University of Virginia Library

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170

CANTO XV. The former boastings of the Review groundless, the Whiggish Story of the D*****h threatning the Bank of England, the Whigs Addresses, and the purport thereof.

The Whigs were now Enrag'd to see
The Church express such Loyalty;
And give such Solemn Protestations,
Against their Sly Insinuations;
And those ill Principles the Brood,
Were introducing if they Cou'd;
By giving e'ery Heathnish Notion
The Saanction of the Revolution;
As Cunning Knaves by gilding Brass,
For Gold, make Worthless Mettle Pass;

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171

But wiser Heads found out the Cheat,
And prov'd their Tenets Counterfetr;
By rubbing off the outward Case,
And shewing all within was Base;
This blest discov'ry, timely made,
Thro' all the Kingdom quickly spread;
And open'd the deluded Eyes,
Of Trimming Fools and pleas'd the wise;
Frighted the Magazine of Pow'r,
Which they'd long boasted of before;
And tho' for Years their Scribes had Courted,
Old Legeon yet the Knave deserted;
And left their Pious Cause to shew,
The Rog'ry of their fam'd Review;

Where are his pow'rful Magazine,
With which he threatn'd Church and Q****n,
And frighted poor unthinking Fools,
T'Espouse their Odious Principles;
Where are his Whiggish Legeons fled,
Those Windy Fantoms in his Head;

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That were to worry all High-Flyers,
And pull down Organs, Bells and Quires;
That Presbiterian Ordination,
Might Crown our further Reformation;
And Sacred Lawn become the Joke,
Of each Fanatick Band and Cloak.

Where's all the People all good Men,
And his alls o'er and o'er again;
That were so fully well agreed,
The Church should with the Whiggs Concede;
And yield her Worship and her Rites,
To Saints more mad than Bedlamites;
Why truly all his mighty Alls,
Which to his Aid so oft he Calls;
His Low Church Legeons and his Mobs,
His London Swarms and Country Hobs;
His Men of Sense and Mag- of Pow'r,
Prove High and so they were before;
So bouncing Knaves will oft set forth,
Their Stock, their Credit and their Worth;

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173

Who if Examin'd will be found
So far in Debt, so run a Ground,
They cant' pay Three-Pence in the Pound.

Now Whiggish Lies about were thrown,
T'Amuse and terrify the Town;

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174

And all their little vain Efforts,
Were back'd with Insolent reports;
Malicious Scandalous Romances,
The Dregs of their Invet'rate Fancies;
So groundless that each Man of Sense,
Blush'd at their daring Impudence.

Some broach'd a Monstrous Tale relating,
To H*****d and the Bank of Britain;
And so improv'd the Whiggish Fable,
At Change and e'ery Coffee-House Table;
That some believ'd the Threatning Story,
To th' less'ning of the Kingdom's Glory;
And fancy'd that we must thro' fear,
Be Steer'd and Bully'd by Minhier;
When all was but a Wiggish Sham,
Contriv'd on this side Amsterdam;
A poor Fanatick Low-Church Shift,
To give the Sinking Cause a lift;
Thus Men of restless Disposition,
Spurr'd on by Envy and Sedition;

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175

If once they Aim at others hurt,
And fail in their unjust Effort,
Make Lies their Refuge and Support.

But had we been so low reduc'd,
By being Treach'rously abused;
As really to have been affear'd of,
Those Threats we have so lately heard of;
And that our Rulers had been aw'd,
By Saucy Dictates from aboard;
Who are the Traytors, who the Tribe,
That brought us to so low and Ebb?
And are the same still fit to be
The props of Church and Monarchy?
Who have by breaking down their Fences,
Expos'd them to such Insolences?
No sure 'tis time to stop the Gap,
That we may further ills escape;
And pinion those that have undone us,
By Basely letting in upon us
A Flood of Mischiefs that must Drown
The Church, the Kingdom and the Crown;

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Unless prevented e'er they flow
Too fast and too Tempestious grow;
The Farmer timely mends the Breach,
He finds in either Hedg or Ditch;
And sends those Cattle to the Pound,
That makes a Trespass on his Ground;
Like Measures are the only way,
To Tame more headstrong Brutes then they;
Who if not Curb'd and Manag'd duly,
Will grow still more, and more, unruly;
But if once handl'd shrink like Snails,
And draw their Horns into their Shells.

What Noisy Clamours, do they make?
What disobedient Freedoms take?
What Liberties their Writers use?
How modest are their fam'd Reviews?
Where Sov'raign Pow'r is made their Sport,
And Pelted with such Factious Dirt;
That all of Modesty or Sense,
Who read his matchless Impudence,

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Bulsh at his rude and daring Pen,
So vile reproachful and Prophane;
And Judge by his Fanatick Spite,
He's Curs'd above all Men that Write;
And doom'd to be a wretch'd Tooll
To Knaves that would Usurp the Rule;
Who are to weak to bear the Sway,
And too Rebellious to Obey.

The Whiggish Tribe were now agriev'd
To see the Church so well receiv'd
At Court, for standing by the Throne,
When Faction was so Rampant grown;
So Pert, so Insolent and Warm,
That they were Aiming to disarm
The Church, of Doctrines that agree,
With Scripture, well as Mornarchy;
That by that means the Sov'raign Pow'r,
Might be left weak and insecure;
And all Obedience to a King
Become a wild Precarious thing;

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Depending on the various minds
Of those more fickle than the Winds;
Yet these good Whiggs we must allow
The only faithful Subjects now;
Tho' e'ery step they take we see,
Encroaches on the Monarchy;
And on the Church that does defend
The Throne, and is its surest Friend;
But if ye dare give Credit to
That modest Libel the Review;
Where you may find the Whigs to be
The only Sons of Loyalty;
Because their works have made it known,
They alwayes were for pulling down
The Church Establish'd and the Crown,
What Sov'raign therefore can distrust
Subjects so Pious and so Just?
Who keep their old Opinion, still;
And when they durst Rebel they will.

However now to shew they were,
As Loyal as they say they are;

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The Saints began with all their art,
To vouch their Zeal to Q*****n, and Court,
In such Addresses as might best
Open the Windows of their Breast,
That Sacred Majesty might see
Their Ancient Love and Loyalty;
And that they now ador'd their Prince,
Just as they us'd to do long since,
And were, unto our G****s Q****n,
The same as they had ever been;
Pointing most Loyally to those
They would have deem'd the Nations Foes,
Meaning the Church, least they themselves,
Should now be thought those wicked Elves;
Who by their Malice, Heat and Fury
Had rais'd up the Tempestous Flurry,
Which blew with such Precipitation,
Against the Sons of Moderation,
That many meetings met with harm,
And suffer'd greatly in the Storm;

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Whilst those that rais'd the Wind so High,
Beheld the danger with an Eye
Of fear, unable to foresee,
What the strange Consequence might be;
Thus Conjurers of Common Weal,
who do with Restless Spirits deal;
In Spite of all their cunning may
Raise Devils that they cannot lay.