The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy ::

The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy

Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

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THE WINE Bibber's WISH.

O give me, kind Bacchus, thou God of the Vine,
Not a Pipe or a Tun, but an Ocean of Wine,
And a Ship that's well Mann'd with such rare merry Fellows,
That ne'er forsook Tavern for Porterly Ale-house;
May her Bottom be leaky to let in the Tipple,
And no Pump on board her to save Ship or People;
So that each jolly Lad should suck heartily round,
And be always oblig'd to drink on or be drown'd.

Let a Fleet from Virginia well laden with Weed,
And a Cargo of Pipes that we nothing may need,
Attend at our Stern to supply us with Guns,
And to weigh us out Funk not by Pounds but by Tuns

When thus fitted out, we would sail cross the Line,
And swim round the World in a Sea of good Wine,
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more,
To renounce such a Life for the Pleasures on Shore,
The greatest of which, besides that of the Bottle,
Is a Whore that's no more than impertinent Tattle,
And is but at best one of Pandora's Boxes
That poysons the World with her Claps and her Poxes
From such sort of Plagues we would ever live free,
And like Xanthus lay Wagers we'd drink up the Sea;
Look chearfully round us and comfort our Eyes,
With a Deluge of Claret inclos'd with the Skies,
A Sight that wou'd mend a pale Mortal's Complexion,
And make him blush more than the Sun by Reflection;
No Zealous Contentions should ever perplex us,
No Politick Jarrs should divide us or vex us,
No Presbiter Jack should reform us or ride us,
The Stars and our whimsical Noddles should guide us

No blustering Storms should possess us with Fears,
Or hurry us like Cowards from drinking to Prayers,
But still with full Bowls we'd for Bacchus maintain
The most glorious Dominions o'th' Clarety Main,
And tipple all round till our Eyes shone as bright,
As the Sun does by Day or the Stars do by Night.

Thus thus would I live free from Care or Design,
And when Death should prevail I'd be pickl'd in Wine,
That is toss'd over-board, have the Sea for my Grave
And lie nobly Intomb'd in a Blood-colour'd Wave,
That living or dead, both my Body and Spirit
Should float round the Globe in an Ocean of Claret.
The truest of Friends, and the best of all Juices,
Worth both the rich Metals that India produces;
For all Men, we find, from the Young to the Old,
Will exchange for the Bottle, their Silver or Gold,
Except rich Fanaticks, a Pox on their Pictures,
Who make themselves Slaves to their Prayers and their Lectures
And think that on Earth there is nothing Divine,
But a Canting old Fool and a Bag full of Coin;

What tho the dull Saint makes his Standard and Sterling
His Refuge, his Glory, his God and his Darling;
The Mortal that drinks is the only brave Fellow,
Tho never so poor he's a King when he's mellow,
Grows richer than Crassus with whimsical thinking,
And never knows Care whilst he follows his drinking

Advice to an Old Lady, who has bury'd Six Husbands and sets up for the Seventh.

Forbear old Beldam, 'tis, I vow, a Crime,
To think of Wedlock thus a seventh time;
Age that has plow'd up your declining Face,
Robb'd you of e'ery youthful charming Grace;
Decay'd your Plumpness, melted down your Fat,
And left rude Furrows where your Cupids sate,
New bleach'd your Eye-brows, snow'd upon your Crown
And turn'd your sable Locks to milky Down,

Destroy'd those Iv'ry Fences, that when young
Adorn'd your Ruby Lips and tun'd your Tongue,
Age that has made you Baren and Diseas'd,
Jealous, perverse, too peevish to be pleas'd;
Nausious and useless in a Marry'd State,
Penur'ous, haughty, full of senseless Prate,
Methinks by this time might have found a way,
To've made you Grave and Wise instead of Gay;
Can you not see in your deceitful Glass,
The flabby Wrinkles of your wither'd Face?
And how the greasy white Pomatum shines
In all those aged Crevises and Lines,
Which flattering Unguent does too plainly shew
You are not only Old but Vicious too?
And that your Age, which no Device can hide,
Is still dishonour'd with your Lust and Pride;
Patches and Paint, which foolishly you wear,
To give your ancient Face a modern Air,
Makes you, in spite of Art, appear before,
But like a rotten House new painted o're,
Whose Front, although new daub'd, yet shews decay
And looks at best but scandalously gay.

Your lofty Tow'r that's mounted up so high,
And gaudy Topknot of a youthful Dye,
Takes not one Year from off your wringled Brows,
But shews us you're an old lascivious Blowze,
That courts th'Embraces of a seventh Spouse;
So have I often seen a founder'd Jade,
Wretchedly old, and cursedly decay'd,
Adorn'd with Scutcheons Streamers, and with Plume,
Which did the hide-bound Jade but ill become,
Drawing a tatter'd Herse by light of Torch,
From Russel's State-house to some neighb'ring Church,
Yet all his Trappings did but ill disguise,
His spavin'd Heels, lean Sides, and hollow Eyes,
For still the crazy broken winded Beast
Look'd old and ugly tho so finely drest.
And only fit to put the World in Mind
Of Death, the Conqueror of all Mankind,
Whose Carravan came rumbling on behind;
Just so, mistaken Dame, tho you desire
To hide your crippl'd Age with gay Attire,

Yet all's in vain, for wheresoe'er you move,
Death follows with his Dart instead of Love.

Therefore, for shame old Grannum think no more
Of Wedlock, but your fruitless hopes give o're;
For mourning Weeds exchange your gaudy Dress,
That do so ill become that ancient Face.
Keep to your Closet, Penitence and Pray'rs,
Should be the Works of your declining Years.
Beg Pardon that your killing Charms have fed,
The Grave with six kind Husbands from your Bed.
Remain Content, and think them not too few,
The number is a above a Woman's due:
But if a Seventh Fool should be decoy'd,
To shoot that Gulph which has 3 brace destroy'd,
And for your Wealth should mount a fatal Jade,
That has such havock of your Spouses made,
May the Hot Oven of thy murd'ring Lust,
Calcine him like the other Six to Dust.

A Dialogue between a Botcher and his Wife, after his return from the Ale-house.

Wife.
I find you old Sot that your rising so soon,
Was to only have time to get Drunk before Noon.
Mr. Gundy the Smith has been twice at the Door,
And has vow'd you shall ne'er do a Stich for him more,
Because you have fail'd him in turning his Suit,
By the time you so faithfully promis'd to do it.
Jol. Nimble the Porter too raves for his Britches,
For those he has on are broke out in the Stitches:
He wants 'em so much, that he vows by this Light,
Either done or undone, he must have them to Night.
And now do you think you are not a fine Sot,
To neglect all your Work for the Pipe and the Pot;
At such a time too, when you cannot but know,
What a Score at the Chandlers and Bakers we owe.

Botcher.

A Pox of your Tongue, pray have you been ripping,
The Coat I'm to turn for my old Neighbour Tipping.
No, yonder it lies in the very same plight,
That I left it i'th' Morn, so shall find it at Night.
No Mortal was ever sure plagu'd with a Hussy,
So Whorish, so Sluttish, so Sawcy and Lazy.

And must your damn'd Clack teaz me into the bargain,
More loud than the Drone of a Bagpipe or Organ.
Be silent you Baggage, or else by the L---,
I shall measure your Ladyships Back with my Yard
And so tickle your Hump, that I'll make you to know,
I am Master, you Whore, and will ever be so.

Wife.
You Cabbaging Thief, d'ye believe I'm affraid,
Thus to reason the Case when my Children want Bread.
Do you think if the Neighbours should know how you use us,
They would not all say you're a Rogue to abuse us.

Must you at the Ale-house sit playing at Put,
And with strong Beer and Brandy lye stuffing your Gutt,
Whilst I all the Day stay at Home to save Charges,
And Live on small Drink that's as sower as Varges;
Which all Women know is so bad for a Nurse,
That there's nothing you hard hearted Dog can be worse.
It Poysons my Milk, Gripes the Child in my Arms,
And fills the poor Infant with nothing but Worms.
Besides, have I had any Victuals you Brute,
But a Mouldy old Crust and a Cucumber to't
Since yesterday Noon, and d'ye think I can quiet,
And Suckle my Baby with such sorry Diet;
I vow and protest either keep to your Work,
And dispatch what you now have in hand with a Jirk,
That my Infant and I may have something to cherish
Ourselves, or I swear Ill complain to the Parish,
And should I do so, e'eryour many Days older
You'd be sent like a Rogue as you are for a Soldier.

Botcher.
Here's Sixpence you Jade, won at Nine-pins to Day,
Who'd Work that can get so much Money at play.
Go buy a Sheep's Head with the Pluck hanging to it,
'Tis a Feast for a Prince, as you know how to do it.
I pray let the Scull be dish'd up by it self,
In the red Earthen Platter that stands on the Shelf:
The Brains with some Sage in a Rag must be boil'd,
And when butter'd, no Pap is so good for the Child.
Then cut out the Tongue while its hot from the Jaws,
And when split and well par'd, lay it over the Sauce;
But as to the Gather to me it's all one,
If you please you may Mince it or let it alone.
But Betty, one thing I had like to've forgot,
Pray besure it's well wash'd e'er it's put in the Pot.

Wife.
Would you have me to wash it, not I by my troth,
Don't you know very well it will weaken the Broth,
What strength will there be in the Porridge, I pray,
If the Blood and the Snivel be wash'd all away:

I hope Goodman Ninny, I'm not such a Child,
But I know how a Sheeps-head sure ought to be boil'd;
Have I for your Palate cook'd so many score,
And must I be thus tutor'd still over and o're:
I say the best way, as I've often been told,
Is to put it i'th' Pot when the Water is Cold,
Unwash'd and unpick'd, and the Porridge and Meat
Will be, one the more strong and the other more sweet.

Botcher.
Well, please thy own self, thou'rt a Slattern 'tis true,
Yet, I think thee to be the best Cook of the Two.
But prithee-now Bess, let us Eat it in quiet,
For scolding thou know'st I abhor with my Diet;
So here's Two Pence Half-penny more I have got,
Of such Beer as you love, let us have a full Pot;
That like Husband and Wife we may Drink and be Friends,
And at Night thou shalt find I will make thee amends.

Wife.
Why, is not this better than sitting all Day,
At an Ale-house, and squand'ring your Money away;
To Grease a fat Sow, a great Tun-belly'd Blouze,
Who, when once you grow Poor, will forbid you her House.
Ah! John, wert thou Sick, or should any Man Goal thee,
Thy Hostess, and tipp'ling Companions would fail thee:
In time of Affliction, I doubt thou would'st find,
Few Friends but thy Wife, to be loving and kind.
Come give her a Kiss, and from hence take a farewel
Of this sort of Life, and we never shall Quarrel.

Botcher.
I own I'm to blame, but I'll learn to be Wise,
I protest my dear Girl yon bring Tears in my Eyes;
Well, be a good Wife, and not Chatter or Mutter,
And I'll mend my Life, thou shalt find for the future.

The mounting of a young Excise-man for the Country, or good Advice to Broken Shopkeepers.

Whoe'er desires to be a fawning Slave,
A wand'ring Fool, yet to be thought a Knave,
A Servile Tool, to be remov'd and Tost,
Without Just Cause from Pillar unto Post;
At least Ten Guineas, let him first take Care
To raise, and next a sliding Rule prepare;
With other Jimcracks by the Board thought proper,
To Gage a Brew-house from the Tun to th'Copper.

When thus equipp'd, and by some bungler Taught,
To use his Tackle as the Bubble ought,
Again, with humble Cringes must he go,
Before their Honours, that the Fool may know,
To what Welsh County or what Town remote,
They're pleas'd to send him when his Gold they've got.

Some starving Walk they doom to be his Fate,
Where needy Ale-wives do Excisemen hate
And with their Verbal Thunder teaz 'em more
Than the Rude Rabble do a Drunken Whore.

Next, for his tedious Journey, he provides
Some founder'd Jade, whose Skeletonian Sides,
Lank Buttocks, bony Hips, and broken Wind
Denote him one of Pharaoh's famish'd Kind:
When thus grown Master of a Spavin'd Beast,
Show'd Fifty times in Smithfield-Rounds at least;
A pair of Boots at Second hand he buys,
To save his Hose from Dust, his Legs from Flies:
Then like a Warrier with an armed Heel,
And by his Side a Scymetar of Steel,
His Dexter Leg does o'er the Saddle fling,
And mounts his Courser with an active spring;
Then takes a Blunderbuss or Musquetoon,
And o'er his Horses Neck supports the Gun:
When, like Don Quixot, that renowned Knight,
He's thus prepar'd to break the Way or Fight,
As Order'd by the Board, he must attend
Some Proud Collector to his Journey's End

To fortify his Bags, as up and down
The Money'd-Upstart rides from Town to Town.
Where at each Stage the Scar-crow to a Thief
Is Valiant made with Pudding, Ale, and Beef;
Shews much Respect to an Imperious T---
Sits like a Mute, and bows at e'ery Word.

When this is over, he assumes his Place,
Which lies remote among some heathenish Race,
Where he lives hated for a little Time,
At last is jossl'd out without a Crime;
Not that he's Careless or Dishonest been,
But must make way to let new Cullies in:
Who only with their Gold fresh Int'rest make,
And Bribe their Ruin with their last poor Stake;
Which by some servile K--- is first receiv'd,
But handed upwards 'tis by most believ'd.

Thus is the Bus'ness of that grand Affair,
Thro' wheedling hangers on, become a Snare;
Who with the pow'rful Petticoat prevail
To snack those Golden Weights that turn the Scale
These by Clandestine tamp'ring can with ease
Turn out, or in, what Officers they please;

Who to Admittance gain, must bleed and pray,
And thus at once both humbly bow and pay.

Therefore beware of those my youthful Friend,
Who mighty Int'rest with the Board pretend;
As Kinsmen, Vallets, and the Lord knows who,
They'll manage well for some, but ill for you.
Be careful how you pull your Money forth;
Give Nothing for it, for it's Nothing worth:
But if, like other Fools, you would be serv'd,
Buy your self in, be soon kick'd out, and starv'd;
May you be Curs'd and for a Soldier sent,
And let that doom become your Punishment.

The Gossip's Visit:

Or, An Alley-Comedy, call'd, Female Tittle Tattle.

1 Gos.
Neighbour, Good Morrow! How d'ye do?

2 Gos.
Thank you kind Neighbour, How do you?

1 Goss.
Tho' I'm in hast, I could no more,
I Vow and Swear, pass by the Dore

Without just calling in upon ye,
To take a Kiss of Little Johnny,
Than I could fly—

2 Goss.
—'Tis kindly done;
How does your Spouse, and little Son?

1 Goss.
All very well; But by the way,
How does your Husband do to Day?
I hear, poor Man, he'as got a Hurt,
I Vow I'm very sorry for't.
How came this ugly Chance about,
I hope there's nothing Broke or out;
Alas, he's ill in Bed I fear,
Because I do not see him here.

2 Goss.
No he's at Work as he is us'd,
Altho' his Face is sadly bruis'd:
A drunken Sot, 'tis no great matter,
'Twill teach the Fool more Wit hereafter.
If Men will Drink beyond their Senses,
And put no bounds to their Expences,
But guzzle till they rave and squabble,
And fight each other cross the Table;
If harm come's on't, the Sots I think,

1 Goss.
How was it pray, and what about,
Could two such Loving Friends fall out
As Clumsy Tom, and your Good Man,
For they were always Cup and Can:
Alas, who'd think the Strong Beer Barrel
Should make such old Companions Quarrel?

2 Goss.
Why, Tom the Porter being Mellow,
And Tom, you know's a foul-mouth'd Fellow,
Happen'd, I think, in's Cups to call
My Husband Cuckold, that was all:
And he's a pievish silly Man
That cannot bear what others can;
So touchy when the Maggot takes him,
That even pointing thus, will vex him;
So that altho' 'twas only spoke
I dare to swear by way of Joke,
Yet was my angry Wasp as Eager
To fight, as if he 'ad been a Tyger,
When all the while, as Tom protested,
He meant no harm, but only Jested.
Cuckold, you know's a word of course,
What Man would think himself the worse

For being call'd so, when he knows
The silly Name can't hurt his Brows?
However John, to show his Valour,
Took Tom the Porter by the Collar:
And told him, That he'd make him Eat
His Words as surely as his Meat.
With that they fell to't cross the Table,
And box'd as long as they were Able;
At last when both the silly Oafs
Were tir'd with Bruises Kicks and Cuffs,
And that their Breath was almost spent,
The Fools gave over by Consent,
Shook Hands and drank to one another
Kindly, as Brother could to Brother,
So were good Friends the following Minute,
And this they say is all that's in it.
Only my Waspish angry Sot
Is sadly bruis'd, I pitty'm not;
But hope 'twill make the wrangling Beast
Know better how to take a Jeast.

1 Goss.
But hark ye Neighbour, let me tell ye
You're in the wrong, I think so really:

For since your Spouse took this Occasion
To Vindicate your Reputation,
In my opinion, you in short
Should value and Commend him for't.
Suppose an Ill-bred foul-mouth'd Lubber,
No matter whether Drunk or Sober,
Should openly my Spouse disgrace,
And Call him Cuckold to his face,
What must he make, ad's Flesh and Life,
Of me that am the Cuckold's Wife?
Were any saucy Jack to Jeer him
With such a Name, and I to hear him,
I Vow I'd have the Rascal's Blood,
Or tear his Eyes out if I cou'd:
Cuckold, the very thought I vow
Makes me all Chill I know not how.
But, Bless me, what do I do here!
I must be running Home I'll Swear;
My patient Spouse, I'll war'nt, will think
I'm gone to the Devil for his Drink;
But that's my Comfort that he knows
I vallue not his Words or Blows:

Look you, say I, be quiet John,
You know I'll give you two to one;
Well, but I vow I must be going,
He may well wonder what I'm doing.

2 Goss.
What need you be in such a hurry,
Pray sit you down the time you tarry;
Tho', I confess, I scarce can Court ye,
My Brats have made my Room so dirty;
But tho' you've chanc'd to catch me nasty,
I hope that makes you not so hasty.

1 Goss.
Laird Neighbour Spriggins, what d'ye mean,
I think you're always very Clean,
I wonder e'ery time I see it,
How you can keep your House so neat.

2 Goss.
Nay, don't you say so, for I vow
You Jeer me to some purpose now;
I know that your House always lies
Like any Charming Paradice;
But as for mine, my Rampant Rogues
Run scamp'ring out without their Clogs:
And tho' new clean'd, if they come in it,
'Tis all o'er Dirty in a Minute,

1. Goss.
It can't be help'd all People know
Where there are Children 'twill be so.

2. Goss.
But well remember'd, I have got,
The pleasant'st News just piping hot
You ever heard, I vow I'm sorry,
I should forget so good a story,
And keep it from you all this while,
Because I'm sure 'twill make you Smile.

1. Goss.
You know I'm trusty, pray declare it,
For I'm impatient till I hear it,
If 'tis a Secret talk the lower,
There may be List'ners at the Door:
I want to know this merry Tale,
That is (you say) so Comical.

2. Goss.
Don't you remember you have seen,
A Tall Young Minx with Topknot Green,
That us'd most commonly to go,
In Grazet Gown and Furbuloe?
Why should I question it, I'm sure,
You can't do otherwise than know her:
She Lodge's with my Neighbour Tuffen,
I'm certain you have seen her often.

1.Goss.
Yes, yes, I know the lofty Quean,
Is that the haughty Minx you mean;
If all be true as Folks report,
She's not a Stranger to 'he Sport;
Nay, some will say She's been at had 'em,
But pray what is your News of Madam.

2. Goss.
Last Night it seems th'Informers watch'd her,
And in a Common Bawdyhouse catch'd her;
Upstairs upon a Bed some tell ye,
With Stubs's, that nasty Rogue the Bailey;
For which my Lady and her Hostess,
Were taken both before the Justice,
Who sent 'em as he had good Reason,
To that most shameful Place New Prison.
Stubs's Wife hearing what was acted,
Rattles and Raves like one distracted,
And is so furious that She crys out,
She'll pull her Nose off and her Eyes out;
And vows if e'er the brazen Whore,
Comes near her Husband any more,

She'll ne'er forgive her the Affront,
But be her Death what e'er comes on't.

1. Goss.
Truly I cannot blame his Wife,
I'd do the same upon my Life,
Such Strumpets by their evil Course,
Make honest Women fare the worse.
They shall be Coach'd about the Town,
Forsooth, and treated up and down;
Go in their Silks and Laces Drest,
And Eat, Pox Choak 'em, of the best.
Whilst we poor Fools that marry'd are,
Shall be grutch'd e'ery thing we wear,
And have no dainty bits but what,
Must be in hugger mugger got,
When you and I together go,
To my Dame Gurton's House or so,
To fling away a Market Penny,
Or spend a little Pinch-gut Money.

2. Goss.
That's true, but could you think this Jade,
Who looks as modest as a Maid,

Should e'er be catch'd, a murrain on her,
Sinning in such a shameful manner,
With that ill favour'd Fellow too,
The ugly'st Dog you ever knew;
E'faith it is a sign She wanted,
Poor silly Slut to be gallanted,
Or else the Giddy thoughtless Trollup
Would never sure have turn'd her Tail up,
To the worst Rake-hell in our Ally,
A nasty setting Dog, a Bailey.

1 Goss.
Lord how you talk, if once a Woman
T'oblige her wicked Lust turns Common,
She'll lye with any Man to ease her,
That has but you know what to please her.

2 Goss.
Well, but I'll swear was I inclin'd
To be like her, a little kind,
And did I really love the Sport,
But I'd not give Three Farthings for't,
I'd chuse a Man to please my Fancy,
That should be something like a Tansie,
Such as Will Jinkins or Tom Und'ril,
And not take up with e'ery Scoundrel.

