 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
A Lenten Prologue refus'd by the Players,
1682.
Our Prologue-Wit grows flat: the Naps worn off;And howsoe'er We turn, and trim the Stuff,
The Gloss is gone, that look'd at first so gaudy;
'Tis now no Jest to hear young Girls talk Baudy.
But Plots, and Parties give new matter birth;
And State Distractions serve you here for mirth!
164
While Factious Heats destroy us, without Shame
These wanton Neroes fiddle to the Flame.
The Stage, like old Rump pulpits, is become
The Scene of News, a furious Party's Drum.
Here Poets beat their Brains for Volunteers,
And take fast hold of Asses by their Ears.
Their jingling Rhime for Reason here you swallow;
Like Orpheus Musick makes Beasts to follow.
What an enlightning Grace is want of Bread?
How it can change a Libeller's Heart, & clear a Laureats Head!
Open his Eyes till he the Mad Prophet see
Plots working in a future power to be
Traitors unform'd to his Second Sight are clear;
And Squadrons here, and Squadrons there appear;
Rebellion is the Burden of the Seer.
To Bays in Vision were of late reveal'd
Whigg Armies, that at Knightsbridg lay conceal'd.
And tho no mortal Eye could see't before
The Battel was just entring at the Door!
A dangerous Association—sign'd by None!
The Joyners Plot to seize the King alone!
Stephen with College made this Dire compact;
The watchful Irish took 'em in the Fact—
Of riding arm'd! Oh Traiterous Overt Act!
With each of 'em an ancient Pistol sided;
Against the Statute in that Case provided.
But why was such an Host of Swearers prest?
Their succour was ill Husbandry at best.
Bays's crown'd Muse by Sovereign Right of Satyr,
Without desert can dub a man a Traitor.
And Toryes, without troubling Law, or Reason,
By Loyal Instinct can find Plots and Treason.
165
The Merits of the Cause, but of the Man,
Our gracious Statesmen vow not to forsake
Law—that is made by Judges whom they Make.
Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with ease
Thy turn those Plyant Puppets as they please.
With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed,
Such shall be sure to meet—but when there's Need.
When a sick State, and sinking Church call for 'em,
Then 'tis our Tories most of all abhor 'em.
Then Pray'r, that Christian Weapon of defence,
Grateful to Heaven, at Court is an Offence,
If it dare speak th'untamper'd Nations sense.
Nay Paper's Tumult, when our Senates cease;
And some Mens Names alone can break the Peace.
Petitioning disturbs the Kingdom's Quiet;
As choosing honest Sheriffs makes a Ryot.
To punish Rascals, and bring France to Reason,
Is to be hot, and press things out of Season;
And to damn Popery is Irish Treason.
To love the King, and Knaves about him hate,
Is a Fanatick Plot against the State.
To Skreen his Person from a Popish Gun
Has all the mischief in't of Forty One.
To save our Faith, and keep our Freedom's Charter,
Is once again to make a Royal Martyr.
This Logick is of Tory's deep inditing
The very best they have—but Oaths, and Fighting.
Let 'em then chime it on, if 'twill oblige ye,
And Roger vapour o'er us in Effigie.
Let 'em in Ballads give their folly Vent,
And sing up Nonsense to their Hearts content.
If for the King (as All's pretended) they
Do here drink Healths, and curse, sure we may pray,
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Safe from old Foes—but most from his new Friends!
Such Protestants as prop a Popish Cause,
And Loyal Men, that break all Bounds of Laws!
Whose Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed,
And when they've scarce left him a Crust of Bread,
Their corrupt Fathers foreign Steps to follow,
Cheat even of scraps, and that last Sop would swallow.
French Fetters may this Isle no more endure;
Spite of Rome's Arts stand England's Church secure,
Not from such Brothers as desire to mend it,
But false Sons, who designing worse to rend it
With leud Lives, and no Fortunes would defend it.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |