University of Virginia Library

Cæsar's Ghost.

Methought I saw a dark and dismal Vault,
Whose Horror cannot be conceiv'd by Thought,
And seem'd by some Infernal Magick wrought:
So vast, and so perplexing intricate,
As if the dreadful Court of Death and Fate;
And yet of Kings the great Repositer,
And only Royal Dust lyes mouldering here.
Amongst these Monuments of Sacred Fame,
Great Cæsar stood; Cæsar, whose deathless Name,
When Shrines decay, triumphant shall remain,
While Sense, good Nature, Wit, and Love shall reign.
VVhile I with awful Fear and Trembling paid
Humble Oblations to the mighty Dead,
Methought the sweating Marble did unclose,
And from Death's Mansion the dead Monarch rose;
His Eyes o're all scatter'd a sullen Light,
Such as divides the breaking Day from Night;
By whose faint Rays the Object I discern'd
All pale—with ghastly Majesty adorn'd.
His stiffen'd Loyns a purple Mantle bore,
His Brows a VVreath of wither'd Lawrels wore,
Such as had flourish'd there in Life before.
Now forth he stalks, silent as Shadows glide,
Or Clouds that skim the Air while they divide,
As quick as thought the faithless Town he pass't,
And towards the Camp of wonderous Fame does hast,
VVhile Midnight Fogs surround his awful Head,
And down his Locks their baneful Poyson shed;
The wandring airy Demons at the View,
And all the Ignis Fatuus's withdrew;
Hecate let fall, her charm-preparing Weeds,
Wondring what unknown Pow'r Earth's Surface treads,
Which more than that which she invokes, she dreads.
She flies all frighted with erected Hair,
And scarce her Broomstaff bears her thro' the Air;
From his dread Presence every Evil ran,
Except that more exalted Evil, Man:
Not the first Race of less corrupted Fiends,
Till taught by Man, knew half their new-coin'd Sins.
Thrice with Majestick Pace he walks the round
Surveying the Pavilions utmost bound,
And useless Grandeur every where he found.
Philippi, nor the fam'd Pharsalian Field,
Did not more Signs of Glorious Action yield;
But this was all for show not Terror made,
'Twas Hounslow Farce, a Siege in Masquerade.
More near he views it yet, and found within,
All the Degrees of Luxury and Sin;
Alsatia's Sink into this Common-Shore,
Did all its vile and nasty Nusance pour;
Fat Sharpers, Broken Cuckolds, Gamesters, Cheats,
What Newgate disembogues find here Retreats;
The Groom and Footman from their Livery stript,
With Scarf, Gay Feather, and Command equipt.
Promotion gives to Sauciness Pretence,
And greatness is mistook for Insolence;
And to evince their Valour every Hour
Bamboo the Slaves that bow beneath their Pow'r;
Yet to the Countrey Ladies these appear
So Novel, witty, beau, en Cavalier,
That scarce a tender Heart is left behind,
Pray God a Maidenhead you chance to find!
The Phantom to that Quarter first resorts,
Where the Illustrious Generals keep their Courts.

I.

Great F--- the Foremost of the Crew,
Whose Uncle Tureign well cou'd fight we know.
He who so often do's repeat the Jest
How he subdu'd the Monarch of the West,
(Or wou'd have done had he not been undrest.)
This rough stern Hero of the British War
To Neighbouring Tents is always born in Chair,
For fear of Incommodement from the Air.

II.

It wonders what did C---ll recommend,
VVho never did to Deeds of Arms pretend:
Love, all his Active Youth, his business was,
Love that best suits his handsom Shape and Face.
But Armies are like Verse, whose Dogrel Lines
Are here for Sense, and there for gingling Rhimes.
(Here where Bellona lays her Armour by,
And learns to be more charming Company,
VVhere the ill-manner'd God has nought to do:)
Some few for fighting are, but most for show;
VVhere rich embroidered Cloaks a la Campagne
So often shine, unless it chance to rain.
Then Lord, how the Sir M. will fret and fling!
Undone, 'tis spoil'd, e're shown before the King;
In perfum'd Beds adorn'd they're basking laid,
As fine as young Brides, on Persian Carpets tread,
That o're the spacious Floor in wanton Pride are spread,
Like Feasting Gods luxurious, and, they say,
As arrant Fornicators too as they.
None come amiss when Lust their Fancies lead,
Alcmena, nor the sweet-fac'd Ganimede;
And, like those Gods, they all are given to Love,
But none we hear e're thunder'd but old Jove.

III.