1 Goss.
Since yon now talk of 'em I pray,
When saw you them—

2 Goss.
—The other Day:
They ask'd me kindly how you did,
And said I know not what beside;
Tho' I could tell you if I wou'd,
But that I fear 'twould make you Proud.

1 Goss.
Prithee let's hear, for I am certain
They could say nothing that there's hurt it.
Well, Neighbour, I shall ne'er forget,
How merry we were all one Night;
What, will it never so fall out,
That we may've such another Bout:
Jinkins I swear's a jolly Blade;
But Prithee tell me what they said.

2 Goss.
Why truly if I must be free,
They said you're excellent Company,
And would be very glad once more,
To meet us where we Drank before.

1 Goss.
I vow they both were very Civil,
I dare believe they mean no Evil;

I'll meet 'em there at any time
If you are willing, where's the Crime:
But bless me what am I doing,
Well, I protest I must be going,

2 Goss.
Why so uneasy of a sudden,
Pray Eat a bit of Beef and Pudding.
Believe me I'm extreamly sorry,
I've nothing else to set before ye.

1 Goss.
Thank you good Neighbour Pudding Cold,
Is said you know in Proverb old
To settle Love, but mine already
Is, G---d be thank'd, fix'd and steady.

2 Goss.
Lord Neighbour how you Pick and Piddle,
Pray Cut a Luncheon in the middle;
I wish'd you with us when 'twas Hot,
Pray Eat whilst I go fetch a Pot.

1 Goss.
Hold Neighbour, stay and take my Mony'
We'll have Two Quarts if we have any;
I have not Drank I dare to say,
Above One single Pot to Day.

2 Goss.
Pray put your Money up, d'ye think
I'll give you Victuals and no Drink.

1 Goss.
Nay take it—

2 Goss.
—But I vow I won't.

1 Goss.
I'll swear you shall.—

2 Goss.
—Nay prithee don't.

1 Goss.
Pray let us have no more dispute,
But add I say my Three Pence to't;
Besure as long as I have Money,
I'll not put all the Charge upon ye.

2 Goss.
I vow I hate this as I live,
Why should you be so positive;
I'm sure when e'er I visit you,
You give me Drink and Victuals too;
And therefore Neighbour you're to blame,
You will not let me do the same;
But since you will do what you list,
Tell me what Drink you like the best.

1 Goss.
I'd have such Liquor if I cou'd,
That makes good Milk and breeds good Blood.
Stout Knappy Ale, for to my thinking,
That's proper'st for a Nurses drinking;

If you'll but speak to honest Nan,
You know she'll please us if she can:
Tip but the Wink upon the Slut,
She'll Crown it with a dash of Stout;
The Master's but a surly Hog,
Besure you give the Wench the Jug.

2 Goss.
But least my Johnny should awake.
Before I happen to come back,
I beg you Neighbour whilst I go,
To jog the Cradle with your Toe.

1 Goss.

Take you no Care I'll mind the Child,
But pray now let the Drink be Mild;
For if She puts too much oth' Stale in't,
I'd's live the Jade should lay her Tail in't.

Exit one Gossip with the Pitcher.

The other to the Child in the Cradle.

1 Goss.
Hush, Lullaby my dainty Moppit,
How pale thou look'st my pretty Poppit;
Let's tuck thee in and keep the warm,
Poor little Fool thou think'st no harm:
What wicked cruel Sluts must they be,
That e'er could hurt so dear a Babee;

Yet have I heard of bar'brous Whores
Who've drop'd their Brats at other's Doors;
I'm sure I could at Tyburn swing,
Rather than do so base a thing;
Let such a Slut say what she can,
That Woman cannot love a Man,
To drop a Child of his begetting,
That will be yielding or abetting,
What tho its sinfully begot,
The Infant is not in the Fau't,
That had no Pleasure in the Sport,
Why therefore should it suffer for't,
The sinful Action all agree,
Is past before the Child can be.
How then can wicked Parents blame
The Babe for being got in Shame;
As if unthinking Innocence
Had bore a share in the Offence. [Enter Gossip with the Drink]

—Here's Ale, you merry Crack,
As strong as Mum, and clear as Sack;

See how it smiles, no Bottle Drink
Can bear a better Head, I think.

1. Goss.
It looks most rarely, I confess it,
But drink, for that's the way to praise it;
Come let's remember, if you will,
Young Jenkins and Tom Underhil.

2. Goss.
Done, here's their Healths withall my Heart,
I'd off with't were the Cup a Quart.

1. Goss.
Well done, old Girl, I love to see
A Woman take it heartily,
And not make Faces when she drinks,
As if sh'was such a modest Minx,
That could not drink one flowing Bowl,
Altho she loves it with her Soul;
And in her Chamber or her Closet,
Will take off ten when no Man knows it.

2. Goss.
Neighbour, you see I fill it up,
I love to drink a hearty Cup,
Come Gossip, here's the 'foresaid Health,
May they have alwaps Strength and Wealth,
That the two PP's may never fail 'em;
[illeg.] play the Wag and tell'em

For 'tis not fit tkat Men shou'd hear
What Women tattle o're their Beer; [Drinks

'Tis gone Efaith, I'll swear 'tis good,
I feel't already in my Blood.
This Nan I vow's an honest Trout,
The Gypsy has not spar'd the Stout,
'Tis soft and strong, I really think
No Duches can have better Drink.

1 Goss.
Marry come up, why should not we
Quaff as good Ale as Quality;
We pay for't honestly I'm sure,
My Lady Flirt can do no more;
Nay, some of 'em, for all their Pride,
Or else they basely are bely'd,
Eat, drink and wear what Tradesmen find
They pay for when the Devil's blind.

2 Goss.
Why truly Neighbour, tho they squint
At us, poor Folk, there's nothing in't,
But Pride, Conceit, and Ostentation,
Meer Vanities too much in Fashion;
'Tis true, they patch and paint their Faces,
And wear rich Silks and Flanders Laces,

Powder their Arm-pits and their Hair,
Use Orange Water you know where,
Anoint their Skins with sweet Pomatums,
To charm the Beaus and such Fool-atums;
When poor Folks should, they use such Art,
Would smell as sweet in e'ry part,
And were they but adorn'd as gay,
Would look as beautiful as they.

2 Goss.
Good Neighbour drink, I hate delaying,
I vow I shall be hang'd for staying.

1 Goss.
Laird you're so hasty, come her's t'ye,
Remembring honest—let me see,
Prithee do you Name who't shall be,
Let me be kiss'd if I can think
What Health to Name or whose to Drink.

1 Goss.
Amongst old Sweethearts, are there none
That's worth your present thinking on;
No Spark among the Am'rous Crew,
That you still love, or that loves you.

2 Goss.
Yes I am sure, there's honest Will
The Coachman, truly loves me still;

Come drink his Health, he'd fain have had me,
But nothing could, forsooth, perswade me;
A Thousand ways he strove to win me,
But I believe the Dev'l was in me,
Or else I'd had the best of Men,
But I was young and foolish then,
Yet tho at last it prov'd my Lot,
To wed with such an idle Sot.
If there be truth in what Men say,
Will loves me to this very day,
Which makes my froppish Fool so yellow,
He can't be civil to the Fellow;
But thinks, because the Sot has seen us
Shake Hands, there's God knows what between us

1 Goss.
What's the Jug out, well, Neighbour, now
I must be running home I'll vow.
With what Excuse must I asswage
My fretting Husband's thirsty Rage?
Where have you been, you Whore? Quoth he;
You Rogue, say I, what's that to thee:

No hang it, that will never do,
For Blows will angry Words ensue;
He sent me for a Pint of Drink,
Therefore the better way I think,
'Sto carr' him home a double Pot,
And that I'm sure will please the Sot.
Neighbour, farewel, what shifts we Wives
Are forc'd to make for quiet Lives.

2 Goss.
Good by' t'y' kindly; I am sure
Maids little think what Wives endure.

FINIS.

THE HUMOURS OF A COFFEE-HOUSE.

When soothing Red had warm'd my teeming Brain,
And flow'd with eager haste from Vein to Vein,
That happy Juice so pleasing to the Taste,
And much too noble to be drank in waste;
Finding weak Nature by excess quite tir'd,
And all my purple M ass by drinking fir'd;
I mus'd a while to think of what was good,
To check th'inebrious Fever in my Blood:
At last remembring I had heard the Fame
Of Coffee, I resolv'd upon the same,
That sable Porridge by the Saints approv'd,
And for its sober Virtues so belov'd,

Might work that happy Change for which 'tis prais'd,
And quench that Flame the Fumes of Wine had rais'd;
When thus determin'd, I the Tavern left,
Of Sence and Silver equally bereft;
But had five pennyworth of Mumper's Brass,
Made currant by the stamp of Royal Face;
Just a fit sum when all the rest was gone,
To read dull News and soberize upon.
So thoughtless Spend-thrifts, when they're flush'd with Coin
Will one day at Pontack's or Locket's dine,
But on the Morrow with dejected looks,
Must pennance do at some poor boiling Cooks.
To the next Coffee-house I reeling stalkt,
And cross-leg'd, like a drunken Taylor, walk'd;
At length I stagger'd to the Place design'd,
And blunder'd in at Door like one that's blind,
Which shut upon my Heels with sudden clap;
I'm caught, thought I, this smoaky Room's a trap,
Where sober Fools by ninny Broth and News,
Votes, Gazettes, Observators and Reviews,
In wrangling Crowds are tempted to debate
Their different Judgments of the Church and State.

I sate me down as gravely as a Priest,
Drunk as a Lord, tho some says as a Beast,
And call'd for scalding Coffee like the rest.
That Turkish Drink by Indian Drug made sweet,
O'er which such buzzing swarms of Blockheads meet;
The dingy Soop was to my Hand convey'd,
And Lies in Volums were before me laid,
Where Driping-pan of Tin in order stood,
Fill'd with clean Pipes, some broke and others good;
That each grave smoaking transitory Guest,
Might shew his Wit in chusing which was best;
Stoppers, as Garnish, did adorn the Dish,
Like Smelts and Gudgeons round a Bisk of Fish,
That e'ery funking News-hound that sat down,
Might size a Rammer to his brittle Gun,
By which more Sots are in one Twelvemonth slain,
Than Marshal Heroes in a long Campaign;
If I judge rashly, tell me if you can,
You that consult the various Fates of Man,
Which of the two does greater Mischiefs breed,
Infernal Powder, or the hellish Weed:

The one, 'tis true, does sudden death convey,
And kills in perfect Health without decay;
But t'other is the Devil's milder Curse.
That dries our Intrailes by its pois'nous force,
And kills by Sickness, which is ten times worse:
Mankind mistake, who raise unnatural Drouths,
By sucking in the Venom at their Mouths,
It's only rightly taken by the Horse,
Whose Farrier sticks the Pipe into his A---,
That when the groaning Jade so hard is bound,
He can no Dung produce for Barren Ground;
The subtil Fumes may some relief afford,
And bring forth what's less nasty, tho a T---d.
Near to the Pipes, my wand'ring Ogles found
A brazen Engine wrap'd with Candle round,
From whose extensive length one wou'd have thought
It had not been by weight, but measure bought,
So fast the flaming Taper burnt away,
As if 'twas meant to shew the quick decay
Of all those transitory things below,
That Mushroon like, start up a while and grow,

Till Time and Chance dissolve each noble Frame,
The blust'ring Hero and the haughty Dame,
To filthy Dirt and Dung, from whence their nice
And squeamish Honours had at first their rise,
Tho flatter'd for their Money here on Earth,
With empty sounds of their illustrious Birth,
And made divine by Poets and by Priests,
When they're so far from Gods they're nearer Beasts.
Now o'er my scalding Broth I hung my Nose,
To snuff the Fumes that from the Soop arose,
Which in my Nostrils did again condense,
And so in Crystal Pearls distill'd from thence;
Mistake me not, I would not have you think,
My Snout return'd its dripings in my Drink;
Such nauseous Lines might purge like Saffold's Pills,
And be esteem'd less modest than his Bills:
Therefore enquire no farther, if you do,
Whether or no the beastly hint be true,
I answer like a Churl, What's that to you?

When the kind Vapours of the sober Grout
Had eas'd my Brain by passing thro my Snout,

And my fermented Mass that burnt and boil'd
Before, was now much better reconcil'd.
I rais'd my Head, and roul'd about my Eye,
To see what various Humours I could spy,
What sundry Objects were at present fit
To rouze my Genius and awake my Wit;
The spacious Room did first my Fancy please,
Like Gresham Colledge hung with Rarities,
Gilt Frames in mighty numbers lin'd the Walls,
One with Encomiums upon Spanish Balls,
The most effectual Means the World can use,
To varnish Boots or blacken rusty Shoes.
A second in Pathetick Words set forth
The Fame, the Use, the Excellence and Worth
Of Leathern Strops for Razors, truly known,
To far exceed a Whetstone or a Hone.

A third the Vertues of a Drink proclaim'd,
So rich, so good, so pleasant and so fam'd,
That without sweating, vomit, purge or flux,
Would cure the Gout, the Stone, the Itch, the Pox,
And make the Patient, to a shaddow worn,
As sound and healthy as the Child new born.

The fourth in Hyperbollick Phrase applauds
That famous golden Cordial of the Gods,
Call'd Nectar & Ambrosia, Meat and Drink,
To make Musicians sing and Poets think,
Who may for two-pence like Apollo dine,
And by the heavenly Food be made divine,
For four broad Pieces of our Copper Coin.
Mix'd amongst these were Crowds of Empricks Bills,
In praise of Gouty Drinks and Pocky Pills,
That e'ry Quack of Fame had here a Place,
From Colledge Blockead down to Doctor Case;
Female Pretenders too had here and there
Their Lacker'd Frames to recommend their Ware,
That the kind Cuckold might inform his Shrew,
What Wonders such a famous Dame can do,
How she can stop Effusions and remove,
Those Faults that hinder the Effects of Love;
Tho Doctress Beldame is at best no more,
Than a sly Bawd to e'ery barren Whore,
That first discovers where the anguish lies,
And next a pleasing Remedy applies,

Procures a well fed Stullion for the Dame,
Whose strenuous Toils abate the raging Flame,
Till their repeated Joys at last provide
An Heir for which her Spouse in vain has try'd:
Thus the great Greivance of the Wife is eas'd,
The Doctress paid well, and the Cuckold pleas'd;
Who hugs and doats upon his darling Son,
But little thinks which way the Feat was done,
Ascribes the Blessings to the skilful Dame,
And thus our she Physitian gets a Name.
Next towards the Barr I turn'd and gaz'd a while,
Where Pills and Potions stood in rank and file;
Rang'd in this order I suppose for sale,
To kill the sick and macerate the well,
That their damn'd poys'nous Drenches might prepare
Patients for those whose licenc'd Cheats they are,
Or Warwick-lane would no diploma grant
To foreign Quacks and Knaves so ignorant,
That never had, on Earth, the least pretence
To any Art, except 'twas Impudence;

That Irish Talent which prevails and thrives,
Whilst modest Merit unregarded lives;
But 'tis no wonder that it gains the start,
And climbs above true Virtue and Desert,
Since Knaves and Blockheads make the greater part
Now to the Range I turn'd both Eyes and Nose,
Where boiling Pots and Kettles hung in rows;
Beneath whose dribling Cocks uncover'd stood
A range of little Pots, the younger brood,
Like hungry Nestlings gaping for their Food;
For each decocting Vessel by the Fire,
That fed the Fools from Cobler to the Squire;
As fast as empty'd by the craving Guest,
Drew fresh Supplies from Mother Kettle's Breast.
Amus'd enough with these I chang'd the Scene,
And turn'd my Eyes from Coffee Pots on Men,
Objects more worthy of my Muses view,
Much more informing and diverting too.
Retir'd into a Nook remote, there sate,
Two Coxcombs prating of they knew not what

Gravely condemning each Intriegue of State,
This was too soon push'd on and that to late;
When both their narrow Souls had ne're been bred
Above the reach of Needles, Pins and Thread;
Bless me thought I, how vain a Wreteh is Man,
That every Blockhead shall pretend to scan
Those dark Arcana's wisely kept in play,
To guard the Great and make their Slaves obey.
Next to these Statesmen, musing at a Game
Of Drafts, two Cuckholds sate, both Men of Fame,
Sent hither by their Wives, as some report,
Who, in their absence, find much better Sport,
Hnd whilst their Husbands play with Men of Wood,
Pursue a nobler Game ith Flesh and Blood,
At which kind Pastime they refresh their Joints,
And leave their Husbands to their Cuckolds Points.
A Knot of sober Puritans sate next,
Demurely looking, neither pleas'd nor vex'd,
As if the light, which they so much esteem,
Was rambled forth and left them in a Dream.

So bobbish were their Wigs, so broad their Hats,
So small their Bands, so little their Cravats,
As if their wild Enthusiastick Whims
Consisted only in such vain Extreams;
And that the Fools believ'd Religion dwelt
In puritannick Sleeve and flapping Felt;
Sometimes the Spirit mov'd a drawling Saint,
To gravely utter some Prophetick Cant,
Of which the liss'ning Saints such Notice took,
As if 't'ad been by some good Angel spoke,
Tho e'ery Sentence so precisely stiff,
Was gravely stop'd with periodick whiff,
And mixing with Tobacco's nauseous fumes,
Scented with rotten Teeth and perish'd Gums,
Vanish'd in Smoke, as all such Nonsence shou'd,
That when its utter'd, does more Harm than Good.
Next these a Taylor and a Greys-Inn Clerk,
Sate wispering in a Corner something dark;
At last I heard the young Attorney cry
Nouns, what d'ye mean? Upon my Soul, you lie;

Blood, says old Stich, speak such another Word,
I'll box your Ears for all you wear a Sword,
I'll swear, or take the Sacrament upon't,
That Sute's not mention'd in the last Account;
Says Snap, I'll hold a Guinea or a Quart,
In my last Bill that I allow'd you for't,
And that I'll prove, altho you huff and rave,
By your own Hand, that you're a lying Knave;
Crys Pricklouse, I confess, the World believes
That thriving Taylors commonly are Thieves,
But Lying is a Talent that belongs
To you that cheat us, with your Pens and Tongues;
Therefore pray give not me that Reputation,
Which is the ancient Badge of your Profession;
Look ye, says Lawyer Snap, there's your Account,
And there's my Bill that just does tantamount,
Cast 'em both up, and do the Sums compare,
I'm sure you'll find 'em even to a Hair;
Pox take you, says the Taylor, for a Knave,
Yo'un conscionable Snap-jack, wou'd you have
One Sute of Law to ballance two of Cloaths,
Is this the way you Scribes become such Beaus?

Catch me again at Law, and I'll be bound
Next minute after to be hang'd or drown'd;
Give me thy Hand, if Taylors go to Hell,
Lawyers are damn'd, for certain, so farewel.
Others were talking of the fam'd Prince Eugene,
And highly prais'd him for a trusty Trojan,
Whilst greater Lovers of the English Throne
Oppos'd his Fame with Heroes of our own,
Whose Deeds are greater (to the French's cost)
Than all our English Eugenites can boast.
Therefore could humane Hearts and Thoughts be seen,
The World would find such Faction and such Spleen,
In all those Saints, who, wheresoe'er they come
Thus misapply that Fame that's due at Home;
For 'tis a Maxim with each holy Brother,
To praise one Prince thro Envy to another.
Others were warmly talking of Thoulon,
And into wild Disputes and Cavils run,
All roaring at a time, as if they meant
Their brutish noise shou'd pass for Argument,

And that the loudest Reasonings, by the rest,
Shou'd be esteem'd the truest and the best;
At last a Butcher of a monst'rous size,
Sawsily bold, and fancyfully wise,
Whose Market Manners, and whose tarnish'd Coin,
Were both together gain'd by Rumpford Swine,
Got up and stinking both of Blood and Sweat,
He made this gen'rous Offers in a Heat;
Because you think us Butchers greasy Fellows,
Noisy in Tavern, Coffee-house or Alehouse,
And that we're such a pack of sorry Creatures,
That want the Sence to canvas foreign Matters,
I'll hold a Hog to half a Flitch of Bacon,
The French are beat, and that Thoulon is taken,
Or twenty Mark to ten with any on ye,
Chuse which you please, the Swines-flesh or the Mony'
I am the Man that dares to do't, that's plain,
I've Gold my Boys, here Tapster, go again .

A Bear Garden Phrase which Butchers are apt to use upun all Occasions.

At this Proposal all the rest were Cow'd.
And now grew silent, who before were loud;
Whilst the fat Swineherd, boasting of his Pelf,
Banter'd the Fools and pleas'd his greasy self;
Till one by one they did their Reck'ning pay,
Quitted their sooty Pipes and sneak'd away.
Next these another set of graver Fools,
With Noses saddled with their Spectacles,
Sate shaking of their Sides at some dry Bob,
That pass'd between the Country-man and Nob,
Highly applauding e'ery golden Line,
This for its Wit, and that for being fine;
Blessing the Author as a Man inspir'd
With all the Gifts that such a Task requir'd.
Others with mighty Zeal were setting forth
The florrid Bombast, and the wond'rous Worth
Of Foe's Reviews, extolling e'ery Part,
Writ with such Warmth, and penn'd with so much Art,

Commending all his Modesty and Sence,
So free from Scandal and Impertinence,
Admiring all the jingle of his Words,
Which e'ery strenuous Line, tho Prose, affords
That none can read him but must really own
Himself is often by himself out-done.
The Room by this time was become less full,
The Hour grew late, and the diversion dull;
So Home I reel'd as stupid as a Block,
Whilst croaking Watchmen cry'd past Twelve-a-clock.

Solitary Enjoyment:

Or, the Pleasures of Contemplation.

[_]

Sir, Whoever you are that obliged us with the following Subject, tho it be a little too serious for our Design, yet according to your Request we have presented you and the rest of the World that shall think it worth their Reading, with a short Poem upon the same, which we hope you will accept as a small requital of your Kindness, and excuse the insufficiency of those who subscribe themselves your humble Servants upon all like Occasions.

