with fooles in grave disguise
ffor whom they Reverend Shapes and formes devise
Lawn-sleeves and ffurrs and Gowns, when they like thee looke wise:

ffrench Truth, Dutch Prowess, Brittish policy
Hibernian Learning, Scotch Civility
Spaniards Dispatch, Danes witt, are Mainly seen in thee;

The Great mans Gratitude to his best freind
Kings promises, Whors vowes towards thee they bend
fflow Swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

A Ramble in Saint James's Parke

Much wine had past with grave discourse
Of who Fucks who and who does worse
Such as you usually doe hear
From those that diet at the Beare
When I who still take care to see
Drunkenness Reliev'd by Leachery
Went out into Saint James's Park
To coole my head and fire my heart.
But tho' Saint James has the Honor on't
'Tis Consecrate to Prick and Cunt.
There by a most incestuous Birth
Strange woods spring from the Teeming Earth
For they Relate how heretofore
When auncient Pict began to whore
Deluded of his Assignation
(Jylting it seems was then in fashion)
Poor pensive Lover in this place
Wou'd frigg upon his Mothers face
Whence Rowes of Mandrakes tall did rise
Whose lewd Topps Fuckt the very Skies
Each imitative branch does twine
In some lov'd fold of Aretine
And nightly now beneath their shade
Are Buggeries, Rapes, and Incests made:
Unto this all-sin-sheltring Grove
Whores of the Bulk, and the Alcove,
Great Ladies, Chamber Mayds, and Drudges,
The Ragg picker, and Heiress Trudges;
Carrmen, Divines, Great Lords, and Taylors,
Prentices, Poets, Pimps, and Gaolers,
Footmen, Fine Fopps, doe here arrive,
And here promiscuously they swive.

Along these hallow'd walkes it was
That I beheld Corinna pass.
Who ever had bin by to see
The prowd disdain she cast on Mee
Through charming eies he would have swore
She dropt from Heaven that very Hour
Forsakeing the Divine abode
In scorn of some dispaireing God.
But mark what Creatures women are
How infinitly vile when fair:
Three Knights of the Elboe and the Slurr
With wriggling tailes made up to her.

The first was of your Whitehall Blades
Nere kin to the Mother of the Mayds
Grac'd by whose favor he was able
To bring a Freind to the waiters Table
Where he had heard Sir Edward Sutton
Say how the King lov'd Banstead Mutton;
Since when hee'd nere be brought to eat
By's good will any other meat.
In this as well as all the rest
He ventures to doe like the best
But wanting Common Sence, th'ingredient
In chooseing well not least expedient
Converts abortive Imitation
To universall Affectation.
Thus he not only eats and Talks
But feels and smells sitts down and walks
Nay looks, and lives, and loves by Rote
In an old Tawdry Birthday Coat.

The second was a Grays Inn witt
A great Inhabiter of the Pitt
Where Crittick-like he sitts and squints
Steales Pockett Handkerchers and hints
From's Neighbour and the Comedy
To Court and pay his Landlady.

The third a Ladyes Eldest Son
Within few yeares of Twenty one

Who hopes from his propitious Fate
Against he comes to his Estate
By these Two Worthies to be made
A most accomplish'd tearing blade.

One in a strain 'twixt Tune and Nonsence
Cries Madam I have lov'd you long since
Permitt me your fair hand to kiss;
When at her Mouth her Cunt cries yes.
In short without much more adoe
Joyfull and pleas'd away she flew
And with these Three Confounded Asses
From Park to Hackney Coach she passes.

So a prowd Bitch does lead about
Of humble Currs the Amorous Rout
Who most obsequiously doe hunt
The savory scent of salt swoln Cunt.
Some power more patient now Relate
The sence of this surpriseing Fate.
Gods! that a thing admir'd by mee
Shou'd fall to so much Infamy.
Had she pickt out to rub her Arse on
Some stiff prickt Clown or well hung Parson
Each jobb of whose spermatique sluce
Had fill'd her Cunt with wholesome Juice
I the proceeding should have praisd
In hope she had quench'd a fire I rais'd.
Such naturall freedomes are but Just
There's something Genrous in meer lust.
But to turn damn'd abandon'd Jade
When neither Head nor Taile perswade
To be a Whore in understanding
A passive pott for Fools to spend in.
The Devill play'd booty sure with Thee
To bring a blott on Infamy.
But why am I of all Mankind
To so severe a Fate design'd
Ungratefull! Why this Treachery
To humble fond beleiveing mee

Who gave you Priviledge above
The nice allowances of Love?
Did ever I refuse to bear
The meanest part your Lust could spare
When your lewd Cunt came spewing home
Drench't with the seed of halfe the Town
My dram of sperm was sup't up after
For the digestive surfeit water.
Full gorged at another time
With a vast meal of nasty slime
Which your devouring Cunt had drawn
From Porters Backs and Footmens brawn
I was content to serve you up
My Ballock full for your Grace cupp
Nor ever thought it an abuse
While you had pleasure for excuse
You that cou'd make my heart away
For noise and Colour and betray
The secretts of my tender houres
To such knight errant Paramours
When leaneing on your faithless breast
Wrapt in security and rest
Soft kindness all my powers did move
And Reason lay dissolv'd in Love.

May stinking vapours Choak your womb
Such as the Men you doat upon
May your depraved Appetite
That cou'd in whiffling Fools delight
Begett such Frenzies in your Mind
You may goe madd for the North wind
And fixing all your hopes upont
To have him bluster in your Cunt
Turn up your longing Arse to the Air
And perrish in a wild dispair.

But Cowards shall forgett to rant,
School-Boyes to Frigg, old whores to paint;
The Jesuits Fraternity
Shall leave the use of Buggery;

Crab-louse inspir'd with Grace divine
From Earthly Codd to Heaven shall climb;
Phisitions shall believe in Jesus
And Dissobedience ceace to please us
E're I desist with all my Power
To plague this woman and undoe her.
But my Revenge will best be tim'd
When she is Married, that is lym'd.
In that most lamentable state
I'le make her feel my scorn and hate
Pelt her with scandalls, Truth or lies
And her poor Curr with Jealousies
Till I have torn him from her Breech
While she whines like a Dogg-drawn Bitch
Loath'd, and despis'd, Kick't out of Town
Into some dirty Hole alone
To chew the Cudd of Misery
And know she owes it all to Mee.
And may no Woman better thrive
That dares prophane the Cunt I swive.

Lampoone

To longe the Wise Commons have been in debate
About Money, and Conscience (those Trifles of State)
Whilst dangerous Greyvances daily increase,
And the Subject can't riott in Safety, and peace.
Unlesse (as agaynst Irish Cattle before)
You now make an Act, to forbid Irish whore.
The Cootes (blacke, and white) Clenbrazell, and Fox
Invade us with Impudence, beauty, and pox.
They carry a Fate, which noe man can oppose;
The losse of his heart, and the fall of his Nose.
Should he dully resist, yet wou'd each take upon her,
To beseech him to doe it, and engage him in honour.
O! Yee mercifull powers, who of Mortalls take Care,
Make the Woman more modest, more sound, or lesse fayre.

Is it just, that with death cruell Love should conspire,
And our Tarses be burnt by our hearts taking fire?
There's an end of Communion, if humble Beleavers
Must bee damn'd in the Cup, like unworthy Receavers.

Tunbridge Wells

A Satyr.

At Five this Morne, when Phœbus raisd his head,
From Thetis Lapp, I rais'd my self from Bed;
And mounting Steed, I trotted to the Waters,
The Rendevouz of Fooles, Buffoones, and Praters,
Cuckolds, Whores, Cittizens, their Wives and Daughters.
My Squeamish Stomach, I with Wine had brib'd,
To undertake the Dose, it was prescrib'd.
But turning head, a sudden cursed view,
That innocent provision overthrew,
And without drinking made me Purge, and Spew.

From Coach, and Six, a thing unweildy Roll'd,
Whose Lumber, Cart, more decently wou'd hold;
As wise as Calf it look'd, as bigg as Bully,
But handl'd proves a meere Sir Nich'las Cully:
A Bawling Fopp, a Nat'rall Nokes, and yet
He dares to censure, as if he had Witt:
To make him more rediculous in spight,
Nature, contriv'd the Fool shou'd be a Knight.
Grant yee unlucky Starrs, this ore'growne Boy,
To purchase some inspireing pretty Toy,
That may his want of Sense, and Witt supply,
As Buxome Crabb-fish, do his Lechery:
Tho' he alone, were dismall sight enough,
His Traine contributed to set him off,
All of his Shape, all of the self same stuffe:
Noe Spleene, or Malice, need on them be throwne,
Nature, has done the Bus'nesse of Lampoone,
And in their lookes, their Characters has showne.

[Thrice blest be he, who Dildoe did invent!
To ramm the Neigb'ring hole to Fundament;
Which may be lengthen'd, thicken'd, in its measure,
And us'd at Lech'rous ugly Trullas pleasure:
For ne're was Bulke, or Stomach giv'n to Tarses,
Either to fill, or swell, such Foggy Arses.]
Endeavouring this irksome sight to Balke,
And a more irksome noyse, their silly talke,
I silently slunke downe, to th'lower Walke:
But often, when one wou'd Caribdis shun,
Downe upon Scilla, 'tis ones Fate to run:
For here, it was my cursed luck to find,
As greate a Fopp, tho' of another kind.
A Tall, stiffe Foole, that walkt in Spanish guise,
The Buckram Puppet, never stirr'd its Eyes;
But grave as Owle it look'd, as Wood-Cock wise.
He scornes the empty talking of this Mad-Age,
And speakes all Proverbs, Sentences, and Adage;
Can with as much solemnity, buy Eggs,
As a Caball, can talke of their Intrigues.
Master of Ceremony; yet can dispence,
With the formality of talking Sence.

From hence, unto the upper end I ran,
Where a new Scene of Foppery began.
A Tribe of Curates, Priests, Canonicall Elves,
(Fit Company for none besides themselves)
Were got together; each his distemper told,
Scurvy, Stone, Strangury: some were soe bold,
To charge the Spleene to be their misery,
And on that wise Disease, brought Infamy.
But none had Modesty enough to 'plaine,
Their want of Learning, Honesty, and Braine,
The generall Diseases of that Traine:
These call themselves Ambassadors of Heav'n,
And sawcily pretend Commissions giv'n;
But shou'd an Indian King, whose small Command
Seldome extends beyond Ten Miles of Land;
Send forth such wretched Tooles in an Ambassage
He'd find but small Effects of such a Message.

Listning I found the Cobb of all this Rabble
Pert Bayes, with his Importance Comfortable:
He being rais'd to an Arch-Deaconry,
By trampling on Religion, Liberty;
Was growne too great, and look'd too fat and Jolly,
To be disturb'd with care, and Melancholly,
Tho' Marvell has enough, expos'd his Folly.
He dranke to carry off some old remaines,
His Lazy dull distemper, left in's Veines:
Let him drinke on, but 'tis not a whole Flood,
Can give sufficient sweetnesse to his blood,
To make his Nature, or his Manners good.
Importance dranke too, tho' she'd beene noe Sinner
To wash away some Dreggs, he had spewd in her.

Next after these, a fulsome Irish Crew,
Of silly Macs were offer'd to my view;
The things did talke, but th'hearing what they said,
I did my self the kindnesse to evade:
Nature, hath plac'd these Wretches beneath Scorne,
They can't be call'd soe vile, as they are borne.
Amidst the Croud, next I my self convey'd,
For now were come (White-wash, and Paint being laid)
Mother, and Daughter, Mistresse and the Maid;
And Squire with Wigg, and Pantaloone, display'd.
But ne're cou'd Conventickle, Play, or Fair,
For a true Medley, with this Herd compare.
Here Lords, Knights, Squires, Ladys, and Countesses,
Chandlers, Mum-Bacon-Women, Sempstresses,
Were mixt together; nor did they agree,
More in their Humours, than their Quality.
Here waiting for Gallant, young Damsell stood,
Leaning on Cane, and muffled up in Hood:
The Woud-be-Witt, whose bus'nesse was to Wooe,
With Hatt, remov'd, and Solemn Scrape of Shooe,
Advanceth bowing, then gentiley shruggs,
And ruffled Foretop, into Order tuggs.
And thus Accosts her:—Madam methinkes the Weather
Is growne much more Serene, since you came hither:

You Influence the Heav'ns—but shou'd the Sun,
Withdraw himself to see his Rayes outdone
By your bright Eyes; they wou'd supply the Morne
And make a Day, before the Day be borne.
With Mouth screwd up, conceited winking Eyes,
And Breasts thrust forward—Lord Sir (she replyes)
It is your goodnesse, and not my Deserts
Which makes you Shew, this Learning, Witt, and Parts.
He puzled, bites his Naile, both to display,
The sparkling Ring, and thinke what next to say.
And thus breakes forth a fresh: Madam, Egad
Your luck at Cards last Night, was very bad;
At Cribbidge, Fifty Nyne, and the next show
To make the Game; and yet to want those Two.
Gad-Damme Madam, I'm the Son of a Whore
If in my life, I saw the like before.
To Pedlars Stall he draggs her, and her Breast
With Hearts, and such like foolish toyes he drest;
And then more smartly to expound the Riddle
Of all his prattle, gives her a Scotch Fiddle.
Tir'd with this dismall Stuffe, away I ran,
Where were Two Wives, with Girle just fit for Man;
Short-breath'd, with pallid Lipps, and Vissage wan.
Some Curt'sies past, and the Old Complement
Of being glad to see each other spent;
With hand, in hand, they loveingly did walke
And one began thus to renew the talke.
I pray, good Madam, if it may be thought,
Noe rudenesse, what cause was it hither brought
Your Ladyshipp? She soone replying, smild,
Wee have a good Estate, but have noe Child;
And I'm inform'd these Wells, will make a Barren
Woman, as fruitfull as a Coney-Warren.
The first return'd—For this cause I am come
For I can have, noe quietnesse at home,
My Husband grumbles tho' wee have got one,
This poor young Girle, and mutters for a Son;
And this griev'd with Head-Ach pangs, and Throwes,
Is full Sixteene, and never yet had those.

