The London-Spy Compleat In Eighteen Parts :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Introduction, shewing the Design. A Tavern Barkeeper and Drawers Describ'd. The Spy entertain'd at Dinner by some Town-Sharpers. A Character of the Company. A Description of a Coffee-House. The Character of a Vertuosa. Observations on Mens growing Rich by Burying of their Wives, with Reflections on some Apothecaries. The Character of a certain Bookseller. Of the East-India Company. A Story of a Person of Quality, who Courted a Poor Woman. A Poet's Song against Musick. A Musician's against Poetry. A Copy of Verses to a Lady, with her Answer. The Madmans Flight.

A Song against Musick.

Musick 's a Crotchet the Sober think Vain;
The Fiddle's a Wooden Projection;
Tunes are but flirts of a Whimsical Brain,
Which the Bottle brings best to Perfection.
Musicians are Half Witted, Merry and Mad;
The same are all those that admire 'em;
They're Fools if they Play, unless they're well Paid;
And the others are Blockheads to Hire-'em.

Chorus.

The Organ's but Humming
Theorbo but Thrumming,
The Viol and Voice
Is but Jingle and Noise.
The Bagpipe and Fiddle,
Goes Twedle and Diddle,
The Hoit-boy and Flute
Is but Toot a Toot Toot;
Your Scales and your Cliffs, Keys, Moods, and dull Rules,
Are fit to please none but Madmen and Fools.

A Song by a Musician against Poetry.

Poetry 's Fabulous, Loose, and Prophane;
For Truth you must never depend-on't;
It's Juvenal Froth of a Frenzicall Brain,
Hung with Jingling Tags at the end-on't.
Poets are poor, full of Whimsie and Flight,
For Amorous Fops to delight-in;
They're Fools if they write, 'less they get Mony by't,
And they're Blockheads that pay 'em for Writing.

Chorus.

Their soft Panegyric
Is Praise beyond Merit
Their Lampoon and Satyr
Is Spight and Ill-nature;

Their Plays and Romances,
Are Fables and Fancies;
Their Drolls and their Farces,
Are bald as our Arses.
Their Figures and Similies only are fit,
To please the Dull Fool that gives Money for Wit.

[Madam how great and good your Vertues are]

Madam how great and good your Vertues are,
I can't well tell, nor truly do I care;
Nor can that Wit which you from Plays have stole,
Admired be by any but a Fool;

Who may perhaps thro' his weak Judgment own
That you have Sense, 'cause he himself has none;
Believe I no such wrong Opinion hold,
I can discern false Metal from true Gold.
Your Ill-tim'd Jests, so sharp in your Conceit,
Are spoil'd, for want of Judgment to Repeat;
Like an Unskilful Play'r, who Lames each Line,
Which by the Poet Read or Spoke, is fine.

If you have Wit, which you can boast your own,
Let it in some Return to this be shown;
Or I (Proud Lady Fair) shall justly think you've none.

[Two lively Figures in one piece you've shown]

Two lively Figures in one piece you've shown,
A True-bred Poet, and an Ill-bred Clown;
Vertues, not understood by you, I boast;
Such that in our weak Sense are valu'd most;
As Truth, Good-Nature, Manners, tho' not Wit,
Graces that never Crown'd a Poet yet.
To Rail at a weak Woman, is a strain,
Does little Merit in its Wit contain;
It may be like a Scribler, but unlike a Man.
A Self Opinion from your Lines I'll raise,
And Fancy you discover'd in my Face
Vertues beyond your Reach, and so above your Praise.
As envious Beggars spightfully disdain,
And rail at Blessings which they can't obtain.

Tho' I'm abus'd, yet I'll good Natur'd be,
And beg for once you'll take Advice by me,
Much rather let your Wit in Silence rest,
Than lose a Friend, or Mistress for a Jest:

Mix Manners and Good Nature with your parts,
And you'll deserve more Thanks and win more Hearts.

The Madmans Flight.

Could I the Scepter of Heaven sway,
And make Dame Nature my Commands obey,
The Ocean I'd unbound, and Quench the Fiery Day.

Fearing no Thunder could from Jove be hurl'd,
I'd then in Darkness Ravage thro' the World:
Till met by Devils in Amazing throngs,
Who Poking stand with their Infernal Prongs:
Shrieking like Souls opprest, I'd bid 'em come;
And stare so fierce I'd brazen out my Doom;
Knowing my Soul is too Divine an Air,
For Fiends or Devils to torment or tear;
I'd forwards press, and to repulse their Aim,
Would drive those Hellish Tribes from whence they came.

Then mount to Heaven, and kindle up the Sun,
To see what Mischiefs I on Earth had done,
Bebold, like Cruel Tyrants with Delight,
The Crimson Ills that stain'd the sable Night.
My Power, like theirs, I'd Build on others Fate,
And Glory in Black Deeds that made me Great.
When I thro' all these Purple Crimes had run,
That cou'd be by unbounded Greatness done,
Then the bright Chariot of the Sun I'd Seize,
And drive it where my God like Soul shou'd please.
The Moon wou'd I compel to be my Guide;
Thus splendidly thro' Heaven wou'd I ride,
There huff and strut, and kick the Gods aside.
In my Careir, my Fury to Expose,
I'd cast down Stars upon the Heads of those,
Whom either Fate or Choice had made my Foes.

And then the Demons of the Air to scare,
The Clouds in sundry pieces wou'd I tare,
And puff 'em up like Bubbles in the Air:
I'd jostle Clouds, Heavens Harmony Confound,
And make each Flaming Orb march nimbly round.
If any Bold Olympian Cent'nel dare,
Question my Office, or my Business there,
Or if against me offer to Rebel,
I'd grasp his Air, and strike him down to Hell.

Thus by Degrees wou'd I the Gods Unthrone,
Till Heaven shou'd at last become my own.

Then to demolish Earth's Infernal Crew,
I'd Damn this Old World, and Create a New.

II. [Part II.]

[I was got by an Honest Poor Man]

I was got by an Honest Poor Man,
Who Sails in her Majestier Service,
My Mother is call'd Whore Nan,
The Name of my Father is Jarvice.

My Fathers first Letter is I,
My Mothers with N does begin,
They put them together to try,
What it Spelt, and 'twas Luckily IN.

Thus was I conceiv'd in Sin,
There's no Body got without,
And tho' I went Sinfully in,
The Iniquities now come out.

Have Mercy upon me, I Pray,
And carry me out of the Weather,
For all that my Mother can say,
The Parish must be my Father.

IV. [Part IV.]

SONG.

[Why should Christians be restrain'd]

Why should Christians be restrain'd
From the brisk enliv'ning Juice,
Heaven only has ordain'd
(Thro' Love to Man) for humane use?
Should not Claret be deny'd
To the Turks, they'd Wiser grow;
Lay their Alchoran aside,
And soon believe as Christians do.

CHORUS.

For Wine and Religion, like Musick and Wine,
As they are Good in themselves, do to Goodness incline;
And make both the Spirit and Flesh so divine,
That our Faces and Graces both equally shine:
Then still let the Bumper round Christendom pass,
For Paradice lost may be found in a Glass.

[May Rats and Mice]

May Rats and Mice
Consume his Shreds,
His Patterns and his Measures;
May Nits and Lice
Infest his Beds,
And Care confound his Pleasures.

May his long Bills
Be never paid;
And may his Help-mate Horn-him;
May all his Ills
Be Publick made;
And may his Watchmen Scorn-him.

May Cucumbers
Be all his Food,
And Small-Beer be his Liquor;
Lustful Desires
Still fire his Blood,
But may his Reins grow weaker.

When old may he,
Reduced be
From Constable to Beadle,
And live until
He cannot feel.
His Thimble from his Needle.

113

V. [Part V.]

[Who can such Blessings, when they're found resign?]

Who can such Blessings, when they're found resign?
An Honest Vintner, Faithful to the Vine;
A Spacious Room, Rare Painting, and Good Wine?

Such Tempting Charms what Mortal ean avoid?
Where such Perfections are at once enjoy'd,
Who can be Dull, or who be ever Cloy'd?

If you would Love, see there fair Pallas stands,
How Chaste her Looks? How Fine her Breasts and Hands?
Her Eyes raise Wonder, and your Heart Commands.

If you to Wit or Musick wou'd aspire,
Gaze at the Nine, that Blest Harmonious Quire,
They'll Kindle in your Thoughts new sparks of Fire.

If to the Warlike Mars you'd be a Friend,
And learn to bravely Conquer and Defend,
See Ajax and Ulysses there Contend.

If neither Love nor Arms your Fancy Suit;
Nor wish to be Wise, Musical or Stout;
Here Wine will make you truly Blest without.

115

[May the Cockroach and Moth]

May the Cockroach and Moth,
Eat such Holes in their Cloth,
That the Prime-Cost may never return in;
But must all be laid by,
For a Black Rusty Dye,
Fit for Dead-mongers Lacquays to Mourn-in.

116

May their Second-band Stocks,
Of Coats, Breeches and Cloakes,
Hang by till they're quite out of Fashion;
And like Userers Bags,
May they Rot into Rags,
And Provoke the Damn'd Knaves to a Passion.

May their Taylor, ne'er Trust,
Nor their Servants prove just;
And their Wives and their Families vex 'em:
May their Foreheads all Ake,
And their Debtors all Break;
And their Consciences daily perplex 'em.

With their Whores may they Sport,
Till their Noses fall short,
And have none but a Quack to come nigh 'em;
And in Fluxing become
Lame, Deaf, Blind, and Dumb,
That a Man may walk quietly by 'em.

125

VI. [Part VI.]

[Bullies, like Dunghill-Cocks, will strut and Crow]

Bullies , like Dunghill-Cocks, will strut and Crow,
But few or none dare stand the Sparring Blow,
So does the Peevish Mongrel take delight
To snap and snarl, show Teeth, but dare not Bite;
Oft Mischief makes, but still the danger shuns;
He Creeps and Fawns, or else turns Tail and Runs.
So Cowards often do their Swords Unsheath,
But Cow'd and Daunted with the fear of Death,
Thus tamely shew their Blades, as fearful Curs their Teeth.

130

A Character of a Quack.

A shame to Art, to Learning, and to Sence;
A Foe to Vertue, Friend to Impudence;
Wanting in Natures Gifts and Heaven's Grace,
An Object Scandalous to Human Race;
A Spurious Breed by some Jack-Adams got;
Born of some Common Monstrous God-knows-what:
Into the World no Woman sure could bring
So vile a Birth, such an Unmanlike thing.
Train'd from his Cradle up in Vices School,
To Tumble, Dance the Rope, and Play the Fool.
Thus Learn'd he stroles with some Illit'rate Quack,
Till by long Travels he acquires the Knack,
To make the sweepings of a Drugsters shop,
Into some unknown Universal slop:
On which some senseless Title be bestows,
Tho' what is in't, nor Buy'r or Seller knows.
Then Lazy grown, he doth his Booth forsake,
Quitting the Rope and Hoop, and so turns Quack.
Thus by base means to Live, does worse pursue;
And Gulls the Poor of Life and Money too.

137

On Bridewel.

'Twas once the Palace of a Prince,
If we may Books confide-in,
But given was by him long since,
For Vagrants to reside in,

The Crumbs that from his Table fell,
Once made the Poor the Fatter;
But those that in its Confines dwell,
Now feed on Bread and Water.

138

No Ven'son now whereon to Dine;
No Frigasies nor Hashes;
No Balls, no Merriment, or Wine,
But Woful Tears and Slashes.

No Prince or Peers, to make a Feast,
No Kettle-Drums or Trumpets,
But art become a shameful Nest,
Of Vagabonds and Strumpets.

Where once the King and Nobles sat,
In all their Pomp and Splendor;
Grave City Grandeur nods its Pate,
And threatens each Offender.

Unhappy thy Ignoble Doom,
Where Greatness once Resorted;
Now Hemp and Labour fills each Room,
Where Lords and Ladies sported.

153

VII. [Part VII.]

On White-Fryars.

The Place where Knaves their Revels kept,
And bid the Laws Defiance;
Where Whores and Thieves for Safety crept,
Is of her Filthy Swarms clean Swept,
Her Lazy Crew that sculk'd for Debt,
Have lost their chief Reliance.

The Vermin of the Law, the Bum,
Who gladly kept his Distance,
Does safely now in Triumph come,
And if he finds the Wretch at Home,

154

He Executes the Fatal Doom,
Without the least Resistance.

Villains of ev'ry Black Degree,
Were on this Spot Collected;
Oaths, Curses, Lies and Blasphemie,
Pass'd Currantly from He to She,
Made Vertue stare to Hear and See,
What Vices here were Acted.

A Soil where Sin could only Grow,
And Dev'lish Dark Opinion;
A Looking-Glass on Earth to show,
How Fiends and Devils Live Below,
That Mankind might the Discords know,
That dwell in Hells Dominion.

The Streets were Stain'd and Houses Lin'd,
With Bloodshed, Sin, and Sorrow;
So wicked, it was hard to find,
One Christian with an upright Mind;
But seem'd to be a place design'd,
To perish like Gomorrha.

The sodden Sinners here that Liv'd
With Pox, look'd Pale as Tallow,
By whom no God was e'er believ'd,
Or Man amongst 'em ever thriv'd,
But that Curs'd Wretch who daily striv'd,
To be the Basest Fellow.

To Thieve, Pick Pockets, Whore, and Cheat,
Were all their chiefest Study;
And He or She that was unfit
For any Rogu'ry, or Deceit,
Such a Poor Rascal had no Wit,
And she a silly Dowdy.

155

Pox, Poverty, Dirt, Rags, and Lice,
By most were carr'd about 'em:
They were too Nasty to be Nice,
And all their daily Exercise,
Were Whoring, Drinking, Cards, and Dice,
No Living here without 'em.

No Orders did they mind or Hours;
But free of all Restriction,
Each Tippling-House kept Open Doors,
At Midnight for Sots, Rogues, and Whores.
To Curse and VVrangle at All-Fours,
And vent their Maledictions.

But now the wicked Scene withdraws,
And makes an Alteration;
Its Purg'd and Cleans'd by wholesome Laws,
And is become a Sober Place,
VVhere Honesty may show its Face,
VVithout Disreputation.

156

[As Mariners with hopes their Anchors weigh]

As Mariners with hopes their Anchors weigh,
But if cross VVinds, or Storms they meet at Sea,
They Damn their Stars, and Curse the Low'ring Day:

So Gamesters when the Luck of one prevails
Above anothers, then the Loser rails,
Damns Fortune, and in Passion bites his Nails.

158

[Sure none like Man, will their own Kind annoy]

Sure none like Man, will their own Kind annoy,
Hawks, will not Hawks, or Wolves, will VVolves destroy;
But these inhumane Sharks, worse Beasts than they,
On their own Fellow Creatures basely Prey;
Surely at last such Destin'd are to Starve,
VVho can no better Life than this deserve.

[How Vain is Youth? How Ripe to be Undone]

How Vain is Youth? How Ripe to be Undone,
VVhen Rich betimes, and made a Man too soon?
Humour his Folly, and his Pride commend,
You make him both your Servant and your Friend.
But if with Councils you the VVretch shall Aid,
He tells you to advise, is to Upbraid;

159

That Good your Admonitions are, 'tis true;
But still no more than what before he knew;
Prays you to hold your Tongue, he Scorns to Learn of you.

[Unhappy VVretch, by Chance and Bounty Fed]

Unhappy VVretch, by Chance and Bounty Fed;
To nothing Born, and yet to nothing Bred:
Thou'rt Fortunes Pensioner, whom Men Receive,
Sometimes for Sport, and sometimes to Relieve:
Mechanicks in thy Company look great,
And Magnifie by thee their Happier State.
Each Man that Knows thee doubly Guards his Purse,
Thou'rt like Infection shun'd, and that that's worse,
A Burthen to the VVorld, and to thy self a Curse.

161

[Could Youth those early Hours to Study bend]

Could Youth those early Hours to Study bend,
Which on the Tempting Sex they vainly spend;
How sparkling wou'd his Happy Genius shine?
How strong his Nerves? His Knowledge how Divine?
To Adams first Perfection he'd Attain,
And by degrees Lost Paradise Regain.
But that which Plagues and Bitters Humane Life
Is Woman, wheher Mistress or a Wife,
Mother of Sin, Disease of Sorrow and Strife.

162

[Fie! You great Looby John]

Fie! You great Looby John;
Pray-now let me alone.
If you won't let me Rest,
Now a Body is Drest,
Be gone about your Business.

Never Stir, let me go,
Don't you Rumple me so;
Hold your Hand you great Cur,
If you think I'm a Whore,
Be gone about your Business.

Nay, I Vow and Protest,
I will not be in Jest;
Why you Ugly Damn'd Devil,
If you will not be Civil,
Be gone about your Business.

O Dear! Nay, I Vow.
Why, where are you now?
O L**d I'm undone;
You will kill me anon,
Go on about your Business.

168

['Tis a sad Rendezvouz of the Wicked'st of Wretches]

'Tis a sad Rendezvouz of the Wicked'st of Wretches,
Poor Rogues without Money, and Whores without patches,
A Sodom for Sin, where the worst Jack of Dandy,
May S--- thro, the Fair with a Gallon of Brandy.

169

VIII. PART VIII.

The Spy and his Friend go to St. James's. The Opinion of an Irish Dear Joy upon the Whales Rib there. A Description of the Park, and the Ladies of the Court, with a Copy of Verses upon Woman. A Description of Westminster-Abbey, a Company of Train-Bands, Westminster-Hall, and the Courts of Justice; with the Character of a Pettifogger. A Story of the great Bell at Westminster. Remarks upon the Tennis-Court at White-Hall, and the Ruines there; with the Character of a Foot Soldier.

171

[Woman (when Good) the best of Saints]

Woman (when Good) the best of Saints,
That Bright Seraphick Lovely She!
Who nothing of an Angel wants,
But Truth and Immortality.

Whose Silken Limbs, and Charming Face,
Keeps Nature warm with Amorous Fire,
Was she with Wisdom Arm'd, and Grace,
What greater Bliss could Man desire.

How Smoothly would our Minutes slide?
How Sweetly Lovers must accord?
Had she but Wit herself to guide,
Or Prudence to obey her Lord.

Few Troubles would our Lives annoy,
Could Man on wav'ring Beauty trust;
But her Misguidance mars the Joy,
Thro' want of Wisdom to be Just.

Adam no Paradise had Lost,
Had Eve not Disobedient been;
Her wand'ring Inclination cost
The Price of Happiness for Sin.

How Blest a Marriage State would be,
Were but her Temper and her Love,

172

From Lust and Revolution free;
How great a Blessing would she prove!

But Pride of being Great and Gay,
Tempts her to Deviate, by degrees,
From Vertues Paths, and run astray,
For Gawdy Plumes and Lolling Ease.

Thus once defil'd she soon grows Lewd,
Like Angels fall'n from Purity,
Pursuing Ill, disdaining Good;
And Envies what she cannot be.

Could Beauty in her Dressing Glass,
The Charms of Innocence but see:
How Vertue gilds her Awful Face,
She'd Prize the Darling Raritie.

For she that's Lovely, Just, and Kind,
Does Blessing to a Woman bring;
But if her Honours once Resign'd,
Tho' Fair, she's but a Pois'nous Sting.

177

[Sure Art and Nature, no where else can show]

Sure Art and Nature, no where else can show
A Park where Trees in such true order grow.
In silver Streams the gentle Isis here
No Banks o'er flowes, yet proudly swells so near,
That makes the pleasing Cup just brimming full appear

Jn Summers longest days, when Phebus takes
A Pride to pierce the thickest Shades and Brakes,
May Beauties walk beneath a Verdent Skreen,
Exempt from Dust, and by the Sun unseen:
So thick of Leaves each Plant, so green the Gráss,
Sure Mortal never view'd a sweeter place.

Prevailing Ladies meet in Lovely Swarms,
And bless each day its Umbrage with their Charms.
Rev'rence the Stuarts Name for this hera'ter:
King James the First Clubb'd Wood, his Grandson Charles found Water.

191

[To a Coblers Aul, or Butchers Knife]

To a Coblers Aul, or Butchers Knife,
Or Porters Knot, Commend me;
But from a Souldiers Lazy Life,
Good Heaven pray defend me.

198

IX. [Part IX.]

[Here Persons who for Places Wait]

Here Persons who for Places Wait,
Their Faithless Courtiers Greet:
And Men of Sense, made Fools by Fate,
Their Crafty Patrons meet.

Here Pension'd Spies like Saints appear,
Who do Mens Hearts inspect;
And whisper in the Statesmans Ear,
What they Abroad Collect.

Here News by Subtle Tongues is spread,
To try the Listening Crowd;
But what is Truth's a Secret made,
While Lyes are Talk'd aloud.

Beau Fools in Clusters here Resort,
And are so Sawcy grown,
They'll ask my Lord, what News from Court,
Who Smiles, and Answers, None.

To be Inform'd few caring less;
But ask as 'tis the Mode;
No Knowledge seek, but how to Dress.
Their Taylor is their God.

Here Flatterers meet their Empty Squires;
And praise their shallow Sense;
The Idiot in Return admires,
His fawning Eloquence.

199

And that he further may Enjoy
A Man of such Desert,
He steps to Lockets, cross the Way,
And Treats him with a Quart.

The Gamester does this Bubble set;
And seems his mighty Friend;
Hence draws him to a Tavern Treat,
That's Fatal in the end.

Both such who Serve and Plague the State,
Do hither make their Way;
And Crowds of Humane Vultures wait,
To Catch their Silly Prey.

202

[Great were thy Wrongs, thy Patience still as great]

Great were thy Wrongs, thy Patience still as great;
When Faction Rul'd the Church, and Knaves the State;
Hard were thy Peoples Hearts, but harder yet thy Fate.

Balm thou applyd'st whilst they still vext thee sore,
The more their Crimes thy Mercies grew the more;
Thy God like Mind was Rich, altho' thy Treasure Poor.

203

The Laws they smother'd in Rebellious Night,
And trod dark Paths, whilst thou pursu'dst the Light,
As they encreas'd their Shame, thy Glories shone more bright.

Hadst thou in Rage thy Victories pursu'd,
And took delight in shedding Rebels Blood,
Thou'dst been secure, but wer't, alas, too Mild and Good.

Contempt of all thy Favours they return'd;
Yawn'd at thy Power, and at thy Person spurn'd;
Merry o'er others Spoils, whilst all true Subjects Mourn'd.

The Canting Pulpiteers by Dreams made wise,
Turn'd Gospel Truths into Audacious Lies;
And taught the Blood of Kings a Holy Sacrifice.

Unlearn'd Mechanicks full of nought but Noise,
Were turn'd, thro' Grace, Expounders of the Laws,
And justify'd Rebellion to be Heavens Cause.

When Right, thro' want of due Assistance fail'd,
And Wrong thro' mislead Multitudes prevail'd,
The Trait'rous Torrent grew too strong to be Repell'd.

Thus the Mad Crowd who could no Ills Foresee,
Of all Restraint endeavouring to be Free,
Took off thy Head, because themselves would Headless be.

206

[Fine Lace or Linnen, Sir]

Fine Lace or Linnen, Sir,
Good Gloves or Ribbons here;
What is't you please to Buy-Sir?
Pray what d'ye ask for this?
Ten Shillings is the Price;
It Cost me, Sir, no less,
I Scorn to tell a Lye-Sir.

Madam, what is't you want,
Rich Fans of India Paint?
Fine Hoods or Scarfs, my Lady?
Silk Stockins will you Buy,
In Grain or other Dye?
Pray Madam, please your Eye:
I've Good as e'er was made-ye.

My Lady, feel the Weight,
They're Fine, and yet not Slight,
I'd with my Mother trust-'em
For Goodness and for Wear,
Madam, I Vow and Swear,
I show'd you this same Pair,
In hopes to gain your Custom.

Pray tell me in a Word,
At what you can afford,
With Living Gain to sell em:
The Price is one Pound Five,
And as I hope to Live,
I do my Profit give,
Your Honour's very Welcome.

207

Knives, Penknives, Combs, or Scissors,
Tooth-Pickers, Sirs, or Tweesers;
Or Walking Canes, to Ease-ye.
Ladies d'ye want fine Toys,
For Misses or for Boys?
Of all sorts I have Choice,
And pretty things to please-ye.

I want a little Babye;
As pretty a one as may be,
With Head-Dress made of Feather:
And now I think again,
I want a Toy from Spain,
You know what 'tis I mean:
Pray send 'em home together.

223

X. [Part X.]

A Letter from a LAWYER in Town, to a New Married OFFICER in the Country.

Letters in Prose my Friend are Common,
As Pride in Priest, or Lust in Woman.
Our Annual Curse of long Vacation,
To Bus'ness giving a Cessation,
Affords me time to thus Salute-ye,
And pay in Rhime this Friendly Duty.