When Phœbus had exhal'd the Winter's Floods,
And Nature had adorn'd the Fields and Woods,
That every Mead her verdant Mantle wore,
With Gold and Purple Flowers embroider'd o'er,
Whose beauteous Charms administred Delight
To humane Soul as well as humane sight,
Subliming from the World each humble Thought,
Tow'ards him who all these mighty Wonders wrought,
And teaching us at e'ry glance to know
The Pow'r that dwells above by things below.
For who beholds so excellent a Frame,
Must needs adore the Author of the same,
As he that views an admirable Piece,
Nobly descended or from Rome or Greece;
Pleas'd with the artful strokes, he next enquires
The Author of the Work he so admires,
Gives him that Praise that's owing to his Fame,
And always speaks with Rev'rence to his Name.

Thus when the Spring in all her Beauty clad,
Made Birds and Beasts like humane Nature glad,
Finding the nobler part of Man, my Mind
To Contemplation seriously inclin'd,
I left my Closet and those darling Friends,
My Books, who serve me for no secret ends,
But void of Lucre faithfully impart
Such Councils that instruct and please the Heart,
To spend some hours in the refreshing Fields,
And muse on the delights which Nature yields;
Hoping in such Variety to find
New Wonders to enlarge my narrow Mind.

For who that's fill'd with an immortal Soul,
Can sensibly observe 'twixt Pole and Pole,
The numerous Blessings to our uses given,
And not extend his grateful Thoughts to Heav'n.

With folded Arms my Progress I began,
And gently mov'd like some enamour'd Swain;

Gazing with Pleasure, e'ery Step I took
Upon the flowry Mead or Crystal Brook,
Whose Murmurs seem'd to glorify his Name,
Who first gave motion to each purling Stream,
As if inanimates in Nature's School
Were taught (more Shame for the Athiestick Fool)
To praise, tho destitute of Soul or Sense,
The Works and Mercies of Omnipotence,

At last I came to a delightful Grove,
Where Philomel in Songs proclaim'd her Love,
And am'rous Turtles on each lofty Tree,
With Chooings mollify'd the Harmony;
The kind Refreshments of a gentle Breeze,
Fann'd the aspiring Branches of the Trees,
Each bowing to the Wind their tow'ring Head,
Most pleasing Whispers to my Ears convey'd,
Whilst the reviving Glories of the Day
Did here and there 'twixt drooping Boughs make way
And darting in its Beams divinely bright,
Marbled the dusky Shade with streams of Light;

Bless me, thought I, how vain is humane Kind,
By Pride corrupted, and by Wealth made blind,
That can, for vicious Pleasures, disagree
With these Delights so innocent and free;
And to the shortning of their days admire
Expensive Joys, which every Fool may hire;
Such as are base and sinful whilst they last,
And nauseous in Reflection when they're past,
So vile and odious to a modest Ear,
That when enjoy'd they'll no Rehearsal bear;
But in a moment lose their pleasing force,
And terminate in Scandal and Remorse;
So angry Fools will in a furious heat
Pursue Revenge because they think 'tis sweet,
But when they've gratify'd their Rage, they find
As Passion cools, the Evil leaves behind
The Horrour of a sad despairing Mind.

I sate me down my happy Soul to please,
Beneath a Towring Canopy of Trees,
Whose yielding Branches bended o're my Head,
And sporting with the Wind, sweet Musick made.

Whilst I (with humble Thoughts to Heaven resign'd)
Enjoy'd the Treasure of a peaceful Mind,
A Bliss the Worldlings of a vicious Age,
Could never find upon this publick Stage,
Who slight the best things to pursue the worst,
And only labour to be more accurst;
So greedy Fools desert their Native Soil,
Beneath the Torrid Zone to sweat and toil;
Forsake for base and mercenary Ends,
Their Wives, their Children and their dearest Friends,
And all the Comforts both of Life and Health,
To gorge their boundless Avarice with Wealth.

From Sinful Passions free I gaz'd about,
Happy within, and pleased with all without;
Sweet Contemplation fill'd my Mind with Ease,
And busy'd all my nobler Faculties;
The various Products I beheld around,
That rais'd their tops above the fertile Ground,
Each spreading Oak by Nature's bounty fed,
That from an Acorn rais'd its lofty Head,

Whose sollid Trunk, and whose extensive Arms,
Had been so long preserv'd in spite of Storms,
Which Wonder is alone enough to show
How Providence protects the World below.

The feather'd Choristers whose warbling Throats
Delight Mankind with their harmonious Notes,
Whose minute Bodies tho of slender force,
Can move with greater speed than Stag or Horse,
And do with equal Safety bear we find,
The Rage and Violence of the blust'ring Wind;
Therefore we ought no Creature to despise,
Because it little seems to humane Eyes,
Since e'ery Bird, tho short of humane Sence,
Is blest with some peculiar Excellence.

The gaudy Flow'rs, whose Colours please the Sight,
And by their fragrant Odour yield Delight,
That from their Beds start up amuse the Eye,
And when they've plaid their Part, in silence die;
That humane Race from thence might meditate
The sudden Changes of a mortal State,

And learn to live prepar'd that we might be
From hence transferr'd to Immortality.

My Contemplations next I fix'd on Earth,
From whence these Beings had at first their Birth,
That fertile Nurse who with her Plenty feeds
The various Fruits and Offsprings that she breeds,
And does so fond and kind a Mother prove,
So full of Pity and maternal Love,
That when her Sons are dead she gives them rest,
And hugs their Lifeless Relicks in her Breast;
Blest be the tender Mother, who from thence
Learns how to cherish Infant Innocence;
That fruitful Matrons may their duty know,
And to their Sons the like Indulgence show,
Which Providence extends to all below.

These and a Thousand various Products more,
That the exuberant Soil in order bore,
Fill'd me at once with Wonder and Delight,
When rightly scann'd, tho common to the Sight;

For senceless Atoms sure could never dance
Into such order by the Pow'r of Chance,
Nor jumbled Mites by accident compose
The meanest Brute that lives, or Plant that grows,
For could consenting Atoms ever join,
To make a Man a Monkey or a Swine;
Why should not now the Particles that rise
From putrid Bodies 'twixt the Earth and Skies,
Jump into Order as they us'd to do,
And produce something wonderful and new?
For could the various Fumes that range above
Their Senceless State to form, and Life improve,
That to convince the World the Clouds might rain
Plants, Monsters, brutish Animals or Men,
Then Moses to Lucretius should submit,
And Athiests be alone deem'd Men of Wit.
But till such Demonstrations I shall see,
With Scripture and with reason I'll agree,
And stedfastly believe the Great and Wise
Omnipotence that rules above the Skies,
That God, for Mercy upon whom we call,
To be the great Original of all,

With these Resolves I left the happy Grove,
And to my Books return'd all Peace and Love;
Pleas'd with the Moments I so well had spent,
And fill'd with all the Sweetness of Content;
These are the lasting Riches of the Mind,
The Wise alone in Contemplation find,
Whilst all the noisy bussle of the Great,
Their Wealth and Pow'r, their mighty Pomp and State,
Their Mercenary Slaves, who serve for Coin,
And envy every Mouthful when they dine;
Are but a Pest and do those Cares create,
That Plague the mighty Men on whom they wait.
Their beauteous Dames to satiate their Lust,
And foreign Dainties to oblige their Gust;
When once made common to the Taste or Sight,
Are stale, and will no longer yield Delight,
Grow flat and nauseous when the Fancy's cloy'd,
And change to be those Plagues they wou'd avoid.

But Contemplation teaches us to use
Those Pleasures which, without, we of abuse,

Kindly instructs us how we ought to steer
Our Lives in e'ery thing and e'ery where;
Does the whole World in proper Colours shew,
And calls to our imaginary View,
Something that's always good and always new.

An Off-hand Epitaph upon the Weasel.

Here lies within this holy Place,
The Lord have Mercy on him,
The Weasel in a wooden Case,
Exempt from humane Plagues, unless
You lay his Wife upon him.

Some People think if this was done,
Tho dead he wou'd be ready
To rise before his time and run,
The Lord knows where, in hopes to shun
That Termagant his Lady,

Since he is gone, 'tis hard that she
Shou'd be so long deserted;
Why Death shou'd'st thou so partial be?
Since all good People do agree,
'Tis pity they were parted.

Pray bid her, when she comes, not prate,
But hold her teazing Nonsence;
For if the Weasel smels a Rat,
He'll fly his Wife I'll tell you that,
As once he did his Conscience.

A Lampoon upon Two Sisters, famous Strumpets in the City.

Two Sisters there are,
Both obliging and fair,
With agreeable Faces and Bodies,
Who some say are naught,
Yet they fain wou'd be thought
Full as chast as Diana the Goddess.

They are merry and gay,
As our Milk-maids in May,
And are open and free in Behaviour,
You may smuggle and grope
For a Pint at the Pope,
But must pray for the ultimate Favour.

They are no common Drabs
But two dutiful Babes,
Who maintain both their Father and Mother,
By wagging their Scuts,
They provide for their Guts,
Both of them and a bullying Brother.

Who therefore can blame,
Or upbraid them with Shame
For playing at Hey diddle diddle,
Should they be reserv'd,
All the Clan must be starv'd,
Then O why should their Arses be idle?

They range its well known
All the ends of the Town,
And delight to be kind as their pritty,
They Trade, by report,
From the Noble at Court,
To th'Apprentice that lives in the City.

Their Jilting and Loving,
With Heaving and Shoving,
Maintains the whole Family round,
And should not the Cracks
Earn their Food on their Backs,
Soon their Bellies would empty be found.

The Mother connives
At their Libertine Lives,
They sin on with her Approbation;
The Brother defends
For some sinester Ends,
Their Honour and Reputation.

He'll challenge the Man
Who shall offer to stain
His Sisters, with any Reflection;
But yet has more Wit,
Than to meet or to fight,
For a Sword he has no great Affection.

The Dad was a Bumm,
But he sold for a Sum;
To be Bawd is the Pride of their Mother,
The Daughters win Hearts,
Thus they all act their Parts,
And the Bully is plaid by the Brother.

Between a dying Husband and a joyful Wife.

A Song.

Dearest Chloe, I must leave you,
From your sweetest Charms remove;
Let not worldly Joys deceive you,
Theres no Trust in Wealth or Love.

I have Riches, you have Beauty,
You are faithful, I am just;
Yet now I'm call'd to pay my Duty,
All can't save me from the Dust.
O I faint, my Head grows dizzy,
And my starting Eye-balls roul,
Death's approaching now to ease me,
O ye Gods receive my Soul.

Widdow.
O ho! Is he gone? 'Tis the better for me,
His Wealth and my Beauty do bravely agree,
Such Blessiings another will quickly obtain,
Then why should I mourn for the loss of a Man,
No, no, no, not I, no, no, no, not I,
For another more jolly his Place shall supply.

The Resolute Lady.

A Song.

Be gone, be gone, thou Traytor of my Breast,
No more betray, no more disturb my Rest,
Have I so kindly freed you from your Chains,
And to my Ruin, eas'd your love-sick Pains;
Hugg'd you so oft within my tender Arms,
Pitty'd your Wounds, and heal'd them with my Charms
And how can you at last, ingrateful Man,
Reward such faithful Love with your Disdain?

But since that Love's a Boy,
So foolish and so blind,
No more shall you enjoy,
No more will I be kind;
I'll now defy his Darts,
Ne'er wounded be again,
But strive to conquer Hearts,
And triumph o'er their Pain.

No Cringes, Bows, or Sighs,
Shall my Affections win,
No Flatt'ries, Vows or Lies
Shall draw me further in;
I'll airy be, and vain,
But neither kind or true,
And thus revenge on Man,
The Wrongs I've found from you.

The Plain-dealer.

A Song.

My dear Celinda, you may love,
Or if you please be froward;
Be which you will, I'll neither prove
A Martyr or a Coward.
If you are kind I'll be so too,
If cunning, I'll be wary,
For these two things I'll never do,
That's either hang, or marry.

If for one Night you will be kind,
And yield me your Embraces,
So long I'll swear to be confin'd,
In spite of all new Faces;
But if you hope, thro a Mistake,
That I should love you longer,
I'd have you stay till I can make
My Resolutions stronger.

An Assurance of Constancy.

A Song.

Belinda , why do you distrust,
So faithful and so kind a Heart,
Which cannot prove to you unjust,
But must it self endure the smart.

No, no, my dear, the wandring Stars
Shall sooner cease their motion,
And Nature reconcile the Jars
'Twixt Boreas and the Ocean.

The fixed Poles shall rather move,
And ramble from their Places,
E'er I'll from fair Belinda rove,
Or slight her charming Graces.

A Dialogue Song between a forward Youth and a young Lady.

Come hither, dearest pritty Miss,
Why thus afraid of Man?
A Virgin sure may take a Kiss,
Whose Waste is but a span.
Your Glances wound, your Kisses kill.
I long for something else;
My Dear forgive me if I feel,
I only mean your Pulse.

Girle.
Tho young I am, kind Youth, I know,
When you've one Favour got,
That you'll not be contented so,
But do I know not what.

O dear be civil, what d'y do,
I vow and swear I'll tell,
When once I gave an Inch, I knew
That you wou'd take an Ell.

The Rake's Call to the dead Philosophers.

A Song.

I

Old Seneca, Plato,
Epicurus and Cato;
Arise from below and direct us,
The Good that we know,
To your Morals we owe,
For Religion does only infect us.

II

We preach and we pray,
Like Saints e'ery day,
Yet dissemble and lie for Preferment,
And for Interest disown
Both our God and the Throne,
Yet are taught to believe there's no harm in't.

III

Thus the World is mis-led
And by Teachers betray'd,
For the Wolves in Sheep's Cloathing are many,
That Religion does seem
But a whimsical Dream,
And the Man but a Fool that has any.

The Double-meaning Lover.

A Song.

I

O lovely Nimph, have pity on your Swain,
And let him not be martyr'd with Disdain,
Take Pattern by the Gods and Mercy shew,
He stoops to Fate, lest rescu'd soon by you.

II

O lead me to some pleasant shady Grove,
Where Nimphs and Shepherds breath their faithful Love

And there where Linnets sing and Thurtles choo,
I'll tune my Voice and sing in praise of you.

III

But if groaning and pining,
And sighing and whining,
I find at the last will not win ye;
I shall think, by my Soul,
I'm a damnable Fool,
If I dote on the Charms that are in ye.

IV

Tho I sigh and I tremble,
I only dissemble,
In hopes by that means to deceive ye,
But as soon as I find
You're too chast to be kind,
By my Soul I shall suddenly leave ye.

A Wither'd Whore's Peep INTO A Looking-glass at Forty.

[_]

In Answer to a Letter dated from St James's

Bless me how pale and wither'd do I look?
How dull my Skin, how strangely am I broke?
Are these the Charms that so inslav'd the Town?
Or these the Eyes that have such Conquests won?
Sure I'm bewitch'd, this cannot be the Face
I us'd my self to doat on in my Glass,
That was all airy, beautiful and gay;
This mark'd with Age and wrinkled with Decay,
Those Cheeks would blush without the help of Art,
These Lanthorn Jaws would make a Lover start,
That Face had Eyes that sparkl'd like a Gem,
This Looks too dull and dead to be the same,

Those lovely Brows were full of Cole-black Hair,
These are inclin'd to grey and almost bare;
Those Lips were soft and of a Crimson Dye,
These have their Colour lost, are parch'd and dry;
Surely my Glass is false, this cannot see
The Charming Creature that I us'd to be,
She had a Mouth with Ivory Teeth beset,
These are reduc'd to Stumps as black as jet;
Her Nose was finely shap'd, from redness free,
This full of Rubies, stain'd with Ratifee;
Her Forehead lofty, smooth and full of Grace,
This blotch'd and furrow'd like a Granam's Face,
Her conquering Smiles the coldest Heart could fire,
And in the strictest Vertue raise Desire;
But these ill favour'd Looks do rather fright
The Amorous Youth than feed him with Delight.

Confound the Sex that led me first astray,
And taught my Youth to hasten on Decay,
Who by their Flatteries won me to their Arms,
And pleas'd their Lust with my unwary Charms:

Where are you now ye sighing Fops and Beaus,
With all your fulsome Lies and treacherous Vows,
Whose Guineas us'd to fly, and happy he
That could with Gold seduce me to be free;
Who is't adores me now my Beauty's fled,
What gen'rous Fool solicites for my Bed?
Which of you all, now I am past your sport,
Will give a generous Crown tow'rds my Support?
Not one, but leave me now I'm old and worn,
To serve some flogging Leachers beastly turn;
Or else with tatter'd Scarf, without a Charm,
To hang for bread upon some Bailiff's Arm.
Curse on ye Dog that did my Youth betray,
Pox, Pills and Potions, hasten your decay,
From Female Witchcraft may you ne'er be free,
Still love but always disapointed be;
Not by the Lady you wou'd fain debauch,
But may your Manhood fail when you approach
Lov's secret Lab'rinth, where the Blessing lies,
And when she's falling may you never rise,
But still in vain your lustful ends pursue,
And teaz the longing Dame but nothing do,

Till vex'd and tir'd, she bounces from the Bed,
Ne'er the more Whore, or e'er the less a Maid:
Thus may your Lust be the Disease of Age,
And still torment you till you quit the Stage,
But when you hug the Object you admire,
May Impotence still frustrate your Desire,
And make you fumble on till you expire,

The Riddle.

A whim there is, that's valu'd much by Fools,
A windy Gugaw, tho a Sovereign Cheat,
Contriv'd by Tyrants to advance their Tools,
For Flatt'ry more than Honesty or Wit.

A Royal Fly-blow that Engenders Pride,
An empty Something that has nothing in't,
In Thought exists and no were else beside,
Tho often nam'd in Writing and in Print.

The happy Man that does the Prize possess,
Altho he's forc'd to give it to his Wife,
Yet cannot find he has a jot the less,
Because he ne'er cou'd see it in his Life.

To those that wear it, we that are without,
Bow low, yet scarce can give a reason why,
For those that have it we have cause to doubt,
First got it by some secret steps awry.

Tho that strange Hidra, the misjudging Crowd
Thinks Vertue can alone the Prize obtain,
But wiser Heads can see 'tis oft bestow'd,
For wicked Actions, upon wicked Men.

Fools, Traytors, Bastards, very oft we find
Blest with the Bauble, look Austere and Great,
Then who would such a vain distinction mind,
That lies expos'd at such an odious rate.

Tho oft 'tis join'd with Power and Command,
And makes a mighty blust'ring noise at Court,
Yet like an Adjective that cannot stand
Without substantial Wealth for its support.

When poor 'tis scandalous, when rich 'tis proud.
Despis'd by wise Men, and by Fools admir'd;
By a strange Hocus it refines the Blood,
But without Wealth it seldom is desired,

The Woman shares the Blessing with the Man,
No Lord or Lady is without the Toy;
Then tell me, honest Reader, if you can,
What 'tis so many Sons of Whores enjoy.

In Answer to a Letter out of Darbyshire, upon Mr Wood's Marrying one Son and two Daughters, all upon the same Day.

A Poem.

Since foreign Fields by the destructive Sword,
Have long with English Purple been manur'd,

And numbers of our Youth are sent afar,
To reap the Glories of a prosp'rous War;
'Twas bravely done at once, O generous Wood,
To wed three Children for the publick Good,
At such a Time when Brittain wants a Breed
For the next Age that does in course succeed,
That by a Wainscot Race, as tough and hard
As sturdy Oak, the Loss may be repair'd,
For sure thy Son that wears the Nuptial Clog,
Altho a Wood, will prove no useless Log,
For if he shou'd, his Wife may justly blame
The Branch and curse the Root from whence he came,
Mourn that she's wed to such a wooden Stick,
And wish him at the Devil's Arse i'th' Peek;
But yet we hope h'as pleas'd the pretty Soul,
And to some purpose pegg'd Love's Auger Hole,
And that he fells his Underwood each Night,
To his own Comfort and his Bride's Delight.

As to thy Daughters, they disdain to prove
Unactive Blocks in the Affairs of Love,

The knotti'sts Sticks the Female Race can shew,
Tho ne'er so crabbed yet they'll buckle too,
Therefore if rightly prun'd there is no fear
But both the tender fertile Plants will bear
Fine Fruit, to your great Comfort e'ery year.
That Chips of the old Block may rise apace,
And all the County boast thy Wooden Race,
Which like the Branches of an Oak shall spread,
When the old Trunk is wither'd and decay'd.

Morning Observations upon a topping Tavern over a Pint of Canary.

My jolly Muse describe that drunken Scene,
A Tavern, where so often thou hast been;
Set forth that tempting Paradice of Fools,
Where cringing Slaves obey and Bacchus rules;
No matter what gay Sign adorns the Walls,
Or whether near St Michael or St Pauls;

For next the Church of God, we always find
The Devil builds a Chappel to his Mind;
What if the Front does for distinction wear
The King, the Pope, the Devil or the Bear,
Be't what it will, within there's Potent Wine
Will make a Man the likeness of the Sign,
Great as a Prince, or beastly as a Swine.
No Monster can their bungling Dawbers frame,
But Man, when drunk, will sometimes be the same;
Therefore the Pendant Scutcheon, tho a Beast,
Is but by turns the Picture of the Guest;
And by its wav'ring motion, does denote
The tottering Posture of a reeling Sot,
The painted Bush that dangles in the Air,
Adorn'd with Golden Jimcracks here and there,
On top of which the drunken God bestrides,
A little Hogshead and in Triumph rides,
Altho of late so artfully contriv'd,
From May-pole Garland 'twas at first deriv'd,
Where Country Clowns and Milkmaids us'd to meet,
And to the Bagpipe shake their clumsy Feet,

100

Till verdant Circles, by their constant Tread,
Altho manur'd with Sweat, were barren made.

But the fine Gugaw which at first was wove,
With Greens and Flowers from each Mead and Grove,
Advanc'd aloft on Flora's joyful day,
In honour to the Pagan Queen of May;
Is now, alass, for vicious ends, abus'd,
And as a drunken Sign by Christians us'd;
If Vintners (who to all Religion's Shame
Poison our Bodies and our Heads inflame)
Can Merit that blest Character or Name.

When with no small Amusement I had view'd
The noble Front that like a Palace stood,
Where curling Irons and the costly Sign
Were Emblems of th'extravagance within,
Which Fools commit when over powr'd with Wine;
For no such outward Vanity is shown,
By any but the Vintners Trade alone;
I bolted in, where in the Bar there stood
A lovely Piece of tempting Flesh and Blood,

101

Beauteous by Nature, but by Art improv'd,
Drest with design to be admir'd and lov'd.
About she rowl'd her Eyes when I appear'd,
And when a jilting Glance she had conferr'd
Upon me at my Entrance, she began
To summons with her Bell, the servile Train,
And with her Syren's shril enchanting Voice,
To sing the Names of all her Men and Boys,
Here Bacchus, Fenwick, Alexander, Tom
Where are you? Show the Gentleman a Room.
Said I, I'm single, have no Friends to meet,
Shew me some little Box that's next the Street,
Where I may sit and for a while employ
My Pipe, and by my self my self enjoy.
With that the Drawer congey'd with a Grace,
And led me to a snug convenient Place,
Where, thro a Casement I could gaze about,
And ogle who came in and who went out;
I pull'd a Chair, sat down and gave the Word
For the best Sack the Cellar could afford,
Such as our upright Fathers drank of old,
When Virtue scorn'd to be debauch'd by Gold,

102

And Conscience arm'd with Justice would disdain
To change its ground for either Fear or Gain,
Such as our antient Poets chose to drink,
Who did not only write and Rhime but think,
That Mortals might behold in e'ery Line,
Such charming Force in melting numbers shine,
As shew'd each powerful Thought refresh'd with Wine
The Drawer bowing, on his Word profest
He'd peg a Flower and bring me up the best;
But first there's Sixpence for your self, said I,
I only bribe you 'cause you shou'd not lye;
Thank you kind Sir, the fawning Slave reply'd,
I'll bring you Wine no Tavern draws beside.
Then nimbly as a Mercury he springs,
The Token, tho 'twas little, gave him Wings;
Money with speed makes all Men go and come,
The Noble flies to meet the greater Sum;
The nicest Lady 'twill alas bewitch,
Raise but the Bribe above her Virtues pitch,
Nay F--- and S---, tho so grave and wise,
Who o'er offending Mortals Tyranize,

103

If they the Golden tempting Bait deny,
And on the cringing Donor look awry,
'Tis only 'cause the Present does not bear
A due Proportion with the Robes they wear,
For Gifts and Bribes must always suited be
To the Receiver's Post and Quality,
A piercing Judgment is required to know
How much we ought exactly to bestow,
If too profuse, we're by our selves abus'd,
And if too nigardly, the Bribe's refus'd,
So to the Courtier I the medium leave
Who by consulting with the Knave in's Sleeve,
Knows better what to take and how to give.

By that time these digressive Thoughts were spent,
For Thought sometimes will be impertinent,
The Draw'r whose Absence I a while had mourn'd,
Was from the Cellar with the Wine return'd;
With elevated Hand he fill'd the Glass,
Whilst the brisk Attoms sparkl'd in my Face,
That by its lively Looks I understood,
Fenwick was honest and the Wine was good,

104

Thus prepossess'd I tasted of the Juice,
And found the Nectar free from all abuse,
So quick, so rich, so noble and divine,
So powerful, so angellically fine,
That it deserv'd some greater Name than Wine.

Thus far oblig'd, I with my self agreed
To wast one drouthy Pipe of Indian Weed,
And o'er my Wine in easy numbers draw
Familiar Pictures of what e'er I saw,
That common Opticks might behold each Part,
Free from the vain Imbellishments of Art,
Which, tho they add much Beauty to the Piece,
At the same time they make the Likeness less,
Do with lame Nature too far disagree,
And hide those naked truths the World should see.
Just so the flatt'ring Artist when he paints
The Picture of a Dame who Beauty wants,
With melting stroaks he smooths the dowdy Face,
And to each feature adds some charming Grace,
That who beholds the Piece can only see
Not what she is but what she fain would be.

105

Thus as I musing sate o'er Wine and Weed,
Like snarling Critick with a thoughtful Head,
Or that, like Timon, I'd abjur'd the base
And treach'rous Company of Humane Race,
To live abstracted from the Publick Stage,
And grin at all the Follies of the Age.
At last, I fix'd my volatile Conceits,
And tow'rds the present Subject bent my Wits;
Watching the Tavern Entry to descern
What Company came in, that I might learn
How fawning Sweet'ners get Estates by Wine,
Whilst gen'rous Souls in Circumstance decline,
Nay, whilst more Merit and Industry too,
Shall the same wealthy Ends in vain pursue;
Which shews that Fortune cares not to impart
Her Smiles to Men of Honesty or Art;
Vertue, on Earth, but seldom meets Reward,
'Tis Vice alone that swells the Miser's hoard,
Raises the Scoundrel to a Chair of State.
And makes the Fool diminitive, look great,

106

Improves the Vintner to a bulky Beast,
And gives him Pow'r to Lord it o'er his Guest,
But this can prove no Wonder to the Wise,
Who know 'tis natural for the Scum to rise.

No sooner had I drank a second Glass,
And tow'ards the Tavern Postern turn'd my Face,
But in their jostl'd an uncommon Crowd
Of Tradesmen, warmly talking very loud;
One with a Boatswain's Voice, above the rest,
His fiery Zeal most croakingly exprest:
Says he, they're Fools, I'll hold 'em two to one,
That at this time we're Masters of Toulon,
Has not Prince Eugene all along prevail'd,
In what Adventure has his Army fail'd?
The Glory is reserv'd for him alone,
To pull the Gallick Tyrant from his Throne,
You'll find in this Campaigne, that he'll do more
Than all the Vict'ries we have gain'd before.

Well said, thought I, a Man may easily read
Thou'rt a true Branch of the ingrateful Breed,

107

Who soon forgets the noble Actions done,
By Britain's Champion and the Battles won,
That brought such Triumphs to the English Throne.

But those Fanaticks that abhor the Name
Of Crown, take Pleasure to eclipse it's Fame,
And out of meer ill Nature and Disgust,
Bury those Glorious Actions in the Dust,
Perform'd by Kings tho ne'er so Great and Just.
Ring, ring, here Bacchus, crys the Lady fair,
Where are you, show the Tyger or the Bear,
Tho spoke by chance, it prov'd to me a Jest,
Both proper Rooms, thought I, for such a Guest,
Who by their brutish Rage and Fierceness shew
Themselves worse Creatures than the former two.

Next out of Coaches lighted at the Door,
A Wedding near in number half a Score;
In came the Bridegroom stepping with a Grace,
Mark'd with the signs of Cuckold in his Face,
If we by Features and by Lines can see
Men's Fortunes by their Phisiognomy;

108

Join'd to his dexter Hand, the wanton Bride,
Fine as a Queen, walk'd gigling by his side,
Wholly to Mirth resign'd, as if the Jade
Was pleas'd to think how she had noos'd the Blade,
Behind, each Brideman with his Maiden Dame,
Coupl'd like Doves, in loving Order came,
Throwing their am'rous Glances to and fro,
That their kind Looks might let each other know
They envy'd in their Hearts that sweet delight
The marry'd Pair were to enjoy at Night;
These were succeeded by some chosen Friends,
By whom perhaps the Bride obtaind her Ends,
For since, like Whoring, Wedlock's grown a Trade,
Few Matches are without Procurers made.

A Peal was now rung loudly at the Bar,
Run, Bacchus, run, crys Madam, to her Draw'r,
Down with the sliding Wainscot, help him Dick,
That parts the Greyhound and the Horns, quick, quick.
(The Bridegroom happ'ning to be tall and thin,
Long visag'd, slender back'd and very lean,

109

Seem'd by his Blushes to be much asham'd,
Because he was so like the Beast she'd nam'd)
Pray, Gentlemen and Ladies, walk up Stairs,
There's a large Room will answer your desires;
Here, Fenwick, Tom, Jo, Alexander, Harry,
Wherei'st you hide, a Pack of Sots where are ye?
Show up to the great Room, and pray take Care
(D'ye hear) that all things in good order are.
So up they mounted, airy, brisk and gay,
To jog their Tails and solemnize the Day,
And did their am'rous panting Hearts resign
To the kind Gods of Marriage, Mirth and Wine.

The Morning Whetters with their sparkling Eyes,
And flaming Noses, now began to rise
From their side Tables by the Kitchin Fire,
That publick Room which Trading Sots admire,
And thro the Entry slide by two and two,
Half drunk with White-wine and with Lisbon new,
Some reaching, poyson'd with their Breakfast Pipes,
Some with wry Looks complaining of the Gripes,

110

Whilst antient Sots with Gention Gills and Drams
Had numb'd their Noddles and relax'd their Hams,
That as along the crazy Sinners went,
They kindly paid a double Complement,
Nodded their Heads which with the Palsy shook,
And dropt a Cur'sy e'ery step they took,
Not thro good Nature, Breeding or Design,
But forc'd to't by the dint of Age and Wine,
Two pow'rful Foes, that all Men must allow
Will make the sturdy'st Hero yield and bow.

Now Merchants from the Change flock'd in to Dine,
All jabrieng about the grand Design,
Talking of what new Wagers they had laid
Of Letters, Mails, but not a Word of Trade,
As if their Fancies now were pall'd and tir'd
With that kind Mistress once so much admir'd,
And that they'd found some new Clandestine ways
To live without the wealthy Dame's Embrace.

Mob'd Ladies mask'd in Hackney Coaches came,
Each softly asking for her Cull by Name,

111

Some met their Sparks according to desire,
Who made 'em light in all their loose Attire,
Handing their lustful Paramours up Stairs,
To give the Rickets to the Tavern Chairs;
But first on some nice costly Dish to Dine,
And whet each others Appetite with Wine,
That soothing Bacchus might their Lust inflame,
Strengthen the Youth, exhilerate the Dame,
And make both wicked without Fear or Shame.
Others were disappointed by their Mates,
And so return'd confounding of their Fates,
Perhaps quite beggar'd by some late Debauch,
And wanted City Cull to pay the Coach,
So drove from Place to Place in hopes to find,
At last some gen'rous Coxcomb to their Mind,
Who thro Concern for their unhappy Case,
Would bleed profusely for a kind Embrace;
For Harlots when with Poverty opprest,
Always pursue those Fools that pay 'em best.

The House like Conventicle fill'd apace,
As if they sold not only Wine but Grace,

112

And that some Lab'rer in the holy Word,
With Tongue more hurtful than a two edg'd Sword,
In order to improve our Discontents,
Was preaching o'er his Liquor to his Saints,
Who always mix Religion with Design,
And edify the most when o'er their Wine.

Confusion hurry and incessant noise,
The tinkling Bar-bell and my Lady's Voice,
The Drawers crying Wines of e'ery sort,
From glorious Palm t'adulterated Port;
Some running up Stairs, others tumbling down,
All in a swift Carrier as if they'd flown;
Guest knocking with their Heels in sundry Rooms,
Some making exit to their Neighb'ring homes,
Some flocking in of e'ery Trade and Craft,
To occupy the Seats by others left,
Whisp'ring their gleanings of the freshest News,
Or the wise Comments of de Foe's Reviews,
That such a humm arose, as if the Guest,
Were buzzing Hornets and the House their Nest,

113

The bulky Vintner, who that Morn had been
With his fine Gelding, up at Hampstead Green,
To give his wheezing Corps upon the Heath,
The wholesome Benefit of Country Breath,
Was now return'd, and steping to the Barr,
Attempted to salute his Lady fair;
But dumpish Madam being vex'd and mad
That from his Bus'ness he so long had staid,
Leaving to her the Care of Barr and Book,
Refus'd the Kiss, which he in dudgeon took,
And flinging down the Keys, with Anger fir'd,
Scatter'd some bitter Words and so retir'd.
No sooner had the Buck possess'd the Barr,
And eas'd his Charming Helpmate of her Care,
But soon he made his roaring Voice proclaim
The Master rul'd the Barr and not his Dame;
Tho by Report, except the Fool's bely'd,
The weaker Vessel governs all beside;
But 'tis no wonder Women bear the Sway,
Since Men are grown such Blockheads to obey.

114

When I had thus beheld, as o'er my Wine,
What Crowds of Sots paid homage to the Vine,
What tipling Numbers their assistance gave,
To make a thankless Miser of a Slave:
I paid my Reck'ning, thinking it a Crime
To longer wast my Money and my time,
And thought it now no wonder to behold
Purse proud Vintner in a Chain of Gold,
Since e'ery painted Jackanapes and Bear
Does the same slavish Badge of Honour wear.

Wine beyond Love, or the Bottle before Beauty.

A Song.

[_]

Sir , since you inform'd us in your Letter the Words you desired were to be set to Musick, we have ordered them accordingly, in hopes to oblige you; if you find 'em for your purpose, you may command the like upon any other Occasion.

Venus the Charming Goddess of the Fair,
May have a Thousand Cupids in her Face,

115

To wound her young Admirers, and prepare
Her Lover to attack another Place,
Where Tide's of Pleasure do the Banks o'erflow,
And where the youthful Swain delights to cast
His Anchor, tho is Cable is, we know,
To short to fathom and to weak to last;

Bacchus, in spite of Love, my God shall be,
Let Mars and Venus jumble in the dark,
No Female Charms shall win a Sigh from me,
Woman's a Vessel I shall ne'er embark.

Love and Beauty you may ask,
Give to me the chearful Flask,
You will quickly have your fill,
Mine will yield me Comfort still;
E'ery Nimph will talk and range,
Full of Prattle, full of Change,
Too discerning or too blind,
Too Contentious or too kind;

116

I'll no Woman's Bubble be,
Love for you and Wine for me.

The London-Bawd.

A Song.

Come all ye Country Yea's and No's
Ye Temple Rakes and City Beaus
And antient flogging Cullies,
Walk in and view my Female Ware,
The Black, the Brown, the Red, the Fair,
All free from Claps or Bullies.

I've Widows, Wives and pritty Maids,
Fine dapper Dames, and lusty Jades
Of e'ery Age and Stature,
Highflyers, Meeters, Quakers, Saints,
That scorn your Washes or your Paints,
All Beautiful by Nature.

117

The sober Crack, the merry Punk,
The Ranting Whore that will be drunk,
The Modest and the Witty,
The Guinea Lass that plys at Court,
Of long Experience in the Sport,
Tho very young and pritty.

The Damask Lady very fine,
Or Chamber Maid in Anterine,
Well skill'd in making Possets;
Th'Exchange Wench in her Grazet Gown,
The taudry Minx bred up in Town,
Or Country Jugs in Russets.

The Pious Whore drest Holy wise,
The Hypocrite that sins and cries,

118

Yet loves the Sport most dearly,
The cunning Gypsy that is kept,
And by good Management is stept
Into an Income yearly.

The common Trader of the Town,
That gives two Ups for one Go down,
A rare good natur'd Doxy,
That when she finds she is not well,
Will frankly her Condition tell
Much rather than she'll pox ye.

The nasty bawling swearing Sow,
With swanking Udders like a Cow,
For Coachmen and for Porters;
The silly homely servile Drudge,
That for a Pot of Ale will lodge
With Soldier at his Quarters.

119

All sorts of Lasses can I call,
From Madam Flirt to Pitcher Moll,
For Rakes of e'ery station;
That will your Lustful Passions ease,
And be as Wicked as you please,
In spite of Reformation.

The Maiden-Dream.

[_]

In Answer to a Letter dated from Hatfield in Hartfordshire.

One Night extended on my Downy Bed,
Melting in am'rous Dreams altho a Maid,
My active Thoughts presented to my View,
A Youth undrest, whose Charming Face I knew;
Strip'd to his Shirt, he sprang to me in white,
Like a kind Bridegrom on the Nuptial Night;
And tho his Linnen Dress Ghost-like appear'd,
He look'd, alass, too harmless to be fear'd:
His wishful Eyes exprest his eager Love,
And twinkled like the brightest Stars above;

120

Such modest Blushes stain'd his comely Face,
That sure no Virgin Innocence could guess,
By his kind Looks, of e'ery Grace possest,
That he could harbour Evil in his Breast.

Bless me, said I, Philander, what d'ye mean,
How came you hither, who could let you in?
Undress'd, 'tis Rudeness to approach my Bed,
Consider, dearest Youth, that I'm a Maid;
You'll catch your Death, for Heaven's sake retire,
The Weather's cold and I have got no Fire;
With that, between the Sheets one Leg he thrust,
Mix'd it with mine, and sighing, cry'd I must,
Then clasp'd me in his Arms, I strove to squeak,
But found I had no Pow'r to stir or speak;
My Blood confusedly in its Chanels run,
My Body was all Pulse, my Breath near gone,
My Cheeks inflam'd, distorted were my Eyes,
Whilst My Breast swell'd with Passion and Surprise;
And still when e'er I strove to make a noise,
Something methoughts I felt that stop'd my Voice,

121

And did at last such Tides of Joy impart,
That glided thro each Vein and fill'd my Heart,
Recall'd my dying Senses back again,
And with a Flood of Pleasure drown'd my Pain.
Thus for a time I lay dissolv'd in Bliss,
As if Translated into Paradise.
But as no drowsy Virgin e'er could find,
Delights so charming, and Youth so kind,
And not awake when of a sudden blest,
With melting Joys too great to be exprest;
So I unable to preserve so strong,
An impress of my Dear Philander long,
Awak'd, much frighted, grop'd about my Bed,
But found, alass, my loving Ariel fled,
And all those lusious Pleasures gone and past,
Which seem'd indeed too exquisite to last,
I mourn'd the loss, yet felt some small remains
of the kind warmth still sporting in my Veins,
That tho my love was vanish'd, yet I vow,
I found my self all o'er I know not how;
Thought I, if working Fancy, in the Night,
Can give me, in a Dream, such sweet Delight,

124

What must two Lovers in a mutual Flame
Possess, when waking they repeat the same:
Philander, come, for I'm resolv'd to try
The Substance, since the Shadow yields such Joy.

The ingrateful Mistress

[_]

In a Dialogue between a flourishing Curtizan and her Gallant whom she had ruin'd, pursuant to a Subject given us in a Letter by the Penny-post.

Gallant.
Madam, you know when I was Rich and Great,
And could not your prevailing Charms withstand,
My Self, my Coach, my Servants and Estate,
To make you happy, were at your Command.

Mistress.
I own you have been very kind, 'tis true,
And in return I always have been just,
Surrender'd up my Heart alone to you,
And made my self a whore to ease your Lust.

123

Gallant.
But Madam, pray, consider 'twas my Love
By which you are thus Rich and Happy made;
I therefore hope you'll not ungrateful prove,
But help so good a Friend now he's decay'd.

Mistress.
It is not like a gen'rous Friend to crave
Part of a ruin'd Woman's poor Support,
Nor can I grant a share of what I have
To you, but I my self must suffer for't.

Gallant.
Yes you have Jewels which you seldom wear,
Whose Value I have greatest cause to know,
Those, without dammage, surely you may spare,
To help your Lover now reduc'd so low.

122

Mistress.
Once I had Jems of Value I allow,
When Beauty, Youth, and Vertue I possest,
But those you've had long since, and would you now
When I have prov'd so kind, demand the rest.

Gallant.
How can you, Madam, so ingrateful prove,
And without blushing my Request refuse,
When you from Want, may save the Man you love,
By parting with those things you never use.

Mistress.
Consider, Sir, they're Jewels, and as such
I'll always highly prize 'em for your sake,
And must confess I value 'em to much,
Since once you've giv'n 'em, to return 'em back.

125

Gallant.
How can you be so sordid and unkind,
To him that has such Love and Friendship shewn,
For once let Pitty move your stubborn Mind,
To help a Caitiff by your self undone.

Mistress.

How oft have you with Oaths and Vows profest
You lov'd me more than either Gold or Health,
Therefore I'll give what you approv'd on best,
You're welcome to my Arms but not my Wealth.

Gallant.
Then must I starve, or to some Country rove,
Where Slaves and Transports end their wretched days
There blame my Generosity and Love,
And curse the baseness of the Female Race.

126

Mistress.
But if you're serious, and resolve to try
Your Fate amongst the refuse of our Jayls,
Pray leave me some remembrance e'er you dye,
Tho but the worthless pairings of your Nails.

Gallant.
Dear Madam you shall have 'em as I live,
Now I have pair'd 'em, pray the Present take,
And since you find I've nothing else to give,
I beg you that you'll keep 'em for my sake

Mistress.
I thank you for the Present you have made,
And pray remember, wheresoe'er you come,
To boast how once you met a sharping Jade,
That left you not your Nails to scratch your Bum.

127

Gallant.
I thank you, Madam, for your grateful Jest,
I must confess your Sarcasm is too true,
Curse on the time I hugg'd you in my Breast,
Fortunes a Jilting Bitch and so are you.

Mistress.
Farewel, perhaps I ne'er shall see you more.
I hope the Sea your rampant Lust will cool,
Remember, Sir, you made me first your Whore,
And in return I've made you now my Fool.

A Drinking Song.

Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses,
Noble Deeds arise from Wine,
Scorn the Nimph and all her Graces,
Who'd for Beauty sigh and pine.

Look but in the Glass that's flowing,
And a thousand Charms you'll find,
More than Phillis has, tho giving
That same Minute to be kind.

128

Had Eugene, as we'd have had him,
Drank, he would have won Toulon,
Want of Bumpers only made him
Lose his Honour and the Town.

Alexander hated thinking,
Drank about at Councel Board,
And subdu'd the World by drinking,
More than by his conquering Sword.

Chorus.

Then fill about
And when its out.
Our Measure let us double,
He's only blest
That drinks the best,
And gives himself least Trouble;
Each merry Cup,
Will lift us up
Abvoe the reach of Sorrow.
Then pull away,
Let's drink to day,
What e'er we do to to morrow.

FINIS.

131

Vulcan and Venus, A Burlesque Poem.

At the Request of a merry Gentleman.

Says Vulcan to Venus, pray where have you been?
Abroad, crys the Goddess, to see and be seen.

I fear, says the Blacksmith, you lead an ill Life,
Tho a Goddess, I doubt, you're the Bitch of a Wife.

Why how now, crys Venus, altho you're my Spouse,
If you Bitch me, you Brute, have a care of your Brows
Why sure you don't think, I the Goddess of Beauty,
By dint of ill Language will prove the more true t'ye;
Be civil, you'd best, or I vow by my Placket,
I'll make the God Mars bastanado your Jacket.

132

Are you there with your Bears, Smug replies to his Hussey
Does Mars still refresh your old Furbilo, does he;
I feel by my Forhead a Coat that is scarlet,
Of all kind of Baits, is the best for a Harlot;
For Beauty I find, as 'tis commonly said,
Will nibble like Fish at a Rag that is red;
But Hussey, tell me any more of your Mars,
And I'll run a hot Bar in your Goddeship's Arse;
I fear not your Threats, there's a Fart for your Bully.
No Whore in the Heavens shall make me her Cully.

You run a hot Bar in my Bum, quoth the Dame,
It's a sign you've a mighty Respect for the same,
If your Love be so little as so to abuse it,
I'll keep it for those who know better to use it,
I'm certain no Goddess that values her Honour,
Would bear the Indignities you put upon her,
And not from that minute resolve out of spite,
To improve your old Horns till they hang in your Light.

133

You're an impudent Slut, crys the Smug at his Bellows,
And I the unhappiest of all marry'd Fellows,
I know you have made me a Ram, I have seen it,
I catch'd you, you Whore, in the critical Minute,
Fast lock'd in the Arms of your lecherous God,
Whilst his brawny Posteriors went niddity nod;
And you, like a Slut, lay as pleas'd and contented,
As if e'ery Joint in your Body consented;
Altho when you found you were spy'd by your Buck,
Then you struggl'd and strove like a Pig that was stuck
And dismounting your God would have made your escape,
But I saw by your Actions it could be no Rape;
Tho when you first heard, by my Patting-Shoe tred,
My approach to your Whoreship's adulterous Bed,
I know you'd have flown with your Coats and your Boddice,
And afterwards vow'd 'twas some other lewd Goddess
But my Net was too strong, it prevented your flying,
And so put a stop to your swearing and lying.

134

Besides, that the Gods might behold what a Slut
Of a Beautiful Queen they amongst them had got,
I call'd 'em about, that their Honours might stand
And be Pimps to your Goddeship's Bus'ness in hand,
That in case you the Truth shou'd hereafter deny.
I might call the whole Heavens to witness you lye.

And what did you get, crys the amorous Dame,
For the pains that you took, but a Cuckoldly Name;
'Tis true, you'r confirm'd you've a Whore to your Wife,
Pray is that any Comfort or Ease to your Life,
And have made it appear to the Gods as a Jest,
That your Wife's Reputation is none of the best;
Does that make your Labour more easy or sweet,
Or give you more Gust to your Drink or your Meat?
Tis true, you are fram'd for the Net you have made,
Pray what did you catch in't but Horns for your Head,
You know that your Rival don't value a trap,
Or a Net, any more than a Child or a Clap;
A Soldier is never asham'd of his Vices,
But rather is proud of a Goddess's Kisses,

135

And thinks it adds more to a Hero's Renown,
To subdue a fair Lady than conquer a Town;
Your Spite must be therefore intended alone
Against me, and that my little Faults might be known;
Since 'tis as it is, I am very well pleas'd,
Your Head shall be loaded, my Tail shall be eas'd,
For since you have publish'd my Shame and Disgrace,
And have made me a Jest to the Heavenly Race,
I'll be impudent now, and when ever I meet
My dear Favorite, Mars, tho it be in the Street,
If a Bulk be but near, I will never more dally,
He shall, if it pleases him, ay marry shall he;
Thus all you shall get by your open detection
Of one silly Error in Female Affection,
Is a Wife that will cuckold you worse out of Spite
Now she's catch'd, than before she e'er did for Delight,
To punish thy Head and Heart, that very Vice
Which I us'd but in private whilst Honour was nice,
I'll publickly now practise over and o'er,
Till thou'rt fam'd for a Cuckold and I for a Whore.

136

Crys Vulcan, Could ever Man think that a Goddess,
Admir'd for her Charms by such numbers of Noddies,
Should ever be curst with so rampant a Tail,
That will swallow more Love-sap than I can do Ale;
A Pox of your Rump, for I plainly see 'tis
As salt as your Parents, Oceanus and Thetis.
But had I first known you had sprung from salt Water,
The Devil, for me, should have marry'd the Daughter;
Besides you are grown both so lustful and bold,
That as well as a Whore, you're a damnable Scold,
And for all your sweet Looks, have a Billingsgate Tongue,
That is fifty times worse than a Fishwoman's hung.
If these be the Plagues of a beautiful Wife,
O ease me, Great Jove, of so a cursed a Life;
If Ladies divine, who inhabit the Heavens,
Will Whore on like Mortals, at Sixes and Seven's,
Rave, rattle, and taunt at their hornify'd Spouses,
And ramble a Bitching thro all the twelve Houses;
For all your fine Features I'll e'en give you over,
The Charms of a Whore are but Plagues to a Lover.

137

Get you gone and be pox'd, to your old Bully Mars.
Let a God be Slave to your Goddeship's A---s,
Whilst I in contempt of your infamous Rump,
On my Anvil will knock with a Thump a Thump Thump.

Hypocrisy Lampoon'd.

[_]

In Answer to a Letter wherein the Subject was given.

The Church, tho such a sacred Place,
That no one should abuse it,
Yet many have so little Grace,
To very much mis-use it.

'Tis true, the Pious Christian goes
For Heavenly Promotion,
Prays for himself and eke his Foes,
With hearty true Devotion.

But where one minds the holy Truths,
Preach'd to the careless Hearers,
There's Twenty enter into Pews
T'encrease their sinful Errors.

138

The Miser never minds a Word
Of what the Doctor teaches.
But heartily implores the Lord
To multiply his Riches.

His Pray'rs are still for more and more,
His Piety's but shamming,
Nor would he part with half his Store
To save his Soul from damning.

The Courtier only goes to Church
That Ladies may delight him,
And always leaves her in the lurch,
When Int'rest does invite him.

The cringing Tool still tacks about,
Just as his Prince entices,
If good the Courtiers so, if not,
He Monkeyfies his Vices.

139

The Trader occupies his Pew,
Amongst his drowsy Neighbours,
Because h'as nothing else to do,
When rescu'd from his Labours.

Or else to meet some Brother Tup,
Of whom he is a Lover,
That they may take a chir'ping Cup.
As soon as Church is over.

The Country Justice, when he goes,
My Lady must invoke him,
But dares not say his Pray'rs, God knows,
For fear the Words should choak him.

In lofty Pew he takes a nod,
Ne'er thinks of his Transgressions,
But whilst he should be serving God,
Is dreaming of the Sessions.

140

The Farmer on the Sabbath day,
That plods to Church so early,
Three Miles perhaps, goes not to pray,
But know the price of Barley.

Or else with greasy hedging Gloves,
His hoary Head's befriended,
Then sleeping, snoars and never moves
Untill the Sermon's ended.

The Maiden Lady finely dress'd,
Quite thoughtless of her Duty,
Crowds only in amongst the rest,
To shew her tempting Beauty.

Her Glances here and there she throws,
To charm you and invite ye,
And seems devout to please the Beaus,
Instead of God Almighty.

141

The lewd Adultress brisk and gay,
Does put her Sunday's Face on,
Yet all the time she seems to pray,
She thinks of Copulation.

In vain she vows her Life to mend,
If Heav'n would so dispose her,
But all the while her lustful end
In spite of Grace, says No Sir.

The common Harlot juts along
Amongst the rest for Fashion,
In hopes to whisper, in the Throng,
Some am'rous Assignation.

Yet she can bend her Knees at Pray'r,
And stay the time of Preaching,
But then, fair Lady, as you were,
To Jilting and to Bitching.

142

The Mourning Widow too can play
The Hypocrite with Vail on,
And most devoutly kneel and pray,
Tho 'tis but for a Stalion.

Bemoan the Loss of that dear Man,
Her lawful Spouse and Lover,
Yet ten to one she's kist again,
Before a Month be over.

The ancient Matron too repents
As Women think they shou'd do,
Not for her Sins, but she laments
She can't do what she wou'd do.

For Woman when beyond her Prime,
Her Sorrow chiefly rises,
Not from the Thoughts of any Crime,
But 'cause she's past her Vices.

143

The haughty Lady cocks her Rump,
And moves to Church in Splendor,
Not to serve God, but shew her Pomp,
Attendance and her Grandeur.

Arround she throws her awful Pouts,
Then kneels with so much caution,
That e'er she'll disoblige her Coats,
She'll hinder her Devotion.

To Church the Beggars move in Course,
For neither Pray'rs or Preaching,
Untaught, the Brutes are ne'er the worse,
Or better for their teaching.

Like Faggots in a Troop they serve,
And with the Church play booty,
Muster because they would not starve,
But never mind their Duty.

144

The Rabble too, those monstrous Beasts,
Those unregarded Lumber,
Who bring small Profit to their Priests,
Altho they're great in number.

Yet they must be religious too,
And Blessings will be craving,
Then Heaven knows that very few
Are worth its Mercy's saving.

Thus Thousands on the day of rest,
Polute the holy Temple,
And only meet to pray in jest,
Sleep, ogle, and dissemble.

For were the Lord's House to be lin'd
With none but pious People,
The Church the Parish Priest would find
As empty as the Steeple.

145

'Tis true, the Poor as well as Rich,
About Religion squabble,
But Int'rest always makes the Breach,
From Noble to the Rabble.

Thus all Men shew their Zeal and Heat,
And make a wond'rous Pother,
But most turn Hypocrites to cheat
And cozen one another.

Pasquin to Morfore.

[_]

In Answer to a Letter from a fair Lady; dated Russel Street, Covent Garden.

Since Men of real Justice are so rare,
And vertuous Nimphs so very scarce, if fair.
Why are they crush'd beneath the frowns of Fate,
Whilst worthless Mortals prosper and are Great?
The cringing Knave shall thrive and tow'r aloft,
And reverenc'd be for Villany and Craft,

148

Whilst Men of Conscience still in vain shall toil,
And ne'er from Fortune win one grateful Smile;
The Harlot in his Honour's Coach shall ride,
And take the Place of his neglected Bride;
Whilst Female Vertue, tho divinely bright.
If poor, must live a Stranger to Delight,
Lest she'll submit her Beauty to the Arms
Of some dull Fool unworthy of her Charms,
And so turn Slave to an unthinking Sot,
Who knows not how to prize the Jem he'as got;
Tell me Morfore, therefore why the best
Of humane Race, should be by Fate opprest,
Whilst Knaves and Harlots are by Fortune blest.

Morfore's Answer.

The Wicked like small Stars in number rise,
And spread the Earth as th'other do the Skies;
But Vertue rarely Commet like appears,
Whose flaming Lustre fills the World with Fears,

147

All gaze with Wonder at the blazing Sight,
But dread the Streams of its diffusive Light,
Lest the bright Object that their Eyes admire,
To scourge their Sins, should set the World on Fire;
Thus grow concern'd the Prodigy's so near,
And wish it sunk beneath the Hemisphere.
Just so the Wicked (who by means obscure,
Advance themselves to Riches and to Pow'r,
Sparing no shameful villanous Device
To heap up Wealth and propagate their Rise)
Gaze at those Men like Monsters who disdain,
To sully their more righteous Souls for Gain.
And fearful of those Merits they admire,
Against the Virtuous and the Just conspire.
Dreading if Men of Conscience should prevail,
That all their wicked Traps and Plots would fail,
And that themselves, as they deserve, should be
Expos'd to publick Shame and Infamy,
And fall in spite of Craft, when once accus'd,
Beneath the Rage of those they'd long abus'd,
Thus Crowds of Knaves the honest few o'erthrow.
And by the dint of number keep 'em low,

146

With Clouds of Calumnies eclipse their Fame,
And falsely brand 'em with an odious Name,
Teach the vile Rabble, those unthinking Slaves,
By paultry Libels to mistake the Knaves,
And judge them honest who betray their Trust,
Whilst Men of Morals, truly wise and just,
Shall bear that Scandal which their Foes deserve,
And so at once be crush'd and doom'd to starve.

As for the Fair, when they are doubly blest,
And by a Miracle divine, prove chast,
Yet want that mercenary varnish'd Gold,
To add a Lustre to their beauteous Mold;
No wonder they should unregarded live
In a base World where none by Vertue thrive;
For Women hate to see themselves outdone,
And envy all Perfections but their own,
She that enjoys more Vertue than the rest,
Is sure to live by her own Sex opprest,
Backbiting Scandals on her Charms they'll throw,
And join to keep her Reputation low.

151

Men, when inclin'd to marry, look around,
And like her best where most is to be found;
Virtue and Beauty answer not their end,
The Money'd Helpmate proves the surest Friend,
And she that wants it, tho her Charms are great,
Must linger out her days beneath the Fate
Of an unmarry'd Life, or what is worse,
Become some doating crazy Leacher's Nurse,
Spread Plaisters for his Gout, and punish'd be,
With fumbling Love and fiery Jealousy;
Or else become some petty Tradesman's Wife,
To lead a wretched and a slavish Life,
For e'ery Fool, lest very poor or old,
His Int'rest courts and weds alone for Gold;
Therefore the Dame with Wit and Vertue blest,
Altho divinely fair and truly chast,
Yet if her Charms no Fortune can produce,
And she wants Gold which e'ery Man pursues,
She still may live if modest she will prove,
A Beauteous Stranger to the Joys above,
For Death's Embrace her Moles and Dimples save,
And with her Virgin Flow'r perfume her Grave;

150

The Great adore no Charms, no Beauty mind,
But such as will be conquer'd and be kind;
If she'll no Harlot be, but scorns the Guilt,
The World will swear at random, she's a Jilt;
None will her Vertue e'er the more admire.
But rail because she fustrates their Desire.

Therefore since those that should Example give,
Pursue their Lusts, and like Infernals live,
And erring Numbers thro their want of Sence,
Give Knaves and Blockheads the Preheminence,
Virtue may hope to be futurely blest,
But must on Earth live injur'd and opprest.

The Libertines Return to his Virtuous Wife, in a Dialogue between Damon and Chloe.

[_]

In Answer to a Post Letter dated from Canterbury.

Damon.
Chloe from all the Pleasures of the Town,
Where Knaves seek Wealth, and nobler Minds renown,

149

To this more happy Grove am I return'd,
Where you, your Damon's Absence long have mourn'd,
Here will I stay, for ever more be true,
And lead my Life in Solitude with you.

Chloe.
Welcome, dear Damon, to my faithful Arms,
O that I had but all my Sex's Charms;
Were but the Graces of my Face and Mind,
Bright and engaging as I'm just and kind;
Then might I hope my Beauty and my Love,
Might charm you that you never more would rove,

Damon.
Chloe, I've wrong'd you, I confess my Crime,
But now in Tears repent and curse the time.
You my bright Angel have been kind and true,
But I've been faithless and unjust to you,
Forgive your Penetent all Errors past,
And he'll become as kind as you are chast.

Chloe.
The Love and Sorrow in your Looks I find,
Fill me at once with a forgiving Mind;

152

Had your Unkindness and your Slights been more
Than e'er young Bride from cruel Husband bore;
Yet such a Vow would have atton'd for all,
And made my Love a Recompence too small.

Damon.
What Godlike Goodness does thy Breast contain,
Thou best of Women to the worst of Men,
What, my Dear Chloe, can I say or do,
To bless a Wife so charming and so true,
Whose Beauty shines, improv'd by Vertues Light,
Bright as the Sun by Day and Moon by Night.

Chloe.
O promise only (as I'm truly thine)
To fix your Love and be for ever mine.
Let no young Rival, with her wanton Charms,
Delude you to forsake your Chloe's Arms,
For she that does, tho fair, she must be lewd,
But Chloe will be always kind and good.

Damon.
Tho I have wonder'd from the sweetest Bride,
That ever blest a happy Husband's Side;

153

Yet Conscious of my Guilt, I'm now return'd,
Have all my Follies past sincerely mourn'd,
And with a contrite Heart, to Heav'n and you,
Have vow'd for ever to be kind and true.

Chloe.
O bless the happy Tydings that I hear,
A Thousand joyful Welcomes to my Dear,
O let me hug thee in my faithful Breast,
No longer now with jealous Fears opprest,
Give me more pow'rful Charms, O mighty Jove!
And help my Kisses to express my Love.

Damon.
Chloe, I've found the diff'rence is so vast,
'Twixt wanton Beauty and a Wife so chast,
That now I know the better how to prize
Your Virtues more than their deceitful Eyes;
They're false and only serve a lustful End,
But I find Chloe is my faithful Friend.

Chloe.
So my dear Damon will I ever prove,
And bless your Bed with unpolluted Love,

154

Such that had always Vertue to aspire,
Above a wanton Deed or loose Desire,
Such that has grrev'd you should to others fly,
But in your Absence never thought awry.

Damon.
If blest in me, for ever cease to mourn,
And date your happy days from my Return;
Your Conversation and your Vertuous Charms,
Your melting Kisses and your faithful Arms,
Shall be the future Comforts of my Life,
Who can need more that has so chast a Wife.

Chloe.
Thanks, my Dear Damon, my Delight each Day,
Shall be to Love, to Honour and Obey,
And if my Beauty cannot please your Eye,
In Duty I'll the want of Charms supply,
Own e'ery Fault, beg Pardon on my Knees,
Always submit and study how to please.

Damon.
Tho the young Husband shou'd imprudent prove,
Still let the Wife preserve her Nuptial Love,

155

His vicious Pleasures soon will lose their Tast,
Her Goodness will entice him back at last,
Tho for a time her Usage may be hard,
Yet Virtue never fails to meet Reward.

Jack-Pudding's Invitation to Bartholemew Fair.

[_]

In Answer to a Penny-post Letter, dated from the Hospital Cloisters.

Come ye Lads with your Maids,
Bully-Prigs with your Jades,
And ye Cits with your Wives and your Daughters
Come ye merry young Flirts,
So inclin'd to Love's Sports
That your Mothers must watch your Waters.

Come ye Beaus and ye Culls
With your Furbelo'd Trulls,
Which you keep for the Pleasure of others;
Come ye Clowns with your Jugs,
Common Whores with your Rogues,
And ye Brats with your Fathers and Mothers.

156

Dress you all and repair
To old Barthol'mew Fair,
We have many strange Things to delight ye,
Very comical Drolls,
Full of Harlots and Fools,
With a Pope and a Devil to fright ye.

Here's the Siege of Toulon,
But because 'twas not won,
To old Troy we have vary'd the Matter,
Where that beautiful Piece,
Madam Helen of Greece
Was the Cause of such Bloodshed and Slaughter.

Here are numberless Shoals
Of Comedians and Fools,
And such Dogs that will caper and coopee,
Tho they're Dutch, they'll out dance,
Any Monsieur of France,
Or out Act any Barthtol'mew Puppy.

157

Here are Quacks in their Trunks.
With their travelling Punks,
Who will trip it on Ropes to please ye,
And if chance that your Eyes
Fall in Love with their Thighs,
They have something between that will ease ye.

Here's a Succubus black,
That will swing on her Back,
On a Rope that's as high as a Steeple;
And will hang by one Ham,
Like the Devil's own Dam,
To the Wonder of all Christian People.

Here are Punch and his Wife,
So perform'd to the Life,
With the Buttterfly flying about 'em,
And so merry they are,
That a Bumbkin would swear,
All the Fair wou'd be nothing without 'em

158

Tho they're chip'd out of Board,
You would think when they stirr'd,
They were Part of the Living Creation;
But that if you felt,
You would find Punch was gelt,
And his Wife without any Temptation.

Here are Booths for the Mob,
Where there's Musick and Bub,
Buy the last, you've the other for nothing,
And if, when you're drunk,
You've a Mind for a Punk,
Here are Whores for your liking or loathing.

Here are Cakes, Buns and Ale,
Very small, dear and stale,
Old Dances and Wine that is eager.
And Musick so famous,
You'd think 'twas the same as
Was plaid to the Devil Belfegar.

159

Here is Pork for Relief,
That's as fat as Neck Beef,
Very good, tho the Jews have so curst it;
And most excellent Pig,
That, at least, is as big
As the Bitch of a Spaniel that nurs'd it.

Here are Boats in the Air,
That will carry their Fare
Up and down, without sailing or rowing;
Also Coaches that fly
'Twixt the Earth and the Sky,
That to Heaven you'd think you were going,

Here are Damsons and Nuts
To breed Worms in your Guts,
And rare Filberts to help on the Pthisick,
Here is Drink to be sold,
By each Booby and Scold,
That is almost as pleasant as Physick.

160

Here are all sorts of Toys
Both for Girls and for Boys,
From the Drum to the Ginger-bread Baby,
And such Fairings for those
That will part their great Toes,
As may cost them their Noses it may be.

Here are Cloysters for Trulls,
And Raffling for Culls,
Whilst the Ladies, with mendicant Faces,
Sit by and receive
What each Blockhead will give,
As a Fee to ensure their Embraces.