She soone reply'd.—Get her a Husband Madam,
I Marry'd at that Age, and ne're had had 'em:
Was just like her; Steele-Waters, let alone,
A Back of Steele, will bring 'em better downe.
And Tenn to one but they themselves will try
The same meanes, to encrease their Family.
Poor foolish Fribble,—who by Subtlety
Of Mid-Wife, truest Friend to Letchery,
Perswaded Art, to be at paines, and charge,
To give thy Wife occasion to enlarge
Thy silly head! For here walke Cuffe, and Kick,
With Brawney Back, and Leggs, and potent Prick.
Who more substantially will cure thy Wife,
And on her half-dead Womb, bestowe new life.
From these, the Waters got the Reputation,
Of good Assistants unto Generation.
Some Warr-like Men were now got into th'throng
With Hair ty'd back, singing a Bawdy-Song.
Not much afraid, I got a nearer view,
And 'twas my chance to know the dreadfull Crew.
They were Cadets, that seldome can appeare
Damn'd to the Stint of Thirty Pounds a yeare;
With Hawke on Fist, or Grey-Hound led in hand,
The Doggs, and Foot-Boys, sometimes they Command;
But now haveing trimmd a Cast of Spavin'd Horse,
With Three hard-pincht-for-Guineys in the Purse,
Two Rusty Pistolls, Scarfe about the Arse
Coat, lin'd with Red, they here presume to swell
This goes for Captaine, that for Collonell;
Soe the Beare-Garden Ape on his Steed mounted,
Noe longer is a Jackanapes accounted;
But is by virtue of his Trump'rie then
Call'd by the Name of the Young Gentleman.
Blesse me thought I, what thing is Man that thus
In all his shapes, he is rediculous?
Our selves, with noyse of Reason wee doe please
In vaine: Humanity is our worst Disease.
Thrice happy Beasts are, who because they be
Of Reason voyd are soe of Foppery;

Faith I was soe asham'd that with remorse,
I us'd the Insolence to mount my Horse;
For he doeing only things fit for his Nature,
Did seeme to me by much the wiser Creature.

[[A Satire on Charles II]]

I'th' Isle of Britaine long since famous growne
For breeding the best cunts in Christendome,
There reigns and oh long may hee reigne and thrive
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no Ambition mooves, to gett Renowne
Like the french Foole who wanders up and downe
Starving his People, hazarding his Crowne.
Peace is his Aime, his Gentlenesse is such
And Love, he loves, for he loves fucking much.
Nor are his high Desires above his Strength,
His Sceptter and his Prick are of a Length,
And she may sway the one, who plays with th'other
And make him little wiser than his Brother.
Restlesse he roalles about from Whore to Whore
A merry Monarch, scandalous and poor.
Poor Prince thy Prick like thy Buffoons at Court
Will governe thee because it makes thee sportt.
'Tis sure the swaucyest that e're did swive
The proudest peremtoriest Prick alive.
Though Safety, Law, Religion, Life lay on't,
'Twould breake through all to make its way to Cunt.
To Carwell the most Deare of all his deares
The best Reliefe of his declining yeares
Offt hee bewayles his fortunes and her fate
To love so well and be belov'd so late.
For though in her he setles well his Tarse
Yett his dull graceless Ballocks hang an arse.
This you'd beleive had I butt Tyme to tell you
The Paynes itt Cost the poor laborious Nelly

Whilst shee imployes, hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs
E're shee can raise the Member she enjoys—
I hate all Monarchs, and the Thrones they sit on
From the Hector of France to the Culley of Britaine.

Signior Dildo.

You Ladyes all of Merry England
Who have been to kisse the Dutchesse's hand,
Pray did you lately observe in the Show
A Noble Italian call'd Signior Dildo?

The Signior was one of her Highness's Train
And helpt to Conduct her over the Main,
But now she Crys out to the Duke I will go,
I have no more need for Seignior Dildo.

At the Signe of the Crosse in Saint James's Street,
When next you go thither to make your Selfes Sweet,
By Buying of Powder, Gloves, Essence, or Soe
You may Chance get a Sight of Signior Dildo.

You'l take him at first for no Person of Note
Because he appears in a plain Leather Coat:
But when you his virtuous Abilities know
You'll fall down and Worship Signior Dildo.

My Lady Southesk, Heav'ns prosper her for't,
First Cloath'd him in Satten, then brought him to Court;
But his Head in the Circle, he Scarcely durst Show,
So modest a Youth was Signior Dildo.

The good Lady Suffolk thinking no harm,
Had got this poor Stranger hid under her Arm:
Lady Betty by Chance came the Secret to know,
And from her own Mother, Stole Signior Dildo:

The Countesse of Falmouth, of whom People tell
Her Footmen wear Shirts of a Guinea an Ell:
Might Save the Expence, if she did but know
How Lusty a Swinger is Signior Dildo.

By the Help of this Gallant the Countesse of Rafe
Against the feirce Harris preserv'd her Self Safe:
She Stifl'd him almost beneath her Pillow,
So Closely she imbrac'd Signior Dildo.

Our dainty fine Dutchesse's have got a Trick
To Doat on a Fool, for the Sake of his Prick,
The Fopps were undone, did their Graces but know
The Discretion and vigor of Signior Dildo.

That Pattern of Virtue, her Grace of Cleaveland,
Has Swallow'd more Pricks, then the Ocean has Sand,
But by Rubbing and Scrubbing, so large it do's grow,
It is fit for just nothing but Signior Dildo.

The Dutchesse of Modena, tho' she looks high,
With such a Gallant is contented to Lye:
And for fear the English her Secrets shou'd know,
For a Gentleman Usher took Signior Dildo.

The countess of the Cockpit (who knows not her Name)
She's famous in Story, for a Killing Dame:
When all her old Lovers forsake her I Trow
She'l then be contented with Signior Dildo.

Red Howard, Red Sheldon, and Temple so tall
Complain of his absence so long from Whitehall:
Signior Barnard has promis'd a Journy to goe,
And bring back his Countryman Signior Dildo.

Doll Howard no longer with his Highness must Range,
And therefore is profer'd this Civill Exchange:

Her Teeth being rotten, she Smells best below,
And needs must be fitted for Signior Dildo.

St Albans with Wrinkles and Smiles in his Face
Whose kindnesse to Strangers, becomes his high Place,
In his Coach and Six Horses is gone to Pergo,
To take the fresh Air with Signior Dildo.

Were this Signior but known to the Citizen Fopps
He'd keep their fine Wives from the Foremen of Shops,
But the Rascalls deserve their Horns shou'd Still grow,
For Burning the Pope, and his Nephew Dildo.

Tom Killigrews wife, North Hollands fine Flower,
At the Sight of this Signior, did fart, and Belch Sow'r,
And her Dutch Breeding farther to Show,
Says welcome to England, myn Heer Van Dildo.

He civilly came to the Cockpitt one night,
And profer'd his Service to fair Madam Knight,
Quoth she, I intrigue with Captain Cazzo
Your Nose in myne Arse good Seignior Dildo.

This Signior is sound, safe, ready, and Dumb,
As ever was Candle, Carret, or Thumb:
Then away with these nasty devices, and Show
How you rate the just merits of Signior Dildo.

Count Cazzo who carryes his Nose very high,
In Passion he Swore, his Rivall shou'd Dye,
Then Shutt up himself, to let the world know,
Flesh and Blood cou'd not bear it from Signior Dildo.

A Rabble of Pricks, who were welcome before,
Now finding the Porter deny'd 'em the Door,
Maliciously waited his coming below,
And inhumanely fell on Signior Dildo.

Nigh weary'd out, the poor Stranger did fly
And along the Pallmall, they follow'd full Cry,
The Women concern'd from every Window,
Cry'd, Oh! for Heavn's sake save Signior Dildo.