224

Not rightly knowing which is worse,
The Lawyers or the Poets Curse,
Both Silenc'd with an Empty Purse.
For now our Pens, upon our Words,
Are grown as useless as your Swords;
We having but as little Writing,
As, God be thanked, you have Fighting.
You may draw Sword, so we may Pen,
To show our Tools of War, and then,
Like Fools, e'en put 'em up again.

But what a Pox is't I am doing?
Or where the Devil am I going?
Now Pegasus I've once bestriden,
Methinks I Gallop like a D---n:
And pleas'd I am in the Vein, Egad,
Blunder out Verse like any Mad.
Long as 'tis Rhime its no great matter,
And Bombast, whether Praise or Satyr.
Mistake me not, and think I've Writ
To show my Parts, that is not it;
I'd not be Envy'd for a Wit.

For he that's Rich in Thought, is sure
To be in Friends and Pocket Poor;
For Wisemen will not care to serve him:
And Fools would all be glad to starve him.
Wit carr's an Edge, few can abide-it,
And he that has it ought to hide-it.
Such Weapons in a Mans Possession,
Scare the Unarm'd from's Conversation;
And is so far from b'ing Delightful,
It renders him that Draws it, Frightful:
For no Man cares for th'Company,
Of him that has more Wit than be:
Nor can he with good Will afford,
The better Genius one Good Word.

225

So Dowdy's will no Praise allow
To her that has the Lovely Brow;
But will endeavour to Confute-ye,
She has more Faults by half than Beauty.
To Wits 'tis Fear that makes us Civil,
Just as an Indian is to th'Devil.

This Ignis Fatuus in my Brains,
That kindles up these Rambling Strains,
Makes my Head light as any Feather,
And leads me wand'ring God knows whither.
But Poets, when we make Digression,
The Fault we supple by Confession;
And so Excuse the wild Transgression.

I only meant to let you know
I'm Well, and hope that you are so,
With all the Merry Knaves o'th Pack,
Who Love the Fair, the Brown, the Black:
And rather than submit to Marry,
Fly still at Whore, as Hawk at Quarry.

Pray tell me how Lieutenant A---
Maintains his Vice with half his Pay:
Who has, I hope by Good Direction,
Repair'd his Rudder of Affection;
And gain'd his Natural Complexion.
I fear it prov'd a Scurvy Jobb,
Bid him Beware lest t'other Rub,
Shou'd bring him to the Powd'ring Tub.

I want to know if Captain Blunder,
Is still the Country Wenches wonder;
And he shifts for Copulation,
To oblige his Lustful Inclination.
I fear his Tail's so much his Master,
'T has brought him under some Disaster:

226

For Bolus, Pills, and Sal-Prunel,
(In which Repenting Sinners deal)
Were sent among ye by Jack Staily,
To quench those burning Pains that ail ye;
Which have possest, I plainly see,
Some Label of Mortality.

But hold! What is it I am doing?
I must not here appear too knowing;
Lest you Arch Wags should turn the Satyr,
And say, I'm Skilful in the matter.

But now, dear Friend, I change my Strain,
And grieve to think weak Man so vain,
That Resolutions made of Late,
Against a Matrimonial State,
Should not defend you from the Curse
Of Fools, for better or for Worse.
Prithee now tell what means this Riddle,
That you should be so Fond and Idle,
T'eclipse the Freedom of your Life,
With that dull Mournful Clog, a Wife?
What if she's Youthful, Rich, and Fair,
And Vertuous too, she's still a Care?
These are but Chains to bind thee faster,
And make Mans Plague the more his Master.
Since Married, I account Thee one
Who the best Threds of's Life has Spun;
And now his Misery's just begun.

But use this Caution thro' thy Life,
Slave not thy self to please a Wife,
Lest thro' o'er Fondness thou dost prove
A meer Anatomy of Love.

227

But since the Earthen Vessel, Man,
Whose Life's compris'd within a Span,
Is by his Nature Weak and Vain;
I must excuse your Over-sight,
Committed 'gainst your Reason's Light:
And since you're Catch'd in Loves Decoy,
I'll wish you, like the rest, much Joy:
Hoping your Choice has prov'd so Good,
That she's as Chast as you are Lewd;
And then she could not be with-stood.

You know, my Friend, what can't be Cur'd,
It's said of Old, must be Endur'd:
Since that's your Case, I'll so Be-Friend you,
As wish all Happiness Attend-you.

May she prove Just (I hope she's Fair)
Calm, Kind, and Good, as Angels are;
And may her sweeter Charms produce,
(When sprinkled with your Balmy Juice)
A Noble Fruit of Glorious use.

May your whole Lives be Harmonie;
Mutual your Loves, from Troubles Free;
And Dutiful your Progenie.

May she so Live, that all her Joys
May prove her Merit, not her Choice:
And to compleat that Happiness
I truly Wish you to Possess,
To your Fair Bride may you prove True,
And Good to her, as she to you.

My Friend, with Gladness do I hear
You find your Spirits much too clear
For Fens, and its Gross Foggie Air.

228

That you intend, within a while,
To Bless your own dear Native Soil;
And leave that Poisonous Croaking Isle
To Frogs, and Toades, Snakes, Ev'ts and Ants,
Its Native foul Inhabioants.
But e'er you come, take Care, and See
You send me a Retaining Fee
In Cordial Nants, or some such Liquor,
To move my Spirits round the Quicker.

For Man's but Heaven's Water-Mill,
In motion kept by th'Glass or Jill;
And wanting Liquor must stand still.
Don't thro Oblivion, now Neglect it,
For I assure you I expect it.

This being in Rhime my first Essay,
I've Jingled on a wondrous Way:
Pray Pardon my Prolixity,
A common Fault in Poetry.

Excuse me Friend, in what I Write t'ye,
And don't forget the Aqua-Vitæ,
Is all I Beg, and so Good B'y't'ye,

289

XII. [Part XII.]

[To speak but the Truth of my Honest Friend Ned]

To speak but the Truth of my Honest Friend Ned,
The best of all Vintners that ever God made;
He's free of his Beef, and as free of his Bread,
And Washes both down with a Glass of rare Red,
That tops all the Town, and Commands a good Trade,
Such Wine as will chear up the Drooping Kings-Head;
And brisk up the Soul, tho' our Body's half Dead,
He Scorns to Draw Bad, as he hopes to be Paid:
And now his Name's up he may e'en lie a Bed:
For he'll get an Estate, there's no more to be said.

291

[If any shall say want of Manners or Sense]

If any shall say want of Manners or Sense,
Have made me this Caution intrude;
I justly may urge, to excuse the Offence,
To be Moral is not to be Rude.

292

Who ever to Popular Praises Aspire,
Must do't by much Trouble and Cost;
Tho' a very good Name is so hard to acquire,
Yet nothing's so easily Lost.

The Turns and the Changes of Fame and of Fate,
Is to no Mortal Power Fore-known,
May raise us to Day, by Good-means to be Great,
Yet to Morrow may tumble us down.

May therefore your Prudence and Conduct be such,
To add new Applause to your Name;
And raise such Esteem that no Envy can touch,
Or Malice deservedly Blame.

297

[The Bulky Cits March'd after in a Throng]

The Bulky Cits March'd after in a Throng,
Huzza'd by th'Mob, as Drum'd and Pip'd along;
Whilst Wise Spectators do their Pomp disdain,
And with Contempt behold the Dragling Train.

XIII. PART XIII.

The Country-men's Report of the Tower. A Description of the City-Mob upon a Lord-Mayors Day. Remarks upon Tower-Hill, and a Blind Beggar, and a Mumping Parson. A Description of the Tower, and the Rarities that are to be seen there. Remarks on the Tower-Wharf, and the Guns upon it. Reflections upon a Tavern, and an Astrologer in Prescot-street, in Goodmans-Fields. On the Salamanca-Doctor's Meeting House.

320

[Gods People sure are once again run Mad]

Gods People sure are once again run Mad,
To chuse so Vile a Soul to be their Teacher;
No Nation such a Saviour ever had,
Or Christian Congregation such a Preacher.

His Doctrine sure can be no more than Farce,
What Fools can follow such a Vile Instructer?
A Perjus'd V--- who Adores an Ass;
Which since he does mine A---s upon the Doctor.

