The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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| 1. | The First Part. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
1. The First Part.
I who against the Women drew my Pen,
With equal Fury now attack the Men:
The Charming Sex, that thought us then Severe,
Shall find we'll be alike Impartial here;
That no Regard shall to our Side be shown,
From Him that clouts a Shooe to Lewis on a Throne.
With equal Fury now attack the Men:
The Charming Sex, that thought us then Severe,
Shall find we'll be alike Impartial here;
That no Regard shall to our Side be shown,
From Him that clouts a Shooe to Lewis on a Throne.
Ye Injur'd Spirits of that Virgin Train
Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain,
Cropt from your Stalks like Roses newly blown,
With all your Beauties, all your Sweetness on!
In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate,
Your Truth cou'd not Protect you from your Fate;
Your Truth, too cold to melt th'Obdurate Mind
Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind:
If you, Chast Shades, e'er condescend to know,
Enthron'd above, what Mortals do below;
If still You can your Earthly Wrongs resent,
And wish the Perjur'd lasting Punishment,
Assist the Muse in her Revengeful Flight;
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain,
Cropt from your Stalks like Roses newly blown,
With all your Beauties, all your Sweetness on!
In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate,
Your Truth cou'd not Protect you from your Fate;
149
Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind:
If you, Chast Shades, e'er condescend to know,
Enthron'd above, what Mortals do below;
If still You can your Earthly Wrongs resent,
And wish the Perjur'd lasting Punishment,
Assist the Muse in her Revengeful Flight;
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Man is my Theme,—but where shall I begin,
Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin?
Or how shall I get out when once I'm in?
Man! who by Heav'n was made to govern all,
But how unfit demonstrates in his Fall:
Created pure, and with a Strength endu'd
Of Grace Divine, sufficient to have stood;
But Alienate from God, he soon became
The Child of Wrath, of Mise'ry, Pride and Shame.
What Beast beside can we so slavish call
As Man? who yet pretends he's Lord of all:
Who ever saw (and all their Classes cull)
A Dog so snarlish, or a Swine so full,
A Wolf so rav'nous, or an Ass so dull?
What Species of 'em have so far been shamm'd
To think their other Brethren all are damn'd.
So short his Judgment, and so dim his Eye,
He's farthest off when he believes he's nigh.
Pretends to Heav'n your Footsteps to convey
As by and by we'll more at large display;
Then raises Mists to make you lose your Way.
But most the Women his Discourse deceives;
For ever lost the Female that believes!
Assist ye injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin?
Or how shall I get out when once I'm in?
Man! who by Heav'n was made to govern all,
But how unfit demonstrates in his Fall:
Created pure, and with a Strength endu'd
Of Grace Divine, sufficient to have stood;
But Alienate from God, he soon became
The Child of Wrath, of Mise'ry, Pride and Shame.
What Beast beside can we so slavish call
As Man? who yet pretends he's Lord of all:
Who ever saw (and all their Classes cull)
A Dog so snarlish, or a Swine so full,
A Wolf so rav'nous, or an Ass so dull?
What Species of 'em have so far been shamm'd
To think their other Brethren all are damn'd.
So short his Judgment, and so dim his Eye,
He's farthest off when he believes he's nigh.
Pretends to Heav'n your Footsteps to convey
As by and by we'll more at large display;
Then raises Mists to make you lose your Way.
But most the Women his Discourse deceives;
For ever lost the Female that believes!
Assist ye injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
150
Slave to his Passions, ev'ry sev'ral Lust
Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust:
And Dust he is indeed, a senseless Clod,
That swells, and wou'd be yet believ'd a God.
When e'er in his Gilt Coach the Pageant rides,
(Full of himself, and loathing all besides,)
He must be thought Illustrious, Wise and Brave,
Tho' a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave.
Mean while the Man of Worth, with all his Care,
Shall scarce have Money, in a hazy Air,
To pay the jolting Hackney Coach its Fare.
This shews us Fortune in her Partial Mood,
Is chiefly most unkind, where least she shou'd;
To Merit false, as if 'twere made a Rule,
But faithful as a Saint to Knave and Fool.
Good Heav'n! that such should have so little Sense,
And yet withal so much of Impudence,
To think their Value higher than the rest,
For swearing loud, and being nicelier dress'd;
Yet so it is, the flutt'ring Coxcomb's priz'd,
And the brave threadbare gen'rous Soul despis'd.
The Vertuous Woman too is grown their Jest,
And Heav'n, and Heavenly Things belov'd the least.
But aid, ye shining Train! the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust:
And Dust he is indeed, a senseless Clod,
That swells, and wou'd be yet believ'd a God.
When e'er in his Gilt Coach the Pageant rides,
(Full of himself, and loathing all besides,)
He must be thought Illustrious, Wise and Brave,
Tho' a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave.
Mean while the Man of Worth, with all his Care,
Shall scarce have Money, in a hazy Air,
To pay the jolting Hackney Coach its Fare.
This shews us Fortune in her Partial Mood,
Is chiefly most unkind, where least she shou'd;
To Merit false, as if 'twere made a Rule,
But faithful as a Saint to Knave and Fool.