The good Lady Sandys, burst into a Laughter
To see how the Ballocks came wobbling after,
And had not their weight retarded the Fo
Indeed 't had gone hard with Signior Dildo.

Satyr. [Timon]

A.
What Timon does old Age begin t'approach
That thus thou droop'st under a Nights debauch?
Hast thou lost deep to needy Rogues on Tick
Who ne're cou'd pay, and must be paid next Week.

Tim.
Neither alas, but a dull dining Sot,
Seiz'd me ith' Mall, who just my name had got;
He runs upon me, cries dear Rogue I'm thine,
With me some Wits, of thy acquaintance dine.
I tell him I'm engag'd, but as a Whore,
With modesty enslaves her Spark, the more,
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'ne consent to be his Guest.
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go,
Pulls out a Libel, of a Sheet, or two;
Insipid, as, the praise of pious Queens,
Or Shadwells, unassisted former Scenes;
Which he admir'd, and prais'd at ev'ry Line,
At last it was so sharp, it must be mine.
I vow'd I was no more a Wit, than he,
Unpractic'd, and unblest in Poetry:
A Song to Phillis, I perhaps might make,
But never Rhym'd, but for my Pintles sake:
I envy'd no Mans fortune, nor his fame,
Nor ever thought of a revenge so tame.
He knew my Stile, he sword, and 'twas in vain,
Thus to deny the Issue of my Brain.

Choak'd with his flatt'ry, I no answer make,
But silent leave him to his dear mistake
Which he, by this, has spread o're the whole Town,
And me, with an officious Lye, undone.
Of a well meaning Fool, I'm most afraid,
Who sillily repeats, what was well said.
But this was not the worst, when he came home,
He askt are Sidley, Buchurst, Savill, come?
No, but there were above Halfwit and Huffe
Kickum, and Dingboy. Oh 'tis well enough.
They're all brave Fellows cryes mine Host, let's Dine,
I long to have my Belly full of Wine,
They'll write, and fight I dare assure you,
They're Men, Tam Marte quam Mercurio.
I saw my error, but 'twas now too late,
No means, nor hopes, appear of a retreat.
Well we salute, and each Man takes his Seat.
Boy (says my Sot) is my Wife ready yet?
A Wife good Gods! a Fop and Bullys too!
For one poor Meale, what must I undergo?
In comes my Lady strait, she had been Fair,
Fit to give love, and to prevent despair.
But Age, Beauties incurable Disease,
Had left her more desire, than pow'r to please.
As Cocks, will strike, although their Spurrs be gone,
She with her old bleer Eyes to smite begun:
Though nothing else, she (in despight of time)
Preserv'd the affectation of her prime;
How ever you begun, she brought in love,
And hardly from that Subject wou'd remove.
We chancd to speak of the French Kings success;
My Lady wonder'd much how Heav'n cou'd bless,
A Man, that lov'd Two Women at one time;
But more how he to them excus'd his Crime.
She askt Huffe, if Loves flame he never felt?
He answer'd bluntly—do you think I'm gelt?
She at his plainness smil'd, then turn'd to me,
Love in young Minds, preceeds ev'n Poetry.

You to that passion can no Stranger be,
But Wits, are giv'n to inconstancy.
She had run on I think till now, but Meat
Came up, and suddenly she took her seat.
I thought the Dinner wou'd make some amends,
When my good Host cryes out-y'are all my Friends,
Our own plain Fare, and the best Terse the Bull
Affords, I'll give you and your Bellies full:
As for French Kickshaws, Cellery, and Champoon,
Ragous and Fricasses, introth we'ave none.
Here's a good Dinner towards thought I, when strait
Up comes a piece of Beef, full Horsmans weight;
Hard as the Arse of Mosely, under which,
The Coachman sweats, as ridden by a Witch.
A Dish of Carrets, each of 'em as long,
As Tool, that to fair Countess, did belong;
Which her small Pillow, cou'd not so well hide,
But Visiters, his flaming Head espy'd.
Pig, Goose, and Capon, follow'd in the Rear,
With all that Country Bumpkins, call good Cheer:
Serv'd up with Sauces all of Eighty Eight,
When our tough Youth, wrestled, and threw the Weight.
And now the Bottle, briskly flies about,
Instead of Ice, wrapt up in a wet Clowt.
A Brimmer follows the Third bit we eat,
Small Bear, becomes our drink, and Wine, our Meat.
The Table was so large, that in less space,
A Man might safe, Six old Italians place:
Each Man had as much room, as Porter, Blunt,
Or Harris, had, in Cullens, Bushel Cunt.
And now the Wine began to work, mine Host
Had been a Collonel we must hear him boast
Not of Towns won, but an Estate he lost
For the Kings Service, which indeed he spent
Whoring, and Drinking, but with good intent.
He talkt much of a Plot, and Money lent
In Cromwells time. My Lady she
Complain'd our love was course, our Poetry,

Unfit for modest Eares: small Whores, and Play'rs
Were of our Hair-brain'd Youth, the only cares;
Who were too wild for any virtuous League,
Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.
Falkland, she prais'd, and Sucklings, easie Pen,
And seem'd to taste their former parts again.
Mine Host, drinks to the best in Christendome,
And decently my Lady, quits the Room.
Left to our selves, of several things we prate,
Some regulate the Stage, and some the State.
Halfwit, cries up my Lord of Orrery,
Ah how well Mustapha, and Zanger dye!
His sense so little forc'd, that by one Line,
You may the other easily divine.
And which is worse, if any worse can be,
He never said one word of it to me.
There's fine Poetry! you'd swear 'twere Prose,
So little on the Sense, the Rhymes impose.
Damn me (says Dingboy) in my mind Gods-swounds
Etheridge, writes Airy Songs, and soft Lampoons,
The best of any Man; as for your Nowns,
Grammar, and Rules of Art, he knows 'em not,
Yet writ Two talking Plays, without one Plot.
Huffe, was for Settle, and Morocco, prais'd,
Said rumbling words, like Drums, his courage rais'd.
Whose broad-built-bulks, the boyst'rous Billows, bear,
Zaphee and Sally, Mugadore, Oran,
The fam'd Arzile, Alcazer, Tituan.
Was ever braver Language writ by Man?
Kickum for Crown declar'd, said in Romance,
He had out done the very Wits, of France.
Witness Pandion, and his Charles the Eight;
Where a young Monarch, careless of his Fate,
Though Forreign Troops, and Rebels, shock his State,
Complains another sight afflicts him more.
(Videl.) The Queens Galleys rowing from the Shore,
Fitting their Oars and Tackling to be gon
Whilst sporting Waves smil'd on the rising Sun.

Waves smiling on the Sun! I'm sure that's new,
And 'twas well thought on, give the Devil his due.
Mine Host, who had said nothing in an hour,
Rose up, and prais'd the Indian Emperor.
As if our Old World, modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New.
There are Two Lines! who but he durst presume
To make the old World, a new withdrawing Room,
Whereof another World she's brought to Bed!
What a brave Midwife is a Laureats head!
But pox of all these Scriblers, what do'e think.
Will Souches this year any Champoone drink?
Will Turene fight him? without doubt says Huffe,
When they Two meet, their meeting will be rough.
Damn me (says Dingboy) the French, Cowards are,
They pay, but the English, Scots, and Swiss make War.
In gawdy Troops, at a review they shine,
But dare not with the Germans, Battel joyn;
What now appears like courage, is not so,
'Tis a short pride, which from success does grow;
On their first blow, they'll shrink into those fears,
They shew'd at Cressy, Agincourt, Poytiers;
Their loss was infamous, Honor so stain'd,
Is by a Nation not to be regain'd.
What they were then I know not, now th'are brave,
He that denies it—lyes and is a Slave
(Says Huffe and frown'd) says Dingboy, that do I,
And at that word, at t'others Head let fly
A greasie Plate, when suddenly they all,
Together by the Eares in Parties fall.
Halfwit, with Dingboy joynes, Kickum with Huffe
Their Swords were safe, and so we let 'em cuff
Till they mine Host, and I, had all enough.
Their rage once over, they begin to treat,
And Six fresh Bottles, must the peace compleat.
I ran down Stairs, with a Vow never more
To drink Bear Glass, and hear the Hectors roar.

A Letter from Artemiza in the Towne to Chloe in the Countrey.

Chloe, in Verse by your commande I write;
Shortly you'l bid mee ride astride, and fight.
These Talents better with our sexe agree,
Then lofty flights of dang'rous poetry.
Amongst the Men (I meane) the Men of Witt
(At least they passt for such, before they writt)
How many bold Advent'rers for the Bayes,
(Proudly designing large returnes of prayse)
Who durst that stormy pathlesse World explore,
Were soone dash't backe, and wreck't on the dull shore,
Broke of that little stocke, they had before?
How would a Womans tott'ring Barke be tost,
Where stoutest Ships (the Men of Witt) are lost?
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my owne selfe thus gravely I advise.
Deare Artemiza, poetry's a snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions: have a Care.
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad;
You Fancy, you'r inspir'd, he thinkes, you mad.
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,
To make your Selfe the Fiddle of the Towne,
To fynd th'ill-humour'd pleasure att their need,
Curst, if you fayle, and scorn'd, though you succeede.
Thus, like an Arrant Woman, as I am,
Noe sooner well convinc'd, writing's a shame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachfull name,
Then Poetesse:
Like Men, that marry, or like Maydes, that woe,
'Cause 'tis the very worst thing they can doe,
Pleas'd with the Contradiction, and the Sin,
Mee-thinkes, I stand on Thornes, till I begin.

Y'expect att least, to heare, what Loves have past
In this Lewd Towne, synce you, and I mett last.
What change has happen'd of Intrigues, and whether
The Old ones last, and who, and who's togeather.
But how, my dearest Chloe, shall I sett
My pen to write, what I would faine forgett,
Or name that lost thing (Love) without a teare
Synce soe debauch'd by ill-bred Customes here?
Love, the most gen'rous passion of the mynde,
The softest refuge Innocence can fynde,
The safe directour of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and secur'd by Trueth,
That Cordiall dropp Heav'n in our Cup has throwne,
To make the nauseous draught of life goe downe,
On which one onely blessing God might rayse
In lands of Atheists Subsidyes of prayse
(For none did e're soe dull, and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blest his pow'r in Love)
This onely Joy, for which poore Wee were made,
Is growne like play, to be an Arrant Trade;
The Rookes creepe in, and it has gott of late
As many little Cheates, and Trickes, as that.
But what yet more a Womans heart would vexe,
'Tis cheifely carry'd on by our owne Sexe,
Our silly Sexe, who borne, like Monarchs, free,
Turne Gipsyes for a meaner Liberty,
And hate restraint, though but from Infamy.
They call whatever is not Common, nice,
And deafe to Natures rule, or Loves advice,
Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the Vice.
To an exact perfection they have wrought
The Action Love, the Passion is forgott.
'Tis below witt, they tell you, to admire,
And e'ne without approving they desire.
Their private wish obeys the publicke Voyce,
'Twixt good, and bad Whimsey decides, not Choyce.
Fashions grow up for tast, att Formes they strike:
They know, what they would have, not what they like.

Bovey's a beauty, if some few agree,
To call him soe, the rest to that degree
Affected are, that with their Eares they see.
Where I was visiting the other night,
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
Who had prevayl'd on her, through her owne skill,
At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London.
As the Coach stop't, wee heard her Voyce more loud,
Then a great belly'd Womans in a Crowd,
Telling the Knight, that her affayres require,
Hee for some houres obsequiously retire.
I thinke, shee was asham'd, to have him seene
(Hard fate of Husbands) the Gallant had beene,
Though a diseas'd ill-favour'd Foole, brought in.
Dispatch, sayes shee, that bus'nesse you pretend,
Your beastly visitt to your drunken freind;
A Bottle ever makes you looke soe fine!
Mee-thinkes I long, to smell you stinke of Wine.
Your Countrey-drinking-breath's enough, to kill
Sowre Ale corrected with a Lemmon pill.
Prithy farewell-wee'le meete againe anon;
The necessary thing bows, and is gone.
She flyes up stayres, and all the hast does show,
That fifty Antique postures will allow,
And then bursts out—Deare Madam, am not I
The alter'dst Creature breathing? Let me dye,
I fynde my selfe ridiculously growne
Embarassé with being out of Towne,
Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queene;
My Countrey nakednesse is strangely seene.
How is Love govern'd? Love, that rules the State,
And, pray, who are the Men most worne of late?
When I was marry'd, Fooles were a la mode,
The Men of Witt were then held incommode,
Slow of beleife, and fickle in desire,
Who e're they'l be persuaded, must inquire,
As if they came to spye, not to admire.

With searching Wisedome fatall to their ease
They still fynde out, why, what may, should not please;
Nay take themselves for injur'd, when Wee dare,
Make 'em thinke better of us, then Wee are:
And if Wee hide our frailtyes from their sights,
Call Us deceitefull Gilts, and Hypocrites.
They little guesse, who att Our Arts are greiv'd,
The perfect Joy of being well deceaved.
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow,
Rather, then not bee knowing, they will know,
What being knowne creates their certaine woe.
Women should these of all Mankind avoyd;
For Wonder by cleare knowledge is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an Arrant Bird of night,
Bold in the Duske, before a Fooles dull sight,
Should flye, when Reason brings the glaring light:
But the kinde easy Foole apt, to admire
Himselfe, trusts us, his Follyes all conspire,
To flatter his, and favour Our desire.
Vaine of his proper Meritt he with ease
Beleaves, wee love him best, who best can please.
On him Our grosse dull common Flatt'ries passe,
Ever most Joyfull, when most made an Asse.
Heavy, to apprehend, though all Mankinde
Perceave Us false, the Fopp concern'd is blinde,
Who doating on himselfe,
Thinkes ev'ry one, that sees him, of his mynde.

These are true Womens Men.—Here forc'd, to cease
Through Want of Breath, not Will, to hold her peace,
Shee to the Window runns, where she had spy'de
Her much esteem'd deare Freind the Monkey ti'de.
With fourty smiles, as many Antique bows,
As if't had beene the Lady of the House,
The dirty chatt'ring Monster she embrac't,
And made it this fine tender speech att last

Kisse mee, thou curious Miniature of Man;
How odde thou art? How pritty? How Japan?
Oh I could live, and dye with thee—then on
For halfe an houre in Complement shee runne.
I tooke this tyme, to thinke, what Nature meant,
When this mixt thinge into the World shee sent,
Soe very wise, yet soe impertinent.
One, who knew ev'ry thinge, who, God thought fitt,
Should bee an Asse through choyce, not want of Witt:
Whose Foppery, without the helpe of Sense,
Could ne're have rose to such an Excellence.
Nature's as lame, in making a true Fopp,
As a Philosopher; the very topp,
And Dignity of Folly wee attaine
By studious Search, and labour of the Braine,
By observation, Councell, and deepe thought:
God never made a Coxecombe worth a groate.
Wee owe that name to Industry, and Arts:
An Eminent Foole must bee a Foole of parts;
And such a one was shee, who had turn'd o're
As many Bookes, as Men, lov'd much, reade more,
Had a discerning Witt; to her was knowne
Ev'ry ones fault, and meritt, but her owne.
All the good qualityes, that ever blest
A Woman, soe distinguisht from the rest,
Except discretion onely, she possest.
But now, mon cher, deare Pugge, she cryes, adiew,
And the Discourse broke off does thus renew.

You smile, to see mee, whom the World perchance
Mistakes, to have some Witt, soe far advance
The Interest of Fooles, that I approve
Their Meritt more, then Mens of Witt, in Love.
But in Our Sexe too many proofes there are
Of such, whom Witts undoe, and Fooles repayre.
This in my tyme was soe observ'd a Rule,
Hardly a Wench in Towne, but had her Foole.
The meanest Common Slutt, who long was growne
The Jest, and Scorne of ev'ry Pitt-Buffoone,

Had yet left Charmes enough, to have subdu'd
Some Fopp, or other fond, to be thought lewd.
Foster could make an Irish Lord a Nokes,
And Betty Morris had her Citty-Cokes.
A Woman's ne're soe ruyn'd, but she can
Be still reveng'd on her undoer Man.
How lost so e're, shee'l fynde some Lover more
A lewde abandon'd Foole, then shee a whore.
That wretched thinge Corinna, who had run
Through all the severall Wayes of being undone,
Couzen'd att first by Love, and living then
By turning the too-deare-bought trick on Men:
Gay were the houres, and wing'd with Joyes they flew,
When first the Towne her early Beautyes knew,
Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with presents fedd,
Youth in her lookes, and pleasure in her bed,
Till Fate, or her ill Angell thought it fitt,
To make her doate upon a Man of Witt,
Who found, 'twas dull, to love above a day,
Made his ill-natur'd Jest, and went away.
Now scorn'd by all, forsaken, and opprest,
Shee's a Memento Mori to the rest.
Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up halfe a Crowne,
Must morgage her long Scarfe, and Mantua Gowne.
Poore Creature! Who unheard off, as a Flye,
In some darke hole must all the Winter lye,
And Want, and dirt endure a whole halfe yeare,
That for one Moneth shee tawdry may appeare.
In Easter Terme she getts her a new Gowne,
When my young Masters Worship comes to Towne,
From Pedagogue, and Mother just sett free,
The Heyre, and Hopes of a great Family,
Which with strong Ale, and Beefe the Countrey Rules,
And ever synce the Conquest have been Fooles:
And now with carefull prospect to mainteyne
This Character, least crossing of the Strayne

Should mend the Booby-breede, his Freinds provide
A Cousin of his owne, to bee his Bride;
And thus sett out—
With an Estate, noe Witt, and a younge Wife
(The solid comforts of a Coxecombes life)
Dunghill, and Pease forsooke, he comes to Towne,
Turnes Sparke, learnes to be lewd, and is undone.
Nothing suites worse with Vice, then want of Sense,
Fooles are still wicked att their owne Expence.
This o'regrowne Schooleboy lost-Corinna wins,
And att first dash, to make an Asse, begins:
Pretends, to like a Man, who has not knowne
The Vanityes, nor Vices of the Towne,
Fresh in his youth, and faithfull in his Love,
Eager of Joyes, which he does seldome prove,
Healthfull, and strong, he does noe paynes endure,
But what the Fayre One, he adores, can cure.
Gratefull for favours does the Sexe esteeme,
And libells none, for being kind to him.
Then of the Lewdnesse of the tymes complaines,
Rayles att the Witts, and Atheists, and mainteynes,
'Tis better, then good Sense, then pow'r, or Wealth,
To have a love untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never seene
A Creature looke soe gay, or talke soe fine,
Beleaves, then falls in Love, and then in Debt,
Morgages all, e'ne to th'Auncient Seate,
To buy this Mistresse a new house for life;
To give her Plate, and Jewells, robbs his wife;
And when to the height of fondnesse he is growne,
'Tis tyme, to poyson him, and all's her owne.
Thus meeting in her Common Armes his Fate,
Hee leaves her Bastard Heyre to his Estate;
And as the Race of such an Owle deserves,
His owne dull lawfull progeny he starves.
Nature, who never made a thinge in vayne,
But does each Insect to some ende ordeyne,
Wisely contriv'd kind-keeping Fooles, noe doubt,
To patch up Vices, Men of Witt weare out.

Thus she ranne on two howres, some graynes of Sense
Still mixt with Volleys of Impertinence.
But now 'tis tyme, I should some pitty show
To Chloe, synce I cannot choose, but know,
Readers must reape the dullnesse, writers sow.
By the next Post such storyes I will tell,
As joyn'd with these shall to a Volume swell,
As true, as Heaven, more infamous, then Hell;
But you are tyr'd, and soe am I. Farewell.

[[Fragment of a Satire on Men]]

What vaine unnecessary things are men
How well we doe with out 'em, tell me then
Whence comes that meane submissivness wee finde
This ill bred age has wrought on womankinde
Fall'n from the rights their sex and beautyes gave
To make men wish despaire and humbly crave
Now 'twill suffice if they vouchsafe to have,
To the pell Mell, Playhous and the drawing roome
Their Woemen Fayres, these Woemen Coursers come
To chaffer, chuse and ride theire bargaines home,
Att the appearance of an unknown face
Up steps the Arrogant pretending ass
Pulling by th'elbow his companion Huff
Cryes Looke, de God that wench is well enough
Faire and well shap't, good lipps and teeth 'twill doe
Shee shall bee Tawdry for a month or two
Att my expence, bee rude and take upon her
Shew her contempt of quallity and honour
And with the generall fate of errant Woman
Bee very proude awhile, then very Common
E're beare this scorne, I'de bee shutt up at home
Content with humoring my selfe alone,
Force back the Humble Love of former dayes
In pensive madrigalls and ends of playes

When if my Lady frown'd th'unhappy Knight
was faine to fast and lye alone that night
But whils't th'insulting wife the Breeches wore
The Husband tooke her cloathes to give his—
Who now maintaines it with a gentler art
Thus Tyrranyes to Commonwealths Convert
Then after all you finde what ere wee say
Things must goe on in their Lewd naturall way
Besides the Beastly men wee dayly see
Can Please themselves alone as well as wee
Therfore kind Ladyes of the towne to you
for our stol'n ravish't men wee hereby sue
By this time you have found out wee suppose
That they're as Errant Tinsell as their Cloathes
Poore broaken Propertyes that cannot serve
To treate such persons soe as they deserve
Mistake us not wee doe not here pretend
That like the young sparkes you can condescend
To Love a beastly playhous Creature, Foh
Wee dare not thinke soe meanly of you, noe
'Tis not the Player pleases but the Part
Shee may like Rollo who despises Hart
To Theaters as Temples you are brought
Where Love is worshipt and his precepts taught
You must goe home and practice, for 'tis here
Just as in other preaching places, where
Greate Eloquence is show'n gainst sin, and Papists
By men who Live Idolaters and Atheists.
These two were dainty trades indeed could each
Live up to halfe the miracles they teach
Both are a

SATYR.