321

XIV. PART XIV.

Reflections on St. Catharines Ale-Houses, and the Tars that frequent them. A Seaman that had Spent his Money Reprehended by an Hostess. The Wheadles of the Wapping Hostess to Gull the Sea-Calves. A Description of a Famous Musick-House in Wapping. Reflections on the Danes Church. Rag-Fair Described. Remarks upon a Coffee-House in Goodmans-Fields; with a Poem in Praise of Punch. Reflections upon Lotteries in General, and on that at Mercers-Chappel in particular. With some Verses on Lotteries.

337

In Praise of PUNCH.

Immortal Drink whose Compound is of Five,
More Praise do'st thou deserve than Man can give;
A Cordial that supports the troubled Heart,
And do'st infuse new Life in ev'ry part:
Thou clear'st our Reason, and inform'st our Soul,
And mak'st us Demy Gods when o'er a Bowl,
Inspir'd by thee we're rais'd to such a Pitch,
That things beyond Mortality we reach,
Such as without thy Pow'r no Stagaryte e'er cou'd Teach.
Had our Foresfathers but thy Vertues known,
Their Foggy Ale to Lubber they'd have thrown;
And stuck to thee who gives the Soul a sight
Of things, that Study ne'er cou'd bring to Light.
Which if they had, I may with Reason say,
Our Great Great Grandsires might have seen this Day;
Had they th'Effects of of this Di'pente seen,
Five would have sure the Golden Number been.
Let Musick Judge thy Harmony alone,
A Fifth's a Concord but a Seventh's none.
Therefore thou surely dost Excel in Heaven,
And Justly take'st the Upper-hand of Seven,
Thou Friendship Knit'st, and does the same preserve;
They who Neglect thee do not Live but Starve:
Slight those great Benefits they might possess,
Which Wine can't Equalize, or Words Express.
Thou clear'st all Doubts, and driv'st away all Care,
And make'st Mankind show truly what we are;

338

When to thy Power we chearfully submit,
And round the Bowl, thy flowing Confines, sit,
We Paradise Regain, and Re-enjoy
That happy State which common Ills Destroy.
The Sober Muckworms who thy Name abuse,
And with Contempt thy Jolly Cups Refuse,
Are Plodding Knaves, who're fearful to betray
Some Base Designs they are about te Play;
And therefore without danger cannot Trust,
Evils with thee, that art Divinely Just.
Thou art the Key to Humane Heads and Hearts,
O'er thee the Modest, Witty, show their Parts.
Thou putt'st new Vigour into Life's old Springs,
The Poet Rhimes, and the Musician Sings;
The Artist does his Rules and Means disclose,
The Lawyer Feeless tells you what he knows.
The Parson quits Divinity and Drinks;
At all our Little Slips and Failings Winks,
Nor tells you what he has Read, but truly thinks.
The Virgin all her Coyness lays aside,
And hear's a Love-Petition without Pride,
Shewing those Faults before by Art she hid.
The Wife will by her true Behaviour show,
Whether sh'as Horn'd the Goodmans Head or no;
The Subtle Widow will her Love set forth,
And frankly tell you what she's freely worth.

In thee one Virtue more I must commend,
Of Liquors thou'rt the only Womans Friend:
'Twill make the Youth, his utmost Power exert,
And the old Fumbler play the Young Mans part.
To thee, my only Mistress, cou'd I raise,
An everlasting Monument of Praise.
For thus much may I justiy say in fine.
Thou hast an Excellence surpassing Wine,
And art the only Cordial that's Divine.

339

Therefore to know this mighty Truth I want,
If a Saint first made Punch, or Punch first made a Saint.

342

[What sundry Projects the Ingenious find]

What sundry Projects the Ingenious find,
T'Allure and Cozen Avaritious Fools;
And draw the Common People who are Blind,
In all their Stratagems to be their Tools.

The hopes of sudden Wealth doth most deceive,
When 'tis from Labour and from Danger free,
Let but the hopes be plausible you give,
And most Men will with your designs agree.

For all Men love Prosperity and Ease,
And when its Prospect they with Safety have,
Tho' at a vast long distance, yet 'twill please,
More surely him whom Want does most Enslave.

This made the Lott'ries with the Crowd prevail,
The Odds, tho' great, they mind to Scan,
As long as each among the Num'rous All,
Has equal Hopes to be the happy Man.

343

The vast Deduction for the Pains and Charge;
Of ten per Cent in Reason is too great;
And where the Gain in Justice is too large,
The very Profit is alone a Cheat.

Thousands, 'tis plain, would soon have been Undone,
Had the late Act much longer been delay'd,
Where many suffer to Enrich but one,
All such designs are in their Nature bad.

All loofe vain Projects ought to be debarr'd,
Which are of Evil to the Publick known,
Wherein Projectors have a large Reward,
For doing what they'd better ne'er a done.

This is enough to prove they Hurtful are,
Since among all the Adventurers you meet,
To one who has reason to believe 'em Fair,
A thousand shall Cry out, A Cheat a Cheat.

He that Projects or Models the Design,
Like the Box-keeper certain is to Win:
In Lott'ries 'tis the same as 'tis in Play,
The Knave's the Vulture, and the Fool's the Prey.

349

XV. [Part XV.]

The Character of a Common Victualler.

The Monster that progressively is Bred,
To raise his Fortunes by the Tippling Trade,
(As oft they are) must be of Spurious Race,
Begot by Chance within the Bounds of Grace:
Born of some Lustful Wench, who could not stay
Till Fortune flung a Husband in her way;
First Dropt, and then Preserv'd at Parish Pay.
Or else brought up on Pack-Horse from the North,
Born there of Parents who were nothing worth;

350

Sent up to Town, as thousands were before,
To Nick and Froth, and Learn the Double Score.
The Northern Sharpness in his Rural Face,
Soon recommends the Stripling to a Place:
Where by some thriving Country-man he's taught,
To Cheat the Guests of ev'ry Quart, a Draught.

Thus when a Seven Years Practice he has made,
And Learn'd Each Knavish Myst'ry of his Trade,
Some labouring Drudge with Twenty Pounds he meets,
Who longs to Dance the shaking of the sheets,
With her he couples and improves his Pence,
With his own hoarded Fools Benevolence;
Who great as Kings, when Drunk do often Grant,
Those Boons to Tapsters which themselves most want.
Then takes a House, hangs up a Yorshire Sign,
New Paints the Door-Case, makes the Lettice fine.

Thus enter'd, such sharp Measures does he take,
By which he thrives whilst twenty Tradesmen break.
At first Industrious as an Indian Slave,
Close as a Miser, Cunning as a Knave;
Humble and Fawning, as a Pedlars Cur,
And to each Cobler Answers, Coming Sir.
His Bread and Cheese he frankly does impart,
And ev'ry thing is done with all his Heart.
Porters are Welcome near the Fire to sit,
And may Command; the Varlet can submit.
Without Offence Red-Herrings they may Broil,
And tattle o'er their Pot a wond'rous while.
Himself will on a Neigh'bring Errand run;
What e'er you speak for in a trice is done.
If Guests desire to keep 'em up till late,
Both without Grumbling will their Leisure wait;
No frowning from the Tike, or maundring from his

351

Thus are they careful to oblige at first,
But as they thrive, like Curs, they grow more Curst.
Full Cellars and full Pockets change the Scene,
And make the Lout a Prince, his Drab a Queen.
The Cobbler then must at a distance keep,
And Porters with their Hats in Hand must creep,
No Frape must hover o'er the Kitchen Fire,
They no such Paultry Company do desire:
Sit up, you Fellow, move your Seat you Clown;
And let my Master Such a one sit down.
Pray Troop, I keep a Publick House 'tis true;
But do not light my Fires for such as you.

In comes a Neiphb'ring Servant for some Ale,
Pray dash it with a little drop of Stale:
I've brought no Money you must set it down:
The Maids thus Answer'd by the Surly Clown:
Pray tell your Master I shall draw no more,
Until he comes or sends to clear his Score;
I'd rather in my Cellar keep my Beer,
Than send it out on Trust I know not where.
Perhaps some Neighb'ring Tradesmen next appear:
Where shall we be to Drink a Pot of Beer?
Can't we go up? No Marry, says the Quean,
None has been Up Stairs since the Room was Clean.
Here Boy the Bell, or else the Kitchen show,
Good Gentlemen, I'm sure, have sat below.
Nay, if we can't go up, we will not stay,
I'll warrant we'll find Houses where we may.
We do not want your Custom, you mistake,
Pray troop, one Swallow won't a Summer make.

Thus is the Baseness of their Nature shown,
No sooner Prosperous but Imperious grown:

352

By Wealth made Sawcy, by Misfortune Cow'd;
When Poor, too Humble, and when Rich, too Proud.

359

Of a Cunning-Man.

Poor Taylors, Weavers, Shooe-makers and such,
Little in Trade, and think they know too much,
Are the chief Sensless Bigots that advance
A foolish Whim to further Ignorance:
Buoy'd up by Chance-Success would things fore-know,
Aim to be Wise, and still more Fooolish grow;
Peep twenty Years at Stars, at Sun and Moon,
And prove themselves but Ideots when they've done.
Then finding by Experience they are lost,
In that True Knowledge which they fain wou'd boast,
They draw in Fools to pay for th'time their Study Cost.
All their whole Art consists in Barren Words,
Meer Sound, but no True Argument affords:

360

On a Faint shadow do they all relye,
What few believe, and none can justifie.
Mars by Heroick Actions got a Name,
Venus for Beauty and her Whoredom, Shame;
Mercury for Speed was famous, and for Theft,
And now most bad, when by himself be's left:
Good, if well mixt, like Hair amongst the Loom,
If not, he's Fatal to the Native's Doom:
So to the rest such Influence they ascribe,
As we, they say, by Nature's Course imbibe.
'Tis true, the Persons whence the Name's deriv'd,
Were Whores, and Thieves, and Heroes whilst they liv'd.
But these Bright Planets which surround the Earth,
Had the same Force and Power before their Birth:
E'er they were Christen'd they were still the same,
At first a part o'th' Universal Frame,
And do no Influence borrow from an Empty Name.
Mars can no Heroe by his Aspect make,
Nor Venus force a Virgin to forsake
Her Vertue; nor can Mercury prevail
On happy unstain'd Innocence to steal:
No, no, 'tis Education makes us fit
To Virtuous Live, or to Base means submit.
All their pretended Impulse is a Quacking Cheat.
Only upheld by Knaves, believ'd by Fools:
The first their Workmen, and the last their Tools:
All their Pretences are but empty show,
Wise would they seem, but still they nothing know,
Instead of Reason, which all Art defines,
Their Brains are fill'd with Planets, Orbs, and Signs;
Their knowledge little, their Gray Hairs but Green;
Their Learning less, and their Profession mean:
Their Conversation dull, each sensless word,
Is humbly Paid to some Ascendant Lord:

361

A Globe's their Sign; in Alleys do they dwell,
And tho' Fools think they've Conference with Hell,
Do all things know; yet little Truth can tell,

364

Informing Constables, and other Informers

Do most thro' Int'rest, and but few thro' Zeal,
Betwixt the Laws and the Offender deal.
Poor Sinners may their Persecution Fear,
As Cozening Bakers do a strict Lord-Mayor.
But the Gay Curtezan who Trades for Gold,
That can but grease a Palm when she's in bold,
No Justice need she dread, or Bridewel fear;
But without danger Sin from Year to Year.
Or need the Mony'd Libertine e'er see,
The Awful Brows of Stern Authority:
But Drink and Swear till weary of his Vice,
Would he Sin on at an Informers Price:
Who chose their Pious Office for its Gain,
To dwell upon the Sins of other Men:
Not with a good Intent to Vice reclaim,
Or bring Offenders into open shame.
Few do we see that are Examples made,
But the poor Strumpet, or the starving Blade,
Who wanting Money, do the Scourge endure,
Not punish'd for their Vice, but being Poor.

Vice deserves Publick Punishment, 'tis true,
But those that Live upon the Ills I do,
And on my Failings for their Bread relye,
Do what good Mortals cannot justifie.
If the Poor Harlot shall her Soul Betray,
For Money, which Informers take away

365

To let her go; it is the Worlds Belief,
The Receiver's full as guilty as the Thief.

If I by chance am Drunk, or should I Swear,
The Man that does against me Witness bear,
Purely to share the Money in my Purse.
I'm bad 'tis true, but such a Knave is worse.
If what he does is with a true Intent,
Of bringing Vice to Shame and Punishment;
And well considers if himself be free,
From all those Failings he Condemns in me:
If not, 'tis not true Zeal, but Impudence,
For him t'Accuse the Offender of Offence;
The Hangman more may say in his Defence.
Those Vermin who for Interest do engage,
To dabble in the Vices of the Age;
By subtle means draw silly Creatures in,
And Devil-like, first tempt 'em to the Sin:
No sooner gain'd the Wanton Dames Consent,
But Drag the Wretch away to Punishment,
Less she has Money; or if none, agree
To Pawn her Cloaths to purchase Liberty.
Such are the Scum that do the Town Infect,
Much worse than those they've hired to Detect:
Some loose Shabroon in Bawdy-Houses Bred,
By others Vices like their own are Fed.
A Scoundrel Crew, that o'er the City swarm,
Who by false Accusations do more harm
To Guiltless Persons, fearful to dispute,
Than all the sorry Jilts they Persecute.
If heedless Youth in an Ill House they find,
Dropt in as Strangers, and no Ill design'd,
Void of Offence; yet Bribe to be let go,
Fearing their Masters or their Friends shou'd know:
What is it less in him that takes the Fee,
Than picking Pockets by Authoritie?

366

What Moral Zealot Justly can afford,
To Mercenary Shammocks one good Word,
Who live by Filthy means like Flies upon a T---d.

373

XVI. [Part XVI.]

Of a Master of a Vessel.

A Brawny Lump that scarce knows good from ill,
Fatted on Board like Hogs with Pease and Swill:
Affects a Hoarseness as a Vocal Grace,
Churlish his Carriage, and Austere his Face:
Lusty his Limbs, and Rusty is his Skin,
A Bear without, and a worse Beast within.
If Married sure a Cuckold, and if not,
A Generous Cully to each Wapping Slut:
At Sea an Emperour, at Land a Slave,
A Fool in Talk, but to his Owners Knave:
Ty'd, when on shore to a huge Silver Sword,
And struts about in Wapping like a Lord.
With Jilts in Musick House, he's pleas'd and glad,
When sober surly, and in liquor mad:
A Bulky Carcase, with a slender Soul,
But stout as Julius Cæsar o'er a Bowl:
In Company Pragmatical and Rude,
Humble to's Owners, to his Seamen Proud.
In Calms or Storms he seldom Prays but Swears,
Starving and Drowning are his only Fears,
And never thinks of Heaven beyond the Stars.
Mercator and his Compass are his Guides,
By them alone he thinks he safely Rides:
A Prosperous Gale he looks for as his due;
He thanks no God, Religion never knew;
And is no more a Christian than a Jew.
At Land, altho' an Idiot, when at Sea,
None must presume to be as wise as he:
Talk Reason, and your Argument's deny'd,
He swears you nothing know of Time nor Tide;
His Words are Laws, he is their Soveraign Lord,
An Aristotle's but an Ass on Board.
The Burgoo Novice, bred 'twixt Stem and Stern,
That knows to splice a Line, or spin Rope-Yarn;

374

Shall by King Tar-Arse more respected be,
Than an Erasmus, or the Learned he:
His Head's an Almanack, which Men may find
Fill'd up with Tides, the Weather and the Wind;
Suns Declination, Changes of the Moon,
And how to know in India when its Noon.
A Ship he takes to be the only School,
And really thinks a Land-Man is a Fool:
When warm'd with Punch, and his Mundungus-Weed,
He Praises Briny Beef, and Bisket Bread:
Contemns Land Dainties, and the Bed of Down,
And Swears a Ship's more pleasant than a Town:
So Prisoners long confin'd would fain prevail,
With Freemen, to believe their stinking Goal
Affords more satisfaction to the mind,
Than all the Pleasures they at large can find.
All that the Sea-Calf has on Shore to boast,
Is how he sav'd his Ship from being lost:
Which the Unthinking Dolt, thro' Insolence,
Ascribes to his own Art not Providence.
The most that to his Honour can be said,
Of a Tarpaulin Rabble he's the Head;
And Monarch of a Wooden World tis true,
But such a one as makes most Land-Men sp---w.
Let him Rule on: His Famish'd Slaves Command,
Dreading each Storm that Blows, each Rock & Sand;
Rather than such a King, I'll Subject be at Land.

381

[When Bacchus once the Priest subdues]

When Bacchus once the Priest subdues,
With his prevailing Liquor,
The Man in spight of Art breaks Loose,
Abstracted from the Vicar.

Sober he kept the Formal Path,
In's Cups was not the same Man,
But Reel'd and Stagger'd in his Faith,
And Hickup'd like a Lay-man.

A many pretty things be spoke,
Deserving our Attention;
Not Dross of Saints to Feed a Flock,
But of his own Invention.

382

Yet whether Truths said o'er his Glass,
Of which I took great Notice,
Were or in Vino Veritas,
Or 'n Verbo Sacerdotis

We could not tell; yet Praise was due,
Tho' unto which to give it,
I vow I know not of the two,
The Liquor, or the Levite.

His Scarlet Cheeks inflam'd with Drink,
Together with his White-Head,
Made him appear just like a Link,
When at one end 'tis Lighted.

He Drank in Earnest, broke his Jest,
No Scripture Praises utter'd;
The Man he play'd, and not the Priest;
Thus put the best side outward.

Till Drown'd at last in Bacchus streams,
The Prophets weak condition,
Lull'd him to Sleep to Dream strange Dreams,
Or see some wond'rous Vision.

390

[Pride, Beauty, Prattle, Leachery and Conceit]

Pride, Beauty, Prattle, Leachery and Conceit,
Airy Deportment, and the want of Wit;
Small Waste, Plump Buttocks, and a Face Divine;
Wretchedly Foolish, and extreamly Fine:
At Hackney, Stepney, or at Chealsea Bred,
In Dancing perfect, and in Plays well Read;
The only Daughter of the Trading Fop,
Train'd half in School, and t'other half in Shop;
Who nothing by her Parents is deny'd,
T'improve her Charms or gratifie her Pride.
Spoil'd by her Fathers Fondness and his Pounds,
Till her wild Fancy knows at last no Bounds:
Impatient of Extreams, with Pride half Craz'd,
Then must her Head a Story higher be rais'd:
In her next Gaudy Gown, her Sweeping Train,
Is order'd to be made as long again;
All things must vary from the common Rode,
And reach a Size beyond the Decent Mode:
Thus Monstrously Adorn'd, to make a show,
She walks in State, and Courtsies very low,
And is a proper Mistress for the Fool, a Beau.

400

XVII. [Part XVII.]

The Character of a Banker.

Himself the Scavenger, his House the Cart,
Where Plodding Men throw in their Drossy Pelf:
Thus, like a Farmer he from Rich Mens Dirt,
Raises a happy Living to himself.

With others Cards a cunning Game he Plays:
They stand the Hazard, whilst he Gains his Ends;
He Borrows still, and still no In'trest Pays,
And ne'er without a Damn'd Extortion Lends.

Tho' Proud and Stately, whether Rich or Poor,
Is to all Men except himself unknown:
Amidst his Borrow'd Treasures he's no more,
Than Slave to others Riches, not his own.

His Dealings are so dark a Mystery,
No Man can truly tell, tho' ne'er so Wise,
Whether he Trives, or that he Honest be,
Until the Black-Palm'd Miser breaks or Dies.

401

With one Mans Money be another Pays:
To this he Cuts, and to the other Deals;
Small Accidents his Credit oft Decays,
Then Farewel Fingers, God have Mercy Heels.

The Beggars Curse him as they pass his Door,
Envy the Heaps of Riches which they see;
Beg but in vain, then wish the Banker Poor,
Who Rowles in Wealth, but has no Charity.

Great Sums each Day are on his Counters told,
And Piles of Bags his Fetter'd Trunks contain:
But yet for all his Silver and his Gold,
He's but the Mimick of a vast Rich Man.

407

[Bless the good Ladies and good Food]

Bless the good Ladies and good Food,
That Heav'n has set before us;
And may we Men prove all so good,
The Women may Adore us.

May these thy Fruitful Dames Live long,
Grow ev'ry Day more Handsome:
And may their Husbands prove as strong
I'th Back, as Second Sampson.

408

May they Dance Merrily each Night,
Without a Pipe or Tabour;
And Mother Midnight bring to Light,
The Fruit of all their Labour.

God Save the King, and send quite thro' the Realm,
Men may Obey, and Women Rule the Helm.

411

[Our hearty Thanks we humbly Pay]

Our hearty Thanks we humbly Pay,
For th'Blessings we have tasted;
L---d send such Christ'nings every Day,
That we may thus be Feasted.

We Bless thee for each merry Dame;
And her good Conversation;
O bring 'em Yearly to the same
Blest End of their Creation.

May they abound in Girles and Boys,
Yet still and still be Kist-on;
That we may meet and thus rejoice
To make each Babe a Christian.

Bless all good Women in their Married State,
Make their Pains easie, and their Pleasure great.

413

The Character of a Gossip.

Seven Years in Wedlock first she must have spent,
And must have made her Spouse as long Repent,
That such a Curse was e'er from Heaven sent.

By Nature made to Teem, to Tease and Vex;
No longer Happy than she can Perplex;
Lustful t'wards Men, and Envious to her Sex.

Homely, Disdainful, Talkative, and Proud;
Foolish, Self-will'd, too Stubborn to be Bow'd;
Fiery as Light'ning, and as Thunder Loud.

A Junket-Foll'wer, and a Friend to Wine,
Who to her Betters will no Place Resign;
And hates the Gossip that appears more Fine.

Of her own Faults she others does Accuse,
Her Neighbours Failings are her chiefest News;
And rails against that Vice she most pursues.

Her Spight at ev'ry Well-bred She, takes Aims;
The Modest Woman is a close sly Dame,
Who tho' she Opens not, yet Hunts the Game.

She's the still Sow that Drinks up all the Draught,
Tho' so Reserv'd in Tongue, she's Loose in Thought;
And is the most suspected to be Naught.

414

If Handsome; then the Envious Tatler cries,
Her Face is well enough, sh'as pretty Eyes;
But has an ugly Fault, else People Lies.

VVhat I have heard, I'm very loth to Speak;
Besides all that, she gives her Cheeks the Lick;
And is as Ill-Condition'd as Old-Nick.

Were I a Man, such Beauty I'd Adore,
As should be only Nat'ral, and no more;
For she that Paints, will doubtless be a Whore.

Beauty's but Fancy Silly Boys Pursue;
Men Love a VVoman that is Just and True;
She's only Handsome that will Handsome do.

She Blames the Dame that like her self is free,
Who Loves good Liquor and much Company:
One Gossip with another can't agree.

To Drink a merry Cup she holds no harm,
And finds in Brandy such a secret Charm,
It cheers her Heart, and keeps her Stomach warm.

Abroad she Walks to see, and to be seen;
And if the good Man asks her where sh'as been;
With a Gallant, Tom-Coney; and what then?

Fools must ask Questions: I'm your Wife, 'tis true;
But am of Age, and know sure what I do;
Can Go and Come, without the leave of you.

Art Jealous, Love? You need not be affraid,
Had you a Wise like such a One, Egad,
You then indeed might fear an Aking-Head.

415

But I (as God well knows my heart) despise
The very thought, (altho' she knows she Lyes.)
B'ing Maudlin, then to please the Fool she Cryes.

Thus Charms the Man with her Dissembling Spell;
A Thousand Lyes can in a Moment tell;
And when she pleases, make things ill or well.

Thus she the Breeches wears, and Rules the Roast;
Of which she does at all her meetings boast;
The Man's no more, God help him, than a Post.

She tells how all things on her Care depends;
She Buys and Pays, she Borrows and she Lends;
Hoards what she pleases, what she pleases spends.

None could his ugly Humours bear but she;
Besides, she's sure he cannot but agree,
She understands the Trade as well as he.

She pleases Customers much better far;
He oft Neglects his Shop, he does not Care;
Pounds would be often lost, were she not there.

Believe me Neighbour, he's so Peevish grown,
E'er since he has been Troubl'd with the Stone,
That t'would be happy for him he was gone,

Poor Man, I pitty him with all my Heart,
And wish I could but ease him of his Smart,
He cannot say but I have done my Part.

Thus can she Lie, Dissemble, and be Drunk,
Rail at Tobac; yet for the Tooth-Ach Funk,
And wants no Odious Symptoms of a Punk.

416

May my Throat meet a Halter or a Knife,
Or any way, good Heaven, dissolve my Life,
Rather than Plague me with so Damn'd a Wife.

XVIII. PART XVIII.

The Description of Mr. Dryden's Funeral, together with the manner of his Death. His Elegy. Some Passages of Hackney Coachmen in Quarrelling. Of the Mob Conducting home a Prize-Fighting Gladiator. A Character of a Prize-Fighter, in Verse. Of two Astrologers going to Law. Of the Vanity of Astrologers, and Astrology in Verse. The End of their Suit.

421

To the Pious Memory of the most Subline and Accurate Mr. John Dryden.

To those blest unknown distant Regions, where
Great Pindar, Homer, and sweet Virgil Live,
The Immortal DRYDEN's fled; and justly there,
His Nervous Poems does with theirs compare,
Whilst more discerning Gods to Him the Lawrel. give.

May Envy let His Dust in Quiet Sleep:
And Fame Eternal in his Volumes dwell:
Whilst Chaucer's Sacred Tomb his Ashes keep,
Ages shall o'er his Golden Writings Weep:
And thus the melting Force of his strong Lines shall feel.

Great was his Learning, and Sublime his Thoughts,
Powerful his Numbers, Matchless was his Wit:
Num'rous his Excellencies, few his Faults:
And those he plac'd as Foils and Beauty-Spots,
To give more sprightly Lustre to the Lines he Writ.

422

His Soul was sure some God wrap't up in Clay,
From Heaven descended, to Inform Mankind:
Whose mighty Genius did no Time delay:
But most Industriously Improv'd each day,
To shew the World the Beauties of his fruitful Mind.

No Ancient Muse in Greece or Room e'er bred,
Could Sweeter, or more God-like Strains impart:
The Heav'nly Soul's unborn that can Exceed
Those soft Enchantments in his Verse we Read:
Where we find Nature heighten'd with the purest Art.

Envious Competitors, the worst of Foes,
His Pen hath Conquer'd, that they can't but own
He so excell'd in Poetry and Prose,
That each great Task indisputably shows,
None was like him inspir'd; his Equal's yet unknown.

The chiefest Glory of his Native Land,
Whose Soul such large Angelick Gifts possest,
'Twas hard to think that any Humane Hand,
Could such Bold Stroaks, such Lofty Flights command;
Yet harder to determine what he Writ was best.

Satyr and Praise flow'd Equal from his Pen,
Dramatick Rules no Shakespear ever knew:
The Stately Epich and the Lyrick strain,
In each he had so excellent a Vein,
That from the best of Judges admiration drew.

423

Great King of-Verse, whose Merit rais'd thee high,
And won thy Brows fresh Lawrel Crowns each Day:
Thy Works Immortal are, and cannot Dye:
Why not thy self exempt from Fate, O why?
Unless the Worlds unworthy of thy longer stay.

Or was it cause thy Soul was so Divine,
The Barren Earth could not her Fruits reward;
Or that the Power and Beauty of each Line,
Made thee, the Author, like a Deity shine,
And that the Gods foresaw, like them, thould'st be Ador'd?

Or did the Slights of an Ingrateful Age,
Hasten th'aspiring Soul to take its Flight;
And leave this Worthless Sublunary Stage,
Where Pride and Lust do Mortal Minds engage,
And keep the Giddy World from doing Merit right?

What call'd thee hence, or whither thou wilt Soar,
None but Eternity it self can tell,
We know for Mankind thou canst do no more,
But Heaven for thee has its best Joys in Store,
To recompence those Tasks thou hast perform'd so well.

Let every Pen more Worthy of the Theme,
Thy Elegy or Epicedium Sing,
The Mournful Verse may equal the Esteem
The Learn'd and Witty shou'd express for them,
Who did to Human Knowledge such Improvements bring.

424

Great Soul! No Pen less Powerful than thy own,
Can thy deserv'd Immortal Praise set forth,
Which Time will Magnifie when thou art gone,
As every Age successively comes on:
And to Mankind discover by degrees thy Worth.

Could Dust be sensible within the Grave,
How Joyful would thy Peaceful Neighbours be,
Such Venerable Company to have,
Whose Meritorious Works will surely save
Thy Mem'ry from decay to all Eternity.

Chaucer and Cowley, gladly would Receive
Thy Frozen Clay, into their silent Tomb:
Desiring their Applause with yours might Live,
In hopes your Fame Eternity might give
To theirs, and that your Lawrels might together Bloom.

Since Fate to Wisemens Grief has call'd thee hence:
It justly in thy Absence may be said,
No Grecian Bard e'er show'd such Excellence,
None has so well bestow'd such Reams of Sence,
As the Great Dryden hath; but now, alas, he's Dead.

For such an Universal Loss sustain'd,
May the like Sorrow thro' the World be shown;
Let every thing in Nature be Constrain'd
To Weep, let full-charg'd Clouds assistance lend,
And Flaming Orbs above their Fiery Tears drop down.

427

[Bred up in th'Fields near Lincolns-Inn]

Bred up in th'Fields near Lincolns-Inn,
Where Vinegar Reigns Master;
The forward Youth does there begin,
A Broken-Head to Lose or Win,
For Shouts or for a Plaister.

For North, or West, he does Contend,
Sometimes his Honour Loses,
Next Night his Credit is regain'd,
Thus Fights till barden'd in the End,
To Bloody Cuts and Bruises.

When at his Weapons grown expert,
By Bangs and rough Instruction,
To make a Tryal of his Heart,
At Sharps he doth himself exert,
And Dallies with Destruction.

Proud of his Courage and his Skill,
No Champion can out-Brave him,
He dares to Fight, yet Scorns to Kill,
He Guards so Well, and Lives so Ill,
That few know where to have him.

He Glories in his Wounds and Scars,
Like any Flanders Souldier,
And as one Talks of Forreign Wars,
The t'other Boasts of Hockly Jars,
Wherein no Man was bolder.

428

He Fought before some Duke or Lord,
With hardy Tom the Weaver:
And Cut him off the Stage at Sword,
The Duke his Manhood to reward,
Presented him a Beaver.

With Lies he tells his Bloody Feats,
And Bounces like a Bully,
Tho' all his Prizes were but Cheats,
Yet when he with a Coward meets,
He knows he has a Cully.

Thus backs in Jest, and finds at best,
But little Money coming,
And when his Youthful Days are pass,
His only Refuge is at last,
To follow Theft, or Bumming.

433

[Little their Learning, less their Sence]

Little their Learning, less their Sence,
Who put in Stars such Confidence,

434

As think those Senseless Bodies can
Govern the Life and Fate of Man.
How can we boast our state is free,
If under such Necessity,
That Beings quite inanimate,
The will of Men shou'd actuate?
And unlearn'd Dunces shou'd foretell,
Who shall do ill, or who do well?
Predict our Fortunes, when 'tis known
The Jugler ne'er could tell his own?
If they such mighty things could do,
As prove their blind Conjectures true,
And make it manifest in Print,
Wise men might think there's something in't.
Instead of that, their Prophecies,
To one true word, have twenty Lies;
And what by guess they do foretell,
Each Prudent Man foresees as well.

For Fools to think the Sun or Moon,
Can help 'em to a stollen Spoon,
Or that to ease the Losers Grief,
The Planets will declare the Thief;
The Novice may as well believe,
The Scissors turning with the Slieve,
As pin their Faith on Conj'rers Dreams,
Of Planets, Houses, and their Schemes:
Which the Fox seems to put in use,
Only to colour his abuse,
And keep the Clients thoughts in Play,
Till he has study'd what to say;
And tho' an Art he does profess,
Yet chiefly what he says is Guess,
By which be does Fools Pockets pick,
Who think him Cunning as Old-Nick.

435

The Truth he tells 'em is no more,
Than what be sifts from them before,
Who Aw'd by his affected Look,
And Scrawles within his Conj'ring Book,
Forget the insight they have gi'n-him,
And think at last the Devil's in him.

A Wag that had sustain'd a Loss,
And coming to a VVizards House,
Some nasty Sloven or else Slut,
Had at his Threshold eas'd a Gut,
The Conj'rer coming to the Door,
In mighty Passion Curs'd and Swore,
That if he knew who 'twas laid it,
He'd make 'em Rue the Day they did it,
Nay, says the Man, if you've no way,
To tell who did your Door bewray,
I'll e'en again put up my Purse,
For you can't help me to my Horse.
Would all like him consider right,
They'd bid Astrology good Night.

437

[When Conjurers their Purses draw]

When Conjurers their Purses draw,
And like two Blockheads go to Law;
They show by such Expensive VVars,
There's little VVisdom in the Stars;
And that they Act, who know the Heavens,
Like us, by Sixes, and by Sevens;
For if one VVizard had foreseen,
The other should the Battle win,
He'd cry'd Peccavi, and not come
Before a Judge to know his Doom;
I think from thence the VVorld may see,
They know by th'Stars no more than we.

FINIS.