Here one the Hero acts in Lovit's Arms,
And calls his Passion out in warlike Terms,
Tells of soft Sieges, Batteries and Alarms;
How the Artillery of her Eyes did wound,
And how at the first Onset he gave ground:
He who ne're yet did to a Conqueror bow,
Yet kisses and adores his Fetters now;
VVhile all the Batteeies ever he essay'd,
Have been against some Female Fortless Maid;
But Love-it, who has less of Love than Pride,
Being with guilt Coach and Country-house supply'd,
Makes that attone for all Defects beside.

IV.

There lay a Youth of all his VVits bereft,
Who this Campaign was by his Mistress left;
A nauseous Strumpet, insolent and loud,
False and destructive, basely born and proud.
Oh bubbl'd Fool, thou that hadst seen the Fate
Of Cully-B***shes quietly spent Estate:
Collier undon, and forty Rake-hells more
For an old common o're-grown flabby VVhore,
Whose Bastard Son may vie with thee for Age,
A Trader twenty years upon the Stage:
What from th'expensive Folly couldst thou see,
But shameful Ruine, laught-at Infamy?
Thy Eyes, I know, were open'd long before,
But still the Jilt betray'd thee to the VVhore;
Debas'd thy Noble Spirits to her Rule,
And turn'd thy once fair Fame to Ridicule,
Debauch'd thy Sense with Conversation base,
Whores, Eating Pimps, Players, a numerous Race,
While thou the treating Cully art despis'd,
And Cuckold by the Slaves thou Gormandiz'd.
Return, thou Prodigal, from Husks and Swine,
The Ruine of the first, was cause of thine:
They say thou'rt brave, give us this Proof of it,
And we'll believe thou can'st be braver yet:
Thou'st yet a Nobler Race of Life to run,
Leave Herwood to her now to be undone:
But her kind Keeper gone, his Flame will fade;
Love cools when 'tis an Obligation made.

V.

Here an old batter'd Tangieren he beheld,
More mawl'd by Love than e're he was in Field;
Yet wondrous Amorous still, and wondrous gay,
Old January dizen'd up in May;
His Zeals as Trophies of his Victory Graces,
But all adorn'd with many Looking-glasses,

Col. Sachvil.

In which he practises Bon Mein and Faces;
How well to manage Ogling, and what Air
He shou'd maintain, when cock, when frisk his Hair;
What Affectation best wou'd Youth express,
And least the Ruines of his Age confess;
Half-choak'd with monstrous Crevat-string, Disputes
What Colour best to his Complection suits;
And all in Middle Gallery to pore,
And claim which is his Joy, some low-priz'd Whore
Vain self-admiring Fop, tho every day
Thou dost thy antiquated Form survey!
But to be well deceiv'd, cease playing the Ass
Six hours each Morning before a Looking-glass,
And trust the wiser Valet with thy Dress;
For whilst thou dost not that ag'd Face behold,
Thy Dress may flatter thee, thou art not old.

6.

Chett, that Scundrel, he whom Nature made
An arrant Fool, although a Rogue by Trade,
Which he industriously improv'd so well,
He does in nicest Villany excel,
And from the Trumpet rais'd the Colonel;
Yet lives a double Scandal in his Race,
His Morals are as odious as his Face:
Tho Knave and Coward in his Front be writ,
He has one Vertue recommends him yet;
A Passive Valour that can kicking bear,
A Caution that secur'd him in his Fear
Behind the Canon in the Western War.
And farther to this Honour has Pretence,
Can cheat his Men with matchless Impudence:
But that's the general Cry, While no bold Tongue
Is found to tell Augustus of their wrong.

VII.

Next a Grabesious Allonier, who sat
Like Bacchus on his Tun in drunken state,
With all his mellow Gang encompass'd round,
In high Debauch of Wine and Bawdry drown'd.

VIII.

That Monster G---dy of prodigious size,
A Body fitted to his beastly Vice;
A Face to all more formidable far
Than Gorgon's Head, or to that Coward Warr;
In youth mean Cheats and Rooking was his Trade,
Now (starving) got Command—for Drink—not Bread.

IX.

V--- our new Troy's Hector, and it's hope,
Preferr'd from Tail of Coach to Head of Troop;
'Twas no true Valour got him first a Name,
But some Welsh Fury did his Blood inflame,
And sure he never fought when he was tane.
No Brutal Coward Tyrant Algerien
E're healed Slaves so ill as his have been;
As if to him Authority were new,
It is but damn the Rascal, and a Blow.
For they so oft false Musters we observe,
Rather than follow him the Rogues will starve;
And wou'd, if e're indeed there came a War
Be justly shot like wry-neck'd Chevalier,
By some of his own Soldiers in the Reer.
But V---n's not alone, more of his stamp,
That better merit Tyburn, rule the Camp.

X.

Among this Crew M---ll that Fornicator,
Incamp'd with Grandam Doxy and her Daughter;
The good old Soul he loves because she's handy,
Can joque and smoak, and hold him tack with Brandy;
Full threescore years in wise Experience bred,
Preferr'd from drawing Ale to M---ll's Bed;
She's old enough to witch, and by her Art
Has struck some crooked Pin quite through his Heart.
Or has some damn'd Infirmity unseen,
That makes him dote on such a rivell'd Queen.

XI.

Among this Drunken Club was Beau Sir Tom,
Dub'd for his Brother's Merits, not his own;
From drudging City Prig advanc'd to be
Right Worshipful, in Place of High Degree,
But knew not how to manage Quality.
And thought the nearest way was to be lewd,
While all Degrees the Debochee pursu'd;
But like true Cit did always over-do,
As well in Lewdness as in Fashions too;
Drinking's his leading Vice, his Darling Sin,
That pumps his duller Inclination in;
Then loud as Storms, incourag'd for all evil,
Swears and invokes by Healths his Guardian Devil.
By chance the Poet Elcanah was there
To make 'em sport, for 'twas not yet the Fair;
VVith many more too scandalous to name,
VVhose Talents are to swear, whore, drink and game;
At a large Table they were seated round,
VVith Bottles, Snush, foul Pipes and Glasses crown'd,
Boxes and Dice—but whether false or true,
I leave it to the Fools that Night shall rue;
For there was Country Squire and City Cully,
That came to see the Show, look'd to by Bully,
VVhere bubbl'd of their Coyn, they healed are
A la Campagne—that is, with Chear entire:
Damme, cries Grab, each Prig his Buttork bring,
And let us forthwith fall to managing;
When I am boozing, clear old Dudgeon's Drolish,
Then let my Natural be a Jump, a Polish,
I sink her down—Then makes some nasty Jest,
And Crowns it with a Bumper to the Best;
(And calls for Link-boy, swears his Pego's nice,
And therefore cannot deal in common Vice.)
Then to the Height of Lewdness they retire,
And Venus must extinguish Bacchus fire.
Thus 'tis when Men forsake an honest Trade,
How much a better Pedant thou hadst made;
Or (bilking sharp) hadst bully'd up and down,
And scar'd the Trembling Mortals of the Town?
This was thy Talent, this thy proper Sphere;
Yet still this Part of thee remains while here,
That thou canst cheat, oppress, and domineer.
Tho thus much by thy Foes must be confess'd,
Of all thy roaring Tribe thou art the best.
The rest such Cowards, Sots, such hard'ned Rogues,
Blasphemers, Villains, Rake-hells, Swines and Dogs,
Have newer Sins than were to Sodom known,
And if just Heav'n shou'd send his Vengeance down,
There's not one Lot to save a sinking Town.
But numberless and endless 'twere to tell
All the rank Vice that fills this Local Hell.
All which the Phantom does in hast survey,
He scents the Morning Air, and must away,
And on the Eastern Hill he views the breaking day.
Yet e're he goes with a Remorse extreme
Looks back and sighs o're this Jerusalem;
Nor cou'd depart till like the Prophet too,
In whispering Our pronounc'd thrice—wo, wo, wo;
And then methought I hear'd a Hollow Sound,
Like Ecchoes that from Caves and Rocks rebound;
And thus it spake—Full five and twenty years
I Reign'd, without the Noise or Toil of Wars,
Bore all th'Indignities of Factious Power,
And saw my Life in danger every hour;
Yet rather had resign'd it up in Peace,
Than ow'd my Safety to such Brutes as these;
At best a Scare-crow Rebels to affright,
Put them to Action, and scarce one will fight.
Ah, great Augustus! thou deserv'st an Host
Of Heroes, such as ancient Rome produc'd;
When each Commander should like Scipio be;
Or rather like the yet more Godlike thee,
Brave, Temperate, Prudent to the last degree.
The common Rout all Sceva's in the Field,
Who bore a thousand Arrows in his Shield.
At least they shou'd have Souls to be inspir'd,
And by thy great Example to be fir'd;
Thy Constancy and Valour imitate,
And raise at once thy Glory and the State.
This said, and parting with a pittying Look,
Tow'rds his Eternal Hope his way he took,
And blest his Fate he cou'd again return
To the blest Confines of his peaceful Urn.