Good Heav'n! that such should have so little Sense,
And yet withal so much of Impudence,
To think their Value higher than the rest,
For swearing loud, and being nicelier dress'd;
Yet so it is, the flutt'ring Coxcomb's priz'd,
And the brave threadbare gen'rous Soul despis'd.
The Vertuous Woman too is grown their Jest,
And Heav'n, and Heavenly Things belov'd the least.
But aid, ye shining Train! the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Where'er Self-Interest calls, he's sure to go,
But never matters whether Just, or no:
Justice he laughs at as an Idle Tye,
Lives in that Faith, and so resolves to Dye.
As greater Fish upon the weaker prey,
As Wolves on Sheep, that from their Shepherd stray,
So Cruel Men, with utmost Rage and Spite,
Make Violence and Rapine their Delight,
Till with Revenge they've gorg'd the Appetite.
Not bounded by Divine or Human Law,
Too Proud to Humble, and too Strong to Awe;
Breaking the Bars, that Natures Hand has laid,
All Wrong they cherish, and all Right invade.
New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore;
His Sea of Villany's without a Shore.
Ev'n in his Dreams, he's laying Snares for Blood,
And waking, he resolves to make 'em good:
Or grant, against his Treach'ry you provide,
It is but having Money on their Side,
And soon the Case 'twill to their Biass draw;
Corrupts the Judge, and he Corrupts the Law.
Witness the present Legislative Train,
Where for one Wise, you have your fifty vain,
And for one Just, a hundred following Gain.
Witness the Crew, that late exulting stood,
And wash'd their Impious Hands in Royal Blood:
If from their Subjects Princes are not free,
What must the Wretch expect of mean Degree?
Not in an Age he sees a happy Hour,
For Poverty is still the Slave of Pow'r;
And oft to satisfie the Tyrants Lust,
Is forc'd to bend, and crawl, and lick the Dust:
The Fair themselves meet with a Fate as course,
And those of 'em it can't betray 'twill force.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
But never matters whether Just, or no:
Justice he laughs at as an Idle Tye,
Lives in that Faith, and so resolves to Dye.
As greater Fish upon the weaker prey,
As Wolves on Sheep, that from their Shepherd stray,
So Cruel Men, with utmost Rage and Spite,
Make Violence and Rapine their Delight,
Till with Revenge they've gorg'd the Appetite.
151
Too Proud to Humble, and too Strong to Awe;
Breaking the Bars, that Natures Hand has laid,
All Wrong they cherish, and all Right invade.
New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore;
His Sea of Villany's without a Shore.
Ev'n in his Dreams, he's laying Snares for Blood,
And waking, he resolves to make 'em good:
Or grant, against his Treach'ry you provide,
It is but having Money on their Side,
And soon the Case 'twill to their Biass draw;
Corrupts the Judge, and he Corrupts the Law.
Witness the present Legislative Train,
Where for one Wise, you have your fifty vain,
And for one Just, a hundred following Gain.
Witness the Crew, that late exulting stood,
And wash'd their Impious Hands in Royal Blood:
If from their Subjects Princes are not free,
What must the Wretch expect of mean Degree?
Not in an Age he sees a happy Hour,
For Poverty is still the Slave of Pow'r;
And oft to satisfie the Tyrants Lust,
Is forc'd to bend, and crawl, and lick the Dust:
The Fair themselves meet with a Fate as course,
And those of 'em it can't betray 'twill force.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Deceitful, Slothful, Covetous and Base;
Rage in his Heart, yet Peace upon his Face.
Whene'er he smiles the specious Cheat beware,
Some secret Villany lies lurking there;
Which if it take, (to Lucifer ally'd)
Makes him but Sport for his Revenge and Pride.
Nor are but Fools deceiv'd by the Disguise,
It reaches for above them, to the Wise:
Nay ev'n the Learn'd are often Knaves for Hire,
And whither then can Innocence retire?
Friendship, which gain'd of Old Immortal Fame,
Is now, like Justice, nothing but a Name.
Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know
By uncontested Proof he has been so:
In that Disguise the Blackest Deeds are done,
In that Disguise they're hardest, too, to shun.
Who is it makes the Modest Wife a Whore?
Your Friend, for those that hate you shun your Door.
Who is it proves to Oaths and Bonds injust?
Your Friend, Your Enemies you never trust;
Or, if you do, y'are very far from Wise;
And Knave and Fool we equally Despise.
Who is it does your secret Soul betray,
And bring your darkest Thoughts to open Day?
Who is but your Friend? in whose false Breast
You vainly thought they wou'd for ever rest.
The Heart of Man is to it self untrue,
And why shou'd you expect it Just to You?
Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire,
Shine bright a while, and in a Blaze expire:
Ev'n Love it self is now a Flame decay'd;
For whatsoe'er is to the Female said,
It is the Fortune charms, and not the Maid.
Assist, ye Injur'd Train, the Satyr's spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Rage in his Heart, yet Peace upon his Face.
Whene'er he smiles the specious Cheat beware,
Some secret Villany lies lurking there;
Which if it take, (to Lucifer ally'd)
Makes him but Sport for his Revenge and Pride.
Nor are but Fools deceiv'd by the Disguise,
It reaches for above them, to the Wise:
152
And whither then can Innocence retire?