Here's a cozening Game
With a Dutchify'd Name,
Most commonly call'd Rowly Powly;
Besides Women and Dice,
And all manner of Vice,
That can humour a Fool in his Folly.

161

Here are Whores of all sorts
For your amorous Sports,
And a gang of stanch Bullies to match 'em,
Here are Highwaymen too,
And a Pick-Pocket Crew,
If our Laws had the luck but to catch 'em.

Here is all that is vain,
That can Pleasure a Man,
From the Cit to the Country Looby,
From the Whore of Renown,
To the Punk of the Town,
From the Finkin Beau to the Booby,

Therefore you that delight
In a Jest or a Sight,
Or that need a fresh Lover's Embraces,
If you want to behold
Wicked Sodom of old,
Pray come hither and take your Places.

162

The Character of a Derby Ale Sot.

[_]

In Answer to a Letter dated from Grays-Inn.

No sooner had the thirsty Sun withdrawn
His fiery Face beneath the Horrizon,
But out the Porcus waddles from his Sty,
To Derby Hogwash brew'd and sold just by;
Thus leaves his Buss'ness and forsakes his Home.
To wast the Ev'ning in some publick Room,
Where bulky Sots in giddy numbers meet.
Not to converse but smother Drink and Sweat,
And stretch their yielding Hides that those may boast,
The Stowage of their Casks that hold the most.
With Aspect flaming like a blazing Star,

And huge gotch Belly'd, like a Spanish Jar;
He straddles in, his Compliment he pays,
And then squats down in his accustom'd Place,
Where choak'd with Flegm, he blows a while for ease
Like sporting Crampos in the Northern Seas;

163

For as the latter spouts, the former hauks,
And spits the Dregs of his last Night's Debauch;
When thus reliev'd, he asks the tipling Crowd,
Sitting like painted Gods in smoaky Cloud,
Whether the Ale deserves the Name of Good.
No sooner have the partial Judges made

A kind Report to please the drouthy Blade,
But with his Box of Weed to work he falls,
And charging of his Gun for Liquor calls;
Up comes the Ale, that may be drank or chew'd,
In some dark subterranean Dungeon brew'd,
Where none can see how basely they abuse
Their damn'd Lixivium with the Frauds they use,
Which is but Treacle coddl'd into Slime,
With Broom made bitter, and refin'd with Lime;
Beneath his Nose the Nipperkin is plac'd,
Where it stands ready for his Swineship's Taste.
First in a wrinkled Glass he views the Swill,
Commends its knitty Looks to shew his Skill,
And then returns it back into his Gill;

164

Which e'er he lights his Pipe, the guzzling Sot,
Takes nimbly off at one luxurious Draught,
Then knocking for another, swears that Wine
Is nothing near so rich, or half so fine.
Thus Fools, for want of Judgment, oft esteem,
Like Æsop's Cock, an Oat before a Jem;
So the voracious Hog perhaps may think
His nasty Puddle is the best of Drink,
That he's as happy wallowing in his Mire,
As Brother Swine, who does no more desire
Than Derby, Sot-weed, and a rousing Fire.
Pleas'd with his Drink, he guzzles on apace,

And scores his Tankards in his scarlet Face;
For as he smoaking sits, each fresh supply,
Still more inflames, and gives a deeper Dye,
As if he blush'd that Malt should so prevail,
And make him such a Slave to nasty Ale,
Such slimy, lucious Filth, that's only fit
To give Men Bulk, and rob them of their Wit,
As Sleep to an Excess, with little Pains,
Will feed our Flesh but stupifie our Brains.

165

Thus for six hours, each Night, he smoaks and drinks,
Talks very rarely but more seldom thinks,
As if his Doses of Lethargick Slime,
Like Opium made him dream away his time,
And that each poys'nous and bewitching Draught,
Impair'd his Mem'ry and destroy'd his Thought,
Or else he would have so much Sence at least,
To find himself transform'd into a Beast,
And would at once resist the Oily Charm,
That numb's the Soul, and does the Mind such harm,
Abjure the Custom of so vile a Drink,
Tinctur'd with Malt, but does of Spirits stink.

Thus on he guzzles, till the Watchman nicks,
With Twelve-a-Clock, his entering Hour of Six;
Then calling what's to pay, he strives to rise,
Weak in the Hams and drowsy in the Eyes;
At last, with much ado, the reeling Sot,
Staggers from Table to the Chamber-pot,
Where he stands tott'ring, sottishly content
To dribble out those Pence the Fool has spent;
Nor is the useful Urine he has made,
Like common Piss, to Channel Stream convey'd,

166

'But carefully preserv'd in stinking Tub,
'Gainst they brew next, to meliorate their Bub.
What tho defil'd with loathsome Pox or Clap,
When first it drop'd from Nature's sinful Tap,
'Tis purg'd by Fire and purify'd with Lime,
And made fit Lap for Fools a second time;
Not only so, but he that keeps one House,
And does each Night the gummy Belch carouse,
The Leakage in one Week he leaves behind,
Is for his Palate by the next refin'd;
Thus the dull Sot unknowingly is made
A Pipe, by which the Liquor is convey'd,
Back to the Piss-burnt Copper whence it came,
And only drinks and pays for still the same;
So the Consumptive Wretch, in Hopes to heal
His Ulcerated Lungs when weak and ill,
From mortal Cask, his Morning's Draught he draws,
Catches what e'er from dangling Spiggot flows,
And the same Dregs into his Bung-hole throws.
Thus the poor Patient, tho his Physick stinks,
Drinks what he pisses, what he pisses drinks.

167

When the dull Sot for half an hour has stood,
Preparing for the next good Ale that's brew'd,
To take his Night's Departure when h'as done,
At going off, he gives a rouzing Gun,
Then turns his brawny Buttocks on the Room,
And like a true Dutch Boar Reels belching home.

There totterings into Bed, and fizling lies,
Till Derby's ill Effects which close his Eyes,
Will without Head-ach give him leave to rise.

The Gallant's blunt Address to a fond Adultress.

A Song.

Pray Phillis sigh no more for me,
Nor counterfeit that Passion,
Your Love is but Hypocrisy,
Your Looks Dissimulation.
Tho young, you have for years been wed,
Two Lovers are too many.
The Nimpth that stains her Marriage-Bed,
Can ne'er be true to any.

168

A Woman's Oaths invalid are,
When she has lost her Honour,
The same you vow to me, you'll swear
To him that is your Owner.
To talk of Love it makes me stare,
I hate such Female shamming,
But if you're lustful as you're fair,
I'll run the risque of damning.

When e'er you shew your self inclin'd,
And I've a Mind to ease ye,
I'll be as vig'rous and as kind,
As e'er I can to please ye;
But to be true I'll never swear,
If that's the Nail you're driving;
I'll be no fetter'd Fool to e'er
A marry'd Jilt that's living.

FINIS.

171

AN ELEGY UPON Gammar Bouncly, A most Famous Breweress of Noble Ale in the Peak in Derbyshire.

Who unfortunately smoother'd herself in her own Mashing Tub. Written in Burlesque of a Bombast Pastoral, upon the Death of a Beautiful Lady of considerable Quality.

Help me ye Mid-night Hags to sing the Praise,
Of Bouncly and her Ale in bouncing Lays;
Not in soft whining Numbers only fit
To make the Dust of Quality smell sweet;
Flattery's a fulsom mercenary Theme,
And seldome worth a generous Poet's Dream:

172

Assist me so to temper e'ery Line,
That Wit and Mirth with equal Pow'r may shine,
And raise at once old Bouncly's Fame and mine.

Mourn all ye Sots around the Devil's Arse,
Drink first and then attend the Gammar's Hearse,
Charge your capacious Bellies to the Brim,
Till Guts and Brains in windy Bladders swim,
Huge swelling Bumpers down your Gullets throw,
Till, like your Cups, you're ready to o'erflow;
And when with Barley Juice you're charg'd thus high,
And like ripe Bottl'd Ale, just fit to fly,
Attend the Matron to her final Home,
And spew your Sorrow out on Bouncly's Tomb,
Bouncly, that merry Gossip who so oft,
At Comick Tale and Bawdy Jest, has laugh'd;
Bouncly, who many a youthful Swain has eas'd,
And in her Cock-loft, jolly Tinker pleas'd;
Bouncly, who us'd, with Lov's delighted Sport,
To pay her Maltster when her Coin fell short;

173

Nor would she put young Lovers to the Toil,
Of walking to their Jugs or Joans a Mile,
When her soft Liquor had inflam'd their Hearts,
And rais'd a Fever in their nobler Parts,
But always was so kind (her Name be prais'd)
To cool that heat her pow'rful Ale had rais'd,
Till feeble Hob, tho just before so stout,
Should want more Drink instead of t'other Bout;
For skilful Smocksters, least Experience lies,
Tell us that Love's a drowthy Exercise.

O Mourn her fatal Loss, ye am'rous Swains,
That guard your Flocks upon the neighb'ring Plains.
Mourn all ye painful Coridons around,
That trim the Woods and cultivate the Ground;
Lament ye Clowns, in Sheep-skin Breeches clad,
For none but you that knew the buxom Jade
Can miss the Charms the merry Beldame had.

Such Ale as hers, so exquisitely good.
Was ne'er before in brazen Vessel brew'd,

174

So rich, so stout, so knappy and so fine,
So Nectar like, so racy and divine,
That ev'n the Vicar, who the Parish taught,
Drank, e'er he Preach'd, a Flagon at a Draught,
When thus inspir'd, he mounted up aloft,
And made good Christians more by Ale than Craft.

The Whist'ling Plow-man labour'd hard all Day,
And gladly took much Pains for little Pay,
T'enjoy the kind Refreshment and Delight
Of Bouncly's Ale and merry Tales at Night.
Bouncly, whose Charms, whose Liquor and whose Fire,
Would warm the Codpiece and the Brain inspire,
And make a Man at once, when o'er his Pot,
A standing Lover and a sitting Sot.

O what a Blessing has the Country lost.
No Hostess brew'd such Ale or bak'd such Toast,
Or could the buxom'st Beldame on the Road
Have softer Flesh or better furbilo'd;
If those kind Fuddle-caps declare the Truth,
Who knew her in her Age as well as Youth,

175

For tho Time's Sickle mows away the Hair,
And leaves the Crown of wither'd Beauty bare,
And in declining Years his Spite to show,
Causes an Autumn in the Shades below;
Yet Bouncly was at Fifty brisk and gay,
And wore no wrinkled Symtoms of Decay,
Nor did she ever want from Heel to Head,
The blooming Vigour of a youthful Maid,
But am'rous were her Looks and kind her Heart,
Hairy her Crown and fledg'd in e'ery Part,
That none could tell i'th dark, I dare engage,
Whether Fifteen or Fifty was her Age,
So round her Breasts, so brawny was her Bum,
Such wirey Plumes adorn'd her M---m,
That had young Paris been to judge the same,
He'ad baulk'd young Venus of her Beauty's Fame,
And given the Golden Apple to the Dame.

Then what kind vigorous Coridon that loves
A Female Skin as white as Juno's Doves,
And all the other Graces that belong
To an old Widow, buxom as a Young,

176

Can close his Heart and not bewail the loss
Of her who gave what others sell for Dross,
For no Man's Worth she measur'd by his Purse,
But lik'd him best that most was like a Horse,
He that without a Spur three Heats would run,
And never sweat but neigh when he had done.
O mourn the Loss of such a gen'rous Dame,
Who never kindled but she cool'd the Flame,
And by the Water-Engine in her Tail.
Conquer'd the Fire of Love or that of Ale.

O with what Art and Caution did she brew,
Her oily Stingo which she never drew
One Day too stale, or yet an hour too new,
But always tap'd the Cordial when 'twas time,
And seldom kept one Drop beyond its Prime,
But rather to her Swine the Swill convey'd,
Than suffer'd Men to drink it when decay'd,
Thus, as the mumping Wretch who stroles and progs:
Throws out his musty Fragments to the Dogs,
So with sour Ale she merry made her Hogs:

177

But what she sold, such Strength and Vigour had,
Twould make a Saint run Copulation mad,
Nay, such prolifick Vertues in it dwelt,
'Twould find a Man new Dowsets that was gelt.
And make bald Age as juvenile and gay,
As an old Stallion in the Month of May.
The Town wherein she liv'd with Children swarm'd,
Got when their Parents with her Ale were warm'd,
With Milk the Mothers Nipples it supply'd,
And did for all the swaddled Young provide;
Thus did her Ale beget the Brats, and then,
From sucking Infants rais'd 'em to be Men,
For by the Laws of Nature, e'ery thing
Should nourish that which from it self does spring.

Thus did her Ale make every Husband kind,
And loving Help-mate, fruitful to her Mind,
Nay, Boar and Sow, without the help of Pees,
Ow'd all their grunting Offspring to her Lees;
Thus Boys and Girls, and Pigs and Hogs as well,
That did around her boozing Cottage dwell,
Were all descended from my Gammar's Ale.

178

But now no more shall Roger tug his Bride,
At Christmas, Easter, or at Whitsontide,
To Mother Bouncly's Hut, to merry make,
O'er knappy Ale, hot butter'd Buns and Cake,
For at good Times 'tis to be understood,
The careful Housewife bak'd as well as brew'd,
But now, alass, into the Grave she's tost,
And in her Death the Art of Brewing's lost,
So when old Dorba perish'd in her Cell,
With her the Pow'r of Conjuration fell;
None in those early and unskilfull Days,
But her deep Magick could a Samuel raise,
So none in this dull Age, without Default,
Can raise such Ale as Bouncly did from Malt,
Bouncly, who all Loves nicest Secrets knew,
And taught the Maids to kiss and Men to woo;
Instructed Bashful Brides ith' Nuptial Arts,
And taught both Sexes how to act their Parts;
A thousand other charming Nacks she had
To make young Lovers for each other mad:
Yet to inflame the Heart, or warm the Tail,
Us'd no Love-Potion but her own good Ale.

179

O wicked Planets to decree so hard
A Fate, at last, to be the Dame's Reward.
That she who had so long her Love diffus'd,
Should by her Stars be so severely us'd;
And be so basely to her end betray'd,
By Ale, that Creature which her self had made.
For on a drouthy Day (O Curse the Time)
When Sol's Ignescent Beams had scorch'd our Clime,
And the kind Dame as she was wont to do,
Had hung her largest Kettle on to Brew,
And plac'd her Vessels round her to provide
Plenty of Ale against a Merry-Tide:
For Bouncly's Orchard, and her old Thatch'd House,
Were at such Times the Gen'ral Rendezvous;
Where tuneful Ballads grac'd her ancient Hut,
And blooming Crab-trees made a Grove without,
Where Rural Clowns their Active Members try'd,
And shew'd their Vigour in my Dame's Backside.
But oh that fatal Day wherein she fell
A parboil'd Victim to unfinish'd Ale:

180

For bustling 'twixt her Kettle and her Tub,
To improve Malt and Water into Bub;
Swelter'd with Toil, Hot Weather, and the Fire,
Much Ale her drouthy Entrails did require;
So that oft sipping to repleat her Veins,
Cool her parch'd Liver, and to ease her Pains,
The Potent Tipple did at last prevail,
And standing o'er her Tub to lant her Ale,
The careless giddy Dame, as Fame reports,
Pitch'd her poor Head into her seething Worts:
Where she at once expir'd without a Squeak,
And drown'd the greatest Wonder of the Peak.
So fell Old Bouncly, by her Ale o'ercome,
And made her fatal Mashing Fat her Tomb.
Thus by her own vile Creature was she hurl'd
Headlong whilst Brewing to the other World.
Just like the Monk, who was to Hell betray'd,
By the same Powder he himself had made.

Weep Hogs and Porkers, from your Dunghils rouze,
And grunt your Pity o'er your empty Troughs.

181

Mourn all you Piping Corydons and Swains,
That such a Buxom Dame, who spar'd no Pains
To live by Ale, should Die at last in Grains.

The Beau's Panegyrick upon his Beautiful Mistress:

Or, Love without Matrimony.

'Tis true Almira, you're as soft and fair,
As Mortals can suppose the Angels are.
The Horned Queen that rules the Dusky Night,
In a clear Winter, cannot shine more bright.
Each sparkling Eye does, to our Wonder, share
More Glory than the most Refulgent Star.
Each tender Lip like the Carnation glows,
And your smooth Cheeks out-blush the Damask Rose.
Those Iv'ry Keys that modulate your Speech,
Are whiter far, than Dover's Chalky Beech.
And on that Charming Instrument, your Tongue,
Sweet Musick, and soft Eloquence are hung:

182

Such that Amyhion's Harp could ne'r out-do,
Or Tully in his Learn'd Orations shew.
Your lofty Forehead gives an awful Grace,
To all the humbler Features of your Face;
Whilst Cupids lurk beneath your Sable Brows,
And chuse the bending Arches for their Bows.
Your silky Locks around your Temples fly,
And sporting with the Wind dishrevel'd lie.
Whilst here and there your Alabaster Skin
Peeps through the waving Curls, and shines between,
As the bright Sun that warms us from above,
Darts through the Branches of a shady Grove.
Your Shape, your Wit, and your engaging Air,
Your Breading and the Character you bear,
Your snowy Breasts that boil above your Stays,
And Maiden Virtues that deserve such Praise,
Are all inviting Graces 'tis allow'd,
Enough to make the meekest Virgin Proud.
But still you're Woman, that deceitful thing,
Whose Beauty's arm'd with a tormenting Sting;
Fill'd like Pandora's pois'nous Box within,
With Miseries and Plagues that lurk unseen:

183

Till he that breaks you open, finds too late
His wish'd for Blessing is become his Fate.
And that the only Curses which he fear'd,
Lay hid beneath that Beauty he rever'd:
What signifies the Fairness of your Skin,
When all your Sex's Vices lodge within:
For Women differ but in Shape and Name,
Tho fair without, within they're all the same;
Proud, Fickle, Lustful, Treacherous and Base,
Led by no Reason, bounded by no Grace,
Curs'd with the Plague of an unruly Tongue,
Taught to be subtle Hypocrites when young,
By their own Mothers, that the Maid may hide
Those Faults, she soon discovers when a Bride.

Therefore Almira I'm alass too Wise,
To be your Slave, tho I adore your Eyes.
For Woman, tho an Angel when a Maid,
Always turns Devil in a Marriage-Bed,
Then, who that [illeg.] the Freedom of his Life,
Would [illeg.] it or [illeg.] prating thing a Wife?

184

Not Strepbon, if your Charms must purchas'd be
At no less Price than that of Liberty.
I shall no Chapman for your Beauty prove.
I cannot Marry tho I vow I Love.
Therefore, my Dear, if I have won your Heart,
Dally no more, but play the Woman's part.
As such I'll Love you, if you dare be free;
But if you think to Wed, no Wife for me.

A Good Wife the greatest Happiness:

Or, the Real Comforts of Matrimony, with a Check to a Libertine.

How foolish and how vain when young
Was I (alass!) to live so long,
Without the Charms and Blessings of a Bride,
By Rakes and Libertines misled,
To falsly think a Marriage-Bed,
A dull Confinement to a Woman's Side.

185

But now in honour to the Fair.
Experience moves me to declare,
I ne'er could truly tast a happy Life,
Without the kInd Endearments of a Wife.

The Freedom of a single State,
Of which young Beaus and Blockhesds prate.
What is that pretious Liberty they boast,
But Beastly Drinking till they're Drunk,
And Whoring on with e'ery Punk;
Till ruin'd at their own Excessive Cost
Pox'd by those Ladies they admire,
Who prostitute their Charms for Hire;
And then consuming in Venereal Flames,
Curse the warm Favours of their Beauteous Dames.

Falsly accuse the Female Race,
As if they, all alike, were base,
Because their Vicious Selves have only known
Such Harlots who were bred in Stews,
And taught by Panders to diffuse

186

Their early Favours thro the Lustful Town.
Thus from their Impudence infer,
That all the Sex as wicked are.
So those whose Eves the Jaundice overflow,
Think others Yellow, cause themselves are so.

Thus do vain Fops their Youth deceive,
And from their own ill Lives believe,
That all Mankind are in their Natures Lewd;
Well may they fancy so who see,
No Scenes but of Debauchery,
And Live such Strangers to the wise and good.
The Negro who has never seen,
A Christian Race of Whiter Men,
From his own Colour judges by Mistake,
That all the distant World, like him, are black.

Unhappy Fools to be misled,
By e'ery Common Jilt and Jade,
To think the nauseous Favours they impart,

187

Can more than equal that Delight
The Marriage-Bed affords at Night,
Unstain'd with Sin, and unimprov'd by Art,
But where sweet Innocence unknown
To all the World but me alone,
With open Arms receives me in her Breast,
And yields those Joys too great to be exprest.

Marriage, with Rev'rence name the State,
'Tis honour'd by the Good and Great.
Mankind without it would to Brutes decline.
Incest and Sodomy arise
From those foul Leachers who despise
That Ordinance so sacred and divine.
The Wise would Wed, if but to see
A sprightly Lawful Progeny.
For what on Earth can equal the Delight
Of Babes, like Angels, sporting in our sight.

A Man's but in a Vagrant State,
Till coupl'd with a Female Mate.

188

Loose and Dissettld is his wand'ring Life.
O'er flowing Bowls he rants and roars,
Reels from his Bottles to his Whores,
Unknown to th'Blessings of a Virtuous Wife.
This is the Freedom giddy Fools,
Who're deaf to Reason and to Rules,
Value so much, tho all the Grave and Wise
Condemn their Practice, and their Joys despise.

If Happiness consists alone
In being speedily undone,
And true Enjoyment in Excess is found,
That real Pleasures only dwell,
In aching Head and flaming Tail;
Let Whore and Bottle then all Night go round.
If such severe effects as these,
Instead of punishing can please.
Then Blockheads, Rakes and Beaus are only Blest,
And Marriage ought to be esteem'd a Jest.

189

But if a sober vertuous Life,
Fine Children and a faithful Wife,
Credit, Respect, Alliance and Repute,
Are real Blessings that the Wise
Believe they have just Cause to prize.
Then he that rails at Wedlock is a Brute:
For these Delights are no where known
But in that happy State alone,
Which single Libertines like Fools disdain,
For Sinful Pleasures mix'd with costly Pain.

Then you that boast your Wandring State,
And think your Happiness so great,
Suspend your Censure of a Marry'd State,
Till Woman tempts you to be Blest;
Then tell me truly which is best,
A Rakish Freedom or a Loving Wife.
You've now a quite mistaken Sence,
For want of Sweet Experience.
But when the Heavenly Station you have try'd,
You'll Bless the Gods for giving you a Bride.

190

For Marriage has a thousand Joys,
One tempts us as another cloys,
As some are fading others fresh appear.
'Tis like the fragrant Orange-tree,
On whose delightful Boughs we see
Ripe charming Fruit and Blossoms all the Year.
Our prattling Babes and pregnant Wives
Add daily Comforts to our Lives.
And tho the Bark's full fraighted, yet at Night
'Twill kindly yield fresh Stowage for Delight.

In Answer to some Anonymous Gentlemen, &c.

Arm my bold Muse, the Cowards bid thee draw,
With pointed Satyr kill, in spite of Law.
Poison with venom'd Ink each Dart you throw,
That e'ery Line may Wit and Malice show.
Sharpen thy Verse till it becomes as keen,
As Female Anger or Fanatick Spleen.

191

Whet all thy Rhimes to such an Edge and Point,
That they may stab or cleave at least a Joint,
Till e'ery galling Stroak shall make 'em know,
Thou'rt much too brave to fear a dastard Foe,
Who are too Cow'rdly and too Base to try,
A Poet's Pow'r in open Field, but fly,
Like Sheep from Lions, fearing to engage,
And skulk in Holes from thy Poetick Rage.
There Ambuscaded full of Envy wait.
To shoot their spitefull Darts at those they hate.
So fearful Indians from the Christians run,
And hide in Woods our braver Troops to shun;
There, by the Trunks of Lofty Cedars skreen'd,
By Foes unseen, for Victory contend,
And from behind their Trees their poison'd Arrows send

Advance ye Coward, whosoe'er you be,
That I your pale and envious Looks may see,
And sit not safe in Armour and at Ease,
From danger free, and wound me as you please.

192

Perhaps you're fortifi'd with Pow'r and Wealth,
Got by base means as scandalous as stealth,
And fear in Satyr's Looking-Glass to see
Your Rise, your Actions and your Pedigree,
Lest to the wondring World you should appear,
A new found Monster in your Character,
Like some strange Species gotten in a Rape,
Committed by some Fox upon an Ape,
Or like an Ass made scandalously vain,
By being tagg'd and shagg'd with Lions Tale and Mane.

What if you're Rich and Great, I've Wings to flie,
And Pow'r to reach you tho you're ne'er so high.
But 'tis unfair to sit aloft unknown,
And dart unseen your pointed Weapons down;
So spiteful Tailors from their Garrets throw
Piss-pots upon their Heads that walk below.
Let me but know your Person or your Name,
Your Wondrous Merits, or at least your Fame,
Or that Cabal that helps you to indite,
By Vertue of whose Brains you Rime and Write,

193

And where you meet to cherish and exalt
Your drooping fancies over Hops and Malt.
Then if I find your Valour or your Wit,
For the soft Strains of Panegyrick fit,
I'll skim my barren Genius for the Cream,
And make your Vertues my illustr'ous Theme.
But if I find you scandalous and dull,
Starving, ill-natur'd and of Envy full.
Then shall my old Satiric Mistress frown,
And sing your Follies thro the List'ning Town,
Despise your Malice, your Abuses scorn,
And make the Dregs of Fancy serve your Turn,
Whilst your own Flatt'ries shall become the Sport
Of the most Worthy of the British Court.
Who when perhaps you've taken three Months Pains,
Glean'd from your Shelves, and wrack'd your own dull Brains,
May after all your humble Bows are made,
Order some brawny Slave to break your Head,
And think so damn'd an Author very nobly paid

194

A short Resentment of an Ironical Poem.

[_]

Receiv'd by the Hands of Mr. Bragg.

Momus , O why so peevish grown,
Hast thou got all the Wit alone,
That no unhappy Muse can be,
From thy ill-natur'd Cavils, free,
What if my worthless Numbers are
Too scanty and irregular,
My Praise too humble for the Theme,
My Satyr harsh to an Extream,
My Similies too wide and course,
My Fancy low, my Language worse,
What's this to thee, thou do'st not bear
My Faults or in the Scandal share,
Why do'st not quarrel with the Light
O'th Moon, like barking Curs at Night,
And pelt her Glories with Disgrace,
Because she's spotted in the Face,

195

Or to employ thy Talent, blame
The halting Horse for being lame,
And rail at e'ery Fool you see,
Perhaps not quite so wise thee,

Are you the Touch-stone of the Town,
That all Wit must be try'd upon,
Must none but what is first essay'd
By you, and as you please, allay'd,
Be allow'd Standard, but be thought
Too course, and be condemn'd for nought;
'Ts hard, lest you can shew in Print,
A Patent for Apollos's Mint,
Which, I must tell you, ought to be
Some noble Task from Error free,
At least a new Dispensary,
That will our Admiration raise
And challenge universal Praise,
When you have prov'd yourself thus wise,
I'll take your Judgement and Advice,
But for your Councel, tho so kind,
I scarce shall mind it till I find

196

In something that your self has writ,
You've less Ill-nature and more Wit.
Can no Man lash a Knave or Fool,
A Coward Bully or a Trul,
But you, as if you felt the Smart,
Must brandish your Ironick Dart,
To shew your Anger and your Art;
So if poor Satyr does but wag
His pricked Ears at City Stag,
The rest will butt you with their Horns,
And think you've trod upon their Corns,
Altho to entertain your Muse,
According as the Hunters use,
You only singled out and took
Of all the Herd the fairest Buck.

But if it must be so, go on
And scribble till you're better known,
Then your bright Character and Fame,
Your Wit, your Virtues and your Name,
For noble Themes I'll often chuse,
T'imbellish my diverting Muse.

197

A new Litany very proper to be read by a merry Society over a Glass of good Liquor.

From a Poet that's proud of his Wit and his Parts,
From a Beauty that boasts of her conquering Hearts
From a false Irish Friend who'as Aversion to Farts.
Libera nos Domine.

From a Wife that's a Scold, and a Whore that is common,
From a Puritan Guide and a Priest that is Roman,
From the Gripes of the State and the Rage of a Woman.
Libera &c.

From the Flattery of Fools and Contempt of the Wise
From a Sicophant's Tales and Fanatical Lies,
From a Pastoral Wolf in a Shepherd's Disguise.
Libra, &c.

198

From a prodigal Critick that always is snarling,
Who doats on his Muse as a wonderful Darling,
Altho she's too dull to supply him with Sterling.
Libera, &c.

From a talkative Coward that boasts of his Deeds,
From a Blockhead that Credits what ever he reads,
From our Heroes at home that take Towns in their Beds.
Libera, &c.

From the Fate of offending of those that defend us,
From a long Information and damn'd Inuendoes,
From the Saints that betray when they say they'll befriend us.
Libera, &c.

From the Rage of an upstart fanatical Mother,
From the Spleen of an Author that envies a Brother,
Who never affronted him one way or other.
Libera, &c.

199

From a Knave that will fawn for his sinester Ends,
From a Fool that foments a Dispute among Friends,
From a Man that for Pawn-brokers Interest lends.
Libera, &c.

From a miserly Cit that will brag of his Pelf,
From the Pride of a wealthy diminitive Elf.
From the Cinick that hates all the World but himself.
Libera, &c.

From a Tryal of Wit where a Fool is the Judge,
From a grave Radamanthus that bears an old Grudge,
From the Care of much Wealth or becoming a Drudge.
Libera, &c.

From the Pyrating Printer that gets nothing by't,
From the Blockhead that tells me which way I shall write,
From the Rimes of a Dunce full of Malice and Spite.
Libera, &c.

100

From a witty Cabal who are thirsting for Bays,
And advise us in Satyr to scrible in Praise,
Of a Worthy more fitting for them and their Lays.
Libera, &c.

From a troublesome Howlet that hoots in the Dark,
Whose Poetical Fire is no more than a Spark,
From the Whelps that will bite, not from those that will bark
Libera, &c.

From an Author with Envy just ready to burst,
From his wretched Epitomes damnably curst,
Cause he leaves out the best and collects all the worst,
Libera, &c.

From the Tale of a Tub, both in English and Latin,
With his Bagford and Bull and the Devil knows what in
To shew us that Fools must be writing or prating,
Libra, &c.

201

From a Man that is rigid, when Jack in an Offiice,
From the powerful Nods of a parcel of Sophies,
From a Prodigal Tool and a petulent Novice.
Libera, &c.

From the Mercy of those who had never Good Nature,
From the Power of him that's a Monarchy-Hater,
From the Frowns of a Bench and the Stings of a Satyr.
Libera, &c.

From the Saint that talks fair with Design to deceive,
From the Knave that does Mischief, then laughs in his Sleeve,
From the Party whose Maxim is not to forgive.
Libera, &c.

From a Man that abundance of Friendship pretends,
Who in publick his Bounty and Kindness extends,
But in private converts it to Sinister Ends.
Libera, &c.

202

From a Fop of Nice Honour who wears a long Sword,
That will Curse like a Scoundrel, and huff lik a Lord,
And is ready to draw if you speak a miss Word.
Libera, &c.

From a Bottle Companion who swears o'er the Creature,
He is so much your Friend that no Man can be greater,
But as soon as you part turns his Love into Satyr.
Libera, &c.

From a Cursed Repeater of Verses and Puns,
From a Pedant that's stuff'd with his Gerunds and Nouns
From the Parish Churchwardens, and Importunate Duns,
Libera, &c.

From Weavers and Tailors set up to be Teachers,
And Broken Fanaticks turn'd eminent Preachers.
From Sodomites, Flogsters, and such sort of Leachers.
Libera, &c.

203

From the Frenzy of Zeal creeping into our Brains,
From the Pox and the Prophets brought over from France
From depending on Friends and from dying by chance.
Libera, &c.

From the Frantick Opinions which many pursue,
From a Guide that's unlearn'd, and a Faith that is new
From believing News-Papers, as if they were true.
Libera, &c.

From the Miserly Wretch that dissembles and prays,
Who can temper his Conscience all manner of ways,
And amidst of his Villanies talk much of Grace.
Libera, &c.

From the Fangs of the Laws both the Common and Civil,
Brom the Bounds of a Jail, and the Pennyless Evil,
From a Bailiff, Informer, Umpho and the Devil.
Libera nos Domine.

204

To that Celebrated Idol, Mammon, Chief Governor of Men's Consciences; and both Spiritual and Temporal Lord of all Christendom.

Mammon , thou Heathenish Oar, but Christian Lord,
By Saints and Sinners equally ador'd,
Thy pow'rful Charms with Gladness we Obey,
For thee we labour, and for thee we pray.
When e'er thy Lustre does our sight surprise,
It dazzles both our Reason and our Eyes,
Makes stubborn Conscience vary from those Rules,
Imbib'd from Pulpits, or deriv'd from Schools,
And with entire Submission condescend,
To grasp and hug thee as her surer Friend,
So wicked Man, by Beauty's Charms decoy'd,
Leaves, for the tempting Miss, his Faithful Bride.

205

Virtue, tho ne'er so rigid or severe,
Starts from her narrow Paths when you appear.
No longer can your Conq'ring Force dispute,
But falls at once your humble Prostitute.
Honour and Valour which so oft unite,
And make (as Fools believe) the Hero fight,
Would thro no Dangers wade, or Wonders do,
Lest tempted on and influenc'd by you.
'Tis not for Laurels, or for Windy Fame,
Triumphant Arches, or a Glorious Name,
That blustring Heroes arm with Sword and Shield,
And try the Battle in the wreaking Field:
But 'tis alass for Mammon they contend;
Mammon, the Cause, the Sinews and the End.
Without thy Aid no Wars would be begun,
No Feuds arise, or Quarrels carry'd on:
But e'ery Discord in a trice would cease,
And all Mankind unite in Love and Peace.
But since from Guiney thou hast cross'd the Line,
And do'st from Afric Mines in Europe shine;
The Christian World thy Heath'nish Charms adore,
Make thee the Ballance of Terrestrial Pow'r:

206

And now thou art adorn'd with Royal Face,
And made so Holy as to wears God's Grace:
By Modern Saints thou'rt Worshipp'd more by half,
Than that old Idol, Aaron's Golden Calf.
It is for thee that Men such Hazzards run;
And by thy Aid that Victories are won:
In short, without thee nothing can be done.

'Tis for thy sake that Partizans contend,
Whatever's the Pretence thou'rt still the end:
And tho Religion, Liberty and Laws,
Are made by cunning Heads the specious Cause;
Yet when aspiring Parties disagree,
Their Hearts and Eyes are fixt alone on thee;
And those that have thee most at their Command,
Are sure at length to have the upper hand.
Thou art the true Palladium of the Town,
That warms the Saint, the Hero and the Clown.
In thee their Safety chiefly they repose,
And for thy sake fight keenly with their Foest
But should thy 'nspiring Presence be withdrawn,
The Party which before you shin'd upon,

207

Their Swords and Targets from their Hands would throw,
And soon become poor spirited and low.
For Pay and Plunder make the Soldier bold,
And when those Hopes are fled the Hero's cold;
Who, when no Prospect but of Want appears,
Changes his side, or else declines the Wars.
None will a desp'rate Enterprize pursue,
Longer than Glorious Mammon is in view:
And tho a Heathen God, thou'rt now become
The only Idol of all Christendom.

Tho Beauty charms us, 'tis for Gold we wed,
That draws both Sexes to the Marriage-bed:
Tho ne'er so fair and tempting, when we find
No Golden Angels to her Graces join'd,
The Virgin's slighted and the Match declin'd.

The whining Zealot who from Church dissents,
Follows not Conscience, but the powerful Pence;
Makes pious Gold the Standard of his Faith,
And chuses for himself the gainfull'st Path.

208

So varies from the Truth, and runs astray,
To Worship Heav'n, the profitablest way.

Nor does the sordid Lay-man pay alone,
His Slavish Homage to the Golden Throne
Of Pluto, but the grave Dissenting Guide
By a rich Living easily is decoy'd,
To change his Faith, his Doctrine, and his Side.

In short, the Great, the Good, the Wise, the Just,
Those whom we Love the most, and those we trust,
Will all be influenc'd by the Pow'r of Gold,
To chuse new Friends, and to betray the old.
Could I two Votes obtain, one Wish should be,
That Gold from Humane Sight should banish'd be;
To its Infernal Mines again return,
And there lie bury'd in its Native Urn.

FINIS.

211

ON THE DEATH OF Mr Clark, Organist At St Pauls. Who lately Shot himself.

An ODE.

Mourn all ye Brethren of the String,
Prepare at once to Weep and Sing,
Tune your soft Lyres and strain your warbling Throats,
That list'ning Ears may hear the Praise
Of England's Orpheus and his Charming Lays,
Set forth in your Harmonious Notes,
The Great Amphion of the Age,
The Soul of Musick and the Life of Song;

212

Despising the Terrestrial Stage,
Thought he had liv'd too long;
Where none from jarring Discords can be free,
And therefore blindly sought a calm Eternity.

Tell how his nimble Fingers mov'd
Upon the yielding Keys,
Whilst Men and Angels equally approv'd,
His melting Strains, which could no less than please,
Those pious Souls who lov'd,
Such Musick that inspir'd the Mind with Peace,
But now no more shall we be blest,
With the soft Touches of that pow'rfull Hand,
Which senthi s Soul to rest;
Who did all Harmony Command,
That could beneath the Heavens be exprest,
To raise Devotion in his Native Land.
Yet jarring Discord made him court his Death,
And put a fatal stop to his harmonious Breath.

213

So the old Romans Wise and Brave,
By their Example taught,
'Twas easier to embrace the Grave,
Than bear the stabbing Force of anxious Thought.
The Disappointments of the Field,
Where Lawrels grow, with Blood manur'd.
Are worse than being kill'd,
To the undaunted Breast innur'd,
To the destructive Sword,
And the defensive Shield.
So the great Soul harmoniously compos'd,
Only made fit to entertain
Sweet Musick's Art by Heaven disclos'd,
To elevate the Thoughts of Men;
If once with Worldly Cares opprest,
It Labours to expire,
And Courts the trembling Hand to give it rest,
That when its unconfin'd
From Flesh and Blood to which 'tis join'd,
It then may mount in search of the Celestial Quire.

214

So fell Great Britains Orpheus in his Rage,
When Furies in his Breast began to howl,
And Cares that wait on Life's uncertain Stage,
Had quite untun'd his Soul;
Who hating Discord, could not bear
The Troubles of a tortur'd Mind,
Skill'd only in harmonious Air,
And quite avers'd to Care,
That oft afflicts the best of Humane Kind;
But when he found his strugling Breast
With insupportable Remorse opprest,
Such that could only have its Rise
From wanton Love or stubborn Vice,
He clapp'd Death's fatal Engine to his Head,
And hoping for eternal Rest.
Conquer'd those Vipers in his Conscience bred,
And with himself, shot all the stinging Fantoms dead.

Mourn all ye Songsters of St Pauls,
That fill the tuneful Quire,

215

And with your Anthems bless the sacred Walls,
Whilst your soft Accents do inspire,
With Heavenly Thoughts our humble Souls,
Learn of the Prophet to lament,
His Namesake's rigid Fate,
Such Pow'rful Words to Musick bent,
Would make his Epicedium Great,
Tho his rash Exit no Applause can raise,
Because no Christian can his Course approve,
Yet his fam'd Skill commands our Praise,
And his Misfortune must our Pity move,
Both are but Tributes which we ought to pay,
To injur'd Merit that mistakes the way.

But who can Man's weak Reason blame,
For proving such a treacherous Guide,
Since Men of universal Fame
For Learning have upheld the same;
And aster the same manner step'd aside;

216

Creech oncean Honour to our English Schools,
Well skill'd in Philosophick Rules,
Who dress'd Lucretius in our Native Tongue,
Tho a Divine, he justify'd
The Freedom of self Homicide,
And as a fatal Proof himself he hung,
Numbers as wise and learn'd as he,
By sundry ways have let us see
They've thought their Lives too long;
Why therefore should our Hands and Eyes
Be lifted up aloft,
As if it fill'd us with Surprize,
That a Musician should be once so soft,
Since he that studies to exert
Himself in Musick's tuneful Art,
May easily be mis-led,
By the strange Crotchets in his Head
To act the Tragick Part
Let us not therefore wonder at his Fall,
Since 'twas not so unnatural
For him who liv'd by Canon to expire by Ball.

Mr Clark's Christian Name was Jeremiah.

Musick so call'd, much us'd in Churches.

217

More Sound than Substance.

A Paradox.

What's that which wise Men highly do approve,
And Fools who understand it not, admire,
That truly merits universal Love,
Yet often sets the giddy World on Fire.

All Christian Nations Reverence its Name,
It often makes the Greatest Princes bow,
Nay Turks and Jews its Excellence proclaim,
And to its wholesome Laws Obedience vow.

Tis of more Value than the finest Gold,
Or Eastern Diamonds from the Indies brought,
Therefore too precious to be bought or sold,
Yet every Man is welcome to't for nought.

218

The King, the Queen, the Cobler and his Dame,
All equally may share the happy Prize,
Both Sexes have a Title to the same,
But those that have the most, still need supplies.

Tho Day and Night we labour to encrease
The insufficient Stock we had before,
Yet the wide World has ne'er a jot the less,
For any one poor Mortal's having more.

By Policy 'tis made the main support,
Of Empires, Kingdoms, and of Common Weals,
Yet thro ill Management it oft does hurt,
And makes as many Breaches as it heals.

Princes and mighty Men in Pow'r and Post,
Who Lord it over this Terrestial Ball,
Would fain be thought by Fools to have the most,
Yet shew too often they have none at all.

219

Nay, some of Learning, Gravity and Note,
Who cock their grizly Beards above the Crowd,
Tho by it rais'd aloft would cut its Throat,
When to preserve it they have strictly vow'd.

The Frape adore it as their greatest Good,
Yet know not what it is no more than Geese,
It's never throughly settled but by Blood,
And yet it is the Soul of downy Peace.

The giddy Crowd upon the least Alarms,
Fly to their Weapons to defend its Cause,
And Millions for its sake have dy'd by Arms,
Who never in their Lives knew what it was.

Nay, Reprobates and Clowns that ne'er had Sence,
Of the great Blessings which to all it brings,
Have ventur'd further in its just Defence.
Than the most Wise and Greatest of our Kings.

220

No Man without it truly can be blest,
But very few regard it as they shou'd,
Yet all Mankind are ready to contest
Its Truth, with th'utmost hazard of their Blood.

The wicked'st Mortal will have some pretence
To crowd himself beneath its holy Wing,
And when he's guilty of the worst Offence,
Disarms thereby his Conscience of its Sting.

Tho good it self, 'tis often made a Cloak
To skreen the Malice of the worst of Men,
Who use it ill on purpose to provoke
The Good, who strictly do its Laws maintain.

Aspiring Knaves to soar a greater height,
Oft by its means set Kingdoms in a Flame,
And by disputing its Eternal Light,
Basely accomplish their unlawful Aim.

221

Mechanicks use it as a Thing of coarse,
And follow it for Gain or Fashion's sake,
Wed it to fill the Vacuum of a Purse,
As Men do Women for their Fortune's take.

Those who are vow'd Supporters of its Cause,
And on their Backs the sacred Liv'ry wear,
Too oft for Int'rest sake transgress its Laws,
And shame it with those Ills they should forbear.

Some use it as a Whetstone to their Swords,
That they, with keener Edge, their Foes may kill,
In cruel Battle, which they call the Lord's,
To basely sanctify the Blood they spill.

Some in external Looks the Jewel wear,
To shew the World how they esteem the same,
Tho all the outward Reverence they bear
Is meant not to the thing but to its Name.

222

Statesmen oft use it as the best of Tools,
To work their ends with the believing Crowd,
And crying up its Name, delude the Fools,
To think the worst of Men divinely good.

He that about it makes the greatest noise,
And clamours for its safety without need,
As surely as he raises up his Voice,
In Agitation has some wicked Deed.

Like Æsop's Tongues, it is the best and worst,
It yields us good when rightly 'tis employ'd,
But when we use it ill we are accurst,
And by what's meant to save us, are destroy'd.

For it oft raises bitter Feuds and Jars,
Yet oft preserves our Peace to make amends,
And tho 'tis made the common Cause of Wars,
'Twas given to Mankind to make 'em Friends.

223

Then tell me, pious Reader, if you can,
What 'tis insulting Tyrants make their Sport,
And whether to the present State of Man,
As now 'tis us'd it does most Good or Hurt.

The Anathema;

or, a Curse upon the Nation's Enemies.

Curse on the Authors of our present Woes,
Whether they're Magpy wing'd or black as Crows,
Whether they're Eagle Ey'd, Nos'd like a Hawk,
Yielding as Down, or stubborn as a Rock,
Whether their native Wool they only wear,
Or that the Wolves in foreign Skins appear,
Whether obscurely, or in publick Great,
Shelter'd in Church, or honour'd in the State,
Whether a mighty Legion or a few,
A blind, mistaken or a wilful Crew,

224

Whether Whigs, Jacobites, High Church or Low,
Guided by the right, or mis-led by F---;
Curse on 'em all that lend an helping Hand,
To th'Spoil and Ruin of their Native Land,
Living or dead, may none escape their due,
But Divine Vengeance still their Guilt pursue,
That those whose Avarice brings Crowds to starve,
May never fail to share what they deserve,
If Living, may such shame their Crimes reward,
That may remain for ever on Record,
Unraz'd, unblotted, that their Sons may see,
Written at large, their Father's Infamy,
To th'Scandal of their curss'd Posterity.
May they become a Sacrifice to th'Hate
And Rage of those that raiss'd 'em to be Great;
May those they most confide in as their Friends,
Prove treach'rous and betray them to their ends;
Nay, those who at their plentious Tables feed,
That cringe for Gifts and flatter them for Bread,
On whom their Favours, chiefly they bestow,
May they alone contrive their overthrow,

225

And prove the first that shall the means invent,
To bring you to Disgrace and Punishment,
Beneath which Fate, may you unpitty'd fall,
By some insulted, and condemn'd by all,
Thus may old Hammond's Gallows be your Fate,
That your Examples, tho some years too late,
May caution others how they prove unjust,
And to their Country's Ruin wrong their Trust.

If dead, at Midnight may their Spirits rise,
And with their gastly Looks their Friends surprize,
Visit by turns their Agents of their Pride,
And those that made them wicked e'er they dy'd,
With doleful Groans theirf rightful Ears pursue,
And bid 'em give to Cæsar what is due;
With threat'ning Woes disturb their Rest each Night,
And haunt 'em till they do the Publick Right,
Thus restless, for the crying Wrongs they've done,
May their Souls wander tho their Sands are run.

226

And their vile Dust by wicked Hands be torn
From their close Urns, and made the People's Scorn,
Be toss'd, like worthless Rubbish, up and down,
For every common Foot to tread upon,
Till their curss'd Ashes undistinguish'd fly,
Like Atoms, 'twixt the Surface and the Sky,
And as they're raiss'd and scatter'd by the Wind,
Strike, as they mount, surviving Traytors blind;
O! what eternal Curse can be too Great,
For those who thro Excess of Pride or Hate,
Reduce their Native Country to a wretched State.

The desponding Whig.

A Song.

When Owles are strip'd of their Disguise,
And Wolves of Shepherd's Cloathing.
Those Birds and Beasts that please our Eyes,
Will then beget our loathing.

227

When Foxes tremble in their Holes,
At Dangers that they see,
And those we think so wise prove Fools,
Then low Boys, down go we.

If those Designs abortive prove
We've been so long in hatching,
And cunning Knaves are forc'd to move
From Home for fear of catching;
The Rabble soon will change their Tone,
When our Intrigues they see,
And cry God save the Church and Throne,
Then low Boys, down go we.

The Weaver then no more must leave
His Loom and turn a Preacher,
Nor with his Cant poor Fools deceive
To make himself the richer,
Our Leaders soon would disappear,
If such a Change should be,

228

Our Scriblres too would stink for Fear,
Then low Boys, down go we.

No Camisars would dare to shew
Their Postures and Grimaces,
Or Proph'sy what they never knew,
By dint of ugly Faces,
But shove the Tumbler thro the Town,
And quickly banish'd be,
For none must teach without a Gown,
Then low Boys, down go we.

If such unhappy Days should come
Our Vertue, Moderation,
Would surely be repaid us home,
With double Compensation,
For as we never could forgive,
I fear we then should see,
That what we lent we must receive,
Then low Boys, down go we.

229

Should honest Brethren once discern
Our Knav'ries, they'd disown us,
And bubbl'd Fools more Wit should learn,
The Lord have Mercy on us;
Let's guard against that evil Day,
Least such a time should be,
And Tackers should come into Play,
Then low Boys, down go we.

Tho hitherto we've plaid our Parts,
Like wary cunning Foxes,
And gain'd the Common People's Hearts.
By broaching Het'rodoxes,
But they're as fickle as the Winds,
With nothing long agree,
And when they change their wav'ring Minds,
Then low Boys, down go we.

Let's Preach and Pray, but Spit our Gall
On those that do oppose us,

230

And Cant of Grace in spite of all,
The Shame the Devil owes us,
The Just, the Loyal, and the Wise,
With us shall Papists be,
For if the High Church once should rise,
Then Low Church, down go we.

The Philospher and the Cuckold.

A Dialogue.

How is't, my Friend, what's matter now,
Why grate thy Teeth and knit thy Brow;
Thou fit'st as stupid and as dull,
As if thy Wits were gath'ring Wool,
Or that thou wert delirious grown,
In search of Philosophick Stone.

231

Cuckold.
Damn the old Rules of Aristotle,
And all his Philosophick Prattle,
Confound all Stones, and e'ery Whore,
That has a pair yet lusts for more:
Would I had been an Eunoch born,
Or young, they'd from my Loins been torn,
Least I'd been hung all o're with Charms,
As fam'd Briarius was with Arms,
Sufficient to have tam'd the Lust
Of Woman, and have kept her just.

Friend.
Hey day, I'd have you shave and bleed,
For now I find you're mad indeed,
Prithee what means this raving Fit,
Are you turn'd Fool or Bedlamite,
Has all your Costly Oxford Breeding,
Your painful Study and your reading,

232

Your long Scholastick Exercising.
Disputing and Philosophising,
Brought you at last to this Condition,
That needs a Mad-house and Physician,
Prithee be free and let me know,
What a Pox 'tis disturbs thee so,
Perhaps some old Venereal Tumor
I'th' Groin has put thee out of Humour.

Cuckold.
The Pox is but a gentle Curse,
Z---s, I'm a Cuckold, Sir, that's worse,
A Ram, a Stag, a Buck, a Bull,
A humane Beast, a Woman's Fool,
The most abus'd of marry'd Cullies,
A laughing stock for Beaus and Bullies,
A Monster with a forked Noddle,
A Ninconpoop, a Tom-a-doodle,
The Women's common Table-talk,
Pointed and hiss'd at as I walk,

233

Blood, who can bear it now its known,
Yet who can help it when its done,

Friend.
Is this alone the mighty Matter,
That so disturbs your Manly Nature,
And cannot all your Reason Master
Such a poor trifling Disaster,
Art thou the Man that us'd to treat us,
With Lessons out of Epictetus,
And well instruct us how to bear
The sharpest Edge of humane Care,
And now to shrink beneath the common
Miscarriages of fickle Woman;
Why art not angry with some Novice,
For dunging in thy House of Office,
And run distracted, cause its free
To ease thy Friends as well as thee;

234

I know you prize your silver Bowl,
Why does not that torment thy Soul,
Because it does so often join.
With others Lips as well as thine;
For shame, let no such slip molest
The Native Freedom of your Breast,
Or Failings of a Woman's Tail,
O'er thy Philosophy prevail;
They are loose airy, wanton Things,
Fall over Prickles, Thornes and Stings,
Which Beaus and Fools mistake for Charms,
But once decoy'd into their Arms,
They find the pointed Plagues within,
Soon wound 'em thro the sattin Skin;
So he that snatches from the side
Of merry Maid or wanton Bride,
A Pincusheon, when he's inclin'd
To Waggery, perhaps may find

235

The point of some old crooked Pin,
Or rusty Needle hid within;
Thus you may see the Things they wear,
Will oft discover what they are;
Therefore it is beneath a Man
Of Wit to murmer and complain,
Because his Phillis does pursue
The same that other Women do;
Your Case is common, never vex,
The Creature is but like her Sex;
Believe me, you've no other course,
But as she's bad to think her worse,
Then let her Actions be so base,
As to shame all the Female Race,
It will be no surprize to know
She's bad, because you thought her so.

Cuckold.
I own your Doctrines very good,
But yet methinks no Flesh and Blood

236

Can wisely frame a happy Life,
Beneath the Insults of a Wife,
Besides the Noise of common Fame,
That spreads and publishes the Shame,
And so improves the odious Curse,
That every Mouth still makes it worse,
Therefore what Mortal Man can bear
Disgrace that haunts him e'ery where.

Friend.
He that wants Courage to defy
The Venom of the Common Cry,
Wants Wisdom to consult his Ease,
And to preseree his Mind in Peace:
For he that has it in his pow'r
To live contented and secure,
And wanting foresight, cannot see
The lucky Opportunity,
But lets his Happiness depend,
On's his Wife, the Publick, or a Friend,

237

Is always sure to be a Slave
To th'Errors both of Fool and Knave,
And to be plagu'd, if not undone,
By Others Faults besides his own.
Who then would interrupt his rest,
And like an Ideot, live unblest
By Women's Sins, or Friends deceit,
Since all the World, is but a Cheat:
Or let the Rabbles vile Reproach,
Your noble Mind affect or touch,
Since all the Scandal they can throw,
'S not yours, except you make it so.
Cuckold what is't, a silly Name,
Invented by some merry Dame;
A common Word, from Wife to Wife,
Intail'd upon a Marry'd Life,
And therefore can be no disgrace,
Because 'tis every Husbands Case.
Priests, Aldermen, May'rs, Knights and Nobles,
All Men are Women's Fools and Bubbles;

238

Except the Wise, who soar above
The humble thoughts of servile Love,
And never vex their peaceful Mind,
Whether their Wives are cross or kind;
But scorn that Woman's Tongue or Tail,
Should o'er their happiness prevail.

Be wise, my Friend, like one of these,
Be your own Master of your Ease;
Scorn that the Vices of a Wife
should storm the quiet of your Life.
Let her Whore on till her Debauches,
Has brought her rotten Limbs to Crutches;
Or that her Eyes so much admir'd,
By whose false Light the Fools are fir'd,
Drop from their Sockets; or her Nose
Falls from the Centre where it grows.
What's this to thee, do thou take care
You do not in her Mis'ries share;

239

But keep your Breast from Pity free,
And let your temper constant be.
Let not her Vices touch your Mind,
Do you be Vertuous, and you'l find,
By peaceful Thoughts well disciplin'd,
More Blessings to your Soul reveal'd
Than all the outward World can yield:
But if the Vices of your Wife,
Are suffer'd to torment your Life;
You're doom'd to Grief and Melancholy,
And damn'd Alive by your own Folly.

Short Reflections upon Old Age, or Good Advice to the Grunting Miser.

Why how now, Old Grandsir, what is it you mean,
Will you live till you're change to an Infant again;

240

'Tis a shame at these Years you should hoard up your Bags,
And dissemble your Wealth in your greasy old Rags,
Whilst your Children and Kindred all greedily wait,
To be blest with the Joyful News of your Fate.
You have stretch'd out your Span to a wonderful length,
Till your Senses all fail you, as well as your strength;
All your Teeth have been long tumbled out of their Sockets,
And your Eyes for an Age have been worn in your Pockets.
You're as Deaf as an Adder, and nothing can hear,
But a hoop or a hollow forc'd into your Ear:
You're so numb'd, and so frozen with Age and Decay,
And your Corps such a Lump of Inanimate Clay,
That a Virgin's soft Hand would not comfort your Heart;
Tho 'twas warmly apply'd to your tenderest part;
Your Lungs have not Breath enough left for a Whistle,
And you mumble your Words as an Ass does a Thistle.

241

Your Brains are consum'd, and your Faculties fled,
And as now you sit moaping, your reverend Head,
Like a Michaelmas Tree, does its Ornament shed.
Since your State's so unhappy, what Ease can you find
Upon Earth for your impotent Body, or Mind;
And if you're uneasy, I pray tell us why,
When you live in such Pain you're unwilling to dye:
But your Money, you say, is the prevalent Bait
That invites you to live in so wretched a state.
If thy Wealt be the Curse that deludes thee to dwell
Upon Earth in such fear of thy Funeral Knell,
Fling thy Judgments aside, and thy Coin to the Devil,
Tis the Miser that makes it the Root of all Evil;
Or at least let it fly to thy Children and Friends,
E'er, in spight of thy Teeth, it among 'em descends,
And let those thou hast wrong'd have a Competent share,
That the rest, without Curses, may fall to thy Heir;
Yet be sure save enough that thou may'st not depend
On the kindness of Children, or love of thy Friend,

242

Such an Income that's neither too scanty, or large,
But enough to live well, and for Funeral Charge;
And when this you have done, you will certainly find,
You'll be freed from the stings of a troublesome Mind,
That you better may think of your Ultimate Home,
And prepare, against Death, for the Kingdom to come.

The Lover in the Right:

Or, The ready way to turn Pain into Pleasure.

Why Chloe should we live in Pain,
When we might happy be,
And wish, like fearful Fools, in vain
For what we might with ease obtain,
Could we but both agree.

243

Why do we Love, and yet defy
Those Blessinngs that we want,
Why hope and wish, and yet deny,
And still delay the mutual Joy,
which we have pow'r to grant.

You think it's dangerous to the Soul,
I do the same believe;
But who'd not Sacrifice his All,
And like a Gen'rous Adam fall,
With such a Beauteous Eve.

Whoever Loves should scorn to fear
The shadows of the Mind,
No more would they torment us here,
But fly away and disappear,
Would you but once be kind.

244

Chorus.
For the Fears that have made us unhappy so long,
I am often convinc'd are no more than a Cheat
By our Parents impos'd when we're foolish and Young,
And that Love is a God that explodes the Deceit.

The Sea-Fight: Or, The French Prize taken.

A Ballad.

To your Quarters, my Lads, we are now within shot,
Let your Guns be all loose in their Tackle,
Your Ports be knock'd open, and e'ery thing got,
In a right ready order for Battle.
See, see, that the Decks and the Gun-room be clear,
And take care that your Matches be lighted,
Tho' she boldly bears down, she shall find when she's near
That we Bold Brittans scorn to be frighted.

245

Up noise of Trumpets, be brisk, hail our Prile,
Hark she answers again with her Trumpets,
She's resolv'd to engage, to the Windward she plys,
See her Colours are out and her Drum beats.
Hold fast jolly Gunner, let Monsieur begin,
We are able, my Boys, to receive him,
If he galls us at first, when we get him close in,
We will make him submit e'er we leave him.

Chear up, Golden Boys, we are never the worse,
Tho' sh'as pour'd in a Broad-side upon us;
She only has rak'd us a little, no force,
Jolly Lads, have the Enemy done us,
Their turn shall be next, Port easy, edge nigh her,
Be sure bear your Guns to a tittle,
God give us good luck, and now Gunner give fire,
Zounds Starboard, now shear off a little.

Huzza, my good Lads, that was done to our Mind,
She's our own, we shall certainly have her;

246

See, see, she bears up with a stiff gale of Wind,
That her Leaks may be stopp'd which we gave her.
Port, Port, for she shoots ahead from us apace,
Hoist the Topsail and bear briskly after,
Now Gunner with good store of Langril and Case,
Let the Guns be all loaded for Slaughter.

Thus, thus, keep her thus, well steer'd, my good Boys,
I find we shall soon be upon her;
Now Lads for the Gold that's Aboard of the Prize,
It will all be your own when you've won her.
Port easy, edge tow'rds her, and run up her side,
Now under our Lee we have got her,
As stout as she seems, we shall humble her Pride,
Now Gunner give fire and have at her.

See, see, how the Enemy lye heads and points,
Our shot have done great Execution;
We have shatter'd their Limbs, and so mangled their Joints,
That they are all in a Bloody Confusion.

247

Now Board 'em, my Lads, see you Lashes are clear,
Huzza, aud Couragiously enter,
I hope we shall find e'ery Brittan that's here,
Will be bold in so brave an Adventure.

How they hide between Decks, by their skulking they show,
That the French are but puny Bravadoes;
Wounds cut up her Hatches, and ply 'em below,
With your Stinkpots and hand Granadoes.
Avast, they submit and cry out for their Lives,
Good Quarter we're ready to grant ye,
If you'll lay down your Arms, and come out of your Hives,
And obey me as I shall Command ye.

Yea, yea we surrender, Then haul down your Sails,
And furl 'em without Opposition;
For he that crys Quarter, and after rebels,
Shall be hang'd without any Compassion.
Now loose all your Lashings and shear off the Ship,
We are clear, go and hoist out the Shallop,

248

Bring the Pris'ners on Board, but not load her too deep,
Least the Ocean should swallow ye all up.

Besure you take care of the Captain and those
In Commission, and civilly use 'em,
For tho' they are Pris'ners, as well as our Foes,
'Tis beneath British Souls to abuse 'em.
Good Fortune to them the Success might have gave,
Let us therefore respectfully treat 'em;
For tho' they are Conquer'd, they yet may be brave,
Tho' but Cowards to those that have beat 'em.

How chear yee, my Lads, is not this Jolly Sport,
See how Fortune invites you to fight on,
Stand in with our Prize to the next merry Port,
Tow her in for the honour of Brittan.
Now sling up the Bowl, bring an Anchor of Nantz,
Let the Doctor thank God for his Mercies,
Then we'll drink the Queen's Health to our Captives of France;
With a French Man of War at our Arses.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

THE WINE Bibber's WISH.

Advice to an Old Lady, who has bury'd Six Husbands and sets up for the Seventh.

A Dialogue between a Botcher and his Wife, after his return from the Ale-house.

The mounting of a young Excise-man for the Country, or good Advice to Broken Shopkeepers.

The Gossip's Visit:

Or, An Alley-Comedy, call'd, Female Tittle Tattle.

THE HUMOURS OF A COFFEE-HOUSE.

Solitary Enjoyment:

Or, the Pleasures of Contemplation.

An Off-hand Epitaph upon the Weasel.

A Lampoon upon Two Sisters, famous Strumpets in the City.

Between a dying Husband and a joyful Wife.

A Song.

The Resolute Lady.

A Song.

The Plain-dealer.

A Song.

An Assurance of Constancy.

A Song.

A Dialogue Song between a forward Youth and a young Lady.

The Rake's Call to the dead Philosophers.

A Song.

I

II

III

The Double-meaning Lover.

A Song.

I

II

III

IV

A Wither'd Whore's Peep INTO A Looking-glass at Forty.

The Riddle.

In Answer to a Letter out of Darbyshire, upon Mr Wood's Marrying one Son and two Daughters, all upon the same Day.

A Poem.

Morning Observations upon a topping Tavern over a Pint of Canary.

Wine beyond Love, or the Bottle before Beauty.

A Song.

The London-Bawd.

A Song.

The Maiden-Dream.

The ingrateful Mistress

A Drinking Song.

Chorus.

Vulcan and Venus, A Burlesque Poem.

At the Request of a merry Gentleman.

Hypocrisy Lampoon'd.

Pasquin to Morfore.

Morfore's Answer.

The Libertines Return to his Virtuous Wife, in a Dialogue between Damon and Chloe.

Jack-Pudding's Invitation to Bartholemew Fair.

The Character of a Derby Ale Sot.

The Gallant's blunt Address to a fond Adultress.

A Song.

AN ELEGY UPON Gammar Bouncly, A most Famous Breweress of Noble Ale in the Peak in Derbyshire.

Who unfortunately smoother'd herself in her own Mashing Tub. Written in Burlesque of a Bombast Pastoral, upon the Death of a Beautiful Lady of considerable Quality.

The Beau's Panegyrick upon his Beautiful Mistress:

Or, Love without Matrimony.

A Good Wife the greatest Happiness:

Or, the Real Comforts of Matrimony, with a Check to a Libertine.

In Answer to some Anonymous Gentlemen, &c.

A short Resentment of an Ironical Poem.

A new Litany very proper to be read by a merry Society over a Glass of good Liquor.

To that Celebrated Idol, Mammon, Chief Governor of Men's Consciences; and both Spiritual and Temporal Lord of all Christendom.

ON THE DEATH OF Mr Clark, Organist At St Pauls. Who lately Shot himself.

An ODE.

More Sound than Substance.

A Paradox.

The Anathema;

or, a Curse upon the Nation's Enemies.

The desponding Whig.

A Song.

The Philospher and the Cuckold.

A Dialogue.

Short Reflections upon Old Age, or Good Advice to the Grunting Miser.

The Lover in the Right:

Or, The ready way to turn Pain into Pleasure.

The Sea-Fight: Or, The French Prize taken.

A Ballad.