[Were I (who to my cost already am]

Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas'd to weare,
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,

Or any thing but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive
A Sixth, to contradict the other Five;
And before certain instinct, will preferr
Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;
Pathless and dang'rous wandring ways it takes,
Through errors Fenny—Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,
Mountains of Whimseys, heap'd in his own Brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile, and make him try,
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;
In hopes still t'oretake th'escaping light,
The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong;
Hudled in dirt, the reas'ning Engine lyes,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,
And makes him venture, to be made a Wretch.
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know that World he shou'd enjoy;
And Wit, was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others, at his own expence.
For Witts are treated just like common Whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of Doores:
The pleasure past, a threatning doubt remains,
That frights th'enjoyer, with succeeding pains:
Women and Men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.

Pleasure allures, and when the Fopps escape,
'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate,
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.

But now methinks some formal Band, and Beard,
Takes me to task, come on Sir I'm prepar'd.

Then by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibeing jingling knack call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly, but you take care,
Upon this point, not to be too severe.
Perhaps my Muse, were fitter for this part,
For I profess, I can be very smart
On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart:
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my Tide of Ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degen'rate mind,
To make you rail at Reason, and Mankind?
Blest glorious Man! to whom alone kind Heav'n,
An everlasting Soul has freely giv'n;
Whom his great Maker took such care to make,
That from himself he did the Image take;
And this fair frame, in shining Reason drest,
To dignifie his Nature, above Beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce,
The flaming limits of the Universe,
Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the World true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold mighty Man, I cry, all this we know,
From the Pathetique Pen of Ingello;
From Patricks Pilgrim, Stilling fleets replyes,
And 'tis this very reason I despise.
This supernatural gift, that makes a Myte—,
Think he's the Image of the Infinite:
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the Eternal, and the ever blest.
This busie, puzling, stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out;

Filling with Frantick Crowds of thinking Fools,
Those Reverend Bedlams, Colledges, and Schools;
Borne on whose Wings, each heavy Sot can pierce,
The limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Oyntments, make an Old Witch flie,
And bear a Crippled Carcass through the Skie.
'Tis this exalted Pow'r, whose bus'ness lies,
In Nonsense, and impossibilities.
This made a Whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World, his Tub prefer,
And we have modern Cloysterd Coxcombs, who
Retire to think, cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts, are giv'n, for Actions government,
Where Action ceases, thoughts impertinent:
Our Sphere of Action, is lifes happiness,
And he who thinks Beyond, thinks like an Ass.
Thus, whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I wou'd obey:
That Reason that distinguishes by sense,
And gives us Rules, of good, and ill from thence:
That bounds desires, with a reforming Will,
To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill.
Your Reason hinders, mine helps t'enjoy,
Renewing Appetites, yours wou'd destroy.
My Reason is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hunger call's out, my Reason bids me eat;
Perversly yours, your Appetite does mock,
This asks for Food, that answers what's a Clock?
This plain distinction Sir your doubt secures,
'Tis not true Reason I despise but yours.
Thus I think Reason righted, but for Man,
I'le nere recant defend him if you can.
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,
'Tis evident, Beasts are in their degree,
As wise at least, and better far than he.
Those Creatures, are the wisest who attain,
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler, finds, and Kills his Hares,
Better than Meres, supplyes Committee Chairs;

Though one's a States-man, th'other but a Hound,
Jowler, in Justice, wou'd be wiser found.
You see how far Mans wisedom here extends,
Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;
Whose Principles, most gen'rous are, and just,
And to whose Moralls, you wou'd sooner trust.
Be judge your self, I'le bring it to the test,
Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?
Birds, feed on Birds, Beasts, on each other prey,
But Savage Man alone, does Man, betray:
Prest by necessity, they Kill for Food,
Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.
With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm'd they hunt,
Natures allowance, to supply their want.
But Man, with smiles, embraces, Friendships, praise,
Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;
With voluntary pains, works his distress,
Not through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;
For fear he armes, and is of Armes afraid,
By fear, to fear, successively betray'd.
Base fear, the source whence his best passion came,
His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame.
That lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable, and kind.
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions, in a forc'd disguise:
Leading a tedious life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.
Look to the bottom, of his vast design,
Wherein Mans Wisdom, Pow'r, and Glory joyn;
The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
'Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for safety, after Fame we thirst,
For all Men, wou'd be Cowards if they durst.

And honesty's against all common sense,
Men must be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishonest, if you think it fair,
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
You'le be undone—
Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,
The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o're, opprest,
Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.
Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,
Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou'd be Knaves:
The diff'rence lyes (as far as I can see)
Not in the thing it self, but the degree;
And all the subject matter of debate,
Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate?

All this with indignation have I hurl'd,
At the pretending part of the proud World,
Who swolne with selfish vanity, devise,
False freedomes, holy Cheats, and formal Lyes
Over their fellow Slaves to tyrannize.

But if in Court, so just a Man there be,
(In Court, a just Man, yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to oppress, and ruine, but protect;
Since flattery, which way so ever laid,
Is still a Tax on that unhappy Trade.
If so upright a States-Man, you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbyass'd Mind;
Who does his Arts, and Pollicies apply,
To raise his Country, not his Family;
Nor while his Pride own'd Avarice withstands,
Receives close Bribes, from Friends corrupted hands.

Is there a Church-Man who on God relyes?
Whose Life, his Faith, and Doctrine Justifies?
Not one blown up, with vain Prelatique Pride,
Who for reproof of Sins, does Man deride:
Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretence
With his obstrep'rous sawcy Eloquence,
To chide at Kings, and raile at Men of sense.

Who from his Pulpit, vents more peevish Lyes,
More bitter railings, scandals, Calumnies,
Than at a Gossipping, are thrown about,
When the good Wives, get drunk, and then fall out.
None of that sensual Tribe, whose Tallents lye,
In Avarice, Pride, Sloth, and Gluttony.
Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good Lives,
Whose Lust exalted, to that height arrives,
They act Adultery with their own Wives.
And e're a score of Years compleated be,
Can from the lofty Pulpit proudly see,
Half a large Parish, their own Progeny.

Nor doating Bishop who wou'd be ador'd,
For domineering at the Councel Board;
A greater Fop, in business at Fourscore,
Fonder of serious Toyes, affected more,
Than the gay glitt'ring Fool, at Twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdrey Cloths, and Loves.

But a meek humble Man, of honest sense,
Who Preaching peace, does practice continence;
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe,
Misterious truths, which no Man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such God-like Men,
I'le here recant my Paradox to them,
Adore those Shrines of Virtue, Homage pay,
And with the Rabble World, their Laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast.

The Disabled Debauchee.

As some brave Admiral, in former War,
Depriv'd of force, but prest with courage still,
Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,
Crawles to the top of an adjacent Hill:

From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,
And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,
His present glory, and his past delight;

From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day;

So when my Days of impotence approach,
And I'm by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,
Forc'd from the pleasing Billows of debauch,
On the dull Shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at least some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the Battails you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses, sail about the Board,
From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.

Nor let the sight of Honourable Scars,
Which my too forward Valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed Souldiers from the Warrs,
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Shou'd any Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,
'Twill please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,
If at my Councel, he repent and drink.

Or shou'd some cold complexion'd Sot forbid,
With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarmes,
I'll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong, and able to bear Armes.

I'll tell of Whores attacqu'd, their Lords at home,
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,
Windows demolisht, Watches overcome,
And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.

Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look'd Link-Boy, strove t'enjoy,
And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy fuck'd you, or I the Boy.

With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I'll make him long some Antient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness he's called to by Wine.

Thus States-man-like, I'll sawcily impose,
And safe from Action valiantly advise,
Shelter'd in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.

An Allusion to Horace.

The 10th Satyr of the 1st. Book.

Nempe incomposito Dixi pede etc.

Well Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes,
Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times:
What foolish Patron, is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
But that his Plays, Embroider'd up and downe,
With Witt, and Learning, justly pleas'd the Towne,
In the same paper, I as freely owne:
Yet haveing this allow'd, the heavy Masse,
That stuffs up his loose Volumes must not passe:
For by that Rule, I might as well admit,
Crownes tedious Scenes, for Poetry, and Witt.
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false Sense
Hits the false Judgment of an Audience
Of Clapping-Fooles, assembling a vast Crowd
'Till the throng'd Play-House, crack with the dull Load;
Tho' ev'n that Tallent, merrits in some sort,
That can divert the Rabble and the Court:

100

Which blundring Settle, never cou'd attaine,
And puzling Otway, labours at in vaine.
But within due proportions, circumscribe
What e're you write; that with a flowing Tyde,
The Stile, may rise, yet in its rise forbeare,
With uselesse Words, t'oppresse the wearyed Eare:
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Your Rethorick, with your Poetry, unite:
For Elegance sake, sometimes alay the force
Of Epethets; 'twill soften the discourse;
A Jeast in Scorne, poynts out, and hits the thing,
More home, than the Morosest Satyrs Sting.
Shakespeare, and Johnson, did herein excell,
And might in this be Immitated well;
Whom refin'd Etheridge, Coppys not at all,
But is himself a Sheere Originall:
Nor that Slow Drudge, in swift Pindarique straines,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with paines,
And rides a Jaded Muse, whipt with loose Raines.
When Lee, makes temp'rate Scipio, fret and Rave,
And Haniball, a whineing Am'rous Slave;
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Foole,
In Busbys hands, to be well lasht at Schoole.
Of all our Moderne Witts, none seemes to me,
Once to have toucht upon true Comedy,
But hasty Shadwell, and slow Witcherley.
Shadwells unfinisht workes doe yet impart,
Great proofes of force of Nature, none of Art.
With just bold Stroakes, he dashes here and there,
Shewing great Mastery with little care;
And scornes to varnish his good touches o're,
To make the Fooles, and Women, praise 'em more.
But Witcherley, earnes hard, what e're he gaines,
He wants noe Judgment, nor he spares noe paines;
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer faults, than any of the best.

Waller, by Nature for the Bayes design'd,
With force, and fire, and fancy unconfin'd,
In Panigericks does Excell Mankind:

101

He best can turne, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conqu'rours, or to flatter Kings.

For poynted Satyrs, I wou'd Buckhurst choose,
The best good Man, with the worst Natur'd Muse:

For Songs, and Verses, Mannerly Obscene,
That can stirr Nature up, by Springs unseene,
And without forceing blushes, warme the Queene:
Sidley, has that prevailing gentle Art,
That can with a resistlesse Charme impart,
The loosest wishes to the Chastest Heart,
Raise such a Conflict, kindle such a ffire
Betwixt declineing Virtue, and desire,
Till the poor Vanquisht Maid, dissolves away,
In Dreames all Night, in Sighs, and Teares, all Day.

Dryden, in vaine, try'd this nice way of Witt,
For he, to be a tearing Blade thought fit,
But when he wou'd be sharp, he still was blunt,
To friske his frollique fancy, hed cry Cunt;
Wou'd give the Ladyes, a dry Bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab:
But to be just, twill to his praise be found,
His Excellencies, more than faults abound.
Nor dare I from his Sacred Temples teare,
That Lawrell, which he best deserves to weare.
But does not Dryden find ev'n Johnson dull?
Fletcher, and Beaumont, uncorrect, and full
Of Lewd lines as he calls em? Shakespeares Stile
Stiffe, and Affected? To his owne the while
Allowing all the justnesse that his Pride,
Soe Arrogantly, had to these denyd?
And may not I, have leave Impartially
To search, and Censure, Drydens workes, and try,
If those grosse faults, his Choyce Pen does Commit
Proceed from want of Judgment, or of Witt.
Of if his lumpish fancy does refuse,
Spirit, and grace to his loose slatterne Muse?
Five Hundred Verses, ev'ry Morning writ,
Proves you noe more a Poet, than a Witt.

102

Such scribling Authors, have beene seene before,
Mustapha, the English Princesse, Forty more,
Were things perhaps compos'd in Half an Houre.
To write what may securely stand the test
Of being well read over Thrice at least
Compare each Phrase, examin ev'ry Line,
Weigh ev'ry word, and ev'ry thought refine;
Scorne all Applause the Vile Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few, who know.
Canst thou be such a vaine mistaken thing
To wish thy Workes might make a Play-house ring,
With the unthinking Laughter, and poor praise
Of Fopps, and Ladys, factious for thy Plays?
Then send a cunning Friend to learne thy doome,
From the shrew'd Judges in the Drawing-Roome.
I've noe Ambition on that idle score,
But say with Betty Morice, heretofore
When a Court-Lady, call'd her Buckleys Whore,
I please one Man of Witt, am proud on't too,
Let all the Coxcombs, dance to bed to you.
Shou'd I be troubled when the Purblind Knight
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his sight,
Picks silly faults, and Censures what I write?
Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Towne
For Scrapps, and Coach roome cry my Verses downe?
I loath the Rabble, 'tis enough for me,
If Sidley, Shadwell, Shepherd, Witcherley,
Godolphin, Buttler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more, whom I omit to name
Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame.

Dialogue.

Nell
When to the King I bid good Morrow,
With Tongue in Mouth, and Hand on Tarse,
Portsmouth may rend her Cunt for Sorrow,
And Mazarine may kisse myne Arse.

103

Ports:
When Englands Monarch's on my Belly
With Prick in Cunt, tho' double Cramm'd,
Fart of mine Arse, for small whore Nelly
And Great Whore Mazarine be damn'd.

King
When on Portsmouths Lapp, I lay my Head
And Knight do's sing her Bawdy Song,
I envy not George Porters Bed
Nor the Delights of Madam Long.

People—
Now Heav'ns preserve our Faiths Defendor,
From Paris Plotts, and Roman Cunt,
From Mazarine, that new Pretendor,
And from that Politic Gramount.

To the Post Boy

Son of A whore God dam you can you tell
A Peerless Peer the Readyest way to Hell?
Ive out swilld Baccus sworn of my own make
Oaths wod fright furies and make Pluto quake.
Ive swived more whores more ways than Sodoms walls
Ere knew or the College of Romes Cardinalls.
Witness Heroick scars, look here nere go
Sear cloaths and ulcers from the top to toe.
Frighted at my own mischeifes I have fled
And bravely left my lifes defender dead.
Broke houses to break chastity and died
That floor with murder which my lust denyed.
Pox on it why do I speak of these poor things?
I have blasphemed my god and libelld Kings;
The readyest way to Hell come quick—

Boy

nere stirr
The readyest way my Lords by Rochester.