Friendship, which gain'd of Old Immortal Fame,
Is now, like Justice, nothing but a Name.
Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know
By uncontested Proof he has been so:
In that Disguise the Blackest Deeds are done,
In that Disguise they're hardest, too, to shun.
Who is it makes the Modest Wife a Whore?
Your Friend, for those that hate you shun your Door.
Who is it proves to Oaths and Bonds injust?
Your Friend, Your Enemies you never trust;
Or, if you do, y'are very far from Wise;
And Knave and Fool we equally Despise.
Who is it does your secret Soul betray,
And bring your darkest Thoughts to open Day?
Who is but your Friend? in whose false Breast
You vainly thought they wou'd for ever rest.
The Heart of Man is to it self untrue,
And why shou'd you expect it Just to You?
Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire,
Shine bright a while, and in a Blaze expire:
Ev'n Love it self is now a Flame decay'd;
For whatsoe'er is to the Female said,
It is the Fortune charms, and not the Maid.
Assist, ye Injur'd Train, the Satyr's spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.
Who most does Promise least shou'd be believ'd,
For first to trust is next to be deceiv'd.
I once my self believ'd I had a Friend,
For boundless was the Love he did pretend:
Riches he did not want, he rowl'd in Coin,
Which oft he Swore was less his own than Mine.
He wou'd do Nothing without my Advice,
Friendships best sign; for no true Friend is Nice:
I too ador'd him with so bright a Flame,
Angel to Angel can but do the same.
At his approach all other Joys took flight,
Ev'n Woman I contemn'd; he was the Light
That rul'd the Day, they did but rule the Night;
And that too oft:—upon his gentle Breast
My Cares, and ev'ry Anxious Thought took rest.
It happen'd once my Purse was low in Store;
(And once were well if 'twou'd be so no more:)
In this Affliction 'twas no slender Bliss
I was assur'd of such a Friend as this.
On Him, said I, on Him I may depend,
I cannot need so much as He will lend;
He will be thankful his Esteem is try'd,—
I ask'd him, and, by Heav'n, I was deny'd!
Nor ever since will he so much as Greet,
Or Speak, or Nod, or Name me when we Meet,
But like a Friend, ascance he Darts his Eye,
Or with proud Gesture walks regardless by.
Traytor to Friendship! may thy Spoted Name
Stand branded here with everlasting Shame.
But 'tis no Wonder; search, and You will find
The same Ill Nature runs thro' Humankind.
Not Madmen when they're in the Raving fit,
Reciting Bards, (a Race more frantick yet,)
Or Atheists, that will have Prophaneness Wit;
Not Midnight Drunkards scow'ring thro' the Street,
With Swords advanc'd to Stab the next they meet,
Nor ought be it as horrid as it can.
Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man.
In vain the Widow does Assistance crave;
The Virgin can herself no Pity have,
But once in want, must Whore for Bread, or find a timeless Grave.
But aid, ye Injur'd Sex, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage and she shall do you Right.
For first to trust is next to be deceiv'd.
I once my self believ'd I had a Friend,
For boundless was the Love he did pretend:
Riches he did not want, he rowl'd in Coin,
Which oft he Swore was less his own than Mine.
153
Friendships best sign; for no true Friend is Nice:
I too ador'd him with so bright a Flame,
Angel to Angel can but do the same.
At his approach all other Joys took flight,
Ev'n Woman I contemn'd; he was the Light
That rul'd the Day, they did but rule the Night;
And that too oft:—upon his gentle Breast
My Cares, and ev'ry Anxious Thought took rest.
It happen'd once my Purse was low in Store;
(And once were well if 'twou'd be so no more:)
In this Affliction 'twas no slender Bliss
I was assur'd of such a Friend as this.
On Him, said I, on Him I may depend,
I cannot need so much as He will lend;
He will be thankful his Esteem is try'd,—
I ask'd him, and, by Heav'n, I was deny'd!
Nor ever since will he so much as Greet,
Or Speak, or Nod, or Name me when we Meet,
But like a Friend, ascance he Darts his Eye,
Or with proud Gesture walks regardless by.
Traytor to Friendship! may thy Spoted Name
Stand branded here with everlasting Shame.
But 'tis no Wonder; search, and You will find
The same Ill Nature runs thro' Humankind.
Not Madmen when they're in the Raving fit,
Reciting Bards, (a Race more frantick yet,)
Or Atheists, that will have Prophaneness Wit;
Not Midnight Drunkards scow'ring thro' the Street,
With Swords advanc'd to Stab the next they meet,
Nor ought be it as horrid as it can.
Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man.
In vain the Widow does Assistance crave;
The Virgin can herself no Pity have,
But once in want, must Whore for Bread, or find a timeless Grave.
154
Lend her but Rage and she shall do you Right.
Not that by this I'd have You prone to lend,
Unless You are sure 'tis to a Real Friend;
If you doubt that, in vain he shou'd intreat,
The Business of Mankind's to Lye and Cheat:
Why then shou'd any be so vain to trust
When 'tis such odds the Debtor proves unjust.
A Friend's a Friend, and so he shou'd be us'd;
But where one finds 'em Just, ten Thousand are abus'd.
The Vows of Men are of the Brittlest kind,
And light as Chaff dispers'd before the Wind;
But made in Sport, and lengthen'd to be Weak;
As Children's Bubbles just are blown to break.
How far their Words are distant from the Heart,
And then how black in the Ingrateful Part
The Fair can best inform, who most have felt the Smart.
What Female has there ever yet been known
That found, by Proof, her Lover all her own?
Much for Inconstancy that Sex is fam'd,
But now in their own Mother-Art they're sham'd:
Swifter than they the Swain can change his Mind,
And most be faithless where they most are kind.
So vastly wide his Language and Design,
He thinks they're Devils whom he calls Divine.
Knows he is Treach'rous yet will swear He's true,
And, which is worse, call Heav'n to vouch it too:
But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his Blood is warm,
And the next Face he fancies ends the Charm.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do You Right.
Unless You are sure 'tis to a Real Friend;
If you doubt that, in vain he shou'd intreat,
The Business of Mankind's to Lye and Cheat:
Why then shou'd any be so vain to trust
When 'tis such odds the Debtor proves unjust.
A Friend's a Friend, and so he shou'd be us'd;
But where one finds 'em Just, ten Thousand are abus'd.
The Vows of Men are of the Brittlest kind,
And light as Chaff dispers'd before the Wind;
But made in Sport, and lengthen'd to be Weak;
As Children's Bubbles just are blown to break.
How far their Words are distant from the Heart,
And then how black in the Ingrateful Part
The Fair can best inform, who most have felt the Smart.
What Female has there ever yet been known
That found, by Proof, her Lover all her own?
Much for Inconstancy that Sex is fam'd,
But now in their own Mother-Art they're sham'd:
Swifter than they the Swain can change his Mind,
And most be faithless where they most are kind.
So vastly wide his Language and Design,
He thinks they're Devils whom he calls Divine.
Knows he is Treach'rous yet will swear He's true,
And, which is worse, call Heav'n to vouch it too:
But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his Blood is warm,
And the next Face he fancies ends the Charm.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do You Right.
No Vice so distant but within his view,
Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do.
Treason's a Trifle; 'tis a frequent thing
To here the Subject, speaking of his King,
Use viler Terms than Tinkers in their Ale,
Throw on a Trull, too Liberal of her Tail.
Adult'ry but a Ve'nial Slip, no more,
Now grown a Trade, what e'er 'twas heretofore;
For some there are (O where is Vertue fled!
O strange Perversion of the Nuptial Bed!)
Who that way Nightly toil to get their Daily Bread.
Murder and Pox so common, none can be
Admitted Gentleman of Prime Degree,
Till he has thrice been Clap't and Butcher'd Three.
Incest but laugh'd at as a Pleasant Jest;
A Sister now as Gr---y has oft confess'd,
Is e'en as Good a Morsel as the best.
Others, with equal boldness, strip the Lead
From Sepulchres, and Robb the very Dead:
Nay, some the Plate have from the Altar bore.
In which they had Receiv'd but just before.
In short so much their Violence prevails,
Our Churches must be made as strong as Jails.
But You'll object that Persons so inclin'd
Are Scoundrels, and the Fagg of Humankind:
Search then the Roads; and You will quickly see
What we may hope from Rascals of Degree:
A Noble Birth makes but the vitious worse,
And their last Shift is certainly—the Purse:
Extravagantly having spent their own,
They're all for Spoil and Rapine when 'tis gone.
Villains! that strip the Needy Peasant bare,
Tho' what he had he got with Toil and Care;
That Ravish helpless Woman, barbarous Act!
And next Destroy 'em to conceal the Fact.
But what they lightly get they spend as fast,
Their Lives in dissolute Embraces wast,
Till they are caught, adjudg'd, their Crimes confess'd,
And then unpitied die;—and so die all the rest.
Go on, my Satyr, and indulge thy Rage,
For never was a more Licentious Age.
Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do.
155
To here the Subject, speaking of his King,
Use viler Terms than Tinkers in their Ale,
Throw on a Trull, too Liberal of her Tail.
Adult'ry but a Ve'nial Slip, no more,
Now grown a Trade, what e'er 'twas heretofore;
For some there are (O where is Vertue fled!
O strange Perversion of the Nuptial Bed!)
Who that way Nightly toil to get their Daily Bread.
Murder and Pox so common, none can be
Admitted Gentleman of Prime Degree,
Till he has thrice been Clap't and Butcher'd Three.
Incest but laugh'd at as a Pleasant Jest;
A Sister now as Gr---y has oft confess'd,
Is e'en as Good a Morsel as the best.
Others, with equal boldness, strip the Lead
From Sepulchres, and Robb the very Dead:
Nay, some the Plate have from the Altar bore.
In which they had Receiv'd but just before.
In short so much their Violence prevails,
Our Churches must be made as strong as Jails.
But You'll object that Persons so inclin'd
Are Scoundrels, and the Fagg of Humankind:
Search then the Roads; and You will quickly see
What we may hope from Rascals of Degree:
A Noble Birth makes but the vitious worse,
And their last Shift is certainly—the Purse:
Extravagantly having spent their own,
They're all for Spoil and Rapine when 'tis gone.
Villains! that strip the Needy Peasant bare,
Tho' what he had he got with Toil and Care;
That Ravish helpless Woman, barbarous Act!
And next Destroy 'em to conceal the Fact.
But what they lightly get they spend as fast,
Their Lives in dissolute Embraces wast,
156
And then unpitied die;—and so die all the rest.
Go on, my Satyr, and indulge thy Rage,
For never was a more Licentious Age.
Happy our brave Progenitors of old;
What they call Brass, was sure an Age of Gold;
When Man by Active Games was hardy made,
And War believ'd an Honourable Trade;
Not made as now, Religion the Pretence,
To shew our Goodness equal with our Sense:
They fought for Glory, and we fight for Shame;
Our Feud's the Scandal of the Christian Name.
Thro' Hills they hew'd and div'd thro' Seas of Blood,
But all their Toils were for their Countrys Good.
What ever Care was for their Interest shown,
They still preferr'd the Publick to their own.
Factions then strove not to subvert the State,
As they do now, and as they've done of late,
They were not Plagu'd with Jealousies and Fears,
A Priest cou'd not set Nations by the Ears:
Nor ever was that Method to 'em known
Which in these latter Times so oft is shown,
Of fighting for Religion till they'd none.
Thus Honour, Truth, and Justice were their aim;
Their Sons saw this, and follow'd them to Fame.
Quite contrary, our Youths are only made
Harpies of Law, or Prentices to Trade;
Where each of 'em his Term of Years compleats,
To come out last the more accomplish'd Cheats.
Seven Seasons thus Preposterously are spent,
(Their Fathers, Masters, and their own Intent,)
To make one Lye, and 'tother Impudent,
Send 'em, ye Senseless Sires, against the Turk,
'Tis now the Time, and Meritorious Work;
It is a Glorious Cause, and let 'em Roam;
Be Judge Your selves which is the Nobler doom,
To fight for Truth abroad, or damn'd for Lyes at home.
Along my Muse, and yet indulge your Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.
What they call Brass, was sure an Age of Gold;
When Man by Active Games was hardy made,
And War believ'd an Honourable Trade;
Not made as now, Religion the Pretence,
To shew our Goodness equal with our Sense:
They fought for Glory, and we fight for Shame;
Our Feud's the Scandal of the Christian Name.
Thro' Hills they hew'd and div'd thro' Seas of Blood,
But all their Toils were for their Countrys Good.
What ever Care was for their Interest shown,
They still preferr'd the Publick to their own.
Factions then strove not to subvert the State,
As they do now, and as they've done of late,
They were not Plagu'd with Jealousies and Fears,
A Priest cou'd not set Nations by the Ears:
Nor ever was that Method to 'em known
Which in these latter Times so oft is shown,
Of fighting for Religion till they'd none.
Thus Honour, Truth, and Justice were their aim;
Their Sons saw this, and follow'd them to Fame.
Quite contrary, our Youths are only made
Harpies of Law, or Prentices to Trade;
Where each of 'em his Term of Years compleats,
To come out last the more accomplish'd Cheats.
Seven Seasons thus Preposterously are spent,
(Their Fathers, Masters, and their own Intent,)
To make one Lye, and 'tother Impudent,
Send 'em, ye Senseless Sires, against the Turk,
'Tis now the Time, and Meritorious Work;
157
Be Judge Your selves which is the Nobler doom,
To fight for Truth abroad, or damn'd for Lyes at home.
Along my Muse, and yet indulge your Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.
But Trade, You'll say, ought not to be despis'd,
So much by wisest Legislators Priz'd:
Whole Millions it employs, who else wou'd know
What strength they had, and into Factions grow;
No other set of Brutes being half so rude,
As your Pretended Christian Multitude.
Beside, by Trade vast Cities thrive and rise
With Monuments and Tow'rs, contiguous to the Skies.
They do indeed; and we may know as well
'Tis Riches makes 'em Murmur and Rebel.
Those Crowds whom You pretend their Trade deterrs
From lanching into Civil Strife and Jars
Make that the Cause of all Intestine Harms;
For 'tis their Chief Pretence to take up Arms:
If they grow Poor with one Resol'v'd Consent,
(Like those who do their Wisdoms represent,)
They lay the Fault upon the Government;
When after all their Clamor, Spite and Pother,
Tis playing their false Dice with one another,
For still the half that fattens starves the other.
But let the Mildest Sense be understood,
That Trade was meant and proves for Publick Good;
What Comfort, or Excuse can it obtain
For Him that is a Private Rogue for Gain?
In Gross, or in Retail, for both Lines meet
And make this Truth their Centre Trades a Cheat.
What difference can there be between the Man
That cuts my Throat, and who does all he can
By Specious Guile to take my Bread away,
And Less'ning it a Morsell ev'ry Day?
Which is but Killing a more Cruel Way:
Doubtless, tho' 'tother seems the more accurst,
The secret Trading Villain is the worst.
So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who
Talks as he thinks, tho' Impious and untrue,
Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal
Is but a Cloak his Lusts and Murders to conceal.
But on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Enormous Age.
So much by wisest Legislators Priz'd:
Whole Millions it employs, who else wou'd know
What strength they had, and into Factions grow;
No other set of Brutes being half so rude,
As your Pretended Christian Multitude.
Beside, by Trade vast Cities thrive and rise
With Monuments and Tow'rs, contiguous to the Skies.
They do indeed; and we may know as well
'Tis Riches makes 'em Murmur and Rebel.
Those Crowds whom You pretend their Trade deterrs
From lanching into Civil Strife and Jars
Make that the Cause of all Intestine Harms;
For 'tis their Chief Pretence to take up Arms:
If they grow Poor with one Resol'v'd Consent,
(Like those who do their Wisdoms represent,)
They lay the Fault upon the Government;
When after all their Clamor, Spite and Pother,
Tis playing their false Dice with one another,
For still the half that fattens starves the other.
But let the Mildest Sense be understood,
That Trade was meant and proves for Publick Good;
What Comfort, or Excuse can it obtain
For Him that is a Private Rogue for Gain?
In Gross, or in Retail, for both Lines meet
And make this Truth their Centre Trades a Cheat.
What difference can there be between the Man
That cuts my Throat, and who does all he can
158
And Less'ning it a Morsell ev'ry Day?
Which is but Killing a more Cruel Way:
Doubtless, tho' 'tother seems the more accurst,
The secret Trading Villain is the worst.
So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who
Talks as he thinks, tho' Impious and untrue,
Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal
Is but a Cloak his Lusts and Murders to conceal.
But on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Enormous Age.
And here I must with Indignation show
What Ill from Seeming Sanctity does flow:
Wou'd You be something of Superior Rate
Look big, and be distinguish'd by the State?
Wou'd You be follow'd more than Lob or Pen?
(The dullest that, and this the worst of Men)
Be always Canting: 'tis a sure Disguise
That cheats not only Fools, but reaches to the Wise:
Tho' when advanc'd You need no further go,
But lie as still as those that have been so:
'Tis very few can tell, with all their Care,
The Ease and Quiet of an Elders Chair.
Do You for secret Profit lie in wait?
As being Trustee of some large Estate?
Erect your Eyes, and feign a mien Devout,
And from a Thousand they shall pick you out;
Leave to your Management the whole Affair,
Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir.
Are You a Scholar? nay or are you not,
And wou'd have something very quickly got?
Put on a Gown, and go with Looks demure
To Bawds, or Burgesses, that ev'ry Hour
Expect the King of Terrors in his Pow'r:
Creatures whose Penitence is only fear;
For, had they Health, they'd soon be as they were:
Go but to these with Fluency of Cant,
Be Impudent withall (a Gift we grant,
Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want;)
Their Hearts shall Yern, and drop you Golden Ore,
While their poor Neighbours Perish at the Door.
In short there's nothing, be it ne'er so Ill,
To Cheat, Forswear, to Ravish, Burn, or Kill,
But if 'tis veil'd with a Fanatick dress,
Is thought by some the top of Godliness:
Not Hell it self contains sufficient Fire
For Teachers who such Principles inspire.
But that the God of Truth we plainly find
In shining Strokes imprinted on the Mind;
And that his Word asserts, with due regard
He'll scourge the Bad, and give the Good reward,
So many Errors has Religion shown,
And it's Professors so Irreverent grown,
I shou'd ev'n think Him happiest that had none.
Proceed, my Satyr, with a Furies Rage
For never was a more Notorious Age.
What Ill from Seeming Sanctity does flow:
Wou'd You be something of Superior Rate
Look big, and be distinguish'd by the State?
Wou'd You be follow'd more than Lob or Pen?
(The dullest that, and this the worst of Men)
Be always Canting: 'tis a sure Disguise
That cheats not only Fools, but reaches to the Wise:
Tho' when advanc'd You need no further go,
But lie as still as those that have been so:
'Tis very few can tell, with all their Care,
The Ease and Quiet of an Elders Chair.
Do You for secret Profit lie in wait?
As being Trustee of some large Estate?
Erect your Eyes, and feign a mien Devout,
And from a Thousand they shall pick you out;
Leave to your Management the whole Affair,
Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir.
Are You a Scholar? nay or are you not,
And wou'd have something very quickly got?
Put on a Gown, and go with Looks demure
To Bawds, or Burgesses, that ev'ry Hour
Expect the King of Terrors in his Pow'r:
159
For, had they Health, they'd soon be as they were:
Go but to these with Fluency of Cant,
Be Impudent withall (a Gift we grant,
Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want;)
Their Hearts shall Yern, and drop you Golden Ore,
While their poor Neighbours Perish at the Door.
In short there's nothing, be it ne'er so Ill,
To Cheat, Forswear, to Ravish, Burn, or Kill,
But if 'tis veil'd with a Fanatick dress,
Is thought by some the top of Godliness:
Not Hell it self contains sufficient Fire
For Teachers who such Principles inspire.
But that the God of Truth we plainly find
In shining Strokes imprinted on the Mind;
And that his Word asserts, with due regard
He'll scourge the Bad, and give the Good reward,
So many Errors has Religion shown,
And it's Professors so Irreverent grown,
I shou'd ev'n think Him happiest that had none.
Proceed, my Satyr, with a Furies Rage
For never was a more Notorious Age.
Go to the Country, if You think to see
The old and so renown'd Simplicity,
A Temperate sort of Men, compos'd and Wise,
That joyn with Truth, and all Excess despise,
You'll be deceiv'd; for You shall quickly think
Both Poor and Rich were all Baptiz'd in Drink.
Eternal Sots! when the Brown Bowl's in use,
Y'ad better meet a Baited Bear broke loose.
Then for Tobacco, ev'ry Ale-house there
Wou'd suffocate ten Coffee-houses here!
A Stupid, Obstinate, Illite'rate Race,
Molded in hast, and Men to their disgrace.
The Yeomanry they boast are much the same,
Nor answer the Composure of their Frame,
But have of Human nothing but the Name.
Sermons they fly, or if by chance, they hear,
They truely might as well have stop't the Ear,
And Edify'd at Plough as much as there:
No least delight there in their Bosom Springs
Of Truth and Peace, of Heav'n and Holy Things;
A Treach'rous sort of Men demure in Sin,
The out-side Shepherd, and all Wolf within.
But if the Bumkin we no more admire,
What must we think that viler thing—a Squire?
The Country Beau, who fancies none so great
As those, possess'd of nothing—but Estate.
Let wiser Men abroad for Polish roam;
His business is—to be an Ass at home.
Bar him from talking but of Dog and Horse,
He's totally depriv'd of all Discourse.
As 'tother Triumphs at the rise of Corn,
So all his Glory is the Hound and Horn;
Away upon the Scent they scow'ring go,
Thro' thick and thin, and over high and low;
Where e'er the Fox does fly the Fools pursue.
Oblig'd so little to the Heads they wear,
A breaking Neck is not at all their care;
Till dislocated Bones at length convince
They're Cripples in their Limbs, as well as Sense:
But tho' this Way the Sire is half undone,
It has at all no Influence on the Son,
Who thinking Daddy what we Lordly call,
Drinks, Whores, and Hunts till he has wasted all,
So goes th'Estate by over-reaching got,
Rais'd by a Knave, and squander'd by a Sot.
Justly the Satyr may indulge her Rage.
For never was a more Licentious Age.
The old and so renown'd Simplicity,
A Temperate sort of Men, compos'd and Wise,
That joyn with Truth, and all Excess despise,
You'll be deceiv'd; for You shall quickly think
Both Poor and Rich were all Baptiz'd in Drink.
Eternal Sots! when the Brown Bowl's in use,
Y'ad better meet a Baited Bear broke loose.
Then for Tobacco, ev'ry Ale-house there
Wou'd suffocate ten Coffee-houses here!
A Stupid, Obstinate, Illite'rate Race,
Molded in hast, and Men to their disgrace.
160
Nor answer the Composure of their Frame,
But have of Human nothing but the Name.
Sermons they fly, or if by chance, they hear,
They truely might as well have stop't the Ear,
And Edify'd at Plough as much as there:
No least delight there in their Bosom Springs
Of Truth and Peace, of Heav'n and Holy Things;
A Treach'rous sort of Men demure in Sin,
The out-side Shepherd, and all Wolf within.
But if the Bumkin we no more admire,
What must we think that viler thing—a Squire?
The Country Beau, who fancies none so great
As those, possess'd of nothing—but Estate.
Let wiser Men abroad for Polish roam;
His business is—to be an Ass at home.
Bar him from talking but of Dog and Horse,
He's totally depriv'd of all Discourse.
As 'tother Triumphs at the rise of Corn,
So all his Glory is the Hound and Horn;
Away upon the Scent they scow'ring go,
Thro' thick and thin, and over high and low;
Where e'er the Fox does fly the Fools pursue.
Oblig'd so little to the Heads they wear,
A breaking Neck is not at all their care;
Till dislocated Bones at length convince
They're Cripples in their Limbs, as well as Sense:
But tho' this Way the Sire is half undone,
It has at all no Influence on the Son,
Who thinking Daddy what we Lordly call,
Drinks, Whores, and Hunts till he has wasted all,
So goes th'Estate by over-reaching got,
Rais'd by a Knave, and squander'd by a Sot.
Justly the Satyr may indulge her Rage.
For never was a more Licentious Age.
161
Such Vices on a Rural Stage to find
Does bring the Monster London to my Mind;
If Wickedness is grown so Prosp'rous there,
To what a Pitch must it arrive at here!
Where, from the Lofty Stand, we have a View
Of ev'ry Villany that Man can do,
An Abstract of all Evils, Old and New;
A Fund Immense! that won't Exhausted be
Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternitie.
All Crimes of Men and Devils here abound,
And none so bad but have Protection found.
The Soil so Rank, no Vice but what does bear,
Nor dully waits for Rip'ning half the Year,
But ev'ry Moment shoots a Harvest here.
To tell 'em singly were a Task as vain
As in a Shower to count the Drops of Rain;
But shou'd a serious Man but truly mark
The Guilt of ev'ry Bully, ev'ry Spark;
Wou'd he Survey their Treach'ry, Oaths and Pride,
A Devil Worship'd, and a God defy'd;
Their Blasphemies, their Murders and Amours,
Lewd City Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores;
Pimps, Pois'ners, Panders, and Luxurious Lords,
With Judges damn'd upon their own Records;
In Courts of Justice little Justice had,
Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad:
Shou'd he these Monsters see, and Thousands more
Of all Degrees; Great, Little Rich and Poor,
What cou'd he think? what cou'd he thence deduce
But Sodom was Reviv'd or Hell broke loose?
His Hair with Horror Stiffn'd, he wou'd say
We Merited the Flames as much as they,
And that the Devils went before but to prepare our Way.
Lash on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.
Does bring the Monster London to my Mind;
If Wickedness is grown so Prosp'rous there,
To what a Pitch must it arrive at here!
Where, from the Lofty Stand, we have a View
Of ev'ry Villany that Man can do,
An Abstract of all Evils, Old and New;
A Fund Immense! that won't Exhausted be
Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternitie.
All Crimes of Men and Devils here abound,
And none so bad but have Protection found.
The Soil so Rank, no Vice but what does bear,
Nor dully waits for Rip'ning half the Year,
But ev'ry Moment shoots a Harvest here.
To tell 'em singly were a Task as vain
As in a Shower to count the Drops of Rain;
But shou'd a serious Man but truly mark
The Guilt of ev'ry Bully, ev'ry Spark;
Wou'd he Survey their Treach'ry, Oaths and Pride,
A Devil Worship'd, and a God defy'd;
Their Blasphemies, their Murders and Amours,
Lewd City Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores;
Pimps, Pois'ners, Panders, and Luxurious Lords,
With Judges damn'd upon their own Records;
In Courts of Justice little Justice had,
Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad:
Shou'd he these Monsters see, and Thousands more
Of all Degrees; Great, Little Rich and Poor,
What cou'd he think? what cou'd he thence deduce
But Sodom was Reviv'd or Hell broke loose?
His Hair with Horror Stiffn'd, he wou'd say
We Merited the Flames as much as they,
And that the Devils went before but to prepare our Way.
Lash on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.
162
Expos'd to Times of such Impietie,
Whether for Succour can the Vertuous flee?
Where can they fix their Feet to compass rest?
How save themselves? or comfort the distress'd?
Severe to Human thinking, is the Fate
That upon Patience, Truth and Justice wait:
Dare to be Honest and You'll quickly find
Y'are beating Chaff, and Labouring for the Wind:
But don't Repine; there must be Joys in store
For Him that can at once be Just and Poor:
'Tis true he does not lie on Beds of Down,
Nor with a Set of Flanders beats the Town;
Keeps not a Cast of Lackques, to declare
To Punks his Vanity, and Pimps his Fear;
Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat
The most delicious, or most Costly meat;
Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the Poor,
First cram'd by them, then empty'd by his Whore:
But tho' his own he can't these Trifles call,
He has a Blessing that out-weighs 'em all,
An Unmolested Conscience, void of stain,
Which Greatness, and which Wealth can never gain;
In vain they'd think there is no Future State,
They feel their Load of Sins and sink beneath the Weight:
While Honest Men—but whether do I Steer?
Why talk of Honesty?—a thing so rare!
So seldom thought of, and in Bulk so small,
'Tis Doubtful if it does exist at all,
Search thro' the Nation, find me if you can,
That Prodigy, a Truely Honest Man;
Let me but see him, let me know his Name,
And it shall be the whole Discourse of Fame:
In the mean time, till such a one is found,
(And he that Searches must not spare for Ground)
Justly the Muse might lash the Impious Age,
And with like Fury fill the following Page,
But that we here must Mitigate her Rage:
From change of Precepts fresh Instruction springs;
Here then a while she stoops her weary Wings,
To talk more coolly of some Nicer Things.
Whether for Succour can the Vertuous flee?
Where can they fix their Feet to compass rest?
How save themselves? or comfort the distress'd?
Severe to Human thinking, is the Fate
That upon Patience, Truth and Justice wait:
Dare to be Honest and You'll quickly find
Y'are beating Chaff, and Labouring for the Wind:
But don't Repine; there must be Joys in store
For Him that can at once be Just and Poor:
'Tis true he does not lie on Beds of Down,
Nor with a Set of Flanders beats the Town;
Keeps not a Cast of Lackques, to declare
To Punks his Vanity, and Pimps his Fear;
Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat
The most delicious, or most Costly meat;
Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the Poor,
First cram'd by them, then empty'd by his Whore:
But tho' his own he can't these Trifles call,
He has a Blessing that out-weighs 'em all,
An Unmolested Conscience, void of stain,
Which Greatness, and which Wealth can never gain;
In vain they'd think there is no Future State,
They feel their Load of Sins and sink beneath the Weight:
While Honest Men—but whether do I Steer?
Why talk of Honesty?—a thing so rare!
So seldom thought of, and in Bulk so small,
'Tis Doubtful if it does exist at all,
Search thro' the Nation, find me if you can,
That Prodigy, a Truely Honest Man;
Let me but see him, let me know his Name,
And it shall be the whole Discourse of Fame:
In the mean time, till such a one is found,
(And he that Searches must not spare for Ground)
163
And with like Fury fill the following Page,
But that we here must Mitigate her Rage:
From change of Precepts fresh Instruction springs;
Here then a while she stoops her weary Wings,
To talk more coolly of some Nicer Things.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |