The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
 | 1. |
|
A Satire upon the French King, on the Peace of Reswick.
|
|
| 2. |
|
| I. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| 3. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 4. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
A Satire upon the French King, on the Peace of Reswick.
Written by a Non-Swearing-Parson and dropt out of his Pocket at Sam's Coffee-House.
Facit indignatio Versum.
And hast thou left Old Jemmy in the Lurch?
A plague confound the Doctors of thy Church.
Then to abandon poor Italian Molly,
That I had the firking of thy Bumb with Holly.
Next to discard the Prince of Wales,
How suits this with the Honour of Versailes?
Fourthly and Lastly, to renounce the Turks,
Why this is the Devil, the Devil and all his Works.
Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,
Dost think that I'd allow thee any Quarter?
No—thou shoud'st find what 'tis to be a Starter.
Lord! with what monstrous Lyes, and senseless Shamms
Have we been cullied all along at Sam's?
Who could e're believ'd, unless in Spite,
Lewis le Grand wou'd turn rank Williamite?
Thou that hast look'd so fierce, and talk'd so big,
In thy old Age to dwindle to a Whigg,
By Heaven, I see thou'rt in thy Heart a Prigg.
I'd not be for a Million in thy Jerkin,
'Fore George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin,
Hast thou for this spent so much Ready Rhino?
Now, what the Plague will become of Jure Divino?
A Change so monstrous, I cou'd ne'er ha' thought,
Though Partridge all his Stars to vouch it brought,
'Slife, I'll not take thy Honour for a Groat.
Ev'n Oaths with thee, are only Things of Course,
Thou, 'Zoons, thou'rt a Monarch for a Horse.
Of King's distress'd, thou art a fine Securer,
Thou mak'st me Swear, that am a known Non-Juror.
But tho' I swear thus, as I said before,
Know, King, I'll place it all upon thy Score.
Were Job alive, and banter'd by such Shufflers,
He'd out-rail Oats, and curse both thee and Bufflers.
For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scan 'em,
Two Livings worth full Eightscore Pounds per Annum,
Bonæ, & legalis Angliæ Monetæ,
But now I am clearly routed by the Treaty.
Then Geese and Pigs my Table ne'er did fail,
And Tythe-Eggs merrily flew in like Hail,
My Barns with Corn, my Cellars cramm'd with Ale.
The Dice are chang'd, for now, as I'm a Sinner,
The Devil, for me, knows where to buy a Dinner.
I might as soon, tho' I were ne'er so willing,
Raise a whole Troop of Horse, as one poor Shilling,
My Spouse alas! must flaunt in Silks no more,
Pray Heav'n, for Sustenance, she turn not Whore;
And Daughter Peggy too, in time, I fear,
Will learn to take a Stone up in her Ear.
My Friends have basely left me with my Place,
What's worse, my very Pimples bilk my Face.
And frankly my Condition to disclose,
I most resent th'ungratitude of my Nose,
On which, tho' I have spent of Wine such store,
It now looks paler than my Tavern Score.
My double Chin's dismantled, and my Coat is,
Past its best Days, in Verbo Sacerdotis.
My Breeches too this Morning, to my Wonder,
I found grown Schismaticks, and fallen asunder.
When first I came to Town with Houshold Clog,
Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for Prog.
The Ancient Fathers next, in whom I boasted,
Were soon exchang'd for primitive boil'd and roasted.
Since 'tis no Sin, of Books to be a Glutton,
I truck'd St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton.
Old Jerom's Volumes next I made a Rape on,
And melted down that Father for a Capon.
When these were gone, my Bowels not to baulk,
I trespass'd most enormously in Chalk.
But long I had not quarter'd upon Tick,
E're Christian Faith, I found, grew monstrous sick:
And now, alas! when my starv'd Entrails croke,
At Partner How's I dine, and sup on Smoke.
In fine, the Government may do its Will,
But I'm afraid my Guts will grumble still.
A plague confound the Doctors of thy Church.
Then to abandon poor Italian Molly,
That I had the firking of thy Bumb with Holly.
66
How suits this with the Honour of Versailes?
Fourthly and Lastly, to renounce the Turks,
Why this is the Devil, the Devil and all his Works.
Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,
Dost think that I'd allow thee any Quarter?
No—thou shoud'st find what 'tis to be a Starter.
Lord! with what monstrous Lyes, and senseless Shamms
Have we been cullied all along at Sam's?
Who could e're believ'd, unless in Spite,
Lewis le Grand wou'd turn rank Williamite?
Thou that hast look'd so fierce, and talk'd so big,
In thy old Age to dwindle to a Whigg,
By Heaven, I see thou'rt in thy Heart a Prigg.
I'd not be for a Million in thy Jerkin,
'Fore George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin,
Hast thou for this spent so much Ready Rhino?
Now, what the Plague will become of Jure Divino?
A Change so monstrous, I cou'd ne'er ha' thought,
Though Partridge all his Stars to vouch it brought,
'Slife, I'll not take thy Honour for a Groat.
Ev'n Oaths with thee, are only Things of Course,
Thou, 'Zoons, thou'rt a Monarch for a Horse.
Of King's distress'd, thou art a fine Securer,
Thou mak'st me Swear, that am a known Non-Juror.
But tho' I swear thus, as I said before,
Know, King, I'll place it all upon thy Score.
Were Job alive, and banter'd by such Shufflers,
He'd out-rail Oats, and curse both thee and Bufflers.
For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scan 'em,
Two Livings worth full Eightscore Pounds per Annum,
Bonæ, & legalis Angliæ Monetæ,
But now I am clearly routed by the Treaty.
Then Geese and Pigs my Table ne'er did fail,
And Tythe-Eggs merrily flew in like Hail,
My Barns with Corn, my Cellars cramm'd with Ale.
The Dice are chang'd, for now, as I'm a Sinner,
The Devil, for me, knows where to buy a Dinner.
67
Raise a whole Troop of Horse, as one poor Shilling,
My Spouse alas! must flaunt in Silks no more,
Pray Heav'n, for Sustenance, she turn not Whore;
And Daughter Peggy too, in time, I fear,
Will learn to take a Stone up in her Ear.
My Friends have basely left me with my Place,
What's worse, my very Pimples bilk my Face.
And frankly my Condition to disclose,
I most resent th'ungratitude of my Nose,
On which, tho' I have spent of Wine such store,
It now looks paler than my Tavern Score.
My double Chin's dismantled, and my Coat is,
Past its best Days, in Verbo Sacerdotis.
My Breeches too this Morning, to my Wonder,
I found grown Schismaticks, and fallen asunder.
When first I came to Town with Houshold Clog,
Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for Prog.
The Ancient Fathers next, in whom I boasted,
Were soon exchang'd for primitive boil'd and roasted.
Since 'tis no Sin, of Books to be a Glutton,
I truck'd St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton.
Old Jerom's Volumes next I made a Rape on,
And melted down that Father for a Capon.
When these were gone, my Bowels not to baulk,
I trespass'd most enormously in Chalk.
But long I had not quarter'd upon Tick,
E're Christian Faith, I found, grew monstrous sick:
And now, alas! when my starv'd Entrails croke,
At Partner How's I dine, and sup on Smoke.
In fine, the Government may do its Will,
But I'm afraid my Guts will grumble still.
Dennis, of Sicily, as Books relate, Sir,
When he was tumbled from the Regal State, Sir,
(Which, by the bye, I hope will be your Fate, Sir.)
And his good Subjects left him in the Lurch,
Turn'd Pedagogue, and tyranniz'd in Birch:
Tho' thus the Spark was taken a Peg lower,
Some feeble Signs of his old State he bore,
And Reign'd o'er Boys, that govern'd Men before.
For thee I wish some Punishment that worse is,
Since thou hast spoil'd my Prayers, now hear my Curses.
May thy Affairs, (for so I wish by Heavens)
All the World o'er at Sixes lie and Sevens.
May Conti be impos'd on by the Primate,
And forc'd, in haste, to leave the Northern Climate;
May he rely upon their Faith, and try it,
And have his Belly full of Polish Diet.
With Maintenon, tho' thou so long hast kept her,
May Brand Venereal singe thy Royal Scepter.
May all the Poets, that thy Fame have scatter'd,
Un-god thee now, and damn what once they flatter'd.
May Pope and thou be never Cater-Cousins,
And Fistula's thy Arse-hole seize by Dozens.
When he was tumbled from the Regal State, Sir,
(Which, by the bye, I hope will be your Fate, Sir.)
And his good Subjects left him in the Lurch,
Turn'd Pedagogue, and tyranniz'd in Birch:
Tho' thus the Spark was taken a Peg lower,
Some feeble Signs of his old State he bore,
And Reign'd o'er Boys, that govern'd Men before.
68
Since thou hast spoil'd my Prayers, now hear my Curses.
May thy Affairs, (for so I wish by Heavens)
All the World o'er at Sixes lie and Sevens.
May Conti be impos'd on by the Primate,
And forc'd, in haste, to leave the Northern Climate;
May he rely upon their Faith, and try it,
And have his Belly full of Polish Diet.
With Maintenon, tho' thou so long hast kept her,
May Brand Venereal singe thy Royal Scepter.
May all the Poets, that thy Fame have scatter'd,
Un-god thee now, and damn what once they flatter'd.
May Pope and thou be never Cater-Cousins,
And Fistula's thy Arse-hole seize by Dozens.
Thus far in Jest; but now to pin the Basket,
May'st thou to England come, of Jove I ask it,
Thy wretched Fortune, Lewis, there to prop,
I hope thou'lt in the Friars take a Shop,
Turn Puny-Barber there, bleed lousy Carmen,
Cut Corns for Chimney-Sweepers, and such Vermin,
Be forc'd to Trim (for such I'm sure thy Fate is)
Thy own Hugonots, and us Non-Jurors, gratis.
May Savoy with thee hither pack,
And carry a Rare-Show upon his Back.
May all this happen, as I've put my Pen to't,
And may all Christian People say Amen to't.
May'st thou to England come, of Jove I ask it,
Thy wretched Fortune, Lewis, there to prop,
I hope thou'lt in the Friars take a Shop,
Turn Puny-Barber there, bleed lousy Carmen,
Cut Corns for Chimney-Sweepers, and such Vermin,
Be forc'd to Trim (for such I'm sure thy Fate is)
Thy own Hugonots, and us Non-Jurors, gratis.
May Savoy with thee hither pack,
And carry a Rare-Show upon his Back.
May all this happen, as I've put my Pen to't,
And may all Christian People say Amen to't.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |