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Hudibras Redivivus

or, a Burlesque poem on the times. The Second Edition. To which is added, An Apology, and some other Improvements throughout the Whole [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

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Hudibras Redivivus: OR, A Burlesque POEM ON THE TIMES.

II.

10.

11.

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Hudibras Redivivus: OR, A Burlesque POEM ON THE TIMES.

I. VOL. I.

1. PART I.

CANTO I.

In Pious Times, when Soul-Physicians
Were zealous to promote Divisions,
And warm Disputes Ecclesiastick
Bred foreign Wars and Jars Domestick;
That Conscience, under no Restriction,
Became a perfect Contradiction,
And only serv'd to make Men squabble,
When maudlin round a Tavern-Table.
'Twas then our restless, hot-brain'd Nation,
Inflam'd by too much Toleration,

Was grown, (as knowing Heads conceive her)
So mad with a malignant Fever,
That few Men had a safe Protection
Against the prevalent Infection,
Which spar'd no State, but from the Noble,
Descended to the Lords the Rabble;
Who, of the two, are much the greater,
As 'tis affirm'd by Observator.
For surely those that can at Pleasure
Make Kings, and give them Pow'r and Treasure,
By Nature's Law much higher stand,
Than those made Great at second Hand.
However, all, both big and little,
Down from the Palace to the Spittle,
As well the Merry as the Serious,
Touch'd with this Plague, grew so delirious,
That e'en the maddest of Mankind
Believ'd he had the soundest Mind.
'Tis often found, that Men distracted,
With their own Whims are so affected,

That though they rave, and hoop, and hollow,
In Thought they're wiser than Apollo,
Conceiting all Non compos-Mentis,
That will not think them in their Senses.
Just so it proves, when Common-Weal
Is scorch'd and craz'd with fiery Zeal;
Which seldom shines, but does appear
Like Comet, Whale, or Blazing Star,
Only to let us understand,
That some great Evil is at hand.

When this ill Omen shew'd its Face
Thro' all the Land in e'ery Place,
And, by its powerful Influences,
Had captivated most Mens Senses,
So that they stagger'd in their Faith,
And reel'd beside the common Path;
Steering their Course to Heav'n at Random,
For Want of Fences to withstand 'em:
The shallow Quicksets of the Law,
No Zealot valu'd of a Straw,

But mounted o'er them at no Rate,
Like Hunters o'er a five-barr'd Gate.
For if we rightly understand,
No Man can be by Law restrain'd
From perpetrating any Ill,
That he is mov'd to by his Will.
For Laws, alas, can do no more,
Than punish, when the Mischief's o'er;
And that's but almost like my Host,
Who Stable shuts when Steed is lost.
And if the Saints their Force can stay,
Or turn their Edge another Way,
Much better they had ne'er been made,
Than so perverted or delay'd.
Tho' Laws are good, we needs must own;
Yet misapply'd, they're worse than none.
The Parish-Clock that guides the People,
Tho' just as e'er was put in Steeple;
Yet if the Sexton condescends
To set it wrong for his own Ends,

The Knave, by his deceitful Crime,
Cheats the whole Parish in their Time.
So Laws may be well instituted,
Yet if not truly executed,
Justice must be prevaricated,
And Innocence be wrack'd and baited.
For if we see by Reason's Eye
The Hand of Justice point awry,
We're in a Wood when Knaves grow crafty,
And know not how to steer with Safety.
Thus Laws, for want of Execution,
Spoil every Nation's Constitution,
Let loose the Frape to shew their Folly,
And spurn at all that's good and holy.

When Men thus strangely lost their Wits,
And roar'd and rav'd like Bedlamites,
Each Zealot's Purity consisting
In bitter Words, and sometimes fisting,
As if they thought ill Language glorious,
And hot-brain'd Quarrels meritorious:

Or that they shew'd their saving Grace,
By giving the first Slap o'th' Face;
And witness'd their Divine Perfections,
By handy-Cuffs and Maledictions.

When these, the Sons of Knipperdoling,
Let all their Senses run a woolling,
I found my Genius much inclin'd
T'observe the Humours of Mankind.
With that I stopp'd, look'd round about,
And gaz'd upon the hair-brain'd Rout,
Who govern'd by no Laws or Tenets,
Mov'd Retrograde like Crabs or Planets.
Some to the Coffee-house would be running,
In order to improve their Cunning,
And from contending Zealot's Passions,
To learn Religious Disputations.
Others devoutly bent, would chuse
To go to Church to hear the News:
For you must know strange Things in Pulpits
Are told, to please the list'ning dull Pates,

I do not mean about their Faith,
Or Guidance into Heaven's Path:
For now 'tis every Blockhead's Pride
To grope the Way without his Guide,
Because 'tis wisely understood
There may be many Ways to th'Wood;
Or else the Folks behind the Curtain
Would ne'er allow but one, that's certain.

The Good Old Cause went rarely on,
When Men brim-full of Zeal thus run
To hear a sanctify'd Curmudgeon
In Pulpit talk of Great Prince Eugene,
And give to him the Honour due
To one much braver of the two.

Thus when our pious English Nation
Are in Post-haste for Reformation,
They always by some new-found Way
Put their wild Projects into Play;
That is, from good old Rules to vary,
And act by Methods quite contrary.

Their Guides, those sanctify'd Projectors,
Turn Sermons into Gazette-Lectures;
Which makes some Saints Low-Teachers chuse
Not for their Doctrine, but their News.
But when they're in a Fit of Zeal,
Their wounded Consciences they heal
With Ninny-Broth, o'er which they seek
Some new Religion ev'ry Week:
For he that will oblige the Throng,
Must ne'er hold one Opinion long,
But turn his Doctrine and his Creed
As often as the Cause has need:
Or he that leaves them in the Lurch,
And will not change to save his Church,
Must never on that Church rely,
Or hope to save himself thereby:
Their Priests damn all that are not hearty
To th'Int'rest of themselves and Party.

The Paths which some good Saints pursue,
Seem strange, altho' they may be true,

And are so crooked and so dirty,
A Man would think not one in thirty
That thro' so dark a Road do travel,
Should find St. Peter, but the Devil.

Some steer their Course with much Content
Tow'rds Heav'n, by Act of Parliament;
And chuse some Way unknown, because
Encourag'd to't by wholsome Laws:
For sure, say they, no Christian Patr'ots
Would ever make such wicked Statutes,
That Conscience should have Toleration
To run full Tilt upon Damnation.
And since there is a Law in Play
That gives us leave to chuse our Way,
They've granted what Heav'ns Laws deny,
Or else we cannot tread awry;
Therefore all Worship right must be,
Or else a purblind Fool may see
They're wrong to yield such Liberty.

Some, of a Self-will'd, thwarting Nature,
Seek Heav'n by Way of Observator,

And will no other Way be blest,
Than that which he approves on best:
His Doctrine they devoutly read,
Thence from their Conscience and their Creed;
And if these Saints can run astray,
The Dev'l himself must lead the Way.
If these poor Souls are left i'th' Lurch,
What must those do that go to Church?

Others with zealous Labour scan
The pious Works of Prophet Dan,
In Hopes, that thro' his Merits, they
May steal to Heav'n the shortest Way.
If Persecution be a Sign,
The Cause is e'er the more Divine,
And open Punishment can be
A Mark of Christian Purity;
Then Dan may easily set forth
His pious Excellence and Worth,
And prove his Sufferings and Expence
By Hierogliphick Evidence.

What though his Witness, by Relation,
Is but of odious Reputation?
However, should the Court think fit,
Like him, we're bound to stand by it.

But no Man can a Truth gain-say,
That is as obvious as the Day.
'Tis plain, the mildest of our Laws
Made him a Suff'rer for the Cause;
Yet all, we see, can't stop his Mouth,
He'll stand and fall, and lie by Truth;
And shews, by daily Perseverance,
He scorns to flinch from his Adherents.
What thin-jaw'd Fury can be blam'd,
Or Trumpeter of News asham'd,
To pin their Int'rest and Belief
On such a hardy Prophet's Sleeve,
Who boldly, Martyr-like, disdains
Fines, rotten Eggs, or Brewers Grains;
And, by his Suff'rings and his Bustles,
Gains Credit, like such sham Apostles?

I jogg'd along the crowding Sodom;
When jostl'd, wish'd the Devil had 'em.
At last I popp'd upon a Place,
Where Saints had been receiving Grace;
And tho' their Pastor long had stood
To feed his Lambs with Heav'nly Food,
I vow (whate'er could be the Matter)
The scabby Flock look ne'er the fatter,
But stood in Swarms before the Hive,
Like Winter-Bees, that could not thrive;
Yet buzz'd and humm'd, as if the Crew
Were all consulting what to do.
At last, as tho' the Fools were frighted,
With Voices hideously united,
They made a fearful Acclamation,
And loudly cry'd up Moderation.
The Sound soon eccho'd through the City,
Who added to their mournful Ditty,
No wicked Popish Restitution
Of Dagon's dreadful Persecution.

Beware; we say, beware, good People,
The threat'ning Dragon of Bow-Steeple;
Behold his proud aspiring Wings,
His griping Talons, and his Stings,
That issue from his Arse and Mouth,
To persecute the Lambs of Truth.
Come one and all, let's stand the Test,
And pull down the Ephesian Beast,
Who cocks his Tail, and bids Defiance,
And never yet would shew Compliance,
Or bow his Head from his high Turret,
To listen to the Holy Spirit.
Down with the Babylonian Figure,
That Emblem of the Church's Rigour.
Now, now's the Time; stand to't, my Boys,
Ne'er fear the drowsy Cob-web Laws,
But lend a Shoulder to the Cause:
For if we now should lose our Aim,
'Twould prove our everlasting Shame;
We never more must hope to see
So fair an Opportunity.

With that, they cry'd out all and one,
And so away the Rebels run,
With twenty ragged Hawkers a'ter,
Bawling th'Review and Observator.

Bless me, thought I, has Hell and Fury
A Back-door into our Old Jury?
Now Satan's wild Geese fly at Random,
What Laws are able to withstand 'em?
Or who, except by Force, are able
To tame a frantick head-strong Rabble?
So Blood-hounds, when the Scent lies warm,
With threat'ning Yelps the Stag alarm,
Whose Horns cannot his Life defend,
Lest the kind Hunts-man stands his Friend:
Therefore when once you Church-men see,
The Game they hunt in Jeopardy,
Make speedy Haste to shew good Nature,
Call off the Dogs, and save the Creature.

'Tis strange, this fiery Frape, thought I,
Should thus for Moderation cry,

When ev'ry thin-jaw'd Fury seems
A Composition of Extreams,
And looks as if his Skin was full
Of Malice, from the Toe to th'Skull;
And had no more an Inclination
To use that Vertue, Moderation,
Than a true Scotch-man has to chew
Fat Bacon, or a Toad to Rue.

As I was list'ning almost scar'd,
At this unusual Noise I heard,
A grave old Don stepp'd cross a Puddle,
And passing by me, shook his Noddle.
Thought I, thou ha'st a cunning Pate
Beneath that broad Umbrella-Hat,
And do'st discern with Eagles Eyes,
The Plot this Clamour's to disguise:
With that, I tugg'd him by the Sleeve;
Then crying, Father, by your leave.
I bluntly ask'd him the Occasion
Of all this Cry of Moderation.

At first old Surly look'd as urgent,
As if he took me for a Serjeant;
But soon perceiving his Mistake,
He cough'd, and then began to speak:
Young Man, says he, you'll quickly find,
That all this Noise is but a Blind:
Mind me, and I'll relate a Fable
Alluding to the hair-brain'd Rabble.

A subtle Fox pursu'd a Hare,
And all the while, he cry'd, Forbear;
Pray fear not him that means no Harm,
I only run to keep me warm.
The silly Hare not much afraid,
Believing what the Fox had said,
Having good Law, sat down to rest her;
But soon she saw the Fox run faster:
With that, she starting from her Place,
Betook her self to her old Pace.
Hold, hold, crys, Reynard, why so fast?
You'll surfeit, if you make such Haste:

A mod'rate Pace is best indeed;
The greater Hurry, the worst Speed.
No, no, crys Puss, for all your Cunning,
I see 'tis time to mend my Running;
I find you only want to reach me,
You'd serve me finely, shou'd you catch me;
But satisfy your greedy Paunch,
Your Mouth shall never kiss my Haunch.
So he that is an Enemy,
And does for Moderation cry,
Hopes that you'll exercise the Virtue,
And give him better room to hurt you.

Is that, said I, the cunning End on't?
Aye, aye, says he, you may depend on't;
For pious Cheats ne'er want Invention
To palliate any vile Intention.
Your humble Servant, worthy Grandsire,
Thank you, said I, for this kind Answer,
Wherein you've been thus open-hearted.
Farewel, said he; and so we parted.

I trudg'd along as fast, Cotzooks,
As Porter with a Billet Deux,
Or Penny-Post-Man with his Letters,
To overtake these Moderators:
But all the Grumbletonian Throng
Did with such Violence rush along,
That by their Hurry, one might see
Their Deeds and Words did not agree.
For me they posted on too fast,
I was not in such wond'rous Haste;
But left them in their Heat and Passion,
Furiously crying up Moderation.
So expert Divers call aloud,
Pray mind your Pockets, to the Crowd;
And by such subtile glav'ring Means,
Prevent Distrust of their Designs:
But if your Eyes a'n't quick of Motion,
They'll play the Rogue, that gave the Caution.

CANTO II.

B'ing greatly troubl'd and amuz'd
To see old London thus confus'd,
In Hopes to ease my Melancholy,
I strol'd among the Bibliopolæ,
Where Pamphlets lay in Shops and Stalls,
Pil'd up as thick as Stones in Paul's;
Columns of Scandal reach'd the Ceiling,
Contriv'd by Knaves for Fools to deal in.
Well may the World, thought I, be mad,
Since Scribling's such a thriving Trade,
That twenty thousand Cut-throat Libels
Shall sell, before a Score of Bibles;
And Low-Church Satyrs move much faster,
Than Sermons by a High-Church-Pastor.
The Policy, I must confess,
Is far beyond my Reason's Guess,
That such Press-Freedom is allow'd
To cozen and corrupt the Crowd,

Lest they design the restless Elves
Full Rope enough to hang themselves;
Or else, like Toads, (as some have seen 'em)
Swell 'till they burst with their own Venom.
I musing stood a while, at last,
Turn'd o'er the Wild-fire, as I past,
Found some with sanctify'd Intent
T'unhinge and ruffle Government;
Others, to draw unwary People
To the Low-Church that wears no Steeple,
Insinuating, that the High
Beyond all Moderation fly,
And, that her Members were no more
Than Sons o'th' Babylonian Whore:
But 'twas to me no great Surprize,
That Whiggish Saints should prove so wise
To print, as well as preach their Lies.
The Reason's plain, to all Appearance,
Why Dwarfs and Giants live at Variance.
Low Things, by Nature, can't compleatly
Agree with what is high and stately:

The little Mouse does Malice vent,
When it beholds the Elephant:
Each crooked Dumplin shews her Hate
To the fair Lass more tall and straight:
Dowdy to Beauty, thus compar'd,
Will think her own Misfortune's hard,
And, with a deep Resentment, see
More plain her own Deformity.
Why then should any Mortal wonder,
Why those are angry, that are under,
Since all Things in a grov'ling State,
Will envy what is high and great?

Next, I beheld Lampoons and Satyrs,
To vilify our Legislators,
And make those slighted and neglected,
By whom we chiefly are protected.
This Practice sure, thought I, is naught,
That thin-skull'd Peasants should be taught
To hold that Power in Disdain,
That only can our Rights maintain.
'Tis strange we should withdraw Respect
From those our very selves elect;
We must be Blockheads first to chuse 'em,
Or very Rascals to abuse 'em:
For he that thinks with Scandal's Dart,
To wound a Magistrate a-part
From his Authority, declares
By th'gross Affront, he little cares
For th'Pow'r or Dignity he bears.

No Sance-box, sure, by way of Farce,
Will bid his Pastor kiss his A---se,
That thinks he's under an Injunction
To shew much Rev'rence to his Function:
Therefore, whoever vents his Froth
Against the one, despises both.
'Tis true, in cruel Times, long since,
When Rebels quarrell'd with their Prince,
And Truth was quite discountenanc'd,
A nice Distinction was advanc'd
Betwixt those two united Things,
The Person, and the Pow'r of Kings:
But when they were at Distance set,
Behold the sad succeeding Fate;
A nicer Diff'rence then they made
Betwixt the Body and the Head.
Thus could not prop their first Position,
Until they'd made their last Division,
And prov'd too plainly what they meant,
By Dint of Ax, not Argument.

FINIS.

2. Part the Second.

I thumb'd o'er many factious Reams
Of canting Lies, and Poets Dreams,
All stuff'd as full of Low-Church Manners,
As e'er was Salters-Hall with Sinners.
Amongst the rest, the Mob's Prophet-a;
I found oft chang'd to a Poet-a.
No Shame to versifying Brother,
Since one's deriv'd of Old from t'other.
Therefore all Scriblers ought to know it's
No Crime for Prophets to be Poets;

Especially when Want of Sense
Must be supply'd with Impudence,
And Malice, Scandal, and ill Nature,
Pass with dull Fools for Wit and Satyr.
For he whose Brains are not defective,
May find in ev'ry tag'd Invective,
Hard Words are soften'd by their Chiming,
And Railing best agrees with Riming:
For bare-fac'd Scandal writ in Prose,
Too much of th'Author's Malice shows,
When the most fulsome of Abuses
Shall be thought witty from the Muses.
The Name of Poem, or of Satyr,
Gives Umbrage to a Man's ill Nature;
And makes most Readers think he writ
Not to his Envy shew, but Wit.

When I had almost spent my Vitals
In chiefly turning over Titles,

In which might easily be seen
The Drift of all contain'd within;
Bs Moor-fields Conjurers can see,
By th'Art of Phisiognomy,
Whether we're Wise-men, Fools, or Asses,
Ay th'Lines and Features of our Faces.
At last I pitch'd, as Chance would have it,
Upon a High-Church Book, God save it,
And that undaunted Hand that gave it:
For sure it cannot be a Crime
To pray (altho' it be in Rime)
For those that lay before our Eyes
The Treach'ry of our Enemies.
If Praying be a Fault, alas!
We Authors of the Riming Class
(As most believe) so rarely use it,
That when we do, they may excuse it:
For Pray'rs, we know, agree much better
With thriving Prose, than starving Metre:

That makes Low Saints, who hate all Riming,
As bad as High-Church Bells, when Chiming;
Despise the Heliconian Jargon,
And think it Popish, like the Organ;
Except some Brother-Saint, in Spite
Of God Apollo, dares to write,
And, breaking thro' his sacred Laws,
Jingle in Favour of their Cause:
Yet, tho' it is their hum drum Fashion
To hate all Musical Precation,
They love an elevated Voice,
That's exquisite at Tone and Noise,
And do their Pray'rs much louder hollow,
Than we sing Ballads to Apollo,
That others may become most ample
Hypocrites from their loud Example:
Yet, tho' in Praying they surpass us,
Sometimes with Satyr, when they cross us,
We make 'em curse old Mount Parnassus.

I, eager to behold the Book
That made the Whigs so crabbed look,
Sate down to view the Nation's Case,
Stated, as some think, by his Grace.
I mean not him by th'River's Side,
Who learns from thence, (if not bely'd)
To turn according to the Tide;
But one deserving our Esteem,
Who dares to strive against the Stream,
And to inform a misled Nation,
Speak Truth, altho' it's out of Fashion.

At first I mus'd upon the Title,
Then sate me down, and read a little;
Where Mighty Persons did I see
Drawn into strange bad Company;
And gallant Ladies, and fine Lords,
Japann'd with black and shining Words.
Some, who had true old Faith declin'd,
And with new factious Upstarts join'd,

Espousing Church of low Degree,
Were made full low as low could be:
I do not mean in Purse or Station,
But Honour, Justice, Reputation.
Those three maintain'd by very few,
To th'Hazard of the other two.
No Wonder, since that Men of State,
Without such Gugaws can be Great;
And Sycophants, that scorn such Baubles,
Can rise from Nothing to be N---s.

Blind Fortune's Wheel, we must allow,
Runs strangely round, we know not how:
For secret Pleasures done the Donor,
Of those kind Favours, Wealth and Honour,
In Royal Eyes seem meritorious,
And often raise Men to be Glorious:
For Services there are sometimes,
That once disclos'd, are constru'd Crimes;

Such that oblige us whilst conceal'd,
But lose their Merit when reveal'd.
Therefore, when 'tis a Prince's Pleasure
That Flatt'rers shall purloin their Treasure,
'Till they have scrap'd huge Sums together,
And climb'd aloft, the Lord knows whither;
How should the Crowd expect to know
Why this Man's High, or t'other Low?
Why publick Merit's priz'd so little,
And private P---s swell big with Title?

How occult Service Favour draws,
Is difficult to learn, because
The Grace by G*d's Vicegerent's shown,
Proves very often like his own:
It passes Human Understanding;
Who 'njoys it, need not fear offending.
For Earthly Kings, like Gods protect,
With saving Grace, their own Elect;

Set them upright, whene'er they stumble,
In Spite of those that grin and grumble.

I read, was pleas'd, found little Harm in't;
For Truth has got a secret Charm in't.
What, tho' 'twas mix'd with some ill Nature;
Without, it would have prov'd no Satyr;
Nor could the one have made such Pother,
Had it not larded been with t'other:
For he that writes in such an Age,
When Parties do for Pow'r engage,
Ought to chuse one Side for the Right,
And then, with all his Wit and Spite,
Blacken and vex the Opposite.
If his Muse breathes no Gall or Hate,
The Fools won't nibble at the Bait:
For one Side's never truly pleas'd,
But when the other's vex'd and teaz'd.
Therefore, whoever handles Quill,
Must rail, or he'd as good sit still;

No Matter whether false or true,
Take Pattern by D--- F---'s Review;
Let it be Scandal, and 'twill do;
For the Low-Church, by that alone,
Gains twenty Owles, to t'other's one.
Scurrility's a useful Trick,
Approv'd by the most Politick.
Fling Dirt enough, and some will stick.

Scandal's the only Cut-throat Talent
To arm a scribbling Assailant,
And when us'd skilfully and slighly,
Prevails against a Party highly;
And is a sure infernal Knack
To make the brightest Cause look black.
No bridge-fall'n Nose upon a Face,
Can be more plain than is the Case;
For Fools that make the greatest Number,
And are of Human Race, the Lumber,

Are taught to swallow hurtful Lies,
To keep their Faith in Exercise,
That they the better may give Credit,
When Stratagems of State shall need it:
For could the People grow so wise,
As to reject all Falsities,
And credit no Man's Pen or Mouth,
But what should speak or write the Truth,
T---sg---g-Days, within this N---n,
Would not be half so much in Fashion;
For all those Deeds that make a Bluster,
Set off with so much artful Lustre,
Would in a little Time become
Dull as the Fables of Tom Thumb.

The Low-Church, that disdains a Steple,
Must preach new Doctrine to their People:
Yet, should there be allow'd no Teaching,
But Truth, I doubt 'twould spoil their Preaching.

Should such good Times befal this Land,
That Truth should get the upper Hand;
What would those Low-Church Champions do,
The Observator and Review?
For could their Talent be forsaken,
And they write Truth to save their Bacon;
The wiser Sort would still deceive 'em,
And none but Blockheads, sure, believe 'em;
Because a common Lyar's Mouth
Is even scandalous to Truth;
And Malice, when it's once detected,
Always makes Evidence suspected.

Now to the Bugbear Book again,
That puts the Whigs in so much Pain:
I conn'd o'er all this famous Piece,
That so disturb'd old Calvin's Geese;
And all the Fault they can insist on,
Is, it's too true to make a Jest on.

As for my part, I must confess,
It is, if I may've Leave to guess,
An honest High-Church Book of Merit,
Tho' written with a Low-Church Spirit:
That here and there a sharp Reflexion
May seem to some, ill-natur'd Fiction,
Tho' true beyond all Contradiction.
So that to me this Tell-troth Book
Does like a High-Church Bishop look,
Disguis'd in a Geneva-Cloak:
For who, that knew not Trusty's Face,
Would judge him honest by his Dress,
Since the worst K---ves that Earth can bear,
The very same Apparel wear?
However, 'tis no Shame to use
A Weapon which our Foes first chuse,
Or to return, when once assaulted,
That Dirt with which we first were paulted.
Therefore our Champion's in the Right on't,
To make so bold a Hompush Fight on't;

And to our restless Foes chastise,
With their own Cudgels, all but Lies:
Such Ammunition, 'tis agreed on,
An honest Cause has seldom Need on;
But can with Truth it self defend,
Which always conquers in the End;
That makes our L---n, as they call it,
Knock down our Foes, like any Mallet:
For always, when the Truth appears,
The lying Faction hang their Ears,
And cannot for their Lives, we see,
Withstand the Force of Verity;
But like to Snails, draw in their Horns,
When naked Truth but grins and turns.
So whist'ling Curs, that hate a bigger,
At Mastiff's Heels will shew their Vigor;
But when he turns, they dread his Pow'r,
And, frighted at his Aspect, scow'r;
Or else wag Tail, submit, and fawn,
And tarry to be piss'd upon.

Thus W---gs, in Time of Toleration,
Bark at the Justice of the Nation:
But when th'unbridl'd Laws, with Scorn,
One persecuting Look return,
Curbing their Tongues, they cease to grumble,
And all subscribe, Your very Humble.

Having spent so much precious Time
In High-Church Prose, and Low-Church Rime,
'Till my Brains almost were confounded
Betwixt the Cavalier and Roundhead;
My Fancy spurr'd me to be jogging
To th'Flask, the Flaggon, or the Noggin:
So I rais'd Bum from Turky-Leather,
To strole I did not well know whither;
Leaving whole Piles of Whiggish Nonsense,
To be directed by my own Sense.

CANTO III.

I had not long, on City Stones,
Bestirr'd my Stumps and Marrow-bones,
But Robin H---g came grunting by me
As fast, as if he strove to fly me.
Thought I, here's some high Wind Abroad,
That blows, I fear, but little Good.
The grizly Boar is hunting round,
To see what Windfals may be found.
He looks as if he ran in hope
This Storm would make the Acorns drop.
At last I saw him very plain
Follow his Nose up Fetter-Lane.
Observing that, thinks I, for certain
There's some Intrigue behind the Curtain,
Manag'd aloft for some by Ends,
To persecute the Church's Friends:
For tho' our factious Foes first draw,
Yet, when we push, they take the Law.

So bully'ng Cowards oft, we see,
Provoke a generous Enemy,
Who, when he takes just Satisfaction,
The ill-tongu'd Scoundrel brings his Action.

I shook my Head. Thought I, 'tis hard
The Church can't stand upon her Guard;
But those who always meant to harm her,
Shall thus be suffer'd to disarm her.
Patience, said I; now R---d is Knighted,
Sure some Folks will be clearer sighted:
Ne'er fear but we shall change our Station,
For Semper Idem's out of Fashion.
I've heard a good old Proverb say,
That e'ery Dog has got his Day:
Therefore, be cheerful, do not mourn,
The low'rmost Spoke must upwards turn;
And when it does the only Skill
Will be to make the Wheel stand still,

Or else to human Sense 'tis plain,
In Turn, it must go down again:
For Wheels, like Women, change their Ground,
T'obey the Pow'r that works them round,
Only they move by diff'rent Forces;
One's turn'd by Men, the other Horses.

Being much concern'd to see Things go thus,
I stept into a Ninny-Broth House,
In Hopes to better understand
What Low-Church Project was in Hand
To bring that Party to Confusion,
That rescu'd them from Persecution.
Ent'ring, I saw quite round a Table,
An ill-look'd thin-jaw'd, Calves-head, Rabble,
All stigmatiz'd with Looks like Jews,
Each arm'd with half a Sheet of News:
Some sucking Smoak from Indian Fuel,
And others sipping Turky Gruel;

Still searching after something new
In Nob, the Gazette, or Review.
Sometimes they smil'd, as if well pleas'd,
Then by and by look'd vex'd and teaz'd,
Alt'ring their sublunary Looks
According as they lik'd their Books.

At the low'r End o'th' Table, sate
Some High-Church Brethren, in a Chat,
Concern'd, as I suppose, to spy
The High-Church low, and Low-Church high.
Before them, in great Order, lay
The News authentick for the Day,
Mix'd with some High-Church Vindications
Against false Whiggish Defamations;
The Mercury, so much abhorr'd
By lofty Whigs, that rule the Board;
And the Rehearsal, whose keen Satyr
So closely shav'd the Observator;

And when he'd shewn how bald and bare
He was of Sense, instead of Hair,
He left him to his Cuckow Tone,
Laugh'd at by all, and lik'd by none.

'Twixt both the Parties I sate down;
Did neither dare to smile or frown,
Lest one should, by my Looks, discover
I was a better Friend to th'other:
For if a Man foresees a Squabble
'Twixt adverse Parties at a Table,
Tho' he's determin'd of one Side,
True Policy will bid him hide
His Conscience, 'till the Battel's try'd;
And when it's over, he that's crafty
Will chuse the strongest Side for Safety:
Before, a Man may be mistaken,
And 'stead of saving, lose his Bacon:
For when vain Hopes and jealous Fears
Set Fools together by the Ears,

And Justice must be scann'd by Fight,
The Cause that conquers is the Right.
Then who would shew he was a Lover
Of either, 'till the Danger's over?
Since he who takes the other Way,
Comes safely in at best o'th' Lay.

I scarce had fill'd a Pipe of Sot-weed,
And by the Candle made it Hot-weed,
But one of the Dissenting Crew
Began aloud with the Review,
And read it with a Grace becoming
A Low-Church Teacher, when he's drumming
Upon his Cusheon to his Humming,
To cuff his blundering Oration
Into the Ears of's Congregation:
For if their Fist a'n't reconcil'd
To their dull Tone, the Sermon's spoil'd;
For Gesture is the Life and Glory
Of Nonsense preach'd for Oratory:

Like Fidlers, they must keep their Time,
As sure as Poets do their Rime.
Tone, Words, and Actions must agree,
Or else they spoil their Harmony.

All was observ'd with wond'rous Care
By our Whig Libel Lecturer:
For when he came to th'Author's Letters,
From Tackers sent, or their Abettors,
As he pretends, wherein they threaten,
He shall (as he deserves) be beaten
For being sawcy in's Review,
To those he never saw or knew.
When this forg'd Tale the Zealot read,
He foam'd at Mouth, and shook his Head,
And did a Tone more frightful use,
Than those that cry sad bloody News.

Bless me, thought I, sure he that's wise,
Can see thro' these transparent Lies.

These poor thin tiffany Projections,
Contriv'd to heighten our Distractions,
And gull the Crowd at their Elections:
For who, thought he, will give their Votes
For Men that threaten to cut Throats,
And use such ruffainly Correction
To me, the Prop of all their Faction,
That dares, in Spigte of Truth or Laws,
Defend with Lies the good old Cause,
In Hopes the Magazine of Pow'r
May Church and Monarchy devour,
That Rebels may surmount the Throne,
And pull the Church establish'd down;
And sacred Rogues in Judgment sit,
To tread all Order under Feet.
Could we but thus inflame the Mob,
To bring about this happy Jobb,
Then hey for me and Brother Nob.

But this will spoil the forg'd Device
Of his Epistolary Lies.
How will he prove these fright'ning Letters,
From Tackers came, or their Abettors?
And not from some dear zealous Friends,
To serve their painful Prophet's Ends?
Or that the same Hand did not give 'em
To th'Penny Post, that did receive 'em?
I doubt, should we inspect the Matter,
The Author of the true-born Satyr
Would prove the Scribe, or the Dictator.
So the Jilt, courted by a Cully,
Imploys her self, or else her Bully,
To, with Love Letters, daily woo her
In Great Mens Names directed to her;
Which to her Spark the Doxy shows,
At which he raves, and jealous grows;
And that he may alone secure
The Prize, he proves the kinder to her.

Such Stratagems are often us'd,
That easy Fools may be abus'd.

So, if the Truth was to be known,
And these strange tacking Letters shown,
They'd surely prove the Prophet's own;
Or else a Pack of Low-Church Lies,
Sent from his Friends by his Advice,
To falsely blacken those with Crimes,
That dare be just i'th' worst of Times,
When subtle Knaves, in Consultation,
And Fools, thro' false Insinuation,
Unite, to sacrifice the Nation.

No sooner was this Libel read,
And gently down before 'em laid,
To shew how courteous and respective
They were to a Low-Church Invective;
But a High-Church-man, in Derision,
Faces them, and in Opposition

To F---'s Aspersions, that were spurious,
Reads out Politicus Mercurius.
Excuse me, that the Muses force
The Cart to stand before the Horse,
Because it will be so sometimes
With us that fumble for our Rimes;
Nay, Reason must in Verse give Ground,
Upon a Pinch, to empty Sound,
Or else those Points we shew our Art in,
Must often go untag'd for certain.

This Member of the High-Church Body
At Loyal News being very ready,
Run o'er the Merc'ry so compleatly,
Read it s' emphatically neatly,
That all the Saints within the Hearing,
Some listening, and others leering,
Seem'd as much vex'd and discontented,
As if the Church had circumvented

Those pious Frauds we daily see
Manag'd thro' that Hypocrisy,
Occasional Conformity.
At last, with Malice in their Faces,
They frowning started from their Places,
All moving Brother next to Brother,
Like Wild Geese, after one another.
Thus do they fly where e'er they find
Bright Truth with solid Reason join'd.

So Owls and Bats abhor the Light
Superior to their feeble Sight;
And for some dim Reflexion, shun
The perfect Glories of the Sun.

FINIS.

3. PART the Third.

CANTO IV.

I quitted now my smoaky Station,
Where Knaves and Fools preach Moderation,
And with that modish Cant, disguise
Their Spite, their Venom, and their Lies;
From whence, each Man of Sense may find
The Cobweb-Vertue is design'd
Only for Faction, to betray
The Crowd into a sinful Way,
And make them tamely, in the End,
Give up that Church they should defend.
So he that would a Man beguile,
Will talk devoutly all the while,

In Hopes the Bubble may believe him
Too good a Christian to deceive him;
By which fair Means he gains the Pow'r,
To wrong the easy Fool the more.

I had not long in open Street,
Been punishing my Corny Feet,
But creeping by the Side of Paul's,
Where Sinners flock to save their Souls,
I met a Pillar of the Church,
Just stepping out of Holy Porch,
Wrapp'd up in Rev'rend Gown and Cassock,
Looking as grave as Father Isaac.
Long painful Study, Age, and Cares,
Adorn'd his Head with Silver Hairs;
Kept warm within a Cap of Sattin,
With Wisdom lin'd, as well as Latin;
Whose humble Mein, and awful Face,
Were to his sacred Robes a Grace;
And when he spoke, his Language shew'd
He was not only Grave, but Good.

A faithful and a vertuous Guide,
Whose Conscience had for Years been try'd:
One who abhor'd Prevarication,
And all the Cant of Moderation;
But was a Christian Shepherd fully,
Who exercis'd his Vertues duly,
Not mod'rate Whiggishly, bat truly.

With equal Gladness did we meet,
And kindly one another greet.
When we had ended that old Strain
Of How d'ye do, and do again?
Into Saint Paul's we took a Walk,
T'enjoy a little farther Talk:
For what on Earth can be more sweet,
Than for two loving Friends to meet,
Who, e'er they did the Truth discover,
Thought themselves Miles from one another?

After we'd talk'd about the Craft
That rais'd the canting Tribe aloft,

And equally express'd our Wonder,
To see the Church turn'd strangely under,
At such a Time, when her Defender,
Altho' she's of the F---le Gender,
Does Tooth and Nail so nobly stand
By th'ancient Glories of the Land,
And with the Church walk Hand in Hand;
That Church, for which she spoke so warmly,
And ever since stood by so firmly.

My Friend in Sorrow shook his Head,
Then strok'd his Rev'rend Beard, and said,
Fair Speeches are a Prince's Talent;
But then, crys he Quid Verba valent?
'Tis hard sometimes by Words to find
The true Intention of the Mind;
Actions alone interpret best
The Meanings of a R---l Breast;
And when at any Time we see
Their Words and Actions disagree,

The latter we believe their Choice,
The former but an airy Voice.
Besides, he only is indeed
My Friend, that serves me in my Need;
But if he then shall suffer me
To want, and aid my Enemy,
A bare Acquaintance so unkind,
A Man had better lose, than find.
I must confess I would not trust
My Father, was he so unjust;
Nor can I credit such a Brother,
That says one Thing, and does another.

But, Rev'rend Doctor, pray, said I,
May not a mod'rate Man comply
With the establish'd Church o'th' Nation,
And thither go to seek Salvation,
Yet be allow'd to vote and stickle
For those that run to Conventicle?
Cannot he shew, without Evasion,
That modish Vertue, Moderation,

And keep in Charity with those,
He knows to be the Church's Foes?

Our Charity, the Guide replies,
We ought to shew to Enemies;
Without which Manly Christian Grace,
Mercy it self could have no Place:
But 'tis not Charity, or Vertue,
To strengthen those that mean to hurt you,
Or to advance the Reputation
Of such a vip'rous Congregation,
Who aim, thro' Envy, Pride, and Hate,
To overthrow both Church and State,
And bring that Faith into Disdain,
By which we hope to rise again;
And consonant to sacred Story,
Ascend to everlasting Glory.
No, no; such canting Moderation
Is wicked, base Prevarication:
All upright Christians must accuse it,
No Church-man can with Safety use it,

But he must lend a helping Hand
To sacrifice his native Land,
And bring that Church to Desolation,
On which depends his own Salvation.

Pray, Sir, said I, what think you then
Of such a mod'rate Race of Men,
Who entertain the Low-Church Notion,
Yet use the Church with great Devotion;
But shew in Words, and ev'ry Action,
They side with the dissenting Faction?

Says he, such Men of whom you speak,
Are very Knaves, or very weak:
The former use the Church, like those
Who do their wicked Minds dispose
To rob a House, and that they may
The Fam'ly with more Ease betray,
One takes therein a Room or two,
As the Low-Church-man does his Pew;
And when he finds a proper Time
To perpetrate his wicked Crime,

Made by's Confederates Assistance,
Too strong and pow'rful for Resistance,
They Beat, Gag, Bind, or Murder those
That durst their Villanies oppose;
Then run away with all that's good,
And leave the Family in Blood;
Or if not murder'd, at the best,
Much injur'd, plunder'd, and distrest.

No better Usage should we find
From such Low-Church-men once conjoin'd
With factious Numbers to their Mind:
For tho' they come to Church to Pray'r,
They'd be the first that would betray her,
And will be found, when Danger's nigh,
The Snakes that in her Bosom lie.

But the weak Wretch, that is misled,
To nurse wild Notions in his Head,
And fancies, thro' the Want of Sense,
Religion's chiefest Excellence
Consists in dull Indifference;

And thinks it cannot be a Fault
To between two Opinions halt;
Or that it is no sinful Crime,
When Int'rest calls at any Time,
To run wi' th'Hare, or hold wi' th'Hound,
Since he keeps still on Holy Ground:
He understands not, peradventure,
The Peak 'twixt Church-man and Dissenter:
He knows no Diff'rence in the People,
But what he thinks is caus'd by th'Steeple.
One side he fancies does approve it,
And that the other cannot love it;
His narrow squinting Reason sees
No Feuds, but what his Mind agrees,
Arise from Trifles, such as these.
Therefore he thinks it best, in Troth,
To be indifferent 'twixt both;
And is a Friend so much to either,
That in his Heart he's truly neither:

He speaks the Church-man very fair,
Of Surplice, and of Common-Prayer;
But when amongst the Whigs he enters,
He's partial for the good Dissenters.
Thousands there are just such as these,
Who're neither, both, or which you please,
That by the Want of Sense and Thought,
Shew they've been better fed than taught.
These join in that prepost'rous Cry,
O let the Church, the Church comply,
They care not how, and know not why.

Suppose a Knave so base be grown,
At Law to sue me for my own,
Must I comply with his Demands,
That we in Friendship may shake Hands?
No; I'd not part with Straw or Stone,
The Rascal should have all or none:
For he that will his Right decline,
And with such Knaves in Friendship join,
Abets their villanous Design,

And makes the World, by his Submission,
Believe their wicked Imposition
No other, than a fair Condition.

But, worthy Sir, said I, suppose
Your canting, half-fac'd Christian-Foes
Should tell you, they'd comply and join,
If you'd some friv'lous Things resign;
And they declare what 'tis they want;
Would not the Church those Trifles grant?

Says he, those Trifles which you spake on,
No Mortal can tell what to make on:
How should they, since we plainly see
Themselves about 'em can't agree?
They only quarrel out of Season,
Then study after for a Reason.
Like one that's frantick in his Cups,
Who hits his Friend a Slap o'th' Chops,
That offer'd nothing to provoke him,
Nor can he tell for what he struck him:

The same may of the Whigs be said,
With Pow'r and Wealth they're drunk and mad,
And in their Frenzy, huff and threaten
With what sad Stripes we shall be beaten,
In hopes, now Faction is so froward,
The peaceful Church, like feeble Coward,
Will such a tame Compliance shew,
As give their Cloaks, and Tunicks too:
But they shall find, that, Quaker like,
At second Blow we dare to strike,
And shall not to vile Hands deliver
That Church, of which Great God's the Giver.

Pray, Sir, said I, your Heat abate,
And tell me what they would be at?
What 'tis you think would satisfy 'em,
That in my Thoughts I mayn't belie 'em?
A Man of Sense, with half an Eye,
(Says he) may easily descry,
Thro' all their consciencious Cant,
What in Reality they want;

Which is, believe me, in a Word,
All that the Kingdom can afford:
Therefore they are asham'd to own
Those Terms their Pride insists upon;
Tho', like true Sots, they'll seem at first
With a small Draught to quench their Thirst;
But were they't Barrel-head, you'd find
The Dev'l a Drop they'd leave behind.

At first for Trifles they'll be crying,
Which they will blame us for denying;
But if we think to stop their Raving,
By giving, they'll be always craving.
So Miss, when first she's kept by Gully,
Begs modestly, to try his Folly;
But if she finds he'll not deny her,
His whole Estate shan't satisfy her;
But into Debt she'll even run him,
And glory when she's thus undone him.

The least of Things, at which they offer,
Were they supream, they would not suffer:

They only want so high to soar,
That nothing can controul their Pow'r:
So that the Saints might rule at length,
Not by the Scriptures, but by Strength,
That Cruelty their Foes might awe,
And their own Wills become their Law.
The Church and Crown, in that sad Day,
Must to the Club and Cloak give way:
Our Lands and Goods be torn asunder,
And made their own by Right of Plunder.
Therefore I must, with Sorrow, say
Our Pilates steer a dang'rous Way.
To hold a Candle to the Devil,
Is not the Means to stop this Evil;
For Whigs in Pow'r, are of that Nature,
They'll swell like Spunges thrown in Water.
Therefore we strength'n 'em, whilst we please 'em:
The Way to less'n 'em, is to squeeze 'em.

But how, said I, can we foresee
They'd thus unreasonable be?

Methinks the Church-men first should try 'em,
Or else, who knows but they belie 'em?

Crys he, your Folly makes me stare;
Such Talk would make a Parson swear.
Forbear to blunder out such Stuff;
I think we've try'd 'em oft enough.
Did not King Charles the First, to please 'em,
Do all that they could ask, to ease 'em,
Yet you find nothing would appease 'em?
The more he gave, the worse they us'd him;
When most kind he, they most abus'd him.
Thus all along, his mild Concessions
Made them but heighten their Oppressions.
He sacrific'd his Friends, we see,
To stop their Rage and Tyranny;
Did more than well became his Station,
To shew his peaceful Inclination:
Yet when they had obtain'd the most
That ever Rebels had to boast,

And had the Power, Lives, and Lands
Of all the Nation in their Hands;
The whole three Kingdoms were too small,
They'd not enough, when they had all;
But, like the Græcian, made wry Faces,
That they'd no more to pull to Pieces.
So finding there was nothing left,
To gratify their farther Theft,
Rather than be thus disappointed,
They stole the Blood of God's Anointed,
That their rebellious wicked Pride
And Av'rice, might be satisfy'd.
And would you have those Saints once more
Be try'd, who've done these Things before?
No, that would be like chusing those
For Friends, who were my Father's Foes.
A wise Man, sure, will ne'er agree
To trust to their Fidelity;
By whose repeated treach'rous Crime,
His Family, from Time to Time,

Have been molested and betray'd,
And more than twice unhappy made.
No, never trust the Villain more,
That has deceiv'd you once before.
Look round this sacred Place, St. Paul's;
View its large Iles, and stately Walls!
That lofty Dome, that seems to rise,
And join its Marble to the Skies!
See what vast Strength, and Beauty too,
Those bold Corinthian Pillars show!
With Wonder gaze on ev'ry Part,
Adorn'd with so much graceful Art,
Whose Order and Magnificence,
Does not alone delight the Sense,
But moves us to a Reverence!
Would you not tremble, should you see
All this despis'd for Popery?
And that a wild Fanatick Rabble,
Led by their spiteful Teachers Babble,
Should make this sacred Pile a Stable?

Sure all good Men must go distracted,
To see such Villany transacted.
Yet should the Tribe their Pow'r improve
Much farther under R---l Love,
Their Pride may soar so high, that we,
With weeping Eyes, once more may see
The sad Effects of Whiggish Rage,
Perform'd upon this sacred Stage.

Said I, I'd rather that the Murrain
Should turn my Grannum's Cows to Carion;
Or that the Dev'l once more would venture
Some other Herd of Swine to enter,
And not possess a factious Breed,
Or to such Freaks their Rabble lead;
For that would prove the Dev'l indeed.

But, Rev'rend Sir, before we part,
'Twould not a little please my Heart,
If you'd a true High-Church-man show,
Impartially, that I might know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low;

And make it to my Reason plain,
How that Distinction first began.

Says he, the proud dissenting Faction,
Malicious even to Distraction,
Viewing with Spite, such Love and Union
Establish'd in the Church-Communion;
That put them past the Hopes of rising,
To their old Pitch of Tyrannizing,
Unless they could by wicked Arts,
Divide the Body into Parts,
That some weak Sons might be ensnar'd
To have compassionate Regard
For all Fanaticks, that pretended
Church-Worship, (wanting to be mended)
Their tender Consciences offended.
T'accomplish this ill-boding Evil,
Hatch'd by th'Assistance of the Devil,
They cry'd aloud for Moderation,
To work their Ends by Insinuation.

This sweet'ning Term soon took Effect,
And rais'd i'th' Church a middle Sect,
That trim 'twixt both, and will be safe,
Let who as will command the Staff:
Averse to neither any longer,
Than just to see which Side's the stronger.
So Cowards to no Cause are hearty,
But join the most prevailing Party.
This makes the Whigs do all they're able
To shew themselves most formidable,
Because they've Craft enough to know
Those mod'rate Church-men, stil'd the Low,
Are not so fix'd in one Opinion,
But they can slide into an Union
With any Side that gets Dominion;
Judging their Principles the best,
Who with the greatest Pow'r are blest;
And so, instead of Fear and Trembling,
Work their Salvation by Dissembling.

These Measures did the Faction take,
To this absurd Distinction make:
And now, to widen the Division,
They feed the Mod'rate with Sedition,
And to set Brother against Brother,
Reproach one Side, and sooth the other;
Flatter the Low-Church to the Skies,
Blaspheme the High with odious Lies:
Thus win the Fools, and wound the Wise.

He that stands firm to save the Church,
And scorns to leave her in the Lurch,
Must be a Jacobite, at least
A monst'rous, strange, Ephesian Beast;
A Popish Perkenite, a Traytor;
A Foe to th'Crown, a French Abettor;
Nay, worse by half than I can speak him,
Were he as bad as they would make him.

But the Low-Church-man, whose Compassion
Is stretch'd so far by Moderation,

That he would rather Church and Crown
Should be depress'd, and trampl'd down,
Than his kind tender Heart should see
The Nation's Senate disagree
T'Occasional Conformity.
Such a Low Christian is befriended,
And for Mod'ration much commended:
His Whiggish Neighbours cry, Alas!
For all he goes to High-Church Mass,
Were you to hear him talk, you'd find
The Man has got a Christian Mind.
This in the Neighbourhood's spoke aloud,
The Fool of their Applause is proud:
Thus hears by some, what others say,
So grows more mod'rate ev'ry Day.
The Leacher, who the Fair pursues,
Does the same subtle Measures use;
Much Praise behind her Back he scatters,
With whom he would accomplish Matters.

This makes her proud, and kind to th'Sinner,
The first that found such Graces in her;
When his gross Flatt'ries seek her Ruin,
And only tend to her Undoing.

But since thou do'st desire to know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low,
I'll tell thee with impartial Care,
What distinct Characters they bear;
That whilst you can in Mem'ry keep
Their Marks, you'll know the Wolves from Sheep;
The High-Church first shall take their Places,
Because they wear most honest Faces.

The Church above the World they honour,
And fix their Happiness upon her;
The Artick and Ant'artick Poles
Are not more steddy than their Souls:
Int'rest nor Fear will make 'em waver,
Or from the Truth their Conscience sever.
No base Rewards, tho' ne'er so great,
Or Threats of a corrupted State,

Will make their Lips their Faith deny,
Or their Tongues give their Hearts the Lie.
They love Mod'ration with their Souls,
But not the mod'rate Cant of Fools.
They live in Love and Charity
With all, at lest those that do agree
T'Occasional Conformity.
Their Hearts are Loyal to the Throne;
They love the Queen that sits thereon,
And dare do all that Men can do,
To shew they're to her Int'rest true.
They honour Bishops as they shou'd,
For being pious, learn'd, and good;
And are not for a canting Crew
To model God's old Church anew.
In short, they're more devout and just,
More faithful, and more fit for Trust,
Than those loose Saints, whom now we see
Possess'd of all, but Honesty.

The Low-Church are Prevaricators,
Proud of the Name of Moderators:
By subtle Arts made factious Tools.
In short, they're the Dissenters Fools,
Design'd in some more wicked Times
To bear the Slander of their Crimes,
That when they find proper a Season
T'attempt some Massacre or Treason,
The cunning Saints may shift the Shame,
And cast upon the Church the Blame;
Because the Low-Church Moderators
Were all along their kind Abettors.
Like Moths, that round a Candle fly,
They either can't, or won't espy
The Danger that's before their Eye;
But court those Flames they should avoid,
And sooth their Ruin, 'till destroy'd.
Tell 'em, the Church declines in Glory,
They cry, they hope 'tis all a Story.
Thus make you think they would not have her
Hurt, yet will nothing do to save her.
They must comply with Toleration,
Their Hearts quite melt with Moderation;
Yet have not Patience to be taught
The sad Calamities they've brought
Upon the Land, or to be shewn
What Mischief to the Church they've done.
'Tis true, they use Church-Worship duly,
Yet think a Meeting full as Holy:

Lawn Sleeves and Surplice they approve,
The Common-Pray'r they like and love;
Yet will not see the Hurt they do,
By siding with a factious Crew.
In short, these Men of Moderation;
These Low-Church Whigs, so much in Fashion,
Are true to nothing, in my Sense,
Except to dull Indifference;
But like a Lump of Wax or Clay,
Can take Impression any Way.
Lord clear their muddy Intellects,
Recal them from pernicious Sects;
Make them more Holy, and more Steady,
More Wise, more Willing, and more Ready,
To guard the establish'd Church o'th' Nation,
In whom they seek their own Salvation;
That when the Tempest shall arise,
She may not fall a Sacrifice
To Wolves crept into Sheeps Disguise.

FINIS.

4. Part the Fourth.

CANTO V.

When thus my Friend had let me know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low,
By which a Man might eas'ly see
True Zeal from canting Knavery,
And learn most rightly to distinguish
The Mod'rate from the Church that's English.
His Bus'ness calling him aside,
I parted with my Rev'rend Guide,
Who left me now to walk, and ponder
On many Things that rais'd my Wonder;

When (after I was thus forsaken)
A thoughtful Turn or two I'd taken,
For th'Benefit of Rumination,
On Matters worth Consideration;
I bid adieu to th'Holy Ile,
And wander'd from the awful Pile;
Down Ludgate-Street I gently strol'd,
Where Helps for blinking Age are sold,
And where Quack Surgeon, or Physician,
That doubts of Harvey's Proposition,
May also see, for Confirmation,
The Blood of Fish in Circulation.
Thus scated I with Care along
The slip'ry Stones, amidst the Throng,
Kept level for old Cuckolds Corns,
Whose Feet, as well as Heads, wear Horns:
It is but Justice that each Toe
Should the same Pennance undergo,
Because they treach'rously together
Conspire to carr'us God knows whether,

Whilst Cuckold-makers who are crafty,
Graft on our Antlets with more Safety.
I shot the Porch that bears the Name
Of good King Lud, of ancient Fame;
Within whose Monument lies bury'd
A living Tribe, by Fortune worry'd,
First squeez'd, then hither haul'd and hurry'd:
A greater Number, let me tell ye,
Than dwelt in Trojan Horse's Belly:
Besides the Legeons that they wear,
In matted Locks of uncomb'd Hair,
And listed Troops of eight-leg'd Strolers,
That march from Wrist-bands to their Collars.
What Pity 'tis, thought I, that Men
Should live, like Sheep, within a Pen!
Or else, like Owles, that hate the Light,
Lie hidden in perpetual Night!
There forc'd to spend their Days in Lousing,
Debauching, Gaming, and Carousing,

To th'Shame and Scandal of a Nation,
When Fighting is so much in Fashion!
These Stony Traps the Laws have set
To catch the poor Unfortunate,
Thought I, most strangely disagree
With boasted Christian Charity.
If Men, for Poverty alone,
Must wear such Dublets made of Stone;
We wrong the Faith that we pretend to,
And punish those we should be kind to;
For Heav'n Commands us o'er and o'er
To be assisting to the Poor,
And not take Liberty from those
Who've nothing else to give or lose;
And make their Misery more compleat,
Which is already much too great.
Thus persecute our Fellow-Creature,
Ruin'd perhaps by's own good Nature.

The King of Christians gave his Bosome
To Lazarus, when poor and lo'hsome,
But modern Christians now, instead,
Would heap more Mis'ries on his Head,
And give him Stones, instead of Bread.
From thence, along that tipling Street,
Distinguish'd by the Name of Fleet,
Where Tavern-Signs hang thicker far,
Than Trophies down at Westminster;
And ev'ry Bacchanalian Landlord
Displays his Ensign, or his Standard,
Bidding Defiance to each Brother,
As if at Wars with one another:
Their only Quarrel being, who
Can with most Art and Int'rest Brew;
That is, in short, about who is't
That can the most deceive his Guest:
Draw the worst Wine, and thrive the best.

I pass'd the Bridge, whose Sides were loaden
With Holland Socks, and hot bak'd Puddin,
And where nice Epicures may see
Knit Night-caps, and rare Furmity;
Plaisters for Corns, and Well-fleet Oysters,
Standing in Rows, and some in Clusters.
All girt with Chaps, Men, Boys, and Women,
Traps, Divers, Punks, and Serjeants, Yeomen;
Some chaff'ring for their Feet or Toes,
Some judging Oysters by the Nose,
And others buying Balls for Cloths.
So have I seen on Board of Ship,
Some knawing Beeff, some spewing Flip;
Another smoaking Indian Fuel,
A sick Man sipping Water-Gruel:
Some others chewing Bisket-Bread
Round one that's lousing Shirt or Head:
Some making of a Sea-man's Pye,
And others picking Toes just by:

A curious Mixture to invite
A squeamish Lady's Appetite.
From thence I gently pass'd along,
Where num'rous Hierogliphicks hung;
Such Whims that would, I dare engage ye,
Have puzzl'd an Egyptian Magi:
A Swan, a Mortar and a Pestle,
And in the Air a swinging Castle;
A Shopful of Mundungus Ware,
A Grey-Hound mouthing of a Hare,
Who wins the Course from all the rest,
Because his Master draws the best.
Three Tuns, that very lately started,
A huge white Horse that never farted.
A Flemish Boar in a blue Jerkin,
One Tun no bigger than a Firkin.
A Leg, that as some People say,
Instead of running, hopp'd away.

A Bishop's Mitre and a Horn,
Both which may at one time be worn;
For since, like us, our Prelates Marry,
Why not their Wives, like ours, miscarry?
A Black Bull's-Head, a Dragon Green,
A King, two Devils, and a Queen;
A brace of Logg'r-Heads o'er the Porch,
To guard the Clock, and grace the Church,
Which serve to shew each Lady bright,
That stroles that way by Day or Night,
That Wooden Men, like Brasen Whore,
By Clock-work Art, obtain the Pow'r,
To knock four Times within the Hour;
That is, can thump about the Quarters
As roundly as two living Porters:
Who then can blame the Maids, that under
Stand gaping at so strange a Wonder,
To see two Block-heads made of Wood,
Perform like any Flesh and Blood.

As I was taking this my View,
Like Country Hodge at Barthol'mew,
Observing here a Temple Fop,
And there a Cuckold in his Shop;
A Cutler fixing up Sword Hilts,
Informers dogging Punks and Jilts;
A Gold-smith telling o'er his Cash,
A Pipping-monger selling Trash;
One Sempstress in her Hut a stitching,
Another just strol'd out a B---ing;
A Country Ruddy-fac'd Attorney
Just lighted from his dirty Journey,
In stubborn Coat of Drab-de-berry,
And wrinkl'd Boots all over Miry;
A huge long Sword, with which he Vapours,
In's Hand a Wallet stuff'd with Papers,
To some old Inn of Chanc'ry trudging,
In which he keeps a dusty Lodging,
Lock'd closely up from Term to Term,
Where Fleas, instead of Clients, swarm,

And Cobweb-Emblems of his Trade,
Hang full of Pris'ners o'er his Head.
As I was thus amus'd to see
This Mixture of Humanity,
Who should step by, but Doctor Trotter,
That Astrological Promoter,
Reeling from E---ms's Diapente,
Advanc'd at least to nine and twenty,
With a long Cole-black Fury's Wig on,
And flaming Nose, like fiery Trigon:
He sometimes run a-head straight forward,
Then tack'd from Southward to the Norward;
And sometimes like a wand'ring Star,
Mov'd Retrograde, then Circular:
Finding himself in Dangers tost,
At last, for fear he should be lost,
He anchor'd safely at a Post:
With that, said I, old Friend, how chear ye,
I'm glad to see you here so merry:

Come, let's go drink some Turky Puddle;
'Tis Cordial for a swimming Noddle:
Thou'lt grow, with one half Pint of Coffee,
As sober as a Persian Sophy.
With that, I took him by the Arm,
And led the Wizard out of Harm,
Who, for my Kindness, was as Civil
As Doctor Faustus to the Devil.
So Cheek by Jole away we went,
Like old Nick, and the Earl of Kent,
'Till to a Coffee-House we came,
To quench the Doctor's liquid Flame,
Where at a Table down we sat,
And gravely talk'd of this and that;
Drank Coffee, 'till the Doctor found
The World that turn'd so lately round,
Had of a suddain stopp'd its Motion,
In spight to the Copernian Notion;
When the reviving Fumes that rose
From scolding Ninny-broth to's Nose,

Had soberiz'd his Brains a little,
And made him fit for Tattle Tittle.
(Pray let not this my Transposition
Incur your Censure or Derision:
Poets are apt to change a Letter,
Or Word, to make their Rime the better:
For when we Pegasus bestride,
And after Wit a Hunting ride,
Our noisy Lines would all run single,
Were they not coupl'd by their Jingle.)
I say, when Coffee piping hot,
Had rais'd the Man, and cur'd the Sot,
And by its Crust-burnt Excellencies,
Restor'd the Conj'rer to his Senses;
Doctor, said I, then bowing low,
You, I, and all the Kingdom, know
Your're famous in your Generation,
And learn'd in ev'ry Constellation;
I therefore beg you'll answer me
One Question in Astrology,

Because I'm sure, were Albumazer,
Or Ptolomy, the Plannet-gazer,
Tom Saffold, Lilly, or old Coley,
Now living, none could tell more truly;
Therefore I beg, that you'll impart
One Spec'men of your noble Art.

With that, the Doctor rubb'd his Eyes,
Then looking at me twice or thrice,
At last Majestically cry'd,
In what would you be satify'd?
Pray state your Question, and be free, Sir,
If Art can solve it, I am he, Sir,
That knows as much, and am as Wise,
As all the Plannets in the Skies:
Long have I travell'd, Night and Day,
That Heav'nly Path, the Milky Way;
Counted the Stars on ev'ry side,
Shook Hands with Time, survey'd the Tide,

And have as often, by my Soul,
Drove Charles's Wain about the Pole:
Nay, stood a Tip-toe on the Horn
Of Aries, and of Capricorn;
View'd all the Heavens, where I found
The Stars like Whirligigs go round;
Visited all the bless'd Abodes,
And drank rich Nectar with the Gods;
But by my Life, a merry Bowl
Of Elms's Punch, is worth it all.
These things are all to me as common,
As Scolding to a Basket-Woman.
I'd have you think I'm not the Ass
That deals in Fern-Seed, and a Glass,
And to deceive the World, does brag on
His green, his yellow, and black Dragon;
That dwells in Allies, God knows where,
Down seven Steps, and up one Stair:
I'm no poor, ignorant, dull Liar;
No Mene Tekel Prophesier;

No Doctor Case, no riming Noddy,
But one who knows, thro' painful Study,
What's what, as well as any Body.
Therefore, pray state your Question right,
With all the necessary Light
That you can give, or I require,
And you shall find, as you desire,
I'll tell you Truth, or I'm a Liar.

Doctor, said I, I must agree
You've made the Heav'ns your A, B, C,
And understand th'Egyptian Knowledge
Beyond all Gresham's learned Colledge:
Therefore I'm sure you cannot miss
Answ'ring my Question, which is this:
Full two Months since I did invite
Three Friends to Sup with me one Night,
And when we'd plentifully eat,
A Bowl of Punch was next my Treat,
Made of right French, upon my Word,
Good, says the Doctor, by the Lord;

And so, said I, we sipp'd our Fuddle,
As Women in the Straw do Caudle,
'Till ev'ry Man had drown'd his Noddle;
And when they found their Heads grew light,
They thank'd their Host, and bid good Night:
But the next Morn, soon after Rising,
I found my Punch-Bowl Ladle missing.
Now, if the Plannets can inform ye
Who 'twas that stole the Ladle from me,
I'll own Astrology's amazing,
And that the Stars are worth your gazing.

But, Sir, replies the Doctor, then
Of what Religion were these Men?
For Plannets, like to sov'reign Princes,
Have very diff'rent Influences,
And make a strong or weak Impression,
As Mortals differ in Perswasion.

One, said I, was a Church-Man, true
As ever sat in Church-War'n's Pew,
And went twice ev'ry Sabbath-Day
To hear the Parson Preach and Pray:

One that has long paid Scot and Lot,
And deals each Year for G*d knows what.

Poh, crys the Doctor, never think
A Church-Man Knavish in his Drink;
He's a true Trout that scorns, Ads-fish,
To Porridge beg, and steal the Dish.
Go on, I'm sure he's just and true,
The Ladle lies 'twixt t'other two.

The next, said I, was a Dissenter,
No Saint, but one that dares to venture
At Night to take off his Decanter,
Yet shuns both Common-Pray'r, and Lawn,
To hear a Hide-bound Block-head yawn,
And ev'ry Sunday thinks 'tis fitting
To crowd in at a hum-drum Meeting,
And there in Holy Exercise,
Strain hard to shew distorted Eyes,
Which every now and then, by fits,
Are strangely troubl'd with the Whites;
Yet all his Neighbours do declare
His Dealings are profoundly fair,

And that he scorns, tho' ne'er so little,
To wrong the Rich, or rob the Spittle,
But's nicely Honest to a Tittle.

The Doctor turning up his Eyes,
And grimly looking, thus replies:
I know not what to think of him,
'Tis rare to find a Mill-stone swim:
However, I'll suspend my Censure,
To hear what t'other was, and then, Sir,
I'll freely give my final Answer.

Said I, the third Man was, in Troth,
A trimming Christian 'twixt 'em both;
A modern, strange, bifarious Creature,
By Knaves and Fools call'd Moderator.

Nouns, crys the Doctor, in a Fury,
That was the Rogue, I can assure ye:
You need not speak another Word, Sir,
He stole the Ladle, by the Lord, Sir;
The Plannets punctually declare it,
The Stars are ready all to swear it:

I'm sure, as right as Man can guess it;
Tax him but home, and he'll confess it;
He's a rare Mes-mate for the Devil,
And makes a long Spoon of your Ladle.
But now you know how Matters lie,
Pray take this Counsel by the by.

Be sure you never trust herea'ter,
In any Case by Land or Water,
The Value of a Rope of Onions
With him that halts 'twixt two Opinions,
For if you do, you'll find (my Friend)
Your self the Looser in the End.

Pleas'd with the Doctor's lucky Notion,
I thank'd him kindly for his Caution;
And well contented with his Answer,
Took formal Leave o'th' Nigromancer.

CANTO VI.

No sooner had I cross'd the Gound-sel,
Thus fortify'd with good old Counsel,
But a long Train of hawking Varlots,
Together mix'd with screaming Harlots,
Came flying by me in a Heat,
With their Hair tagg'd with Pearls of Sweat,
Running 'gainst all that did not mind 'em,
As if the Dev'l had been behind 'em;
Bawling a Speech with hideous Voice,
That made, like them, a wond'rous Noise,
Which, tho' 'twas spoken by a N---le,
To shew how England's made the Bubble,
And did i'th' Title boldly wear
The Name and Sanction of a P---r;
Yet (tho' with great Concern I tell it,)
'Twas cry'd as Wenches cry pick'd Sallet;
A lumping Pen'worth will you buy,
You've all this for a Half-penny.

Surely, thought I, a wise Oration,
Intended for the Good o'th' Nation,
Must needs be worth so small a Token,
Or else 't had better ne'er been spoken:
So out I pull'd a piece of Copper,
And bought this celebrated Paper:
I conn'd it o'er, it proving Witty,
With as much Pleasure as a City
Apprentice does a new Love-Ditty:
No Fault could I discover in 't,
Except too true to put in Print,
At such a time when 'tis the Fashion,
With Lies and Shams to gull the Nation,
And with destructive Querks and Tricks,
Those damn'd Fanatick Politicks,
To draw the Crowd from their Allegiance,
Into a State of Disobedience.
The Devil us'd, as all believe,
The self-same Policy with Eve,
And made her, by his wicked Lies,
Turn Fool, in hopes to be more Wise.

So Nations, by that Knavish Cry,
Of Liberty and Property,
Are oft brought into Slavery.

Again I pauz'd on this Oration,
And read it still with Approbation;
Some Truths it very plainly hints,
At many more the Author squints;
Well worthy of the L---'s Inspection,
And better worth the S---te's Correction.
Why should a Subject be debarr'd
From saying 'tis unjustly hard,
That we should lead the Martial Dance,
To save the D---ch from Spain and France,
And still th'ingrateful, thankless Skippers,
Shall make poor England pay the Pipers:
Their Trade with France does plainly shew
They thrive; so give the Dev'l his due,
And let them pay the Musick too.

Since the Wise D---ch will not appear
To th'World such errant Fools as we're,

And we no Measures can devise,
To Cullies make of our Allies;
Let us by them Example take,
And manage wisely our last Stake;
Least Head-long we pursue our Ruin,
And save them at our own Undoing.

E'er I could make my Observation
Upon the Han'ver Invitation,
And all the parts o'th' Speech which were
Just half as many as appear
In Lilly's Grammer, which by Pain
And Dint of Whipping, we retain;
But a new Flat-cap, scoundrel Fry,
With daggl'd Tails, came bawling by,
Here is his Lordship's Noble Speech,
And De F---'s Answer, cry's a B---ch,
A Half-penny apiece for each.
Here, said I, take your Mumper's Fee,
Let's see one; Thank you, Sir, said she.
Thought I, what means this Tack-about?
What makes old Thumond's Cocks fall out,

Who, when they heretofore were try'd,
Shew'd themselves always of a Side?

Eager of knowing what was in't,
Expecting Wit or Argument
From a bold Champion, that should dare
To thus confront a Noble P---r;
I read, and read, still forward went,
But wonder'd what the Dev'l he meant;
At last I found, instead of Answer,
Meer dull Scurility and Banter,
Which shew no Honour could restrain
The scoundrel Freedom of his Pen;
And that, according to his Use,
He cannot write without Abuse,
Or sure he would not have preferr'd
His Lousy Tinker to my Lord.

But that which is above the rest,
The pretty'st, paultry, cunning Jest,
He tells his Reader, he shall shew
The Def'rence to a P---r that's due,

And yet he says most rudely plain,
That he believes no Mortal Man
Of Truth, good Manners, or Discretion,
Or that esteems his Reputation,
Could without Scandal or Dishonour,
Confess himself that Sp---'s Owner;
Yet sees his L---p in the Title,
To shew it was a true Recital,
And that for th'Benefit o'th' Nation,
'Twas printed by his Approbation.

Thus thro' his Cant, the World may see
His due Respect to Qualitie.

So have I heard an evil Tongue,
With Malice and ill Nature hung,
Revile a Man behind his Back,
And rend'r him odiously Black;
Yet vow he honours and respects
The Person whom he thus detracts.

Next does our mannerly Respondent
Sum up four Topicks he has found in't,

And humbly begs he may have leave
To answer, and to undeceive,
Without Offence, which when h'as done,
Truly he answers ne'er a one;
The first three Heads he scorns to handle,
But then the fourth he mauls with Scandal,
And to the better shew his Spleen,
He head-long hauls Mercurius in,
As Poet Bays, does, by my Soul,
His Petty-coat upon a Pole.
Thus on a sudden turns his Britch,
Clown-like, upon his L---p's Sp---ch,
And out of all due Place or Season,
Attacks the D---r without Reason,
As if the Noddy, thro' Mistake,
Had thought himself a Match for D---.

So have I heard, when charming Linnet
Delights the Meadows with her Sonnet,
A Hedge-bird churring sit hard by,
To answer t'other's Harmony,
Believing that she sung as well
As any warbling Philomel;
When her dull Discord, all the while,
Serv'd t'other only for a Foil.

FINIS.

5. Part the Fifth.

CANTO VII.

Now gently cruzing up and down,
T'observe the Follies of the Town;
Wand'ring about like starving Bully,
Or stroling Punk, in search of Cully,
Just bolted from some Bawdy-house Alley;
I glanc'd an Eye at ev'ry Body,
This jutting Minx, that strutting Noddy;
One hugging Home a Bag of Pelf,
Another handing half himself:
Some striding on in sweating Haste,
As if they fear'd their Time was past:

Some plagu'd with Corns, and some with Gout,
In Shoes with Pen-knife pink'd and cut,
Who pick'd with Care the smoothest Places,
And at sharp Flint-stones made wry Faces:
Others, tho' lusty, young, and strong,
Mov'd on so carelessly along,
That their delib'rate Walking, shew
They had but little else to do.
Young Drunkards reeling, Bayliffs dogging,
Old Strumpets plying, Mumpers progging,
Fat Dray-men squabling, Chair-men ambling
Oyster-Whores fighting, School-Boys scrambling,
Street Porters running, Rascals batt'ling,
Pick-pockets crowding, Coaches rattling,
News bawling, Ballad-wenches singing,
Guns roaring, and the Church-Bells ringing.

Bless me! thought I, sure ancient Babel,
Confus'd with all her jab'ring Rabble,
Who understood not one another,
Ne'er made such a confounded Puther;

Nor half th'amazing Wonders knew,
That this strange Town does daily shew;
The Bustle round her lofty Tow'rs,
Was nothing, if compar'd to ours;
For Heav'n their stately Pile beholding,
Was only angry at their building,
And stopp'd their bold presumptious Labour,
By unintelligible Jabber;
But then by cavelling Discourse,
They could not make their Discords worse,
Nor, like us English, by Disputes,
Reason themselves from Men to Brutes.
'Tis plain, because each Neighbour's Tongue
Was with a diff'rent Language hung;
So that when one spoke Dutch, the other
Perhaps spew'd Irish at his Brother;
Both perhaps vex'd, but neither able
To rend'r 'emselves intelligible,
So their Talk pass'd for Bibble Babble.
But we that well know what we say,
Torment our selves a diff'rent way,

And by our wise Debates and Speeches,
Make our selves sad confounded Wretches.

Some prophane Atheists make a Doubt
How th'old Confusion came about,
And to appear more learn'd and wise
Than Fools, that do such Criticks prize,
Conjecture, tho' perhaps amiss,
The Bus'ness was no more than this.

The Lab'rers by the Masons hir'd,
Bilk'd of their Wages, soon grew tir'd,
And swore, unless they'd better pay,
No couz'ning Knaves would they obey,
But leave their Work, and fall to Play.
From hence strange Language soon arose,
That is, ill Words, as some suppose,
Such that oft terminate in Blows.
So that the Slaves, with Anger fir'd,
Against the Artificers conspir'd,
And (tho' 'twas but a cross-grain'd Trick)
Carry'd them Lime, instead of Brick.

This made the Masons repremand 'em;
The Lab'rers would not understand 'em,
But sullen grew upon this Peak,
And then would neither Work nor speak.
So the grave Spaniard, in the Praise
Of Monkeys, very wisely says,
That they are Human, and can Talk
As well as any Christian Folk,
But that they fear to Speak, lest we
Should make them do our Drudgerie.
If these Conjectures keep them mute,
Their Silence is, without Dispute,
A wise Forbearance in the Brute.

But we, worse Monkeys of the two,
Repugnant Sentiments persue,
And talk t'each other with such Spight,
That we confound both Wrong and Right;
Distract the Nation by our Babbling,
And seek eternal Peace by Squabling.
The Cloak sets up against the Gown,
And rails at Apostolick Lawn;

Proclaims the Surplice to be foppish,
And damns the Common-Pray'r as Popish;
Meer Porridge, from the Mass-Book stole,
Unfit to feed a Christian Soul,
That dates its Method of Salvation
From old King Harry's Reformation.

The Church-men justly growl to see
Fanaticks storm the Hierarchie,
And that the Force of Toleration,
Once under such a Condemnation,
Should set each canting, proud Fantastick
Above their Courts Ecclesiastick,
And give such buzzing Wasps the Pow'r
To suck the Sweets of ev'ry Flow'r,
And robb the more industrious Bees
Of Honey as the Vermin please:
But that which makes the Church-men wonder,
And strikes them worse than Bolt of Thunder,
Is, that an E--- H--- of Oak,
Who, like a Friend, so kindly spoke,
Should put upon them such a Joke,

'Tis true, we often have been told
In Proverbs very wise and old,
That Men of Words, and not of Deeds,
Are like a Garden full of Weeds;
And that fine Compliments and Speeches,
Stuff'd full of Thank ye's, and Beseech ye's,
Will neither purchase what we lack,
Nor fill a Bushel, or a Sack.

Fair Promises avail but little,
Like too rich Pye-crust, they're so brittle,
They seldom signify a Tittle.
Good Deeds become an E---h H---t;
Fine Words don't countervail a F---t.
Heroick Actions are alone
The Glories of a Camp or Throne:
For if bifarious Tittle Tattle
Could storm a Town, or win a Battel,
Or varnish o'er with true Renown
That Sov'raign Gugaw call'd a Crown,

Then any Tongue-pad that could flatter,
Might make a supream Legislator,
Or huffing Bully, Pimp, or Pander,
Serve for a General Commander:
But wheedling Tongues, unactive Swords,
Deceitful News, and blust'ring Words,
No more can make a Prince Victorious,
Than broken Vows can make him Glorious.

Fraight with these jarring Cogitations,
Confus'd with sundry Observations,
Thinking sometimes, and sometimes gazing
On things both pleasant and amazing;
At length did on Crony stumble;
Old Friend, said I, your very humble:
Whither art trudging on so fast?
Thou walk'st as if in woundy haste.
Says he, There is an old Curmudgeon,
A hum-drum, preaching, Clapperdudgeon,
Who in my House has ta'en a Lodging;
He wears the Independant Cloak,
Yet the old Stiff-rump loves a Joke;

And of a hide-bound mungrel Teacher,
Has no small Kindness for the Pitcher:
He's an old Western Soul-Physician,
That narrowly escap'd Perdition
In wicked Times, almost like these,
When M---nm---th went to gather Pease;
But having shunn'd a Rebel's Fate,
He Coach'd it up to Town of late,
And does this Night dispense, hard by,
A Lecture to the Holy Fry;
And I, to tell you Truth, am jogging
To hear him give the Pope a Flogging;
And if you're not engag'd, said he,
I'll thank you for your Companie:
I fancy 'twill be worth your while;
His Cant, I know, will make you smile;
For tho' he's not a Man of Letters,
He'll banter Heav'n, and scoff his Betters,
Beyond old B---rg---s or Hugh Peters.

'Tis done, said I, I'll see you thither;
And so away we jogg'd together,

Not doubting but I there should find
Some Hodg-podg of the Hum-drum kind,
Fit to awake a drowzy Mind.

CANTO VIII.

When we came near the Rebel's School,
Where Treason's daily taught by Rule,
And sullen Knaves in Crowds agree
To sacrifice their Loyaltie;
And where our Monster of an Ape,
Was fond to shew his ugly Shape,
And to the list'ning Frape, dispense
The very Cream and Quint-essence
Of Envy, Pride, and Impudence.
A Throng of Searchers after Truth,
Were crowding at the Alley's Mouth,
Wherein the Conventicle stood,
Like Smithfield Droll-booth, built with Wood;

All shoving to obtain Admittance,
As if they hop'd for full Acquittance
Of all the Evils they had done
From that Time back to Forty One:
Some wrapp'd in Cloaks that had been wore
By Saints defunct, in Times of Yore:
Others in Coats, which by their Fashion,
Bore Date from Charles's Restauration,
Shelter'd beneath Umbrella Hats,
And Canoniz'd with Rose Cravats,
That by their Querpo's and their Quaints,
The World might read them to be Saints;
Their sweaty Rats-tail Hair hung down
To th'Shoulders from each addled Crown,
Kept thin, to cool their frantick Brains,
And comb'd as strait as Horses Manes;
Their Bodies almost Skelitons,
Reduc'd by Zeal to Skin and Bones,
So lean and envious in the Face,
As if they'd neither Grease nor Grace.

Two halting Saints, among the Crew,
With no small Pleasure did I view,
Each made upright with Patten-Shoe;
Whose Iron Stilts so plagu'd the Crowd,
That some I heard cry out aloud,
For Heav'n's sake, good Neighbour Barns,
Be careful how you crush my Corns.
Another Zealot, plagu'd with Gout,
In painful Fury roaring out,
I wish your Pattens at old Nick,
They've touch'd me to the very Quick.
Can you not tread, but stump my Toes
With your Vulcanian limping Shoes?
What! come you here to plague and spight us,
And vilely trample on the Righteous?
Thou art not fit for Christian Crowding;
Thou'rt Shod like any Roan or Dobbing.

The Women next, in awkward Dresses,
Made up the Feast of ugly Faces:
Some did in tatter'd Scarves advance,
Jagg'd like the Trophies won from France:

In Hoods too so defac'd and torn,
That had you seen 'em, you'd have sworn,
In Bleinheim Battel they'd been shotten,
Th'appear'd so ragged, and so rotten.
Some in green Aprons look'd more tite,
Others, like Flags of Truce, wore white,
Houss'ives that seem'd a Grain too light.

The good old Dames, among the rest,
Were all most primitively drest
In stiffen-body'd Russet Gowns,
And on their Heads old Steeple Crowns;
With pristine Pinners next their Faces,
Edg'd round with ancient scollop Laces,
Such as, my Antiquary says,
Were worn in old Queen Bess's Days,
In Ruffs, and fifty other ways:
Their wrinkled Necks were cover'd o'er
With Whisks of Lawn, by Grannums wore
In base Contempt of Bishops Sleeves,
As Simon Oxthodox believes.

These did not only serve to hide
Their wither'd Dugs, but seem'd beside
To be the chiefest of their Pride.
Some few indeed had got behind 'em
Their pretty Daughters, to attend 'em;
But they were dress'd and Furbulow'd
According to the present Mode;
In whom such Innocence appear'd,
That they no Prick of Conscience fear'd:
For those who never knew the Curse
Of Sin, can never dread Remorse.
Next these, came up a sore-leg'd Dutches,
Grunting and whining on her Crutches,
Who grin'd and look'd (the Lord defend her)
As hagged as the Witch of Endor;
Crying, when squeez'd, Good Folks, for Shame
Don't shove so hard against the Lame,
But shew some Mercy and good Nature
To a poor, ancient, crazy Creature,
Who sixty Years since, let me tell ye,
Have heard good Preaching in this Alley;

But now alass! I'm Lame and Ill,
And Deaf, yet by the L---d's good Will,
I love to see a Preacher still.

My Friend and I brought up the Rear,
Squeez'd in, and Elbow'd pretty near
The consecrated Tub, in which
The Gospel Emp'rick was to teach:
At length up step'd the formal Prater,
Who was of Countrey May-pole Stature,
Slender, Stiff-neck'd, extreamly Tall,
Long-fac'd, and very Lean withal.
No sooner had old Heart of Oak,
Upon a Peg hung Hat and Cloak,
But round their Sockets did he rowl
The little Windows of his Soul;
But soon we found his Eye-balls hid,
Turn'd up beneath each upper Lid,
And then he work'd about the Whites,
As Madmen do in raving Fits;
Reel'd in his Tub from side to side,
And wrung his Hands, as if he Cry'd.

His Beard from Shoul' to Shoulder rov'd,
And like the Clock-work Drummers mov'd;
He yawn'd, and gap'd, and gently stir'd
His Head, but yet said ne'er a Word;
Made many strange Geneva Faces,
And out did twenty Apes Grimaces.
At last his Tongue its Silence broke,
And thus the Rev'rend Spintext spoke:

O L---d, thou art, we know not what;
We only know what thou art not,
And from a Negative, infer
Thou'rt Good, because thou can'st not err:
Look down upon us, sinful Creatures,
So chang'd by our corrupted Natures,
That loe thou know'st we are not Men;
And if not so, what are we then?
I'll tell thee, if thou want'st to know,
We're Monsters bent to Satan's Bow,
Meer Brutes; ay, ay, and are we so?
Yes, very slothful, wicked Elves,
That love not Heaven, or our Selves,

Thou may'st believe me, L---d, for why?
Thou know'st I never tell a Lie;
Therefore we pray thee, at thy Leisure,
Bestow thy Grace, that Heav'nly Treasure,
Upon our Souls, that we may be
Such Good, Good, Good,—ah, let me see,
Defenders of those Holy Truths,
That came from out thy Prophets Mouths.
O strengthen us, thy lowly Creatures,
To trample down Lawn Sleeves and Mitres,
And High Church Nobles bind in Fetters;
Or if they prove for us too strong,
O let 'em live so long, so long,
'Till thy Elect shall flout and scoff 'em,
And all the World grow weary of 'em.
Humble the High Church, bring her low,
That she her wicked Pride may know;
And let the Book of Mass be brought,
With all its Popish Dregs, to nought;
And in its room, to thy great Glory,
Establish our old Directory,

And open all thy Peoples Eyes,
To read th'Assembly's Catechise.

Let no Tyrannick, Crown or Steeple
Triumph or Tow'r above thy People;
But give them, with their Popish Lands,
Into thy Holy Servants Hands,
That we, thy Saints, may save this Nation,
And by a true Illumination,
Compleat a Blessed Reformation.

Let no high-flying Jacobites,
Those Birds of Prey, those Hawks and Kites,
Bear any Office, or Command,
In this our Isle, thy Promis'd Land:
But let thy Holy Saints pull down
Those Props o'th' Babylonian Crown:
May they be scatter'd as the Dust,
For if they do not fall, we must.

O stifle all those wicked Papers,
In which the High Church make their Vapours:
Let the Memorial and Rehearsal,
Which we poor Lambs are bound to curse all,

Be doom'd t'illuminate our Pipes,
Or give our Backsides cleanly Wipes.

Confound Politicus Mercurious,
Whose Reas'nings might have prov'd injurious,
Had not the Threat'nings of the Laws
Made him turn Tail upon his Cause,
And many Weeks before he dy'd,
For Safety, court the strongest Side.
No Shame! for honest Men may doubt,
And sturdy Champions tack about:
Besides, by Right of Human Reason,
We may desert at such a Season;
When, by the cow'rdly Eye of Fear,
We do foresee some Danger near,
If we should farther persevere.

We more particular pray,
That thou would'st find some speedy way
To save us, hide us, and relieve us,
From Hudibrasus Redivivus,
That Antichristian, Popish Book,
That makes thy Saints like Devils look,

And wounds and persecutes the Righteous,
Much worse than Laughing Heraclitus.

Let not that Cause, good L---d, thy own
As well as ours, be trampl'd down
By High Church Pamphlets, Songs, and Libels,
Or made the Sport of Puns and Quibles;
But hold for us thy Peoples Sake,
The Hands of L--- and of D---:
Banish them to some Land remote,
Where Wit don't signify a Groat;
Some new-found, rude, unpolish'd Nation,
Where Learning never was in Fashion,
But where they neither read or think,
Or deal in cursed Pen and Ink,
Those wicked Tools, by Hell design'd
T'annoy the Peace of Human-kind:
There let them cavel, and contend,
To shame the Cause they would defend;
And tho' their Principles agree,
Yet squable to their Infamy.

Next, lay thy scourging Hand, good L---d,
Upon that High Church Scribe, N---d W---d:
May all his spiteful, Bitter Nuts,
Be drown'd in th'empting of our Guts;
The stinking Fate of Doctor's Bills,
Confound his Kernels, and his Shells;
May all his pointed Prose and Rime
Throne at us, Saints, from time to time,
Be punish'd one Day, as a Crime;
Not Dooms-day, L---d, I do not mean;
There's other Days 'twixt this and then,
Wherein, I hope, the good old Cause,
In spight of High Church Rooks and Daws,
May have the whetting of the Laws.

But kindly show'r thy Mercies down
On Saint De F---e, and Captain J---n:
O Snuff that intellectual Light,
By which they think, and which they write;
For if it long should burn thus dim,
As now it does in Sessions-time,

The good old Cause must be confounded,
Up Cavalier, and down goes Round-head.

O sanctify the Calves-Head Club,
Those valiant Patriots of the Mob;
O make them stedfast, wise, and wary;
Strengthen their Zeal, they ne'er may vary
Their good old Feast in January.
O Bless the Calves, whose Heads they chuse
For this their Pious Heav'nly Use:
May they abound with Brains, to fit 'em
For Sauce, above the Saints that eat 'em:
Protect them at their solemn Dinner,
Least some malicious High Church Sinner,
Should hatch (assisted by the Devil)
Some Powder-Plot beneath the Table,
Which at one Blast should spoil their Feasting,
And blow them down to Everlasting.

Bless all our kind industrirous Friends,
Whose Zeal and Courage gain'd our Ends,
And did so cordially assist
To get that Popish Bill dismis'd;

That Bill, which, had it took Effect,
Had cramp'd our Cause, and thy Elect;
Brought us to th'Cross, the Cowl, the Cope,
T'obey the Pope, good L---d, the Pope.
O bless those zealous Saints, I say,
That sav'd us but the other Day
From High Church Arbitrary Sway:
Give them the Grace of Bradshaw, Noll,
Pride, Danvers, Ireton, Cook, and all;
Those Saints, who did not by their Knavery,
As Papists say, but by their Bravery,
Save us from Popery and Slavery;
That these good Men, for whom we pray,
The very self-same Game may play,
And break, by Dint of Sword and Fist,
The sturdy Neck of Antichrist:
Confound her, hunt her, worry'r, rend her
With all vain Pomps that do attend her,
Crowns, Crosiers, Caps, Hooks, Crooks, and Mitres;
L---d, let them all be broke to Shatters,

That we, thy Saints, may prove ascendant,
And all the Land be Independant.
Then shall we, free from Fear or Shame,
Sing Hymns and Praises to thy Name,
And gather, with a thankful Hand,
The Fruits of all thy Promis'd Land.

But, L---d, I pray thee, by the by,
Look down, and cast a jealous Eye
Upon our cunning Elder Brethren,
Call'd by the Name of Presbyterian;
Let not that persecuting Faction,
Too pow'rful grow, for our Correction;
But make them, in these happy Days,
Thy crafty Instruments, to raise
Us Saints to thy eternal Praise;
As heretofore thou thought'st 'em fitting
For that Great Work, when Rump was sitting;
For if thou suffer'st them to climb
Above thy People, at this time,
Still must thy poor distressed Saints
Persue thee with their sad Complaints,

And Cry aloud, in great Confusion,
O Persecution, Persecution.
L---d, humble 'em to our Hearts desire,
And let them not too high aspire,
Because they are too much like Fire:
They serve us well in our Disasters,
But are too hot to prove good Masters.

O sanctify this Congregation;
Scatter their Seed throughout the Nation,
And cleanse their wicked Souls within,
From all the filthy Dregs of Sin;
Wash them from all their Blots and Stains,
As Houswives do their Pots and Pans:
O stretch their Consciences, I pray;
O stretch 'em largely every way,
That by that means they may embrace
A greator Portion of thy Gracee;
Which well improv'd by Pray'r and Fasting,
May make them Saints for Everlasting.

This he repeated o'er again,
And all the People cry'd, Amen.

FINIS.

6. Part the Sixth.

Is this, thought I, the winning Way
That Saints Enthusiastick pray?
Can Malice, mix'd with Scoffs and Blunders,
Produce such rare ex temp're Wonders?
And Monkey Faces, Yawns, and Stammers,
Delude the pious Dames and Gammers,
To think their mumbling Guides Precation
So full of Heav'nly Inspiration,
That the Majestick Excellences
Of Common-Pray'er, in their dull Senses,

Must of that Holy Force be wanting,
The Zealots find in off-hand Canting?
So they believe, because they're taught,
That the Church Liturgy is naught,
Old Popish Stuff, not worth a Groat;
And being by their Holy Guide,
The reading Common-Pray'r, deny'd,
His Doctrine, and their Ignorance,
Do still their Prejudice advance,
'Till Heav'nly Grace, nor Human Reason,
Can kill at last the deadly Poyson;
Which working on the Mind so long,
Becomes s'unconquerably strong,
That unknown Exc'lence they abuse,
But praise the Errors that they use.
So have I seen a French-man eat,
In Spittle-Fields, most stinking Meat,
Toss'd up with Leeks into Raggoo,
To overcome th'unsav'ry Hogo;

Then swear, Begar, 'tis very good,
Because he knew no better Food.
Thus they applaud their way of Feasting,
Despising ours for want of tasting.

By this Time, all the Auditory
Began to sing to th'Praise and Glory,
Like Pigs and Hogs in Pease-field hunted,
Some squeak'd aloud, and others grunted,
All vary'ng in their Tune and Tone,
Which each might justly call their own;
For no kind Sister, or good Brother,
Kept Time or Key with one another;
But as they'd all discording Faces,
So all sung diff'rent Tunes and Graces,
Such as they us'd to lull and diddle
To froward Infants in the Cradle.
So have I heard, in Christmas Time,
When noisy Rev'ling is no Crime,
A Crowd of Country Wags and Wenches,
Seated on Buffet Stoolls and Benches,

When o'er their knappy sugar'd Beer,
Sing, Ponder well, you Parents dear,
Each straining forth her Screech-owl Voice,
Making some Godly Tune her Choice,
Which Gammer Crump, and Goody Burch,
Had squeak'd for many Years at Church.

When Psalms, for half an Hour, they'd sung
And howl'd, from Stave to Stave, along,
'Till Sternhold's old and rugged Strains
Had made them Hoarse, they took such Pains,
That in a Sweat, the Congretation
Ended their jingling Supplication;
On which they all were so intent,
And seem'd so musically bent,
Each Member of the Holy Club,
From lofty Saint, to lowly Scrub,
All strain'd their Throats to bear a Bob;
That sure no Mid-night Catter-wawling,
Could e'er produce a stranger Squaling,

Than did, according to my Notion,
This bawling Consort in Devotion,
Where ev'ry gaping, thin-jaw'd Brother,
Strove zealously t'out howl the other,
As if the Psalm they had been singing,
Was penitential to their Swinging;
And that th'were destin'd by the Psalter,
To all die Martyrs of the Halter.

CANTO IX.

The Teacher, after some Delay,
In which h'ad study'd what to say,
With Grace and Gravity affected,
Rose from his Seat, and stood erected.
Then opening of his Lips most nicely,
He made us t'other Pray'r concisely;
Which Work he did with Amen Crown,
And then the sighing Saints sat down:

Then with his horny Thumbs, he spread
A Book, which, when 'twas open laid,
He did therein precisely look,
And thus his Text he gravely took.

Most Holy Brethren, if you mind,
In the last Book of Kings, you'll find,
Mark you me, Chapter Forty Eight,
When Israel's Saints were Rich and Great,
These Wonders in the thirtieth Verse,
Written in bloody Characters:
This Day the haughty Tyrant fell,
And with him all the Priests of Baal:
Bless'd be the Hand that gave the Stroke,
Which freed all Israel from her Yoke.

This is a hopeful Rogue, thought I,
He'll preach rare Doctrine by and by;
Sure he and all his list'ning Mob,
Are Members of the Calves-Head Club;
None but such Rebels would dispence
With so much Heath'nish Impudence.

I sha'n't, says he, divide my Words,
O'th' Text, as Joiners do Deal Boards,
And as too many Knaves have done,
Make half a Dozen out of one;
But keep in Union all its Parts,
And Glue them closely to your Hearts.
My Words are not like Human Sorrow,
That comes to Day, and goes to Morrow;
But will, by th'help of Pray'r and Fasting,
Stick by your Souls for everlasting.

In the first place, my Text imports
The Massacres, the Spoils, and Hurts,
That to the Righteous have been done
By wicked Tyrants on the Throne.

Thought I, not half so many, sure,
As have been done in Times of Yore,
When Rogues, like you, by Hell appointed,
Pull'd down God's Church, and his Anointed.

After he'd made a little Pause,
Again he stretch'd his Lockrum Jaws;

But now, says he, 'tis worth our Wonder,
T'observe how th'Lord brings Tyrants under,
As Ahaz, Jeroboam, Saul,
Jehoram, and the Dev'l and all,
Who were so wicked, that they valu'd
No more Religion, than a Ballad;
And gave the Priests no more Respect,
Than if they'd been a lousy Sect
Of Heath'nish Sophisters of Old,
Who, as we've been in Proverb told,
Were such poor despicable Wretches,
They us'd to shew, thro' fallen Stitches,
And Pocket-holes, their naked Britches.

Thought I, for all your Pulpit-Drumming,
Had you no Hose to hide your Bum in,
But what true Merit would procure you,
I then might venture to assure you,
Your poor Deserts would scarce be able
To find you Trouzers to your Bauble;

But all the Holy Tribe might see
Your Label of Mortalitie
Hang dang'ling down, in sorry Pickle,
To th'Grief of all the Gender Fickle,
That Comfort seek in Conventicle.

Said he, 'tis for this Cause, we see
Proud Kings reduc'd to Miserie,
From their high Thrones and Scepters torn,
And made God's Holy People's Scorn.

Kings have no longer Right to Reign,
Than they the Covenant maintain;
Nor ought the People to obey
Their Prince, but in a righteous Way;
So that when e'er he breaks the Law,
Allegiance is not worth a Straw;
Or if he falsifies his Oath,
His Crime absolves us of our Troth;
For when us Saints are disappointed,
The Sovereign Pow'r is quite disjointed,
And he no longer God's Anointed:

As you may read Review th'Eleventh,
And Observator Twenty seventh;
In many Godly Books beside,
If you'd be further satisfied.

Rare Doctrine for a Rogue to scatter,
And exc'lent Proofs to clear the Matter.

But then, says he, perhaps you'll say,
How shall we know, that do obey,
When he that rules, the Law abuses,
And when his Pow'r he rightly uses.
I'll answer this with greater Ease,
Than Boys catch Flies, or Women Fleas.
You must depend upon your Guide,
'Tis he that must these Things decide:
We know by special Revelation,
When a King means to hurt his Nation,
For Instance, James's Abdication;
And when we're pleas'd to let you know,
That Things are carry'd so and so,

You Nolens Volens, must believe us,
For curs'd is he that does deceive us:
Nay, lost for ever, d---n'd as sure
As the Wind changes every Hour.

Thought I, if Priests the Pow'r should have,
Assum'd by this Imperial Knave,
A Hero sure would sooner choose
To carry Brooms, and cry old Shooes,
Than rule a Kingdom at the Pleasure
Of such a Pack of Knaves as these are;
For should such Wolves, in Shepherds Clothing,
Who bear to Kingly Pow'r a Lothing,
Be Judges of their Prince's Actions,
And Kings be bound by their Directions;
The Ax, or some more cruel Fate,
Would on each wretched Sov'reign wait,
That we alass! should find too soon,
More Revolutions than the Moon.
For how should Kings endure the Teaz
Of hum'ring such damn'd Guides as these,
Whom Earth can't bind, or Heaven please;

For as all Kingdoms are the Lord's,
They prove, by wresting Scripture-Words;
His Saints, that is, themselves, Pox on 'em,
Have th'only Right to over-run 'em.

Did not Jehojada, says he,
The Lord's chief Priest, as I may be,
Command Athaliah to be slain,
With all her Idolizing Train:
It's true, she bawl'd out Treason, Treason,
But all her Crys were out of Season;
For tho' a Queen, when once the Priest
Did her false Gods and her detest,
Pronouncing Heav'n's Degree upon her,
Alass! what signify'd her Honour?
Just nothing, for she might have been
As well a Vagrant, as a Queen;
For once beneath the High-Priest's Curse,
Sh'ad neither better far'd, nor worse;

For whatsoe'er he doom'd her to,
That Fate she was to undergo;
For when the Priest has said the Word,
Deliver'd to him by the Lord,
Be it to Hang, to Burn, or Drown,
The bitter Portion must go down.
Thus when Athaliah was subjected
By the High Priest, by Heav'n directed,
In spight of Aid, she met her Fate,
And fell before her own Horse-Gate.
From hence we learn what mighty Things
The Priests have done by Queens and Kings;
Therefore the Lord commands, I say,
That you his Ministers obey;
For if you side for Love or Money,
With Crowns that have so oft undone ye,
The Dev'l will get a Hank upon ye.

'Tis strange such canting Knaves, thought I,
Such Emp'ricks in Divinity,

Should sour the People with such Leven,
And all the while look up to Heaven,
As if they thought to please the Lord,
B' abusing thus his Holy Word;
And by confounding silly People
With Notions, so profoundly evil,
Not fit for Christians, but the Devil.
How should the Peace of Kingdoms flourish,
Where Pulpit-Quacks such Discords nourish,
And by false Jealousies and Fears,
Set King and People by the Ears,
And by the Doctrines that they spread,
Their spiteful scabby Flocks perswade
To hold this dangerous Opinion,
That they by Grace have all Dominion,
For Pow'r they hold in Grace is founded,
And Grace, they say, alone is bounded
Within their Holy Tribe, the Round-head?
Thus, like the Roman Church, we see
They hold Infallibilitie,

Only the one more wisely guess
'Tis seated in his Holiness;
Whilst our Geneva Dunces squabble
To place it in their gracious Rabble,
And make them Lords, that have a Right
By Dint of Grace, that is, by Spight,
Their Prince at Pleasure to abuse,
Reproach, Imprison, and Accuse,
Try, Condemn, Murder, then proceed,
When from all lawful Pow'r they're freed,
To raise some Rebel in his stead:
Thus change, thro' Preaching, and their Pray'rs,
Their Kings, as often as Lord May'rs;
That every bold rebellious Brother
Might hope, by making of a Pother,
To climb the Throne, one time or other.

So Rogues, that live by Rape and Spoil,
The Laws Severity revile,
And labour to themselves perswade,
That Theft's a consciencious Trade,

And downright Robbery, no more
Than Justice, in a Man that's poor.

But now our Teacher stretch'd his Jaws,
And cry'd aloud, Observe the Cause
Why Queen Athaliah dy'd the Death,
And thus resign'd her sinful Breath?
'Twas not with common Female Fraily,
That she dishonour'd Sov'reign Royalty,
Nor did she fall for Sins so paultry,
As Fornication, or Adult'ry;
But Crimes more damnable than both,
Such that provok'd the L---d to Wrath,
And made the Priests so vex'd and mad,
There was no Mercy to be had:
In short, sh' was guilty of a Sin
Unpardonable in a Queen.

After strange Gods she ran a Whoring,
An Itch beyond the High Priest's curing;
Which grew at last to such an Evil,
That made her prove a very Devil:

False Gods she to her self erected,
And the true Worship she rejected;
Upon the Levites turn'd her Tail,
And countenanc'd the Priests of Baal,
With Idols, to polute the Temple,
And shew the Land a bad Example.
Thus she defil'd the House of David,
And took new Measures to be saved;
Ador'd false Gods for Love or Lucre,
For which the Levites did rebuke her,
But still in vain, 'till God forsook her:
And then, altho' a Queen before,
Abandon'd thus, she was no more;
No more, I will be bold to say
To the High Priest Jehojada,
Than the poor'st Gossip, if compar'd
To me, that teach the Holy Word;
For if against the Lord you Sin,
And we, his Priests, declare wherein:

If you don't speedily repent it,
And when we bid you do't, recant it,
We're bound in Duty to resent it.
So if you Evil heap upon us,
And don't repair the Wrong you've done us,
The Lord resents the sad Offence,
As offer'd to Omnipotence,
And will most surely find a Time
To punish, nay, revenge the Crime.
Therefore you Saints, that would be bless'd,
And of the Promis'd Land possess'd,
Must do as we, your Teachers, bid you,
And follow us, or Woe betide you;
For what can signify a Guide,
If Satan's Hobby you bestride,
And turn a head-strong, wicked Rover,
As if the Devil was your Drover.

I say, Go on as we direct ye,
And Heav'n will bless ye, and protect ye;

Then we, the Elect, shall trample o'er
The Babylonian scarlet Whore;
Then shall the Holy Saints prevail,
And pull down all the Priests of Baal;
Confound their Bag-pipes, and their Fiddles,
Despoil their Images and Idols,
Deface their gilded Pagan Altars,
And turn their Girdles into Halters;
Stop all their old romantick Stories
Of Lymbo's and of Purgatories;
Consume their Anti-christian Base-Books,
Their Aves, Ros'ries, and their Mass-Books,
That they no more shall Preach or Prate in
That Heath'nish, Roman Language, Latin,
But Worship God as Christians shou'd do,
That is, as Holy I and you do:
Our Practice of their own Receipt,
Will make the Heav'nly Work compleat:
Faggot and Fire are exc'lent Tools
To humble Knaves, and punish Fools:

There can be no true Reformation,
Without a gentle Conflagration:
Therefore remember, that I say
This is the true and only Way
For you, the Saints, to rise to Glory,
And make the Wicked fly before ye.
Rush on at all; make no Delay;
Like Soldiers fight, like Prophets pray,
And we shall surely win the Day;
For where the Gospel and the Sword
Unite, to propagate the Word,
The Lord will, at our humble Call,
Become his People's General:
Therefore I say again, go on;
Ne'er flinch 'till the good Work be done,
And the whole World be made our own;
For Satan's Kingdom now shall perish,
And in their stead the Saints shall flourish:

For which Success, we ought to pray,
That full of Grace and Peace, we may
Conclude the Service of the Day.

Sure none, thought I, that hear a Knave,
With Noddle grey, and Looks so grave,
Delude a brainless Congregation
After so vile and wicked Fashion,
Can wonder at our sev'ral Factions,
And stand amaz'd at our Distractions,
Or blame the Crowd for their Divisions
About their Morals and Religions;
Since such illit'rate, envious Praters,
Are suffer'd to seduce poor Creatures,
And op'nly draw them to dissent,
Both from the Church and Government;
For every poys'nous Principle,
When Scripture's made the Vehicle,
In Pulpit spread by such a Villain,
Nurs'd up in Treason and Rebellion,
Will in short time infect a Million;

For all Contagions of the Tongue,
Are blown insensibly along
Into by Alleys, Nooks, and Holes,
Among such Pestilential Souls,
Whose Lungs still make the Poyson worse,
And break it forth with greater Force,
'Till the Plague does it self expand
To every Corner of the Land,
And gains such Epidemick Pow'r,
'Tis past the State-Physician's Cure:
Who then must flatter the Disease,
And paliate what he can't appease.
So Princes, that command a Throne,
When Faction is too pow'rful grown,
And forc'd, for Ease, to Favour shew,
Where Punishment is only due.
Thus, when our Bab'ler had confounded
What Fools believ'd he had expounded,
He chang'd his formal preaching Air
Into a Godly Mein, for Pray'r,

And so began a new Oration,
To bless his sighing Congregation,
Who look'd as if their meagre Chaps
Were chiefly fed with Pulpit-Scraps,
And that their skinny Sides and Faces
Were almost starv'd with hungry Messes
Of tedious Pray'rs, and cooling Graces.

Having thus screw'd his Parchment Jaws
Such sundry ways, to gain Applause,
He rowl'd his Ogles with a Grace
Becoming so a zealous Face,
That all the Brethren groan'd to see
Such exquisite Hypocrisie,
And by a sympathetick Force,
Look'd full as bad as him, or worse:
At length this Utterance he made,
And spoke his Words with doleful Dread,
Like Fryar Bacon's Brazen Head.

O L---d, says he, O L---d of Host,
We are thy Saints, and that thou know'st;

Stick by us now, that we may scatter
Our Foes, and stick by thee herea'ter.
Exalt the Horns of us thy People
Above the Dragon of Bow Steeple,
That by thy Grace's Contribution,
We may have Strength of Constitution,
To knock down High Church Persecution.

O let not this thy Holy Place,
E'er want that Scavenger, thy Grace,
That ev'ry Soul that comes herein,
May be new vamp'd, and made so clean,
That not one Speck of Sin or Folly
May any tender Conscience sully;
So that each Saint, who hither comes,
May return back to their own Homes
As undefil'd from Head to Rump,
As a new Jug just rinc'd at Pump.

O L---d, look down, and bless thy People,
The Young, the Old, the Blind, the Cripple.

May they thy Holy Word remember,
Above the Fifth Day of November.
O bless each Saint that edifies
By this Day's Holy Exercise:
Let thy Grace hover round about 'em,
And dwell within 'em, and without 'em,
That they may all Dominion gain,
And o'er thy Foes in Triumph reign;
So, L---d, with us say thou Amen.

FINIS.

7. Part the Seventh.

CANTO X.

The Vip'rous Congregation, pleas'd
With what they'd heard, were now dismiss'd;
So squeezing forth, brim-full of Grace,
Each turn'd his Rump on Holy Place,
And with his Elbows and his Feet,
Made way into the open Street.
I shov'd my bulky Corps along,
But look'd, amidst the skinny Throng,

Like Stall-fed Bullock, fat and fine,
Amongst King Pharaoh's famish'd Kine.
I puff'd, and blow'd, and thrust, and bussl'd,
'Till thro' the narrow Gulph I'd jossl'd,
Which stunk as if their Teacher's Pray'rs,
That crept into their list'ning Ears,
Too windy were to be confin'd;
So working down, made way behind.

When I, with much ado, had clear'd
My self of the infected Herd,
And turn'd (good Manners quite forgetting)
My low'r End on their Low C---h Meeting,
The poys'nous Fumes I'd suck'd in there,
I gladly chang'd for sweeter Air,
Not knowing, but the Breath that comes
Out from between a Rebel's Gums,
If long imbib'd, might plague and spoil
The Body, and the Mind defile;
Turn our sound Principles to sad ones,
And change good Consciences to bad ones.

Why not, as well as Mists and Fogs,
That rise from filthy Fens and Bogs,
With Aguish Fits, make Mortals tremble,
Like quaking Zealots, that dissemble,
When to their Brethren they aver it,
The Workings of the Holy Spirit;
If thus the Vapours that do swarm
From slimy Fens, can do us harm,
The dang'rous Breath, that flows each Day
From Men more filthy far than they,
Must give to greater Mischiefs Birth,
Than all the Quagmires of the Earth.

When thus deliver'd from the Crowd,
Precisely dress'd, devoutly proud,
I left them at the Alley Gate,
Each waiting for his Friend or Mate,
That they might all creep home in Couples,
The better to debate their Scruples,
And canvas o'er the Cant they'd heard
From Lanthorn Jaws, and picked Beard.

My Friend, that to the Lecture led me,
Now walking leisurely by side me,
Began to ask my Approbation
Of our dull Quirpo's dark Oration.

Old Friend, said I, to tell you Truth,
I have not heard from Block-head's Mouth
Such worthless Cant, such senseless Blunders,
Such frothy Quibbles and Cunnunders,
Such wicked Stuff, such poys'nous Babble,
Such uncouth, wretched Ribble Rabble,
Never since Cromwell's frantick Porter,
Who whilst he did in Bedlam quarter,
Thro' Iron Bars roar'd out aloud,
Mad Doctrine to the madder Crowd.

With what bold Ignorance can a Dunce,
The Worship of the Church renounce,
Where Sacred Order moves the Sense,
And raises awful Reverence
Tow'rds that great Pow'r, to whom we pray,
And those our Guides, that teach the way?

What Hypocrite, that once but hears
The Holy Exc'lence of her Pray'rs,
Can cavel at those Heav'nly Words,
Whose Christian Force so well accords?
With all Conditions and Degrees
Of Human Souls, who pray for Ease,
Oppress'd with sinful Miseries,
What formless, poor, ex temp're Matter,
Compos'd of Non-sense and Ill-nature,
Squeez'd out from the illit'rate Noddle
Of some dull, canting Tom a Doodle,
Can without spiteful Blasphemie,
To th'Church's Form compared be,
Which was at first from Scripture drawn
By Bishops worthy of their Lawn;
Good Men, well learn'd in Sacred Story,
Who labour'd hard to set before ye,
Instead of Int'rest, God's true Glory?

With what strange Ins'lence can a Wretch,
That hears a grave, wise Doctor preach

With awful Mein, and Parts so great,
They Honour both the Church and State,
Whose searching Truths Words a Passage make
To e'ery Heart that hears him speak,
And force ill Thoughts to fly away,
Like Mists before the God of Day?
I say, with what strange Impudence?
What Prejudice and want of Sense,
Can Calvin's whining Saints compare
The hum-drum Non-sense that they hear;
The canting Lies, instead of Truth,
Yawn'd from a stubborn Block-head's Mouth,
With the learn'd Doctrine of a Guide,
By Heav'n and Nature qualify'd,
Whose Words have that commanding Sense,
They make us feel their Eloquence,
And by their Influence, incline
Our sinful Souls to what's Divine?
Whilst those illit'rate, gaping Fools,
Who prate in Barns and Dancing-Schools,

Would make a Christian, by their Teaching,
Abhor their Praying, and their Preaching,
And think they study'd to advance
Rebellion, Pride, and Ignorance;
And that, instead of propagating
True Christian Practice by their Prating,
Their bawling Dunces only meant
To teach their Hearers to dissent
From all that's good and excellent?
Right, says my Friend, the Truths you say,
Are clear as any Sun-shine Day;
For oft i'th' Country have I seen,
When at a Meeting I have been,
An Ape, o'er Back of Leathern Chair,
Squeeze out a Sermon, or a Pray'r,
Screwing his Phiz the time he's prating,
As if h'ad been Exonerating;
For every Utt'rance of the Fool,
Came from him, like a hard-bound Stool,

Wiping his Lips at each Expression,
As if his senseless, dull Oration
Was such a foul Reverse of Truth,
His very Words defil'd his Mouth,
And made the sinful Trumpet need
More Wipes, than Nature's Sink just freed
From the loose Dregs of Meals and Messes,
Our Drunken Vices, and Excesses;
Yet such a bold illit'rate Dunce,
That can but rattle, rave, and bounce,
Altho' he little more can say,
Than Laud and G---d, and Eke and Aye,
Shall follow'd be by larger Flocks,
Than a Learn'd Guide, that's Orthodox.

Said I, we by Experience know,
Obstinate Fools will still be so:
The wisest Occulist can't find
A way to cure the self-will'd Blind,
But still, like Bats that love the Night,
They'll turn their Tails upon the Light.

By ancient Grannums we are told,
In Proverb true, as well as old,
That Birds, who are of the same Feather,
Delight to meet, and flock together:
So that the neigbouring Owls will follow
The Howlet, that they hear, but hollow;
Nay, if a Wolf but makes a Noise,
And elivates his howling Voice,
The rest will from their Dens come out,
And gather round the bawling Brute;
As Zealots, join with one another,
To hear the Howls of Holy Brother.

Hush, says my Friend, mind what you say;
You know this is not Time of Day
For Truth to be so obvious made,
We must not call a Spade, a Spade.

In Troth, said I, I cannot flatter,
My Muse abhors to mince the matter;
A Knave she like a Knave will draw,
In spight of that grim D---n, L---:

She seeks no Int'rest, knows no Fear,
But as they be, makes things appear;
And if the Truth be deem'd a Libel,
Good Heav'n preserve the Holy Bible
From all those Hypocrites, that use it
Only to wrest it, and abuse it;
And make it, by their canting Whines,
Subservient to their base Designs.

Be silent, says my Friend, a while,
I'll tell a Tale, shall make you smile.

A Clergy-man, of great Renown,
Well known in Country, and in Town;
Fam'd for an exquisite Conjunction,
Of Parts becoming Holy Function,
Had writ a learned Tract, to show
The Dangers that from Schism flow;
And willing, as became his Station,
To have his P---'s Approbation,
He humbly shews the painful Piece
To th'B--- of the D---e:

With much Content, the Book he read,
And gave the Applause it merited;
But, Sir, says he, tho' Schism's a Crime,
This is alass! no proper Time
To trouble tender Consciences
With such Polemick Points as these:
Besides, 'tis dang'rous to disturb 'em,
We must not either spur or curb 'em.

My L---, reply'd the Country Priest,
Since there's no bridling of the Beast,
And that your L---p's pleas'd to say,
At present 'tis the better Way
To stop good Works, and wink at Evil,
For once, like you, I'll be so civil,
To hold a Candle to the Devil.

I find, said I, you make this Motion,
Like a true Friend, by way of Caution,
To shew this is no proper Time
To publish Truth, dress'd up in Rime;

Nor is it Treason, if I say,
In Prose or any other Way,
Without the Danger of offending
A potent Tribe, who are intending,
Under Pretence of mending Matters,
To bring us into S---sh F---rs;
Therefore, since you have been so kind,
In merry Tale to hint your Mind,
And give me good Advice, I'll take it,
Not tell the Truth, or yet forsake it;
But hug her closely in my Breast,
And both submit to be supprest,
Till Time, that brings all Things to Light,
Shall rescue her from Error's Night,
And make her shine Divinely bright.

No more will I presume to meddle
With up-start Rump, leap'd into Saddle,
Or in his odious Colours paint
That Hypocrite, a Modern Saint;

Nor shall my Muse in doleful Verse,
The Tragick Villanies rehearse,
Done by that Sanguinary Brood,
That wash'd their Hands in Royal Blood.

No more the merry Jade shall jest
Upon their solemn Calves-Head Feast;
Or eke prophane that mod'rate Zeal,
Which we and they know both too well;
Is only meant when things accrue,
As Holy Tribe would have 'em do,
To make us mod'rate Christian S---s,
To Heath'nish F---s, and fiery K---s:
For he that's cunning in undoing,
And seeks to work another's Ruin,
Will coax him first to be his Friend,
And that blind Side the most commend,
By which he hopes to gain his End.

With that my Friend look'd up, and snorted,
And thus upon me he retorted:

Tho' Rods you know are soaking for you,
I find, says he, it won't deter you:
Did you not say, you would forbear,
And yet you're rambling G*d knows where.

Pox take, said I, this Itch of Scribling,
Like Fish, we Poets must be nibling.

But have a Care, says he, at last,
The bearded Hook don't hold you fast;
And let me, like a Friend, advise,
As you are merry, pray be wise:
For if you will be boldly casting
Your Flirts at those that love no Jesting,
They may return, when you provoke,
In earnest, such a spiteful Stroke,
You'll like as bad, as they your Joke.

Said I, these wise Considerations
Have cool'd my hot-brain'd Cogitations;
Thou'st damp'd at once my Muse's Fury,
She's a meer Coward, I assure ye,
And dreads a d---d Fanatick J---y.

Well! since she whispers out her Fears
On both sides of my list'ning Ears,
And tells me, If I don't comply
To scribble modishly, that I
May thirst for Wine, and starve for Hunger,
Ere she'll stand by me any longer;
I find, to save my self from Harm,
Like modern W---g, I must reform,
That is, not speak the Truths I shou'd do,
Nor scourge the Factions as I wou'd do;
For as their Pow'r of doing Ill
Can ne'er be equal to their Will,
So is my honest Will to shew
The Ills and Mischiefs that they do,
Above the Pow'r of my weak Sense
Now cramp'd by a R---.

Farewell, ye proud aspiring Herd;
May you be neither lov'd or fear'd,
But only rais'd aloft, like Rain
In Season, to come down again;

For sure the h---r P---s must see
You ever was, and e'er will be,
A Snake to those that cherish ye.

CANTO XI.

Bus'ness now calling for my Friend,
T'our Conversation put an End;
So that I now began to think,
B'ing drowthy, on a little Drink;
And glad to chuse the saving'st way
To spend the Remnant of the Day,
I sneak'd into a little House,
Where Porters do their Belch carouse,
Where by the Kitchen Fire, there sate
Two Toapers in a warm Debate;
One was the Sweeper of a Chimney,
That dirty Rhime to Polyhimney,

With Nigro Hands and Face, as black
As was his Sooty Bushel Sack,
That hung across his sturdy Back.
The other was a Mealy Blade,
All powder'd o'er from Heel to Head;
One that prun'd frowsy Beards for Two Pence,
And therefore Master but of few Pence;
Which sad Misfortune caus'd a hot
Dispute between each Brother Sot,
About the Payment of a Pot:
The Chimney-Sweeper sate in State,
And swore he'd make the Barber pay't,
Or else, before he left the Room,
He'd make a Puff of's little Broom,
And dipping it in's Bag of Soot,
Wou'd powd'r him o'er from Head to Foot,
'Till he had put him into deep
Mourning, like any Brother Sweep.

The Barber, who was trim and neat,
Vex'd at his dirty Opposite,

Bit's Nails, as Men enrag'd are wont,
And thus return'd the gross Affront:

You sooty, smutty, nasty Slouch,
Not fit for cleanly Hands to touch:
Thou ill-look'd Picture of the Devil,
That can't be Tipsy, but must cavil;
A Heath'nish Sot, that roars and swears,
Only fit Company for Bears.—

These Words provok'd the Sweeper highly,
Who handling Soot-bag very slighly,
Says he, A Heathen do you cry?
I say, you Wash-ball Rogue, you Lie
I chuse Religion by Discretion;
That which most profits my Profession.
Therefore you Dog, I'll make you know,
If you are High-Church, I am Low.
No Heathen, but a Tipling Saint,
That loves a Church with Chimney in't:
Then mounting of his sooty Sack,
He gave the Barber such a Thwack,

That made him look of party Colour,
Betwixt a Collier and a Fuller.

Couragious Tonsor, highly scorning
To thus be put in second Mourning,
Without revenging with his Fist
Th'Abuse from his Antagonist,
Starts up, and with a Manly Rage
Does his black dusty Foe engage.
Sometimes the Battel doubtful grew,
That we, the Standers by, scarce knew
Which would prove Conqu'ror of the two.
At last Smut grew too hard for Smug,
And gave him such a Cornish Hug,
Back'd with s' unmerciful a Cuff,
That made poor Tonsor cry, Enough.
With that, the Conqu'ror crow'd and strutted,
The while the Victim snub'd and pouted;
With Hands and Face his Cloths beside
From White to Black so truly dy'd,

That any Stranger would have said,
They'd both been Brethren of a Trade.

You know, says Sweep, I told you my Church,
And now I'll make you tell me thy Church,
Or by my Word, and you may take it,
I'll thrash my Soot from out your Jacket.

The Barber now b'ing tame and cool,
And seated on repenting Stool,
Not caring for a second Beating,
Reply'd, He liv'd 'twixt Church and Meeting,
And therefore was oblig'd in Troth
To Trim for Profit 'twixt 'em both.

Pox take thee, says the sooty Brute,
How came we two to thus fall out?
I find Religion is in thee
The very same that 'tis in me.
Int'rest I find, that pow'rful Guide,
Leads thee or me to any side.

They say, crys Tonsor, 'tis the Fashion,
Follow'd by Men in ev'ry Station;

And tho' we're poor, why should not we,
Like other Fellow-Christians be?
And from our Betters learn the way
To live and thrive, as well as pray?
And in that Faith and Party trust,
By which we hope to gain the most?

Nouns, crys the Sweeper, being mellow,
Thou talk'st like a good honest Fellow;
I'm sorry that the strong Beer Barrel
Should make us two such Fools, to quarrel,
Since now, by thy Discourse, I find
We're both intirely of a Mind;
For what thou say'st, is very true,
All Stations do the Pence pursue.
Religion, once the Nation's Darling,
Now bows its Head to pow'rful Sterling.
Money does every thing command;
Without, Efaith, as Matters stand,
We now can't shake a Knave by th'Hand.

In short, Queens Pictures, by their Features,
Charm all Degrees of Human Creatures,
From the black Robe of deeper Dye,
To less black Mortals, thee and I.

By this time the offensive Soot,
That in the Scufflle flew about,
Began to op'rate in my Snout,
And made me so Cheho and Snivel,
As if I'd got the Sneezing Evil:
It set m' a Wheezing worse than Pthisick,
And downwards work'd like any Physick,
That I was forc'd, in Cellar first,
To empty what would else have burst,
And chang'd without, for Air more clean,
The sooty Fog that 'rose within:
Thus leaving with Regret of Mind,
The rest o'th' Comedy behind,
'Twas now about that Hour of Night,
When stroling Hussies, much too light,

Those Paramours of Pimps and Bayli's,
Creep out from Garrets and from Allies,
Pursu'd by poor reforming Rogues,
As Bitches Proud by Curs and Dogs;
Some Jilts in Tally'd Furbulows,
Dress'd up as if in Quest of Beaus,
New powder'd, patch'd, and painted o'er,
The Marks of a retailing Whore,
Came jutting by with Muff and Fan,
Six Harlots to an honest Man,
Mix'd here and there with low-priz'd Vermin,
Rigg'd out for Porters, and for Carmen;
With Arms wrapp'd up in Aprons white,
Which in dark Corners shone as bright,
As Glow-worms Arses in the Night;
Each at some Distance off behind,
Attended by a Rogue, design'd
To guard and vindicate his Jewel
With Mutton Fist and Oaken Towel,

From the Affronts of Brother Rabble,
Or any accidental Squabble.
Thought I, O happy pious Nation!
O bless'd Effects of Reformation!
By which we find, in ev'ry Place,
In spight of Pulpit and of Press,
More Rogues, but not one Whore the less.

I found, for all the pious Care
Of Aldermen and good L---d M---r,
And Holy Projects put on foot,
To tear up Evil by the Root,
By arming broken Knaves with Staves,
To punish Whores that Sin by ha'ves,
And cannot with obliging Crowns,
Bribe old Sir Macril's Mermadons,
That still the City Jilts and Jades
Would claim the Freedom of their Trades,
And exercise their sinful Tails
As long as pow'rful Rump prevails;

For whilst Hypocrisy and Cant
Make up a true blue Protestant,
So long will Reason stoop to Roaring,
And Sanctity concur with Whoring,
After a most Religious manner,
To shew the Saint, and hide the Sinner.

Thought I, the Tongues of Faction may
Ring Peals of Holiness all Day;
Preach Lectures of their Reformation,
Election, and Regeneration,
And fill the Crowd upon a Sunday,
With Hopes of growing Righteous one Day;
Spread ev'ry City Coffee-house Table
With Libels, to reform the Rabble,
Where they may find at large exprest,
What Church and Government are best;
And learn at once, from the Review,
Religion, and Rebellion too.

Yet all their Pains and Politicks,
Their Shams, and Flams, and pretty Tricks,

I fear will prove but quaint Devices,
To purge our Pockets, not our Vices.

So Factious Knaves, to cheat the Crowd,
Cry out, Reform, Reform, aloud,
When all the Goodness they intend,
Is but to marr, and not to mend,
That hungry Saints, whom Int'rest draws,
To shoulder up the Holy Cause,
May thro' their Cavils and Debates,
Lay Godly Hands on good Estates.

FINIS.

8. Part the Eighth.

CANTO XII.

When silent Sleep, that hates the Light,
Had lock'd my Senses up all Night;
'Till Somnus snatch'd in a Surprize,
His leaden Plummets from my Eyes;
And th'Eastern Blushes of the Morning,
Gave waking Mortals early warning,
That Sol from Thetis was returning;
For Gods, the Poets do maintain,
Have Mistresses, as well as Men;

And are like us, in bawdy Cases,
Tir'd as soon with their Embraces;
For am'rous Joys, we always find,
Leave a repenting Sting behind,
That makes that odious in Reflection,
Which proves so pleasant in the Action:
'Tis for this Cause the Sun looks red,
When rising from his Thetis Bed,
Blushing to think her Female Charms
So long detain'd him in her Arms;
'Till he was glad to fly so fast
From what he sought with equal haste
So th'Lover, tho' he's young and kind,
Must own he does more Pleasure find
In his next Morning's hasty Flight,
Than in fair Celia's Arms all Night.

Just at the very peep of Day,
As thus in Bed I musing lay,
With thoughtful Brain, and active Mind,
To strange Poetick Dreams inclin'd,

My Fancy rang'd from Pole to Pole,
To feed with new Delights my Soul;
Sometimes on Honesty I mus'd,
Talk'd on so much, tho' little us'd.
Methoughts I heard each Villain claim
An Int'rest in the Sacred Name,
And ev'ry Jilt and Villain say,
That they were Honest in their Way.
The arrant Knave that never knew her,
Would still pretend some Title to her;
And in his Looks, dissembling Grace,
Would wear her Liv'ry in his Face.
So a lewd Punk, so well we see,
Will counterfeit true Modesty,
And look so Pious and Demure,
That few would think the Saint a Whore.

Each Party labour'd to deceive
The rest, and make the World believe,
That they, and only they, ingrost
The Jem, and could the Secret boast;

In Rage, denying to the rest
The Honesty themselves possest;
Yet none would own they were without it,
But cavil'd furiously about it;
So have I known hard Words and Battles
Among a Crew of Tittle Tattles;
About their Virtue, when the Jades
Were Thieves and Strumpets by their Trades,
And had no more Pretence to cavil
About it, than the very Devil;
But Rogues and Whores will disagree,
And squabbl' about their Honesty;
Altho' they have no more to show,
Than Guinea has of Frost and Snow.

Then did my rambling Thoughts proceed
To Friendship, that deceitful Reed,
And range from Place to Place about,
To find the precious Jewel out:
In Courts, Ambition, Envy, Pride,
The cordial Sement quite distroy'd;

There it but in external Shew
Appear'd, as other Virtues do;
Was mimmick'd as if highly priz'd,
But never truly exercis'd:
So will each Bully look and prate,
As if he had a good Estate;
But when into the Knave we pry,
We find he 'as none to occupy.

In Cities, Avarice and Gain
Dissolve the mutual happy Chain,
And mercenary Ends, divide
The Gordian Knot, as soon as ty'd:
Besides, true Friendship cannot dwell
Where Int'rest does alone prevail,
And Money does their Minds delude
From Justice, and from Gratitude:
Money, that Guide that makes 'em stray
From Truth, to go the gainful'st Way:
Money, that causes 'em to break
The strongest Oaths that they can make,

That wicked Root of every Evil,
Which leads 'em headlong to the Devil;
Yet each Man strives to make the rest
Believe he 'as Friendship in his Breast,
And talks as earnestly about it,
As if he had it, tho' without it.
So have I heard a Crowd of those
Vain foppish Animals, call'd Beaus,
Prattle of Wit, 'till very hot,
Altho' they never had a Jot.
Thus many Fools, their Parts to show,
Will talk of Robin, and his Bow,
That never, by Enquiry, knew
Whether 't was made of Steel or Yew.

I'th' Country too, 'tis quite mistaken,
And valu'd less, than Flitch of Bacon;
For there they know no Obligation
Beyond a Neighbour or Relation;
Nor can those Trifles bind them longer,
Than whilst Self-Int'rest, which is stronger,

Preserves the Tie that is between
Themselves and Neighbours, or their Kin:
For Friendship is of a Dimension,
Too large for rural Apprehension;
Their narrow Souls can't comprehend
The sacred Bonds 'twixt Friend and Friend;
Nor are their Faith and Wisdom big
Enough for such a solemn League;
For Friendship, if that Name it bears,
It must be free from Doubts and Fears,
And is so credulous a Tie,
Dissolv'd at once by Jealousy:
For if we e'er our Friend mistrust,
It shews we do not think him Just;
And if we harbour such a Thought,
Our Friendship is not worth a Groat;
For who would hazard all, to save
A Man from Harm, he thinks a Knave;
Yet he that Friendship does pretend,
And will not do't, to save his Friend,

Is, as the Learned do surmise,
A Snake that in the Bosom lies:
Therefore my Muse could no where light on
That Friendship Men of Honour prate on;
Because, as they define the Matter,
It is too strict for Human Nature;
For Avarice, Revenge, and Pride,
Hypocrisy, and Lust beside,
Have so corrupted Flesh and Blood,
That we abandon all that's Good;
Exclude all Virtue from within,
And wear it but in outward Mein:
For 'tis acquir'd by every Fool,
Not now, by Philosophick Rule,
Nor at the Church, but Dancing-School.
Thus Virtue is become, alass!
No more than an external Grace;
And those that from Geneva Books,
Have learn'd to shew it in their looks;

Altho' they should deserve a Gallows,
Would still be counted honest Fellows.
How then should Friendship raise its Head,
When Virtue, it's Preserver's Dead?

If Holy Sister chance to stray,
For God Almighty's Lambs will play,
She still will have the canting Face
To boast her Right to saving Grace;
Altho' she does in Conscience know
The Devil governs all below,
And finds a Way thro' sinful Hole,
To please her Lust, and damn her Soul:
Thus Women will contend, we find,
Altho' their Virtue be resign'd,
T'enjoy the Honour till they're dead
Of a chast Wife, or modest Maid.
Pray, why not still possess the Name,
Tho' Virtue's gone, that gave the same,
Since Men of War their Titles boast,
Altho' they've their Commissions lost?

Captains and Cuckolds, all Men know,
Once dignify'd, will still be so;
Therefore why should not ev'ry Dame,
That once enjoy'd an honest Name,
Have still the Benefit o'th' same,
Since ev'ry Woman may aver it,
She once had Virtue's Pattent for it?
And tho' she Captain-like, has lost
Commission, yet she ought to boast
The Honour of her former Post.

Next these, true Loyalty I thought on,
But that I found corrupt and rotten;
So faint, and in that sick Condition,
Giv'n over by her old Physician;
And when she languish'd thus dejected,
By all upbraided and neglected;
Begging for Christian Consolation,
Yet scarce a Levite in the Nation,
Of any Church, amongst so many,
Would by their Pray'rs afford her any.

So wealthy Men, who in their Prime
Have nobly flourish'd for a time,
When once they are by Fate depress'd,
And of their Riches dispossess'd;
Those very Friends the first abhor 'em,
That should in Reason do most for 'em.

Religion, did my Fancy next
Chuse for her Theme, that is, her Text;
And thus inspir'd by way of Sonnet,
She rim'd, that is, she preach'd upon it:
Methoughts I saw her quite forlorn,
Her sacred Body rent and torn;
And as her Limbs thus mangled lay,
In a Tempestuous Factious Fray,
Dissected by a fatal Knife,
Sharp whetted in Schismatick Strife;
The Church in Tears most sadly mourn'd,
And her true Sons were much concern'd;
But all the rest seem'd pleas'd to see
Religion's sad Catastrophe.

As thus she lay, all pale and wan,
Expos'd to those that work'd her Bane,
Each jarring Party strove to take
A Limb, for Memorandum's sake:
The Church industrious for a Part,
Most wisely chose the Head and Heart,
And soon by Faith and Grace reviv'd
That Life, of which they were depriv'd.

The Presbyterians, and the In-
Dependants, who were near a kin,
Advanc'd, and in a numerous Swarm,
Chose each a Leg, and each an Arm;
Because they love like Bully Huff,
To Things decide by Kick and Cuff:
'Tis nat'ral for a Tribe to claim
Those things, that best will serve their Aim.

The Baptist Teachers, being wise,
Came in the next, and chose the Thighs;
Because when wicked Satan's in 'em,
They dearly love to creep between 'em;

For these more lustful than the Pigeon,
Do nothing but debauch Religion.

So rav'nous Gluttons at a Feast,
Secure the Bit, they like the best.

The Quakers next came sidling in,
And for their Portion, chose the Spleen,
Which fills them so with Melancholy,
They can't like other Sects be jolly:
But sighing in their Meetings sit,
Like Hypochondriack Bedlamite,
As if they fancy'd by their Sadness,
Religion was a hum-drum Madness.
So Cats, if once with Milts they're fed,
Sit moping by they Fire side,
And choak the Spirits in their Blood,
By their dull malancholy Food.

Seekers and Singers next took Pains
T'approach Religion's poor Remains;
The Guts and Garbich they possess'd,
And thought themselves most highly bless'd;

From whence they love to exercise,
As 'tis conjectur'd by the Wise,
Religion in a Beastly manner,
To their own Shame, and Heaven's Dishonour:
So ev'ry Bear and Wolf delights
To please their Savage Appetites
With stinking Carrion, that is nasty,
Much rather than a Ven'son Pasty.

The Pope adorn'd with Crowns and Crosses,
In all's Pontificalibusses,
Came puffing next in mighty Sweat,
As if he fear'd h'ad staid too late,
With a long glitt'ring Train behind him,
Of Crazy Card'nals, to attend him;
Each dizen'd in his Robes of State,
And cap'd with bloody-colour'd Hat,
Follow'd by Troops of Popish Liars,
Priests, Jesuits, and bald-pate Fryars:
Some from their Churches, some from Cloysters,
All mumbling o'er their Pater Nosters;

But all th'Religion they could find,
Was th'empty Carcase left behind,
Mangl'd, without the Head or Heart,
Depriv'd of every noble Part;
With that, they lifted up the Trunk,
And cry'd, Habemus eam nunc;
But when the Clergy all had seen it,
And finding truly nothing in it;
They form'd this Project in a Trice,
To cheat their silly Biggots Eyes;
A huge prepost'rous Paste-board Head,
The Priests most exquisitly made,
And did with Colours so contrive
To make it look as if alive;
Then plac'd it on Religion's Shoulders,
To cheat the credulous Beholders.
Huge Legs too, they compos'd of Plaster,
That the poor Trunk might stand the faster.
Her Arms of Massy Brass they made,
The better to defend her Head;

And when so far they had proceeded,
That she was legg'd, and arm'd, and headed
The empty Carcase to replete
With somthing to improve the Cheat,
They stuff'd (to gull believing Fools)
With Reliques, and false Miracles,
And such like Toys, by whose Assistance,
The Sides were kept at proper Distance,
Which if it had not been for that,
By this time would have fall'n so flat,
That the poor patch'd prepost'rous Puppit,
Must needs have been much more decrepit.
When thus their Monster they had rais'd,
The Priests their ill-shap'd Idol prais'd,
And cry'd, Here only's to be found,
The true Religion safe and sound;
Forgetting England had the Heart,
The Head, and ev'ry noble Part.

So Romish Priests, like those poor Fellows
That live by shewing Punchionello's,

Make their own Puppets, then invite
Poor Fools to wonder at the Sight.

CANTO XIII.

Dosing again, methoughts I saw
Six stately Flanders Horses draw
A gallant Lady of Renown,
Some few Miles distance out of Town,
To meet a Spark of no great Honour,
Whose chief Dependence was upon her;
And when with eager Arms she 'ad met
Those Joys she went so far to get,
And eas'd what will remain: We see
A raging Itch in Quality.
Methoughts I saw her Honour rise,
And wink and pink her drowsy Eyes,

As if she wish'd with all her Soul
To have a Woman's Belly full
Of what young Harry gave to Dol;
But finding little hopes of more,
And that the pleasing Game was o'er,
Her grateful Offering she made,
And seem'd content with what she had;
Rewarding all his kind Behaviour
According to the Joy he gave her:
So aft'r a Cursy, and a Kiss,
Protesting she was only his,
Away in haste her Coach-man drove her
In quest of some more strenuous Lover;
For Women, if they once are lewd,
They'll lie and swear by all that's Good
They're only yours, when ev'ry Whore
Will vow the like to twenty more;
Yet twice a Day methoughts I found
Her prostrate upon sacred Ground,

With such Devotion in her Face,
Mix'd with that Gravity and Grace,
That when at Church she put the Saint on,
No Mortal would have thought her wanton;
Yet could she turn a very Devil,
T'indulge her Lust with carnal Evil.

Thought I, tho' Grandeur puts a Blind
On Great Folks Vices, yet I find
Rich Harlots, who are so devout,
That ride in Coach and Six about,
Are lewd as those that walk on Foot;
Only this Diff'rence we may make,
The rich Whores give, the poor ones take.

When at these Wonders I had gaz'd,
A mighty Man my Fancy rais'd,
Seated in open rural Chariot,
That People might the better stare at;
The flaming Beau, who like a God
Appear'd, so proud, as if he aw'd
Whole Kingdoms with Majestick Nod;

A Troop of Servants mostly arm'd
To keep their L---d from being harm'd,
Mounted on Hunters, Pads, and Tits,
Came riding after thro' the Streets:
The Charioteer drove on in haste,
The Servants posted on as fast;
But who should prove his Pomp-degraders,
But a long Train of unpaid Traders,
Who follow'd not to wait upon him,
But at his Baiting-place to dun him.
Some spurr'd their Jades in mighty Hurry,
And curs'd his Honour in a Fury;
Others cry'd out, Is this his way
To name a certain Day to pay,
And then to thus steal out of Town
A Week before the Time comes on?
Since he, to sham us, does begin?
'Egad we'll plague him at his Inn;
And fearing neither Frowns or Curses,
Still dun him on, 'till he disburses.

'Tis strange, thought I, that Men of Title
Should make their Noble Selves so little,
To be by such a craving Brood
Of Trades-men, baited and pursu'd
For a few Shillings, Pence, and Pounds,
Worse than the noble Stag by Hounds;
Whilst by their Vices and Debauches,
Whores, Bawds, and Gamsters, keep their Coaches.

At last, methoughts I saw a Throne,
And Mercy seated thereupon:
Her noble Ensigns all display'd,
Flying around her shining Head,
To signify to all the Nation,
Her tender Pitty and Compassion;
Her charming Eyes much brighter shone,
Than all the Glories of the Sun;
And ev'ry Feature look'd more bright,
Than Luna in a Winters Night.
No sooner had she took her Place,
And shown her kind inviting Face,

But Crowds of mighty Men became
Most humble Suiters to the Dame.
At last a Man of double Honour,
Fixing his am'rous Eyes upon her;
Did with a courtly kind Behaviour,
In humble Words implore her Favour.

Mercy with that, began to change
Her Countenance, and looking strange
Upon him, told him, that she wonder'd
How he, of all the many hundred
That stood before her, thus could Face her,
And with such Confidence address her?
Have you not done, says she, of late
Those Cruelties you know I hate,
And by your want of Human Mercy,
Bound num'rous Families to curse ye?
Have you not done things out of Season,
And injur'd others for no Reason?

But that your Malice, Int'rest, Pride,
And all your vicious Lusts beside,
Might be the better gratify'd.
No, no, says Mercy, I abhor ye,
Withdraw, for I've no Favour for ye.

Next him, another Don as great,
Loaded with Honour and Estate,
Approach'd her Presence like a Beau,
Made three long Slides, then bowing low,
Told her, he was a Man of Honour,
Therefore presum'd to wait upon her;
Hoping his Quality and Birth,
And large Possessions here on Earth,
Would move her Heav'nly Grace to save,
By her kind Smiles, her humble Slave.

This fawning Speech made Mercy frown,
And look as Stern as Justice down;
Altho', says she, your G--- can boast
High Honours, and a pow'rful Post,

Yet 'tis not all the glitt'ring Pomp,
Or Honours, that a Prince can stump,
That will engage my righteous Mind
To shew that Pitty you would find.
Have not those wicked, base, unjust,
Ensnaring Agents, that you trust,
Seduc'd young Creatures to your Lust?
Have not large Promises betray'd
Young Beauties t'y'r adult'rous Bed?
And when by Baits you've drawn 'em in,
And taught poor Innocence to Sin,
Have you not then with Scorn and Scoff,
Broke all your Vows, and cast them off?
And to retrench the keeping Charge,
Turn'd 'em a Drift, to Sin at large;
Which they pursue, 'till Beauty fails,
And then for Debt, they die in Jayls,
Or rot in loathsom Hospitals.
My L---d, if you had call'd sometimes
Into your Thoughts, these heavy Crimes,

Tho' you're so Great, you would have never
Came hither to have sought my Favour;
For how can he that does neglect
All Rules of Vertue, e'er expect
My Mercy, (tho' a Man of Title)
Who all his Life has shown so little?

Next him, a bold brisk Man advanc'd,
Expecting to be countenanc'd;
To Mercy's Throne full low he bow'd,
Then made this homely Speech aloud.

Madam, says he, by all that's Good,
I love you with my very Blood:
I've shar'd the Influence of your Smiles
Even in Battels, and in Broils,
And never from your Dictates swerv'd,
But always have your Rules observ'd;
Not only among Human Nature,
But Cat and Dog, and every Creature.
I therefore hope from your just Throne,
To find that Mercy I have shown;

For all these C---s have so little,
They'll not afford a Man a Tittle.

Says Mercy, you that love to shew me,
Shall always have a Title to me;
But he in Pow'r, that shall refuse me
To such as would to others use me,
Shall, when he needs me, always find
I'll leave him begging far behind,
Expos'd to the Contempt of those
His want of Mercy made his Foes.
When thus she'd spoke, the lovely Dame
Flew up to Heaven, from whence she came,
And left the rigid World to shew
Severity, where Mercy's due.

FINIS.

9. Part the Ninth.

CANTO XIV.

The Sun advancing as I lay,
My Whimsies vanish'd all away,
Unable to endure the Light,
Like wand'ring Ghosts, that walk by Night;
Who, as our learned Spirit-Raisers,
And Cat-ey'd Apparition-Gazers
Aver, are seldom to be seen,
But when the Batts and Owls begin
To open their ill-boding Throats,
And fright us with their screaming Notes;

Which, as old Nurses say, portend
Sick Mortals to be near their End,
And that the froward Babe, possest
Of Horse-shoe Mould, and narrow Chest,
Will change, the next revolving Moon,
His Cradle for an Angel's Crown,
And leave his weeping Mother sorry
To see this State so transitory.

When thus my Visions all were fled,
And I left waking in my Bed,
By th'Eastern Sun-beams in my Eyes,
I found 'twas now high time to rise,
And like good Housewife, mind my Knitting,
With that Industry which was fitting;
For Knitting, tho' by Gammar Biddle
Confin'd to Stocking and to Needle,
Yet 'tis a Word that, by the by,
May other Bus'ness signify.

Upright I sate a while in Bed,
First scratch'd my Elbows, then my Head,

A Trick we learn when Boys, and then
Retain the Habit 'till we're Men,
As Stories by our Nurses told,
Will still infect us when we're Old:
Besides, in such warm Times as these,
When Malice bites much worse than Fleas,
And Envy strikes at Human Ease,
A Man may find true Cause of Scratching
Without the common Reason, Itching.
But finding little Consolation
In melancholy Rumination,
And recollecting as I sate,
An Adage of an ancient Date,
That 'tis our Prudence to endure
With Patience what we cannot cure.
From thence concluding all those Fears
And Thoughts, that magnify our Cares,
Were but the Marks of Human Folly,
I shifted off my Melancholy,

Rising with full as good a Will
As Lover that had Kiss'd his Fill,
And stole away from sleeping Bride,
Who waking, ne'er was satisfy'd.

When thus erect, in dext'rous Haste
I button'd Britches round my Waste,
And slipp'd on all that modern Pride
By a poor Fig-leaf once supply'd;
Then by the Help of Razor, Ball,
Comb, Powder, and the Dev'l and all,
Improv'd my Face, as well as Figure,
'Till I appear'd all Youth and Vigour,
Looking as brisk as Play-house Whore,
New painted up at Thirty Four,
Who had full Twenty Years in Town
Retail'd her Favours up and down,
'Till she had burnt with Claps and P---xes,
More standing Ware than Sampson's Foxes;
For 'tis become a modern Rule
To act like Knave, and dress like Fool,

That Cloths the better may disguise
The Rogu'ry that within us lies.
The very Saint loves outward Show,
And tiffles up like any Beau.
The most precise invet'rate Whig
Goes loaded now in Whores-hair Wig,
Who us'd, in spight to High-Church Pride,
To wear but nine Hairs of a Side.
The teaching Saint, in Times of Yore,
The Pot-lid Hat demurely wore,
Beneath whose Umbrage was a Face
Screw'd into Gravity and Grace,
That Hum-drum's, Hypocritick Look
Might suit with Puritannick Cloak,
To make Fools think he was no less
Than Good, by's Apostolick Dress:
But now each canting Knipper-doling
Has left off that Extream of Fooling;
And tho' their Stiffness can't comply
With the establish'd Liturgy,

Yet have they so conform'd their Cloths,
As to become most zealous Beaus,
Hoping by their external Pride,
To gain the Ladies of their Side,
Knowing they love to hear the Word
By a spruce Guide administer'd,
Who, whilst he spins his tedious Pray'rs,
Can please their Eyes, as well as Ears,
And lend them Masculine Assistance,
When feeble Spouse is at a Distance;
To sanctify the good fat Fowls,
And bless the Wine that chears their Souls,
That by the Force of Cap'n and Claret,
The Flesh may conquer Holy Spirit.

When Poet-like I'd spent some Time
In tagging these my Thoughts with Rime,
And had an Hour or two bestow'd
In dressing like a Man of Mode,
'Till all things I'd in Quirpo put
Artfully on from Head to Foot;

Thought I, 'tis strange that Men of Brains
Should thus in Dressing take such Pains,
And waste one quarter of the Day
T'appear so foppish, and so gay;
Yet 'tis the Custom of this Nation,
For Wits to copy Fools in Fashion
So near, that as the Times now go,
I must confess 'tis hard to know
A modern Poet from a Beau;
For both admiring Female Beauty,
For Charms that lie above the Shoe-tye,
Turn Fops, to please the fickle Gender,
In hopes to tempt 'em to surrender.

I then stept out, like Crop-sick Sinner,
To air my Lungs against my Dinner,
And gain an Appetite most fitting
For one that takes Delight in Eating,
That when I'd strengthen'd Flesh and Blood
With Wine, and some refreshing Food,

I might with Humour brisk and gay,
Dispatch the Bus'ness of the Day;
Which, when attended with Success,
Affords the greatest Happiness
That Man's aspiring active Mind,
Beneath the Starry Orbs, can find:
But if ill-natur'd Fortune crosses
Our pleasing Hopes of Gain, with Losses,
Then does it prove so great a Curse,
That nothing can on Earth be worse.
Thus Bus'ness is to Human Life,
The true Resemblance of a Wife:
If she proves well, she is a Blessing;
If not, a Curse beyond expressing.

But as I gently sail'd along
The Street, among the busy Throng,
I met an old establish'd Whig,
That look'd as sowr, and swell'd as big,
As if some Jacobitish Rumour
Had put the Hot-spur out of Humour.

Old Friend, said I, I'm glad to see thee
So hearty, and so well; but prethee
What makes thee now appear so surly,
That us'd to cant it so demurely?
Says he, 'twould make a Saint run mad,
To see things go so very bad,
At such a Juncture too, Ads-Fish,
When we have all that Heart can wish.

I find, said I, your're Idem Semper,
Still troubl'd with the old Distemper;
Must grumble on, altho' your Sect
Have more than you could well expect.
But who can wonder, that your Pride
And Av'rice ne'er are satisfy'd;
Since nothing e'er could stop your Raving,
The more you have, the more you're craving?

But Man, says he, I'll tell thee what,
We've found such Difference of late
Betwixt a modern Whig, whose Craft
Has slily rais'd him up aloft,

And what he seem'd to be before
He climb'd to Honour and to Pow'r,
That no Man would have thought the Creature
Could so have chang'd his former Nature;
And that Court Air and Conversation
Could make so strange an Alteration.

But why, said I, should that seem strange,
That Whigs in warmer Climes should change?
Since Worms and Maggots, as 'tis said,
Turn Flies, if in the Sun-shine laid,
Then sporting with their Wings, they tow'r,
And such the Sweets of ev'ry Flower;
Disdain the lowly Dirt that fed 'em,
And scorn the very Filth that bred 'em?
Thus turning, as their Wings grow great,
High-Flyers now, that crawl'd of late.
So worthless Mortals, mean by Birth,
Creep humbly o'er the dusty Earth;
'Till rais'd by Fortune, and by Fame,
Then soon forget from whence they came,

And Lord it o'er their Fellow-Creature,
As if their Pride had stretch'd their Stature
Above the Pitch of Human Nature.

But since thou seem'st to have a Sense
Of some uncommon Difference
Between a Whig in Office put,
And the same Zealot when he's out;
Disclose your Thoughts, and let me hear
What diff'rent Characters they bear?
And how they alter their Behaviour,
When once crept into Fortune's Favour?

Says he, since you desire to know 'em,
I'll in their proper Colours show 'em;
And you will find, when once you've seen 'em,
As much Disparity between 'em,
As e'er was found in Servant Maid,
Before she was to Sin betray'd,
And after she has stood the Thrust,
To satisfy her Master's Lust,

And from her Scrubbing and her Sweeping,
Is for her Charms, advanc'd to Keeping.

Marry, said I, at this same Rate,
The Diff'rence must be very great;
F'r a Servant made her Master's Whore,
Tho' humbl' and diligent before,
Grows twice as proud as Lucifer.
But prethee, Friend, without Delay,
Let's hear what 'tis you have to say.

A Whig, says he, o'th' City sort,
That's unacquainted with the Court,
I justly must define to be
A Man of pure Integritie;
One, who by seeking out the Lord,
And constant hearing of the Word,
Does so abound in saving Grace,
That you may read it in his Face;
By which you'll know him at a View,
As eas'ly as you can a Jew:

Besides, he never swears an Oath
Beyond his Conscience or his Troth,
Nor Lies, except to let us see,
That no Man is from Error free.
He hates the Vanity of Kings,
And Pomp of all such useless Things,
Scorning those Idolizing Asses.
That bow to either Crowns or Crosses,
Except it be to those we find
Stamp'd on our Silver when its Coin'd.
All Right to Rule, he does premise
Did from Agreement first arise,
And that our K---s, for all their Vapours,
Are but the People's Under-strappers.
Government he declares to be
Built up by Human Policie;
And that the Saints may change its Nature
As oft as they can form a better.
He owns no more, for all our Struggle,
Of Jus Divinum in the Juggle,

Than in a Pack of Cards, where Kings
And Knaves beat all their Underlings.
He Tooth and Nail aloud denies
All Titles fetch'd beyond the Skies
Or Pow'r, but what the People grant
By solemn League and Covenant;
And dare affirm, by Dint of Reason,
In spight of Law, that calls it Treason,
That if the Monarch strains a Point,
And knocks the Balance out of Joint,
Whate'er he thus should do, to force
The Springs beyond their legal Course,
Can merit no Denomination,
But Tyranny and Usurpation:
And this old Argument he brings
Against th'incroaching Pow'r of Kings.

If Subjects do the Compact break,
Their Lives and Fortunes are at Stake:
Then how must those that rule the Roast,
Be punish'd when th'abuse their Trust?

Next these, a stanch old Whig is he,
Wh' untainted with Authority,
Is one, that for the publick Good,
Will venture Fortune, or his Blood,
Or is at least so very crafty,
To say he'll do't for common Safety:
In all things, he declares to be
For Liberty and Propertie;
And e'er he would be mulct one Penny
By King or Bishop, or by any
But Parliament, he'd draw his Dagger,
And like a true old Roman Swagger,
Or whet his Pen-knife, or his Razer,
And turn a Brutus unto Cæsar.

In's Principles he's stiff and stout,
And is so sturdily devout,
He scorns to b' either led or drove
To what his Conscience can't approve.
Thus, sooner than he'd change his Path,
He'd die a Martyr for his Faith;

And rather would embrace a Rope
Or Faggot, than obey the Pope.

He's one that firmly does maintain
Himself a true Republican;
And that he means the Nation's Good
In all things that a Subject shou'd.
Thus he pretends, where e'er he goes.
These are the outward Signs he shows,
But what is in him, Heaven knows.

I find, said I, you only scan,
As yet, the Outside of the Man,
As Boys at School, where I have seen 'em
Do Verse, before they know what's in 'em:
But since you've drawn the Saint, before he
Has rais'd himself to Pomp and Glorie,
Pray now proceed, and let me see
The Zealot in Authoritie;
His Justice, Mercy, and good Nature,
When climb'd above his Fellow-Creature.

Says he, I grieve at the Occasion,
But yet will speak without Evasion.
A modern Whig, when once he feels
The pleasing Warmth of S--- smiles,
He shifts his Principles, and then
Loves Int'rest just like other Men.
So when the Sun does hottest shine,
The subtle Serpent sheds her Skin:
And changing thus the Coat she wore,
Becomes more speckled than before.

The honest Man, of whom we speak,
Once so Religious, and so Meek,
Who rav'd at others Faults aloud,
To please, and to amuse the Crowd;
No sooner is he rais'd on high,
His mod'rate Management to try,
But all his old pretended Zeal
For th'Welfare of the Common-weal,
Most basely dwindles in a trice
To Pride, Revenge, and Avarice,

That his old Love he soon withdraws
From us, the Champions of the Cause.
So Chanticlear, that takes a Loose
From Muck-hill to the Top o'th' House;
Flutt'ring his Wings, does proudly Crow
O'er all the cackling Train below.

Altho' before he loudly cry'd
Against all those that misapply'd
The publick Stock to their own Uses,
T'enrich themselves by such Abuses;
Blaming his envy'd Predecessors
For vile and treacherous Transgressors,
In sinking, by their crafty Stealth,
The bubbl'd Nation's publick Wealth:
Yet when himself, thro' R--- Grace,
Is chosen into Pow'r and Place,
The self-same Failings soon appear
Blots in his own new Character;
For what before he render'd odious,
He now finds useful and commodious;

So reconciles each gainful Cheat
To be a lawful Perquesite;
And to heap up an ill-got Store,
Out-does the K--- that went before.
Thus one R--- will another blame
For Ills, and spread abroad his Shame;
But when himself obtains a Place
Of Trust, quite fearless of Disgrace,
He proves more greedy, and more base.

The publick Good, which was his Tone,
Is now less minded than his own.
Conscience, that wary faithful Guide,
Religion, Justice, Grace beside,
Which us'd to be his whole Discourse,
Are now made servile to his Purse.
His Av'rice does his Morals blind,
And solves all Scruples of the Mind.
No Favour to his Friends he shows,
Nor Human Mercy to his Foes:
Honesty ebbs, as Int'rest flows.

His Moderation's quite forgot,
Altho' he's for no Party hot;
For like a Rook at Gaming-Table,
Whilst others wrangle, bet, and squabble,
The Cards he does with Cunning deal,
And cheats all Sides with equal Zeal.

Tyrannick arbitrary Sway,
At which he bellow'd ev'ry Day,
And made so much a Rout about it,
When all Men knew we were without it,
He would be now for exercising,
As if he thought that Tyrannizing
Would prove essential to his Rising.
So does the Pious Dame, in Passion,
Her Venom spit at Fornication;
But warm'd with Lust, she's soon prevail'd on
To act the very Sin she rail'd on.

The Cause for which he us'd to squabble,
He now but values as a Bauble,

And is so far from being Low-Church,
That Int'rest has confirm'd him No-Church,
Which is alone the wav'ring Guide,
That leads him o'er to any Side,
And makes him still appear most hearty
For those that prove the gainfull'st Party.
So cunning Pleaders strain the Laws,
And wrangle for the richest Cause;
Which shews, that Gold is the Ascendant
That wins for Plaintiff, or Defendant.

The very Friends that rais'd him high,
In hopes of Benefit thereby,
That so applauded all his Gifts,
And us'd so many subtle Shifts
To make our Tribe believe no other,
But that he was a faithful Brother:
Nay, we that magnify'd his Merit,
And prais'd his Anticrown-head Spirit,
Extoll'd his Qualities and Graces,
And all his old Republick Paces;

Yet notwithstanding all our Arts
To rend'r him as a Whig of Parts,
Deserving truly of our Hearts,
Now Great, he looks no more upon us,
Than if the Trimmer ne'er had known us,
Tho' we, like Pack-threads to a Kite,
Were Means to mount him to his Height.
So th'Vintner, when he first begins,
Submits to all our Drunken Sins,
And to gain Custom and Applause,
Bows low with ev'ry Pint he draws:
But when grown Rich, he looks awry
On Fools that rais'd him up so high,
The sharper too, who'as long depended
On him, by whom he'as been befriended,
When once kind Fortune Rich has made him,
Disdains the very Hand that fed him.

The humble Look, and formal Grace,
That sanctify'd his meagre Face,

From Eye to Chin are chang'd, and now
An awful Pride adorns his Brow.
His Frowns demand low Reverence,
And nods like Comma's point his Sense.
Each solemn Promise that he makes,
If not with Int'rest back'd, he breaks;
Ensnaring even those that love him,
Oppressing such that can't approve him,
And undermining all above him.
He looks with a revengeful Eye
On all that at his Mercy lye,
And blusters in Authoritie
Like Boreas in a Storm at Sea,
'Till hated worse by Men of Sense,
Than Flatt'ry or Impertinence.
He's scornful, jealous, and severe,
Base, false, and proud as Lucifer,
And thinks his Rise but justly due
To Merits, which he ne'er could shew.

Tho' Rich and Great, he's ne'er at Ease,
But restless as the rowling Seas,
Which are to Rage so much inclin'd,
They swell with ev'ry Blast of Wind.
His Trust he does but ill discharge;
His Pow'r is exercis'd at large.
The Bags which do his Coffers load,
Are gain'd by Sinistry and Fraud.
Gold is the Magnet whose Attraction
Commands his Heart in ev'ry Action:
To that his Avaricious Soul
Points like the Needle to the Pole:
By that alone he steers his Course,
And yields to its prevailing Force.
In short, his Malice and Ambition,
His Avaricious Disposition;
His Pride, his Cruelty, his Hate,
His hasty Temper to be Great;

His Heat, his Fury, and his Passion,
Makes him appear to all the Nation,
The meer Reverse of Moderation.

Said I, if one dissenting Brother
Can speak no better of another,
But little K---s upbraid the big,
And Whig thus raves and rails at Whig,
Well may the Church expect no less
Than Usage infamously base
From such a spiteful stubborn Race.

FINIS.

10. Part the Tenth.

CANTO XV.

Having thus heard from Holy Brother,
One Whig's Opinion of another;
Says he, Your Servant; Friends must part.
I'm yours, said I, with all my Heart.
Thus humbly shew'd my self as civil
As Doctor Edwards to the Devil;
So kindly bidding each farewel,
Like fighting Mares, we both turn'd Tail;
And had not Decency forbid,
Like them too we had kick'd and neigh'd;

For all the friendly Love between us,
Was from Teeth outwards, not within us.
So fawning Courtiers often meet,
And bow to one another's Feet,
Who seek, by Means profoundly base,
To bring each other to Disgrace.

When thus I'd gladly turn'd my Back
Upon a Knave of Calvin's Pack,
And rescu'd my impatient Senses
From all his dull Impertinences,
It being a Whitsun Holy-day,
When 'Prentice Boys have Leave to play,
I rambled on from Street to Street,
To see what Pastimes I could meet;
And as I wander'd up and down
With twenty Crotchets in my Crown,
Begot by sundry pretty Sights,
And various giddy-brain'd Delights,
By Lovers Ages since appointed
To bring young Men and Maids acquainted,

That all their merry harmless Sporting
Might end in Kissing and in Courting,
That Adam's Folly might go round,
And Marriage still maintain its Ground;
That State which caus'd our Parents Fall,
And introduc'd the Dev'l and all.

Some Lasses were at Stool-ball sweating,
And to and fro their Balls were patting,
That longing Youth might stand and see
Their airy brisk Activity;
And for their nimble Steps and Straddles,
Their panting Breasts, and slender Middles,
Commend 'em, flatt'r 'em, and admire 'em,
And in some other Place desire 'em,
Where they, exempt from Fear or Shame,
Might play a much more foollish Game.
So wanton Jilts, to win Mens Hearts,
Oft dance to shew their active Parts,
That by their airy nimble Footting,
Their lofty Cap'ring, and their Cutting,

They might by Lookers on, be guess'd
Most charming Devils when undress'd.

Others in Pairs stept into Coaches,
To ride Post-haste to their Debauches;
Whipp'd up the Sashes made of Tin,
To hide their Impudence within;
Tho' what they did when so inclos'd,
I grant can only be suppos'd;
But when thus hid from Human Eyes,
A jealous Sinner would surmise,
That Lovers something more were doing,
Than just the common Bus'ness Wooing;
For she that will admit her Spark
To bear her Comp'ny in the Dark,
Most certainly excludes the Light,
To do the Bus'ness of the Night.

Among the rest, were booted Cits,
Mounted on Galloppers and Tits,
Whose Spurs are new, and eke their Bridles,
As often as they mount their Saddles.

Some had their Wives, and some their Jades,
Trick'd up behind on ambling Pads,
Wrapp'd up in Dust-Gowns, richer far
Than Quality presume to wear,
Beribbonn'd down from Head to A---se,
Like any Lord May'r's stately Horse.
Their stiff Commodes in Triumph star'd
Above their Fore-heads half a Yard.
With Top-knots, which did bobbing answer
The Motions of each Lady's Prancer;
That by their Heads, a Man might know
Whether the Nag that mov'd below,
Walk'd, Trotted, Gallopp'd, Pac'd, or Ambl'd,
And also when he tripp'd or Stumbl'd:
For as a Friggat's Pendant shows
When the Wind veers, and how it blows;
So by the Flip-flap, and the Nod
Of Madam's Top-knot and Commode,
We knew what Pace the Jennet trod;

And could, without a Wizards Sense,
Judiciously infer from thence,
If Madam sate with Ease, or whether
She rode in Danger of her Leather?

Thus dress'd like Goddesses of May,
The Ladies, as a Man may say,
Rid Post, because in great Decorum;
Their Husbands rid with Horns before 'em
So large, they could not chuse but shew 'em,
Altho' they did not care to blow 'em:
The Reason's plain, because they fear'd
They should alarm the City Herd;
Knowing where Cuckoldom goes round,
A Horn must give an odious Sound,
Ingrateful to the Ears of those,
Upon whose fruitful budding Brows
The shameful Crest in Triumph grows.
So a Welsh Thrummer's slaving Ass,
That carr's his Harp from Place to Place,

Teaz'd with the Instrument he bears,
Its Sound grows odious to his Ears.

Thus did the sundry Female Troops,
Conducted by their Ninconpoops,
In scatt'ring Numbers, jostling meet,
And raise the Dust in ev'ry Street;
Some going East, and others West;
Some to be Kiss'd, and others Press'd;
Some to behold fine Chelsea Colledge,
Others to Epsom and to Dulledge,
To rince their Insides first with Water,
And when that's done, to foul 'em a'ter.
So beauteous Dames of high Renown,
In Summer, leave the vicious Town,
For Tunbridge or the Bath, to clean
Their Charms without side and within,
But oft perverting their Intent,
Return when three Months Time they've spent,
Much more poluted than they went.

Thus London-Cuckolds and their 'Spouses,
Young Merchants, and their Jilts and Huzzies,
Rich Vintners mounted on their Pads,
Fat Vict'lars on their founder'd Jades,
Match'd with such red-fac'd Blowzabella's,
That by their tawny Hides and Tallows,
A Man might know them to be Fellows
Mounted on hirling Tits, who cost
But Eighteen Pence a Side at most:
Leaden-Hall Butchers, with their Brides,
Whose Buttocks had devour'd their Sides,
Mounted on Scrubs that us'd to scowr,
Upon a Trot, eight Miles an Hour.
These mix'd with Brewers, and their Mopsies,
Half dead with Timpanies and Dropsies,
For want of taking timely Warning
Against huge Draughts of Ale i'th' Morning,
Mounted on Pads that take small Pains,
Puff'd up like Hogs with Goods and Grains,

And, like their Riders, wanted Breath,
To rescue 'em from approaching Death.
Some fat-ars'd Sows and lusty Loobies
Were got on Gallaways and Hobbies,
Scarce half so big as Jills and Jacks,
The poor Tits carry'd on their Backs.
All these confus'dly mix'd together,
Were jogging on the L---d knows whether,
To spend that Time they had to spare
I'th' Country Dust, instead of Air,
Which flew much thicker, tho' not higher,
Than Clouds of Smoak from Brewer's Fire;
For such a Crowd of Trotters, Pacers,
Pads, Hunters, Hobbies, Tits, and Racers,
Must grind the drowthy Roads to Powder,
And raise a most confounded Smother.

This Cavalcade b'ing gone and past,
All scamp'ring out of Town in haste,
The sinful Troops soon disappear'd,
And left the Streets of London clear'd,

Where Shops and Stalls were all shut in,
And Passengers appear'd so thin,
As if some Pestilential Curse,
Not the Horn-Plague, but something worse,
Had drove the frighted Cucks from thence,
To shun the fatal Consequence;
At last advancing to the Change,
That seem'd, thro' Silence, very strange,
Whose Walls, like Babel's Tower, us'd
To eccho with strange Tongues confus'd,
That humm'd and buzz'd, and made a Pother,
To cheat and cozen one another.
From this gay Pile I had not gone
So far as I could toss a Stone,
But in my Walk I chanc'd to meet
Such aukward Creatures in the Street,
Saunt'ring along by two and two,
So foolishly, as if they knew
Not what they were about to do.

They gap'd and star'd, and crep'd along,
And now and then an Arse they hung,
As if the foremost Fools were jealous,
That they should loose their hindmost Fellows.
Their Limbs all mov'd, from Head to Gammon,
As if hung on by Madam Sammon;
And sure I am, more antick Faces
Were never carv'd on Viol Bases:
Some had Hare Lips, and some wry Necks;
Some bandy Legs, some crooked Backs;
Some squinted, some for Teeth, had Snags
At least as long as Cobler's Pegs;
Which made them look as if their Mother
Had long'd for some Boar's Head or other.
Some had their formal Noddles put
In Wigs of the Geneva Cut,
Such as hung out some Years ago
On Barbers Blockheads for a Show,
And had no Curl as I could find,
Besides the Duck's-tail Turn behind,

As if the Zealots meant to hide,
By humble Dress, their inward Pride.
So Misers, who command full Bags,
Take Pleasure to appear in Rags,
The better to preserve their Store,
And cheat the World, to think 'em poor.

Others did most precisely wear
Their own lank puritannick Hair,
Barb'd to one standard Length, and hung
To th'Collar down, or scarce so long;
For by some formal Tonsor's Care,
'Twas snipp'd so round and regular,
That one would guess he clapp'd a Bowl
On each Enthusiastick Poll,
So did his Bus'ness with a Jirk
By th'Wooden Cap, to make true Work;
That by the Locks on formal Pate,
Like Hemp new comb'd, so very strait,
They might prevent the World's Suspicion
Of their damn'd crooked Disposition.

Their flapping Hats were of a Size
That hung like Bongrace o'er their Eyes,
And Panthous like, so skreen'd the Noddies,
No Rain could touch their ill-shap'd Bodies.
Their Coats were of so old a Fashion,
As if deriv'd from the Creation,
And copy'd by the Thief that made 'em,
From the first Taylor, Father Adam.
The Sleeve, the Skirt, the Pocket-hole,
The Button, nay, the Button-moul',
Seem'd by their Make, the very Sort
Once worn at Father Abraham's Court.
Court may I say without Offence,
Because the Scripture does evince,
That ev'ry Patriarch was a Prince.
Thus habited, the Godly Throng
In solemn manner march'd along.
So have I seen a cunning Knave,
Dress'd up most exquisitely grave,

The better to deceive Mankind,
And work those Ills he had design'd.

With these, were kindly mix'd together,
Their goodly Wives, or Hand-maids rather,
Because this nonconforming Sect
Ne'er Marry as our Laws direct,
Except when Lands are in the Case,
And then 'tis true they have the Grace
To save their Children from the Flaw
Of being Bastards in the Law.
The Pious Dames, amongst the rest,
Advanc'd most primitively dress'd;
The black Silk Hood, with formal Pride,
First rowl'd, beneath the Chin was ty'd
So close, so very trim and neat,
So round, so formal, so compleat,
That not one Jag of wicked Lace,
Or Rag of Linnen white had Place
Betwixt the black Bag and the Face,

Which peep'd from out the sable Hood,
Like Luna from a sullen Cloud,
That had but just a Hole to show
Her beauteous Face to us below.
The strait-lac'd puritannick Gown
They wore, was of a Colour brown,
As was the Country Ale they drank,
To make the Spirit brisk and crank,
That their Enthusiastick Light
Might shine more fancifully bright;
For G*d Almighty's Lambs, some say,
Will Tipple too, as well as Pray,
And when the Spirit moves 'em to't,
Will gratify the Flesh to boot;
For Nature will sometimes take place,
And Fancy grow too hard for Grace,
That Saints in their regen'rate State,
So much refin'd from Reprobate,

No more can stop their sinful Courses,
When Love and Liquor join their Forces,
Than Maids can manage unback'd Horses.

With Aprons green they cover'd o'er
Woman's most sinful Part before,
Except the Tongue, which some allow
Is the more wicked of the two:
But why like Milk-maids they are seen
So oft i'th' May-day Colour, Green,
With which they hide that tempting Spot
That caus'd old Adam's Fall, G*d wot,
For me, the L---d above us knows,
Except (as I suppose) because
Eve's Fig-leaf Apron that she wore,
The very self-same Colour bore?
Which decent Shift the modest Dame
Invented first to cover Shame.
So that in pious Memory
Of our old Grannam's Modesty,

They still retain the verdent Flag,
Which puts in Mind each merry Wag,
What Care our Mother Eve was in
To hide beneath an Apron green,
The very Original of Sin,
That Adam might not gaze with Wonder
At what his lovely 'Spouse had under
But that when his wild Herbal Food
Had put him in an am'rous Mood,
He should be forc'd to court his Bride
To lay the Fig-leaf Fence aside;
Which tho' for Vertue we agree
Was but a thin Security,
Yet well consid'ring Adam's Diet,
A small Defence might make him quiet;
For he that for his Living Grazes,
But little minds his Wife's Embraces.
High Feeding 'tis that makes us jolly,
And prompts the wanton Flesh to Folly:

This moves the Lambs of Grace to play,
And leads too oft their Flocks astray;
For tho' they look that one would think
They weigh'd their Vict'als and their Drink,
For fear they should by chance exceed
Their Stint of Liquor, Meat, or Bread;
Yet were you once but to inspect
The Lives of this reforming Sect,
You'd find no greater Gormondizing
Than daily they are exercising;
For tho' they look, and tho' they dress,
As if avers'd to Wickedness,
And wear such Holy Signs without 'em,
As if they hid no Vice about 'em:
Yet notwithstanding all their Shew
Of Grace, in private they pursue
Their Pleasures just as others do.
So have I seen at Christ'ning-Feast,
A Harlot so demurely drest,

She look'd as modest as a Maid
That ne'er had been to Sin betray'd,
When in her private Conversation
Sh'ad Lust enough to damn a Nation,
And tire the whole Male Generation.

As thus I strol'd along the Street,
Such Gangs and Parcels did I meet
Of these quaint primitive Dissemblers,
In old Queen Bess's Days call'd Tremblers;
For their sham Shaking, and their Shivering,
When the kind Spirit was endeavouring
With Flint of Faith, and Steel of Grace,
To strike a Light, as now-a-days
We have it in a modern Phrase,
To illuminate the Tenebrosity
Of Conscience with some strange Curiosity
In Holy Matters, that they might,
By vertue of their new-found Light,
Discover some untrodden Path,
As wild and crooked as their Faith.

I gaz'd at every Annanias,
Who seem'd so serious, and so pious,
And walk'd so stiff, as if they meant
To govern ev'ry Step they went
By th'Rules of the Old Testament;
Mix'd with their Sarah's and Rebec's,
With holy Mein and stubborn Necks,
So prim, so trim, so chast and pure,
So learn'd in Scripture, so demure,
That any Man that understood but
Their Phisiognomies, and wou'd but
Inspect their Features, they might find,
Nay, read, excepting they were blind,
Rachel and Ruth's old Godly Books
Reprinted in their very Looks:
But could we search another Part,
And read what's written in the Heart,
Perhaps we there at large might see,
In spite of all that Modesty

That sits on puritannick Brow;
O John, come Kiss me now, now, now;
For Saint, as well as sinful Creature,
Alas! must do the Deeds of Nature;
For Flesh and Blood, 'till Age prevail,
Of all Religions will be frail,
And vicious be by Starts and Fits,
According to their Appetites.
'Tis not th'external Shew of Grace
That dwells upon a Zealot's Face,
Or formal puritannick Dress,
That makes 'em wicked e'er the less;
For by Experience we have found,
That Vertue does no more abound
In quirpo Hood, or Pot-lid Hat,
In Lute-string Whisk, or Rose Cravat,
Than in the flanting high Commode,
Or Wig that does the Noddle load.
Bullies, whose Courage lies in Words,
Delight to wear huge hacking Swords,

That we by th'Length of their Toledo's,
May think 'em to be stout Bravado's;
But if Fame's Trumpet don't bely 'em,
They'll prove rank Cowards when we try 'em.
So Puritans, the World to cheat,
Appear in Garb precisely neat,
In hopes the erring Multitude,
Because they're grave, may think 'em good;
When if we try 'em, we shall find
Their Dress is but a Holy Blind
The Hypocrites put on, to hide
Their Envy, Avarice, and Pride;
Besides, Religion, Vertue, Grace,
Cannot be seated in the Face;
Nor are these Blessings seen without us,
In quaint Apparel worn about us,
But are of such a Heav'nly Kind,
They only can possess the Mind;
There form a Conscience, by whose Force
We steer an upright steady Course;

Discharge those Duties that we owe
To Heav'n, and all Mankind below;
For Mercy, Love, and Charity,
The Touch-stone of our Deeds should be.
Religious Actions must alone
By the good Fruits they bear, be known,
And ev'ry Christian-like Intent
Be constru'd by the just Event.
'Tis not a Whine, a Pine, a Groan,
A shaking Head, a canting Tone,
A leaning on a Crutched Staff,
A Hypocritick Frown or Laugh,
That shew the Vertues of the Mind,
Or how the Heart does stand inclin'd.
Our outwards Actions best will tell,
Whether the Mind meant ill or well;
Or else short-sighted Human Nature
Can no ways judge of's Fellow-Creature;
For Human Knowledge first commences
From Things demonstrate to our Senses.

What lies beyond's no more or less,
Than barely an uncertain Guess.

As these by Notions fill'd my Pate,
The scatter'd Flock grew still more great,
Creeping as slow as slimy Snail
In Vict'lars Cellar fill'd with Ale.
I wonder'd, as I march'd along,
At this strange puritannick Throng:
Thought I, what sudden Reformation
Has sanctify'd our English Nation,
That Crowds of Ramsy's Saints thus meet
At ev'ry Corner of the Street?
Thus pond'ring on these Holy Streams
Of Zealots, who rely on Dreams;
Those old Enthusiastick Cheats,
The Products of their Drunken Fits;
At last it jump'd into my Head,
That at the Time of Whitsun-Tide,
The Q---s Yearly think it fitting
To hold in Town a Gen'ral Meeting,

That distant Friends may talk with Friends,
The better to effect their Ends,
And some new subtle Means provide
To cozen all Mankind beside.
Thought I, since now I recollect
The weighty Bus'ness of your Sect,
I'll e'en attend you in the Rear,
And see where 'tis you mean to steer.
Accordingly I took my Post,
Lieutenant Gen'ral of the Host,
The better to observe (G*d love 'em)
Which way the Spirit meant to move 'em;
That Ignis Fatuus, which betrays
Dull F---ls into erroneous Ways;
That flaming Vapour of Conceit,
Produc'd i'th' Brain by Slime and Heat;
That false Enthusiastick Light
Which leads Men wrong, instead of right;
That glim'ring Ray, which fiery Zeal
Can only to dark Souls reveal;

That Spark, which wiser Heads less mind,
Than the poop Lanthorn which we find
Seated in Glow-Worm's Arse behind.

FINIS.

11. Part the Eleventh.

CANTO XVI.

After the gentle Lambs of Grace
I stalk'd along a Spaniard's Pace,
Like Hampshire Roger, Ralph, or Will,
Driving his Hogs to Tower-Hill.

From Cornhill up tow'rds Lumbard-Street,
Where Friends in mighty Numbers meet,
The Quaking Zealots, with their 'Spouses,
In solemn Wise all turn'd their Noses,
'Till to an ancient Inn they came,
The Bull and Mouth by Sign and Name:

So call'd, as I suppose, because
Horn'd Zealots there, with gaping Jaws,
Roar, when the Spirit moves, aloud
Strange Nonsense to a brainless Crowd.
At last they came to Holy Ground,
On which there stood a Wooden Pound,
Where the stray'd Lambs in great Compunction
All met together in Conjunction,
With one Accord, to seek that Light
Which Father Ramsy first, in spite
To old King Harry's Reformation,
Struck up, to plague the English Nation.

By Dint of Elbow, mov'd by Grace,
They crowded in a wond'rous Pace,
Like zealous Whigs upon St. Michael,
Who sweating squeeze in dripping Pickle
Into Guild-Hall, that by their bustling,
Their clawing, clam'ring, and their jostling,
They might at last elect a Lord
That would with their Designs accord,

Without the least Consideration,
Whether the Work in Agitation,
Be right or wrong, be ill or well,
Deriv'd from Heaven, or from Hell?
When this same Slit-deal Tabernacle,
Where Coxcombs Crow, and old Hens Cackle,
Without a Pulpit, Pew, or Steeple,
Had drain'd the Yard of Pen's good People.
Amongst the rest, I shuffl'd in,
T'observe their Exercise within,
And what strange furious Zeal could lead
This superfine reforming Breed
From the Church-Worship to dissent,
That's so Divinely excellent,
To serve the L---d-like canting Scrubs,
With Hypocritick Sighs and Sobs,
As if good Heav'n, who loves to hear,
From contrite Heart, a chearful Pray'r,
Was pleas'd with the prepost'rous Fancies
Of frantick Saints bereaft of Senses.

No sooner had I squeez'd my Carcase
Near to the Foot of Gall'ry-Staircase,
But such a Humming, as I live,
Went thro' the penitential Hive,
Mix'd with such hollow Sighs and Groans,
Express'd with such pathetick Tones,
That would have mov'd a Wall of Flint,
Except the D---l had been in't,
To've eccho'd back by Repetition,
Their woeful, sinful, sad Condition.
As for my part, I stood amaz'd,
And thought the whole Assembly craz'd,
And that their melancholy Fits
Had quite depriv'd 'em of their Wits;
For who'd imagine Human Nature,
So wise, so rational a Creature,
Should think to work out their Salvation
By such strange forc'd Dissimulation.

Their stiff-neck'd Pride disdain'd to shew
That Rev'rence which to Heav'n is due,

But on their Haunches did they sit,
In crowded Gall'ry, and in Pit,
Squeez'd up like Holy-day Spectators
At one of R---ch's lewd Theatres.
Had Hodmedod's and Prestor John's
Been mix'd with Sarazens and Huns,
Or Irish wild, and Scotch Highlanders,
Been join'd with sullen Boars from Flanders,
They'd not have made, with all their odd Looks,
A Composition of such bad Looks.
A Shew of such uncommon Faces,
Such Pouts, such Grins, and such Grimaces,
As grac'd this whining Congregation,
Were sure beyond all Imitation:
No Roman Artist e'er could draw
The strange Variety I saw:
Such Leers and Snears, such frowning Glances,
Such strain'd ill-favour'd Countenances,
Were ne'er touch'd up to like Perfection
In Michael Ang'lo's Resurrection;

Nor was the Scene I'm representing,
Unlike that Sacred Piece of Painting;
For those that did to Gall'ry rise,
Cast up tow'rds Heav'n their wishing Eyes,
Whilst those that sighing sate below,
Look'd down, as if they meant to show
Which way they were decreed to go.

In this Surprize I stood a while,
And sometimes cough'd to hide a Smile;
For Flesh and Blood, that did but see
Their Looks, and their Hypocrisy;
The Postures of the Zeal-mad Noddies,
The Motions of their Heads and Bodies,
Could not forbear a Laugh, to smother,
At some odd Passage or another.
Some held their Hands upon their Jaws,
As if the Tooth-Ach was the Cause,
Whilst other Zealots thump'd their Breast,
As if with Grief or Flegm opprest,

And such strange antick Gestures had,
That shew'd 'em not devout, but mad,
As if old Satan had, in spite
Of all their boasted inward Light,
Blown out the Heav'nly shining Spark,
And left the inward Man i'th' Dark:
For Satan is a cunning Fiend,
That lies perdue to gain his End,
And most industriously invents
Strange Ways to disappoint the Saints.
At last a Churl, with grizly Beard,
Whose Eyes like any Fury's star'd,
I'th' Gall'ry from his Seat arose,
With Hat pull'd o'er his Beetle Brows,
Who when he'ad posturiz'd his Face,
And humm'd for some few Minutes Space,
As if his hollow Skull had been
A Hive fill'd full of Bees within,
Who had, by their industrious Pains,
To Wax and Honey turn'd his Brains;

For the long Speech he did transmit,
Was sometimes hard, and sometimes sweet.

I say, when he with great Devotion
Had waited thus the Spirit's Motion,
At last he thump'd his working Breast,
And thus he prattl'd to the rest:

My Friends, the Spirit bids me tell ye,
You're sick, and I am come to heal ye.
I say, the Plague, the Plague of Sin
Infects you ev'ry Soul within.
Hypocrisy, Vain-glory, Pride,
Do o'er the inward Man preside,
And lead ye to such evil Courses,
That you're turn'd Satan's Hobby-horses;
With wicked Lust he Shoes your Feet,
And Saddles you with vain Conceit,
Then mounts ye, whips ye, spurs ye, rides ye,
And with a Twine-Thread Bridle guides ye;

Teaches you all your wicked Paces,
Hurries you on to sinful Places,
As Country Tinkers do their Asses,
Where Darkness does the Light controul,
And evil Sports delude the Soul;
Where Men grow Drunk, and Women Whorish,
And all Abominations flourish.
Ah! Friends, since you're so oft forbidden,
Why will you thus be slav'd and ridden
By Satan, that insnaring Fiend,
That vile Seducer of Mankind,
That Popish Babylonian Lyar,
Who dwells in Brimstone and in Fire,
That Father of the Scarlet Whore,
Who for that Pride we should abhor,
Was damn'd, damn'd, damn'd for evermore?
Therefore, mistaken Friends, what mean ye
To thus forsake the Light within ye?
I say, beware, forbear, take heed,
Turn Tail about, and stop your speed.

Rend Satan's Bridles from your Necks;
Shake off his Saddles from your Backs;
Throw off your Rider in a Rage;
From his curs'd Service disingage,
And when he's down, oppose him, fight him,
Trample upon him, kick him, bite him,
Subdue him, worry 'm, make him fly,
And watch him with as sharp an Eye
As now the Low Church do the High:
Shew him less Mercy, and more Spite,
Than Whig would do a Jacobite;
That is, deride him, mock him, scoff him,
And make worse than a Devil of him.
This is the way to snuff the Light,
And make the Spirit shine more bright;
That Spirit which is mov'd by Grace
To guide us to yon Heav'nly Place;
That Grace which does the Light new vamp,
As Oil revives the fading Lamp;

That Light, by which the Saints in Glory
Have truly walk'd by long before ye;
That shining Gospel-Light moreover,
By which the L---d's Elect discover
That Coast, which, free from Rocks and Shelves,
Is known to none except our selves.

Therefore, my Friends, I say again,
Give Ear unto the inward Man;
Observe the Motions of the Spirit,
And mind the Light, or (I aver it)
You've neither Faith, G*d's Grace, or Hope,
But have a darker Way to grope,
Than a blind Beggar near a Well,
Fumbling without his Dog and Bell,
Who nigh him has no Friend or Stranger,
Or Staff, to warm him of the Danger.
So you that are without the Light,
Have nothing to direct you right,
But like a Ship in Tempest tost,
Whose Compass, and whose Rudder's lost.

You'll loose your Course, and split your selves
On Satan's wicked Rocks and Shelves,
Where Canibals Infernal wait,
Enrag'd with Envy, and with Hate,
To seize you, tear you all asunder,
And make your sinful Souls free Plunder.

Therefore I say, my Friends, beware
Ye fall not into Satan's Snare;
For if you do, when once you're taken,
The Saints in Heav'n can't save your Bacon.
Besides, when you're in Satan's Clutches,
Lock'd safe beneath his dismal Hatches,
He'll use you worse than Doctors Commons,
Or those vile Catholicks call'd Romans;
Nay, scorch ye, broil ye, boil ye, roast ye,
Baist, drudge ye, scald ye, burn ye, toast ye,
And put ye in a worse Confusion,
Than ancient High-Church Persecution.

Therefore, I say, if you'd inherit
The promis'd Land, observe the Spirit;

Mind ye the Light, and hear the Word,
And walk uprightly in the Lord.
Abandon all your fleshly Lust,
And be to all the Godly just;
That is, trade one among another,
And deal as Brother should by Brother:
But if by chance you deal with those
O'th' High-Church, use 'em as your Foes;
That is, out-wit 'em ev'ry way;
'Twill be your own another Day.
Deal sharply, warily, and wisely,
Cunningly too, and yet precisely,
But take this Caution by the by,
Be sure you neither Swear nor Lie,
For they are deadly Sins, that we
The Saints abhor like Popery;
But what the Steeple-House calls Cheating,
And we the Holy Saints, Out-witting:
Alas! it is a Sin so small,
In short, no Sin in us at all,

But a poor Priviledge that's given
To th'Saints on Earth by those in Heav'n;
For we th'Elect are always blest
With greater Portions, than the rest,
Of Worldly Wit, as well as Grace,
To arm our selves in ev'ry Case
Against all Human Snares and Tiles,
As well as wicked Satan's Wiles.
Therefore to 've Wit, and not to use it,
Is to despise it, and abuse it:
And how d' ye think, since we enjoy it,
The L---d expects we should employ it,
I say, against the Sons of Baal?
And who those are, we know full well,
Such as in Triumph long have wore
The Trappings of the Scarlet Whore:
The Priests of Dagon, those vain Praters,
And all their wicked vile Abettors;

Those who in Whores-Hair hide their Heads,
And wear, altho' the L---d forbids,
Revengeful Weapons by their Sides,
To wound and persecute the Saints,
And awe them from their just Complaints;
Those who annoy the Common-weal
With Arms of Flesh, and Swords of Steel,
And in their drunken wild Disorders,
Commit vile, wicked Rapes and Murders:
Also against those Hawks and Kites,
Those Carrion-Crows call'd Jacobites;
Those Reprobates that think so odly,
And talk so vainly of the Godly.
But hold a little, I mistake,
My Friends, the Spirit gives a Check,
And bids me not be too severe,
But tow'rds 'em some Compassion bear,
Because, like us, they will not Swear.

But as to those vain wicked People,
That worship Organs, Bells, and Steeple;

I say, my Friends, it is no more
To over-reach 'em o'er and o'er;
No more a Sin, I do aver it,
If Light be Light and Spirit,
Than 'tis to cherish feeble Nature
With a refreshing Cup o'th' Creature;
For we the Lambs of Grace, should hate
The Wicked and the Reprobate;
Make them, like Satan's evil Brood
Of Serpents, lick the Dust for Food;
Not suffer them to tyrannize
O'er us the Saints in Holy Wise,
But let the Righteous undermine 'em,
And by the Light of Grace, out-shine 'em,
That we may crush the Sons of Dagon,
As George for England did the Dragon.
But how shall we th'Elect o'er-power 'em,
And in this promis'd Land reign o'er 'em,
Except we grow too cunning for 'em?

Therefore, my Friends, be rul'd by me,
Use all your Holy Subtilty,
Let no smooth verbal Craft be wanting,
Altho' the Wicked call it Canting:
Out-wit 'em by the Dint of Grace,
And coz'n 'em with a Righteous Face,
That when they deal w'ye, or imploy ye,
They ne'er may gain one Penny by ye,
But get by them whate'er you can,
The Word says Godliness is Gain:
And ye, my Friends, that have a Mind,
May there the Holy Saying find:
But still in all you do or say,
Take these Instructions by the way;
Follow the Light, that faithful Guide,
And you can never step aside.
Attend and mind the Spirit's Motions:
These, these, my Friends, are Heav'nly Cautions.

But ah! my Friends, I plainly see't,
The Tares are sown amongst the Wheat:

The Weeds of Satan sprout apace
Amidst ye Saints, in spite of Grace.
Ah! Friends, the Spirit bids me tell ye,
Luxurious Cramming of the Belly,
And Tippling like insatiate Sots,
O'er Quarts, instead of half Pint Pots,
Makes your swoln Paunches look much fatter,
Than Stall-fed Oxen for the Slaughter:
Nay, some amongst ye do so tipple,
Ye suck the Pot as Babes the Nipple,
'Till grown beyond all Christian Size,
Bloated like Hogs fed up in Styes.
Ah! Friends, forbear this vile Excess,
Mind the Light more, the Bottle less;
For by this sad Abomination,
You scandalize your good Profession;
O Moderation! Moderation!
For that, you know, will never hurt you;
O! Moderation is a Vertue,

A Vertue which the Saints should prize,
And always place before their Eyes.
Ah! Friends, would those that are in Pow'r,
Talk of it less, and use it more,
Satan's Designs would surely perish
With those that do our Discords nourish,
And Peace thro'out the Land would flourish.

My Friends, I must be close upon ye,
Another Evil reigns among ye;
To ye I speak, who look as thin
Ald old King Pharaoh's famish'd Kine.
Ah! Friends, the Spirit tells me plainly,
The Cause that makes you look s' ungainly.
The Deeds of Darkness and Uncleanness,
Have brought your Bodies to that Leanness.
Ah! Friends, methinks I hear you wish,
That no vile Workings of the Flesh,
No sinful Pleasures of the Night,
In black Rebellion to the Light,

Had thus deluded ye astray,
And made ye subtle Satan's Prey.
I say, beware of wicked Woman,
She's like an open Field or Common,
Where ev'ry Goose, and ev'ry Ass,
Has leave to trample down the Grass:
Deliver up the filthy Jade
To Satan to be buffetted;
Avoid her for a loathsome Sinner,
Hell Fire, I tell ye, burns within her;
For Satan's Children all are free
To 'er Oven of Iniquity:
There does she bake 'em to a Crust,
To satisfy her flaming Lust;
Then leaves the poor repenting Fools
To carnal Smiths and Hospitals.
Therefore, my Friends, beware, I say,
Of such a wanton Dalilah;
Were you as brisk, as strong, and bold,
As sturdy Sampson was of old,

Should Satan tempt you to have at her,
She'd make you soon as weak as Water.
Could you to those Perfections rise
Possess'd by Solomon the Wise,
How like a Fool you'd look at last,
When all your filthy Deeds were past?
Could you command the Bank of London,
Be rul'd by her, you'd soon be undone.
Therefore, my Friends, once more I bid ye
Avoid the Snare, or Woe betide ye:
Shun, by the Spirit's good Direction,
Those Iv'ry Pillars of Destruction;
For lo between, there hidden lies
A Pit, a Pool, a strange Device,
That cost old Adam Paradice.
Therefore let no such wanton Witches,
Bedaub'd with Paint, and stuck with Patches,
Trick'd up in vain alluring Cloths,
Profane Commodes, and Furbuloes,

Seduce ye with their cunning Wiles,
Or tempt ye with their treach'rous Smiles,
To stroke their Breasts, or pat their Hips,
Or touch their soft alluring Lips;
For Kissing is a great Temptation,
And F---ll---g an Abomination.
But ah! my Friends, that Putting in
Is a most beastly deadly Sin.
Therefore the Spirit bids me tell ye,
You're damn'd if you pursue this Folly,
For Sins committed under Belly.

But thou, I say, amongst the Saints,
That want'st the Gift of Continence,
Look round the loving Lambs of Grace,
Seek out for some inticing Face,
Some Rachel, Abigail, or Ruth,
That minds the Light, and loves the Truth;
And if thou lik'st her, take her to thee,
The Damsel may be glad to know thee:

Tell her thou lov'st her for the Light
That in her Count'nance shines so bright;
Nay, tell her, that thou need'st must do't,
Because the Spirit moves thee to't:
But whatsoe'er thou do'st, I say,
Still do it in a Righteous Way;
That is, thy Wife or Hand-maid make her,
And not for once, but always take her.
Use not the Maid as wicked Varlets
Do their lewd Concubines and Harlots,
Delude 'em, flatt'r 'em, treat 'em, woe 'em,
Debauch 'em, and at last undo 'em,
Raise Seed which they refuse to nourish,
And leave their Off-spring to the Parish,
To be nurs'd up in Lice and Rags
By filthy Sluts, and frowsy Hags,
'Till ripe for Newgate, and the Gallows,
Or Pimping in some Bawdy Ale-house.
O wretched, wicked, vile Transgression!
O mad, bad, sad Abomination!

The Laud forbid such Sins as these
Should reign among the Sons of Peace:
No, sure it cannot, cannot be,
And yet alas! methinks I see
Some Saints among you leer and look
As if you'ad nibbl'd at the Hook;
But have a Care, if once you taste
The Bait, ye will be catch'd at last,
Like ------, that wicked Sinner,
That fornicating old Cord-wainer,
Who, to the Shame of our Profession,
Was catch'd in the unclean Transgression;
She underneath, and he on top,
His Breeches down, her Fig-leaf up.
Therefore when both sides thus agree,
What wicked Doings must there be?
O! Shame upon the sinful Couple,
To scandalize the L---d's Pe---ople,
When we with all our Hands and Eyes
Disdain such vile Discoveries.

Therefore, my Friends, abhor such Evils,
For publick Shame's the Spite of Devils.
But should the Flesh, by Dint of Claret,
At any time o'ercome the Spirit,
So that you can't forbear, be sure,
E'er you begin, you bolt the Door,
That no informing zealous Brother,
Who lies perdue to trap another,
Should, to our Friends Disreputation,
Detect ye in Abomination.
The Sin will give the Spirit Trouble,
But to be catch'd in't, makes it double.
Therefore, my Friends, I say be wary,
Learn to be wise, as well as merry;
For if ye bring, thro' Indiscretion,
Shame on this Righteous Generation,
We'll spew ye out with one Accord
From us the People of the L---d;
Detest ye, mock ye, scoff ye, flounce ye,
Forsake ye, cast ye off, renounce ye,

That Satan, with a wicked Will,
May buffet ye from Head to Heel.
Therefore, my Friends, dread Holy Vi'lence.
The Spirit moves me now to Silence.

FINIS.

12. Part the Twelfth.

CANTO XVII.

When quaint Aminadab had done
What better he had ne'er begun,
I left the formal dreaming Sinners
To creep precisely to their Dinners,
Highly commending one to th'other,
The Labours of their gifted Brother,
Who painfully had snuff'd the Light,
And made the Spirit shine so bright,
That ev'ry Zealot, as he march'd
Along the Street, so stiffly starch'd,

Devoutly chew'd the Heav'nly Food,
Not as fat Oxen do their Cud,
But dully shew'd a deep Regard
To th'off-hand Non-sense they had heard.
Some shak'd their pensive Heads, to think
How oft they'd drown'd in wick'd Drink
The inward Man, and made him totter
Like Vessel mov'd by Wind and Water.

Others appearing so dejected,
As if their Brains had recollected
How oft they'd tempted Holy Sister,
And how unlawfully they'd kiss'd her,
When the proud Flesh, by Dint of Claret,
Was grown too pow'rful for the Spirit.

In this sad melancholy Pickle
I left the scatt'ring Conventicle,
Shewing their Sorrow for their Sins
In penitential Leers and Grins.

For their Repentance, you must know
Chiefly consists in outward Show.

To Female Vertue 'tis a-kin,
For like their Modesty, 'tis seen
Without, but seldom found within.

I rambled on to Tower-Hill,
To view that famous Cittadel,
That Terror of the Rich and Great,
Where Princes oft have met their Fate;
That Jayl for mighty Knaves design'd,
Where Lords and Lyons live confin'd;
From whence we ought to learn, that Traytors
And Rebels are such odious Creatures,
That faithful Subjects should contemn,
As Company for Beasts, not Men.
As I was walking round about,
Viewing its rusty Walls without,
And spending some few Thoughts upon
Those Ills that had within been done
By Ruffains of the greatest Figure,
More cruel far than Woolf or Tygar;

A Man came mounted on a Horse,
No Post-Boy e'er bestrid a worse:
I'll therefore first describe the Gennet,
And him that strutting sate upon it;
And when that's done, I'll let you see
What the fierce Rider prov'd to be.

Imprimis, The stupendious Beast
Was sixteen Hands in Height at least,
And seem'd, as the Spectators said,
By his huge Buttocks, and his Head,
Some super-annuated Coach-Horse,
Of Flanders Breed, or else a Dutch-Horse.
His Back was rounder than a Hog's;
His Sides so poor, that some arch Rogues
Affirm'd him rescu'd from the Dogs.
His Ribs appear'd, as if he eat
Nothing but Wrack-staves for his Meat,
Except sometimes the Carrion knaw'd
The Manger for a Change of Food.

His Buttocks were adorn'd with Hair
Much rougher than a Greenland Bear;
But Age or Mange had been unkind,
And left his Dock quite bald behind,
As bare as flat-nos'd Bawd appears
Upon the Crown at sixty Years.
His Eyes were sunk into their Sockets,
Deep as the Money in our Pockets,
That I profess I cannot tell,
Tho' I observ'd him very well,
Which would be harder of the two,
You to see them, or they see you.
No Jockey would, I dare engage,
Look in his Mouth to know his Age;
For ev'ry Feature of the Beast,
Proclaim'd him twenty Years at least.
Altho' his Sides no Fat could show,
He was too greasy grown below,
For ev'ry scabby Heal (confound 'em)
Had got a Quaking Pudding round 'em,

And were so weak, and swell'd with Matter,
That's fore Legs drew his hind Legs a'ter.

Excuse me, Reader, that my Muse
Should such indecent Language use.
I'm forc'd to keck my self, 'tis true;
I wish you may not do so too:
But beastly Words best suit the Nature
Of such an ill-look'd beastly Creature.

The Pace he crawl'd along, I'm sure,
At most, was half a Mile an Hour;
For ev'ry Step he cough'd and wheez'd,
Farted extreamly, often sneez'd,
That he who follow'd him, must find,
By the unsav'ry Whiffs behind,
He 'ad nothing in his Guts, but Wind.
His Huckle-bones on either side,
Between 'em did his Rudder hide;
So that his Bob-tail could appear
To none, except they stood i'th' Rear;

But cover'd the unseemly Vent
So very close, as if 'twas meant
Futurely, to prevent his Hay
From stealing out the backward way,
In case he should be thought deserving
Of being longer kept from starving.

Yet, notwithstanding all his Graces,
His Age, his Poverty, his Paces,
His Looks, his ugly Shapes and Failings,
His Galls, his Malanders and Ailings;
A Bridle did his Head adorn,
That old Buceph'lus might have worn,
Set forth at no Mechanick Rate,
With Studs and Stars, as bright as Plate;
Fine Buckles, ornamental Crosses,
Restraining Curb, and gilded Bosses,
That one could scarce distinguish whether
'Twas made of Metal, or of Leather.

His arched Back a Saddle bore,
With Crimson Velvet cover'd o'er;

Belac'd as richly, you must know't,
As well-kept Harlot's Petticoat.
Upon his raw-bon'd Buttocks, lay
A Crupper cloath so rich and gay,
That any C---'s prancing Gennet
Might, without Scorn, have travell'd in it
Thro' Cheapside down to Blackfry'rs Stairs,
And no Dishonour to our M---rs.
Altho' in Flesh the Beast was poor,
He was so rich in Furniture,
That the lame, hide-bound, founder'd Jade
Appear'd bedeck'd from Arse to Head,
Like an old worthless, wither'd Bawd,
Who 'ad vainly on her self bestow'd
A gawdy Gown, and fine Commode.

The Rider, who was got a straddle
On this alluring noble Saddle,
Which, tho' 'twas very rich and gay,
Look'd something ancient, by the way,

Was proudly dress'd from Head to Arse,
Almost as splendid as his Horse.
An English Face the Hero had,
But 'twas with Flemish Whiskers made,
So incoherent, and so frightful,
So very ugly, and so spightful,
That no Dutch Wizard could advance,
Or Skipper, when he's drunk with Nantz,
A more Infernal Countenance.
An old long Wig he'ad on, as black
As th'Inside of a Small-coal Sack,
Tuck'd in behind t'a Silken Purse,
No Play-house Fury wears a worse,
Or Barber's Block in Drury-Lane
Was e'er disgrac'd with such a Mane.
To shew his Impudence, or Pride,
His Hat was cock'd on ev'ry side,
With Brims contiguous to the Crown,
Like blust'ring Bully of the Town.

His Coat had Silver Button-holes,
And Buttons large as Tennis Balls,
Such as each gawdy brainless Beau
Us'd to affect ten Years ago,
His vain Extravagance to show;
Or such as Church-Ward'ns often wear,
When they at Parish-Feasts appear,
Where the good Brethren o'er their Liquor,
Contrive much safer Ways, and quicker,
Than had been us'd by Knaves already,
To cheat the Hungry, and the Needy.

His Boots, altho' 'twas sultry Weather,
Took up at least a Hide of Leather,
That in each Top he might have worn
A Peck, if not a Strike of Corn,
To 've comforted, in time of Need,
The Vitals of his drooping Steed.
His Legs might well their Safety boast,
And scorn the Rubs of stubborn Post,

For the stout Armour they had got,
Might stand the Force of Musket-shot,
Or bid Defiance in his Way,
To the rough Squeeze of Coach or Dray.

For Use and Ornament together,
For one or both, I know not whether,
Each threat'ning, terrifying Heel,
Like fighting Cock, was arm'd with Steel,
Pointed like Spokes of Cath'rine-wheel.
The Leathers buckl'd on before,
To make the Weapons more secure,
Were very broad, as if design'd
To hide the pointed Spears behind,
That when the poor distressed Jade,
By chance should turn his jolter Head,
His dim Beholders should not see
The Causes of his Misery,
Those dreadful Ticklers of his Hide,
That gall'd him so from Side to Side,

For 'tis believ'd by some wise Men,
That could the slaving Drudge have seen
His cruel Master so prepar'd,
His faithful Service to reward,
It might have made the Beast consider
Which way to 've broke the Neck of's Rider.

Upon his Loyns a Leathern Zone,
Above his Coat was girted on,
Made, I suppose, of Bufflers Hide,
And was at least four Inches wide,
That from its Breadth, a Man may rather
Say he was hoop'd about with Leather.
This Belt, for so it was indeed,
In Fight, would prove of wond'rous Stead,
For Arse and Paunch were almost quite
Secur'd in trusty Armour by 't;
For 'twas so thick, that Point of Sword
Might sooner penetrate a Board,
Than by a Cut or Thrust divide
The Context of the stubborn Hide.

The Edges were with Silver lac'd,
Like Belt about Life-guard-man's Waste,
Which made him look, about the Crupper,
As fine as any new-cloath'd Trooper.
In this Bellonian Girdle, hung
A Scymeter both broad and long,
Such as are us'd by Turkish Soldiers
To cleave their Foes from Head to Shoulders.
The rugged Handle of his Weapon,
Made to carve Man, as Knife a Capon,
Did once adorn the armed Brows
Of Buck or Stag, which Hunters rouze,
And by the Help of Dogs and Rabble,
Pursue them to their very Table.
The Guard was made of shining Metal,
Not Brass, like Gammer Gurton's Kettle,
But such as greedy Misers hoard,
The very same that, in a Word,
Makes the Clown reverence the Lord;

The Cause of all our mighty Pother,
That stirs up Brother against Brother,
And makes Mankind hate one another;
The Bait that does the Wise enslave,
And makes the wav'ring Fool turn Knave;
The Toy that bears, by artful Means,
The Images of Kings and Queens.
With this same Metal was his Sword
Adorn'd, becoming of a Lord.

That his stern Ignorance and Pride
Might be the better fortify'd,
Beneath his Nose, in mighty State,
A Brace of mortal Engines sate,
Such dreadful Pot-guns of Correction,
That threaten'd nothing but Destruction.
The Handles peeping out their Cases,
Stood pointing up to his Grimaces,
That had some pregnant Dame came by,
And on his Worship cast an Eye,

It might, in Mischief to her Marriage,
Have cost her a severe Miscarriage.
His Housings were in ample manner
Embroider'd, like a Prince's Banner,
And fring'd as rich, I dare be sure,
As any Gen'ral's Furniture:
But that which most his Pride disgrac'd,
Its Beauty was by Age defac'd;
But since a Soldier, maim'd in Wars,
Is honour'd by his Wounds and Scars,
And tatter'd Flags in Battel rent,
Bring Glory to a Regiment,
Who, among all the gazing Crew,
Could know, by such a transcient View,
But that his old decrepit Pad,
With all the Trappings of the Jade,
Had both their Youth and Beauty lost
In some Man-killing War-like Post,
To th'Honour of the doubty Knight,
That now sate mounted such a Height,

As well as to his prancing Slave,
That thro' the Danger bore the Knave.

In this Array this Mortal Wight,
Thus arm'd, as if prepar'd to fight,
Spurr'd on his Steed from Place to Place,
Who crawl'd about an Ass's Pace,
And look'd, from his Camelian Feeding,
As if he 'ad chiefly had his Breeding
Beneath some Scavenger o'th' Town,
To hawl his Dust-Cart up and down;
Or else, that he had took much Pains
In dragging Tom T---d's Caravans.

About the Hill this flaming Hero,
With Countenance as fierce as Nero,
Saunter'd, as if, in all his Pride,
He 'ad nothing else to do, but ride
In vain, to give his Horse new Breath
An Hour or two before his Death;
For all the idle gazing Throng,
That saw the Dogs-Meat crawl along,

Believ'd he could not waking creep
So slow, but that he walk'd in's Sleep;
A Pack-horse Pace to his compar'd,
Would have been riding very hard;
A Dyal's Hand, I dare to say,
Would almost steal as fast away;
For none but a discerning Eye,
At Bow-shot Distance, could discry
Whether he mov'd along the Hill,
Or that the dull Machine stood still.

I wrack'd my Thoughts, but could not guess,
Either by's Pad-Nag, or his Dress,
What Bus'ness could prevail upon
A Hero, arm'd with Sword and Gun,
Whose torvid Aspect made him show so
Like some revengeful Furioso,
Struting about on hide-bound Strammel,
Mounted like Turk upon a Camel.

Sometimes I could not but suppose
Some new Don Quixot was arose,

And hither came, with armed Force,
Mounted upon his hide-bound Horse,
T'exert his Courage, Skill, and Pow'r,
For Honours Sake, against the Tow'r,
As Brother Hero, to his Glory,
Attack'd the Wind-mill in a Fury.

These Thoughts soon took their Farewel on me,
They prov'd too light to gain upon me.
Then musing, I was apt to dread
He had worse Mischief in his Head,
And that he was some angry Beau,
Or wrangling, fighting Bontefeu,
Who hither came in a Bravado,
To meet some Brother Desperado,
Arm'd on his Dromedarian Brute,
In order nicely to dispute,
After a noble, war-like manner,
Some windy Point of squeamish Honour.

My Brain thus fill'd with various Notions,
I watch'd the Hero's further Motions,

Hoping before the Scene was over,
I should, to my Content, discover
What wond'rous Bus'ness brought to light
So 'ncommon a fantastick Sight;
At last I saw a grinning Looby,
Come mounted on a She Scotch Hobby,
Whose humble Size did not surpass
The lowly Stature of an Ass:
Close to her Neck her Ears she laid,
Like an ill-bred unlucky Jade,
That when she's handled, has the Trick
To give a Horse-Buss, or a Kick.
'Tis a rude way ungainly Tits
Make use of, to exert their Wits;
For rusty Scrubs, like us that write,
Can't jest, but they must spurn or bite.
Her haughty Tail, that graceful Stump,
Stood cock'd upright above her Rump,
As if the Filly took a Pride
T'expose what Tails were made to hide.

Her Fetlocks were so ruff and shagg'd,
Her long-hair'd Belly so bedagg'd,
And her Bears Arse with Dung so tagg'd,
That from her Buttocks to the Ground,
Great Signs of good Luck might be found,
For all the Way (I'm well assur'd)
She forward went, she backward scowr'd,
From whence, I will be bold to say,
Her Food was Grass, or Grains, not Hay,
Which made her Back-side so profuse,
And her lank Buttocks hang so loose,
That her Arse trembl'd, when she run,
Like quaggy Earth, when trod upon.
The Bridle of this Highland Beast,
Seem'd aged seven Years at least,
For here and there 'twas ty'd together
With Coblers Ends, and Thongs of Leather,
And I believe the very same,
In which she out of Scotland came,

Because, as I have heard some say,
Their Hobbies Bridles in the Day,
Are made alone for Use, not Sight,
And serve for Halters in the Night;
That is, good Husbandry excites
The Highland Scotch t'inure their Tits
To Hempen Reins, that have no Bits;
Which shews their Runts, as well as they
That ride 'em, scorn to run away.

Her ancient Saddle, I aver it,
Was better fed, than she that wore it;
For I could see, thro' its Decay,
The Seat was stuff'd with good old Hay,
Which started thro' each Hole and Rent,
Where mould'ring Age had giv'n it Vent,
Like stuffing of a Leathern Chair,
When worn by lazy Buttocks bare.
The Pony seeming such a Stranger,
By her lean Sides, to Wrack and Manger,

Could (if she 'ad had her Will) have eat
The Saddle Stuffing for a Bait,
For Scotland, by her wretched Case,
Seem'd still to be her Feeding-place.
So hungry Rats will knaw their Way
Thro' Cubboard Side, to gain their Prey,
And their devouring Gullets please
With mouldy Scraps of Bread and Cheese.

The Sanca Panca, that had mounted
This Tit, by Feed and Nature stunted,
A painted gawdy Jacket wore,
That all the Rainbow-Colours bore.
Thought I, this party-colour'd Owl
Must be some riding Doctor's Fool;
That is, his Herauld, hither come
From all the Parts of Christendom,
In's Coat of Honour, to proclaim
His Master's universal Fame;
And he that has been ranging thus
On yonder old Bucephalus,

Must be the Doctor, as I take it,
Dress'd up in all this Pomp, to Quack it,
With some strange never-failing Packet.
I gaz'd a while, t'observe their Meeting,
And view'd the Manner of their Greeting,
Which was perform'd with great Decorum,
In sight of all that stood before 'em.
The merry Fool, with great Submission,
Bow'd to the grave Fool, the Physician,
Who made no Conge in return,
But look'd on t'other Fool with Scorn,
Just as Great Nobles do at Court,
Upon the lesser humble Sort,
Who cringe and creep to those above 'em,
Not 'cause they're wise, or that they love 'em;
But fancy'ng Titles solid Things,
Bow to the windy Breath of Kings:
But if you'd know the Reason of it,
These flatt'ring Nods are all for Profit.

So one Fool makes himself a Scoff,
To set the Fool his Master off,
As Andrew clowns it to the Doctor,
Because he proves his Benefactor.

When Quack and Zany thus were met,
The gorgious Emprick seem'd to fret,
Both looking round the spacious Hill,
As if they wanted something still.
At last a Negro Devil came
On a dun Kefield, blind and lame,
Riding Post Haste, with Spur and Whip,
Fast as the founder'd Drudge could creep,
Laden before him with a Wallet
Of—no Man e'er knew what to call it;
Promiscuous Sweeps of Druggists Shops,
Made into Plaisters, Pills, and Slops,
All mix'd, as you'll hereafter see,
Up with Infallibility:
Tho' could the World but at one View
Foresee the Evils they would do,

They'd say with me, (a Murrain rot 'em)
That 'twas the Dev'l indeed that brought 'em,
And that this Bag of damn'd Expedients,
Compounded of unknown Ingredients,
Brought from all Climates of the World,
Confus'dly thus together hurl'd,
Contain'd more Curses, Plagues, and Poxes,
Than fifty of Pandora's Boxes.

FINIS.

II. VOL. II.

1. Part the First.

CANTO I.

The Doctor looking proudly dull
Between his Devil and his Fool,
Whose Number being now compleat
To carr' on his Batavian Cheat;
Andrew, with wide extended Jaws,
Began a hideous bawling Noise,
Whose Yellings were no sooner heard,
But such a Crowd of Fools appear'd,
That plainly shew'd how silly Brother
By Instinct does attract another.
So among Wolves, when one's distrest,
By Howling he alarms the rest,

Who in a Fury fly with speed,
To help their Fellow in his Need.

No sooner had the gaping Zany
Turn'd Fool, but there appear'd a many
Boys left their Hustle and Trap-ball,
And scowr'd, at Merry Andrew's Call.
Fat Ale-wives, and their Campaign Wenches,
Forsook their Brothel Doors and Benches.
Porters, whose Shoulders were opprest
With Burthens, stood to hear a Jest.
Each bulky Dray-man stopp'd his Dray,
To take a Hau, Hau, by the way.
Young Vagabonds, and stroling Women,
Lame Mumpers, and disabled Seamen,
Some scratching in their lousy Rags,
Some hobling on their wooden Legs;
All scamper'd with what speed they cou'd,
T' encrease the growing Multitude.

When the Fool's noisy Acclamation
Had gain'd a num'rous Congregation
Of tatter'd Mortals, only fit
To laugh at Merry Andrew's Wit,

The fulsome Di'logue then began
Betwixt the Master and the Man,
And now and then, to please the Mob,
The Devil laughing bore a Bob,
Whose antick Garb and charcoal Face,
Was to the Farce a wond'rous Grace;
For things uncommon, tho' uncouth,
Will best an English Rabble sooth,
Because they're oft inclin'd to change,
Not for what's better, but more strange,
Nor are the Frape alone, we see,
Bewitch'd to this Variety;
For Rakes of Honour, Lordly Beaus,
Too oft neglect the beauteous 'Spouse,
And with a greater Gust pursue
The homely Face, because it's new.
Nay, 'tis a Fashion grown of late,
To chuse Religon by its Date;
For many, thro' a stupid Zeal
To Novelty or Common-weal,
Renounce the old Church, and the true one,
To become Changelings to a new one.

After the Crowd of gaping Fools
Had with stale Quibbles, Puns, and Bulls,
Borrow'd long since from Smithfield Drolls,
Been for a little Time accosted,
'Till Andrew's Stock was quite exhausted.
The Doctor then commands his Black
To op'n his Medicinal Pack,
From whence, before a Word he speaks,
A little Globe he nicely takes
Betwixt his Finger and his Thumb,
The Wonder of all Christendom,
Altho' no bigger than a Crum;
Then looking very stern and dread,
He bridles up his jolter Head,
And thus a Lecture does he give
Upon his Pill diminitive,
Speaking his Merits in the Proem,
That's Audience might the better know him.

From all the Corners of the Earth;
From East and West, from South and North;
From sultry Climates, where the Heat
Will make the coldest Pebble sweat;

And from those Icy frigid Zones,
Where Waters are congeal'd to Stones;
From that strange Land incognita,
Where none but me e'er found the Way;
From Spain, France, Italy, and Holland,
Portugal, Sweedland, Denmark, Poland;
From Blenheim, where we won the Day
O'er Lewis and Bavaria;
From Rammelies, that famous Town,
Where greater Wonders still were done.
Geneva too, I should have hinted,
Where Bibles for the Saints are printed,
In whose fam'd University
I lately took my last Degree.
From Utrick also, where I liv'd,
And many Honours there receiv'd.
From these, and sundry other Places,
Where Arts and Learning shew there Faces,
As Hospitals for the Afflicted,
By Popes and Kings long since erected;

Where Surgery and Physick flourish,
And are apply'd with Skill, to cherish
The needy Sick, who else must perish,
Where I my self have long been fam'd
For Cures too many to be nam'd.
From all these Places am I come,
And other Parts of Christendom,
To give m' Assistance now at Home,
And, by G---d's Blessing, to impart
The hidden Pow'r of Physick's Art;
Which, by long Study, I have found
Amongst the Secrets under Ground,
Drawing such Min'ral Vertues forth
From the dark Caverns of the Earth,
That will restore the Blind to Sight,
And make the Cripple walk upright,
Repair Consumptive Lungs decay'd,
And to the Living raise the Dead,
Provided they'll be rul'd by Reason,
And take my Nostrum in due Season.

The first rare Med'cine I present ye,
Alas! is but the least of twenty.

Behold with Wonder, 'tis, you see,
Not half the Bigness of a Pea,
Yet is it of such mighty Force,
That tho' you're stronger than a Horse,
In spite of Sleep, Heat, Cold, or Passion,
'Twill have its usual Operation;
And to the Patients Ease and Wonder,
Will rumble in their Guts like Thunder;
That is, suppose you have about ye,
Either within ye, or without ye,
Twenty Distempers, Pains, or Ailings,
Scabs, Buboes, Nodes, Humps, Bumps, or Swellings,
Gout, Dropsy, Scurvy, Phtisick, Stone,
Or other Ail in Flesh or Bone;
Aches in Shoulders, Head, or Heart,
Legs, Thighs, or some remoter Part,
Whether Invet'rate and Nocturnal,
Or less Luctif'rous and Diurnal.
This little Pill will cause, most surely,
In Nature such a Hurly Burly,
That ev'ry time, when by Extrusion,
It causes downward an Effusion,

'Twill op'rate where you're most opprest,
And carr' off one Disease at least;
Root out the Dregs of your Debauches,
And leave you all as sound as Roaches;
Refine ye, renovate ye, clean ye,
And purge off all Distempers in ye;
Giving to either He or She
A Stool for ev'ry Malady,
And not one Motion more or less,
As near as Human Art can guess;
For 'tis a Pill that ne'er does fail
To operate from Head to Tail;
And is, I will be bold to tell you,
If justly priz'd, of greater Value
Than any Secret ever found
Beneath the Stars above the Ground,
By all the Medicinal Knowledge
Of Gresham or Physicians Colledge.

With this small Dose did I recover
Three Eastern Kings, when given over;
In two Days time I made 'em leap
And dance, that scarce before could creep;

Who, to reward my skilful Pains,
Gave me three Medals hung in Chains,
Too rich and weighty to be worn;
Besides, such foppish Pride I scorn;
Gravity, Learning, and Discretion,
Better adorn a good Physician.

Popes, Cardinals, and lofty Prelates,
Old Fryars, Nuns, Monks, Punks, and Zealots;
High German Princes, Spanish Dons,
C'zars, Sultans, Chams, and Prestor Johns.
Dukes, Lords, and mighty Men of Wealth,
Has this small Pill restor'd to Health,
When no dull Oxthodox Physician
Could help 'em in their sad Condition.
Thought I, a Pill of so much Fame
Ought not to want a learned Name,
Therefore for mighty Cures 't 'as done,
I call it my Panpharmacon;
Whence you may find, that hear me speak,
I'm not a Stranger to the Greek.
A thousand other Virtues still
Could I ascribe to this small Pill:

But fulsome Praise begets a Loathing;
Too much of one thing's good for nothing.

Next, I present ye with my Plaister,
That heals and cures the worst Disaster;
Hernia's, King's Evils, knotty Tumors,
Sores owing to a Flux of Humors,
Hard Swellings, Ringworms, Tetters, Cankers,
Nodes, Buboes, Ulcers, Scabs, or Shankers,
Wens, Whitloes, Bruises, Inflammations,
Horns, Corns, kib'd Heels, and Dislocations,
Fractures, Distortions, Strains, and Sprains,
Old Aches, and all sorts of Pains,
By this my never-failing Plaister,
Are cur'd as sure as G---d's in Gloc'ster:
Clap it but on the Part aggriev'd,
You'll in an Instant be reliev'd,
And then you'll say you're not deceiv'd.

If Surgeons, wanting Skill or Care,
(For many such we know there are)
By their ill Treatment, should occasion
A Gangreene or Mortification,

This instantly the Danger stops,
Altho' the Patient's past all Hopes;
And will, I boldly dare maintain,
Where e'er 'tis us'd, that Credit gain,
Which vain Pretenders cannot chuse
But, thro' their Ign'rance, daily lose;
Tho' I confess, as Times now go,
'Tis something difficult to know
The skilful Doctor from the Quack:
But if you'd shun that gross Mistake,
Try me but in the worst Condition,
And I, you'll find, am the Physician.

One Virtue more, upon the Faith
Of Man, this exc'lent Plaister hath:
It cleans and heals infallibly
Green Wounds i' th' twinkling of an Eye,
By Cannon-Ball, or Pistol-shot,
Contusion inward, Thrust, or Cut,
Given by Hatchet, Scythe, or Sword;
Squeeze of a heavy Log or Board,
Rent of a Tenter-hook or Nail,
Bruise of a Faulshion or a Flail;

Unlucky Blow upon the Noddle
Given by Shovel, Tongs, or Ladle,
When Man or Wife, thro' Provocation,
Shall use such Weapons in their Passion.
All broken Heads, and bloody Snouts,
In Quarrels gain'd at drunken Bouts:
All Kicks and Cuffs, Thumps, Bumps, and Pinches,
Given by Bullies to their Wenches.
Besides, it is a Plaister rare
For all new Marry'd Men to wear;
Let 'em but to their Reins apply 't,
And they'll perform with more Delight
The Nuptial Bus'ness of the Night:
'Twill reinforce the Veins and Muscles,
And strengthen the Spermatick Vessels;
Make the good Man so much inclin'd
To love, and so excessive kind,
That, least his 'Spouse should find a Nack
Of Jilting his prolifick Back,
He'd soon abound with such a Clutter
Of Children, that would make him mutter
To find them Milk, and Bread, and Butter.

This Plaister, I can make appear,
Is daily sent for far and near,
To help decrepit crazy Leachers,
And old decay'd F---k T---s,
Who've brought their Loyns to strength'ning Plaisters
By holding forth to H---y S---s.

Strange Wonders have I often done
By this Restorative alone.
An Indian Princess, in my Travel,
Was troubl'd so with Stone and Gravel,
That all Folks thought she would have dy'd,
'Till I most artfully apply'd
This Plaister to a certain Place,
Most proper in so bad a Case;
By which such present Ease was given,
That she cry'd out, she was in Heaven!
Well might she breathe forth this Expression,
For by my pow'rful Application,
I made her void a Stone, in fine,
Almost as big as both of mine;
Which when she'ad done, she did arise
From her rich Couch, and kiss'd me twice;

Gave me a Jewel for a Token,
Worth more than yet I ever spoke on.

Once, when I'd travell'd from Majorquy
With Don Sabastine, into Turky,
B'ing much perswaded by a Couple
Of Bassa's at Constantinople,
We walk'd to the Grand Seignior's Court,
Where he and all his Train resort,
But found him roaring on the Wrack,
With a strange Weakness in his Back,
Got, I suppose, by's Carnal Sins
Amongst his Nest of Concubines.
Thought I, what tho' this mighty Man
Is a profess'd Mahometan,
And Tooth and Nail maintains that Libel,
The Alch'ran 'gainst the Holy Bible,
Yet Christians ought to do no less
Than help the Heathen in Distress;
Therefore, within my self, said I,
He shall not in this Mis'ry lie;
Tho' he's a Turk, I'll give him Ease,
Let Turks use Christians as they please.

So step'd into his Presence-Room.
Most mighty Prince, said I, I'm come
To cure your Grievance in a Minute,
Or I'll be hang'd by this Day Se'ennight.
With that he gave a gracious Nod,
Bidding me do whate'er I wou'd,
And did so kind a Smile impart,
That shew'd him glad with all his Heart.
When thus the Grand and Mighty Turk
Had giv'n me leave to go to work,
This Plaister only I apply'd
Above his Rump from Side to Side,
Which in a Moment's Time reliev'd him
Of all the wracking Pains that griev'd him,
Whilst those about him stood amaz'd,
And on the Christian Doctor gaz'd,
As if I'd been some Angel, sent
From Heav'n to ease his Punishment:
With that the Seignior humbly bow'd,
I'm well, says he, by all that's good;
Then rising from his Royal Chair,
He thank'd me for my Skill and Care,

And from his own left Side he drew,
And gave to me in publick View,
This Bucks-horn handl'd Scymiter,
Which, to my Honour, now I wear;
Besides, a Purse of Gold, I'm sure,
That at my Lodgings cost me more
Than six full Hours to tell it o'er.
A thousand Wonders more than these,
This Salve has done beyond the Seas,
Besides the mighty Cures at Home,
And other Parts of Christendom;
But that I hate to tire your Patience
With long impertinent Relations.

Thirdly, Observe this little Paper,
Which, without Flatt'ry, Boast, or Vapour,
Contains, I justly may assert,
The very Miracle of Art;
That is, my Pulvis Mineralis,
Prepar'd from Hodge Podge Infernalis.
We Men of Learning, and of Skill,
Sometimes in crabbed Words must deal;

For should we talk in Terms more plain,
How would th' illit'rate Vulgar then
Know we're more learn'd than other Men.

But as to this Vermatick Powder,
More fam'd in Wales, than Owen Tudor,
For curing those that are afflicted
With Worms, to which they're much addicted;
Gen'rated chiefly from the Lees
Of stinking Leeks, and toasted Cheese.
This very Med'cine, I assert, is
Worth the whole Indies for its Virtues;
For what avails the greatest Wealth
To him that cannot purchase Health;
But note, that either Man or Woman,
Marry'd or not, reserv'd or common,
Breeding or kibbed, sick or lazy,
Maids, Jades, or Thornbacks, crank or crazy,
Green-sickness Wenches, young or old Boy,
From swaddl'd Infant, to the tall Boy;
All Ages, Sexes, Rich or Poor,
If troubled with the Worms, I'm sure
This Powder is a speedy Cure.

If, I confess, implys a Doubt,
When not one Mortal lives without;
For Worms, as says the famous Harvey,
Are Epidemick as the Scurvy,
And destroy more, upon my Word,
Than Famine, Pestilence, or Sword.

Pale languid Looks, and fainting Fits,
False and Voratious Appetites,
Vomiting, Looseness, Trembling, Griping,
Laziness, and immod'rate Sleeping,
Want of Digestion, craving Drowth,
Dull Eyes, dry Lips, and feav'rish Mouth,
Unsav'ry Belches after Drinking,
Foul Stomach, and a Breath that's stinking,
All these are Symptoms, that will tell ye
You've crawling Insects in your Belly,
Nor is it there alone, we know,
That these destructive Vermin grow.
But also in the Tail and Head,
That these intestine Monsters breed.
This makes young Wenches so unsettl'd,
When the Worm bites, their Rumps are nettl'd.

So Maggots, that in Brains lie lurking,
Who, like to Ants, are always working,
Prey on the Fibres by degrees,
As hungry Vermin nibble Cheese,
'Till, to the Patient's great Abuse,
They've let th' Immagination loose;
Which wanting Bounds, confounds, we see,
The Judgment, and the Memory.
This is the Cause of Mens Distractions,
And all their wild and wicked Actions.
Therefore, if you would guard your Senses
Against these dreadful Consequences,
Take this my Powder, and 'twill clean ye
From all those knawing Plagues within ye,
And purge off those Vermatick Juices,
And slimy Dregs, thro' Nature's Sluces,
That breed these Vermin, which we find
So daily fatal to Mankind.

Once in my Travels, I remember,
Thro' China, in the Month December,
The King of Tunquin's eldest Daughter,
By eating Trash, and drinking Water,

Was troubl'd with such griping Pains
About her Bowels and her Reins,
That not her Father's best Physician
Could judge the Cause of her Condition;
At last, she hearing of the Fame
Of Doctor Mendax, that's my Name,
Sent to my Inn two Maids of Honour,
To beg that I would wait upon her.
With that I posted to the Court,
Rev'renc'd by all the nobler Sort;
And when I'd felt her Pulse, and view'd her,
I gave her but one Dose of Powder,
Which in six Minutes time, or less,
Caus'd her to void, I do profess,
A Worm so like a Female Child,
That all the gazing Courtiers smil'd;
Whose monst'rous Figure you may see
Portray'd in Parey's Surgery.

Dutch Fro's in Numbers have I cur'd
Of Gripings scarce to be endur'd;

B' infusing this in Drams of Nantz,
I've cleans'd their Wombs, and scowr'd from thence
Whole Nests of Suterkins at once.

On Rich and Poor about this Town,
Strange Wonders has this Powder done,
And by its Medicinal Strength,
Has brought forth Worms ten Foot in Length,
Whose true Description you may see
In my renown'd Epitome
Of Clark's Vermatick History.

Therefore, if you would healthy be,
With this small Paper you may free
Your Selves and Children in your Arms,
From these destructive Swarms of Worms,
Who else like Canibals will treat ye,
Destroy ye first, and after eat ye.

My last rare Med'cine, and the best,
Fam'd thro' the World above the rest,
Is to all Courts and Kingdoms known
By th' Name of my Orvieton.
Within this Pot such Virtues dwell,
Too num'rous for my Tongue to tell;

And if its Worth I can't explain,
I'm sure no Mortal living can:
'Tis richer than a Mine of Gold,
Tho' 'tis but for a Trifle sold.
'Tis ev'ry Med'cine you can name,
And will for ever be the same:
'Tis neither bitter, sharp, nor fulsome,
But toothsome, and divinely wholsome,
Yet after all 'tis but a Balsam;
But such I'd have the World to know,
That no Dispensary can show;
For this has more Ingredients in it,
Than I could name by this Day Se'ennight,
And has more Gifts, or Virtues rather,
Than all their Med'cines put together.

In the first place, 'tis known of old
To expel Poysons hot or cold,
As Arsnick, Vitriol, Antimony,
Tho' working ne'er so vi'lent on ye;
Mercury crude or sublimated,
Dulcify'd or precipitated,

From Herbs or Insects drawn or bruis'd,
Given mix'd, simply, or infus'd;
Cantharides or Aqæ Fortis,
No matter what destructive sort 'tis:
This inwardly apply'd, will cure
The dying Patient in an Hour,
Or else will I be found to forfeit
My All, and leave my self with bare Feet;
And that's much more, my Servants know,
Than some Physicians have to show.

All Bites of Serpent, Snake, or Adder,
Nute, Scorpion, Slow-worm, Toad, or Spider,
Pelonga, Noy, or Cockatrice,
That darts her Venom with her Eyes;
Of Basalisk, or Salamander,
Whose Coldness damps the burning Cinder;
Of Crocadile, or Aligator,
Or any other hurtful Creature,
That are by Nature Serpentine,
Or to that Hellish Brood a kin:
Sting of a Hornet, Bee, or Wasp,
Nat, Bug, Tarantula, or Asp;

Wound of a poyson'd Launce or Dart,
Chew'd Bullet, tho' in any Part,
This Pot of Balsam, I'll maintain it,
By th' Herbs, Drugs, Oils, and Spices in it,
Will cure, to th' Patient's Heart's Desire,
As sure as Water quenches Fire:
Warm it but o'er a Candle's Flame,
So outwardly apply the same,
And if you find it does not do
The wond'rous Cures I promise you,
Then I'll be hang'd, and my Horse too.

The King of Siam, by his Queen
Poyson'd, because behind the Skreen
She found he 'ad us'd some am'rous Sport
With a fair Lady of his Court;
Tho' swell'd as big, I dare rely on't,
As Elephant, or Guild-Hall Giant,
So that his Sides, in spite of Chaffing,
Burst out, you must not think with Laughing;
Yet did this Balsam, I assure ye,
(The same that I expose before ye,)

In half an Hour his Health recover,
And made him full as sound as ever;
For which I gen'rously was paid;
And if in Siam I'd have stay'd,
He would have given me a Pension
Too tempting, and too large to mention.
Craz'd Lovers, poor dejected Varlots,
Old starving Bawds, discarded Harlots,
Moaping Enthusiastick Priests,
Mad Athiests, and despairing Deists;
Ambitious States-men disappointed,
Old Bankrupt Traders quite disjointed;
Young spendthrift Beaus, by Friends rejected,
Maids got with Child, and then neglected,
When poyson'd by themselves in Passion,
Mov'd by the Devil's Instigation;
This Antidote, upon my Word,
Has not alone their Health restor'd,
But brought 'em to their perfect Sense,
As all the World can Evidence.

Therefore, if you preserv'd would be
From all these Ills and Dangers free,

Win it, and wear it, buy it, take it;
Such Health you'll find in this small Packet,
That in the worst Distress, will never
Fail ye, but make you live for ever:
All for a trivial Sum I sell ye,
So small, that I'm asham'd to tell ye,
For 'tis not Money that I value;
I travel for the Good o' th' Poor,
And scorn to ask a Farthing more
Than one small Six-pence for the four;
And four such Med'cines, I am sure,
So safe, so excellently pure,
So well prepar'd, so truly good,
Were never us'd since Noah's Flood.
You that neglect, will wish you'd had 'em:
You're welcome, Sir. Your Servant, Madam.

FINIS.

2. Part the Second.

CANTO II.

The bouncing Quack's alluring Babble
Prevailing with the list'ning Rabble,
Old coughing Fools, and crazy Nurses,
Began apace to draw their Purses,
Hoping that now they should be freed
From Corns, and Coughs, and aching Head,
And all the Plagues that wait each Day
On Age, hard Labour, and Decay,
Believing, as the Doctor said,
They now should be immortal made;

And that his universal Medly,
Were the Distemper ne'er so deadly,
Would cure 'em, and prolong their Breath,
In spite of Sickness, and of Death.
So easy is it to delude
A poor unthinking Multitude,
That if the Bait be but inviting,
The Angler need not fear their biting.

The wond'rous Hopes the Rabble had,
Made 'em whip Six-pences like mad.
Many amongst the foolish Crowd,
Fond to promote the Doctor's Good,
Gave in at once the total Sum
They'd got about 'em, or at Home.
So have I seen at Country Wedding,
When Blockheads for the Gloves were bidding,
An ostentatious Clown pull forth
His Pouch, and lay down all his Worth;
And when the tempting Prize he 'ad got,
Thrash'd hard next Day to earn a Groat.

No sooner had the busy Quack
Dispers'd his never-failing Pack
Of Remedies 'gainst every Evil,
Brought to the Doctor by his Devil,
And fortify'd the Rabble Rout
With Plaister, Pill, and Antidote;
But those, who to preserve their Health,
Had swop'd their little Stock of Wealth,
Were moving each their diff'rent way,
Some to their Work, and some to Play;
Others more lazy, lewd, and common,
To starve, beg, steal, or play the Woman:
But Andrew, wanting to entice
Their Stay, had fram'd a new Device
To fish for Farthings, when his Master
Had, by his Balsam, Pill, and Plaister,
Their Silver from the Brass refin'd,
And only left the Dross behind.
So the proud Sharper, very oft,
The better to effect his Craft,

His Lackey keeps thro' Ostentation,
And passes for a Man of Fashion,
Altho' he's often forc'd to make
A Meal upon a Mutton Stake,
Leaving his hungry Man to shift
With the poor Scraps himself has left:
So the Quack first secures the best,
Then Andrew fishes for the rest.

The Fool, to stop their moving off,
Invites 'em back with commic Laugh:
Ya hoy, crys he, you're plaguy cunning;
Why, where the Devil are ye running?
I find you, like ungrateful Friends,
Turn Tail when you have gain'd your Ends.
So to a Feast should I invite ye,
You'd stuff your Guts, and cry, Good bwi't'ye.
But hold a little, why so fast?
Methinks you're all in woundy haste.
Pray turn again, and hear the Tattle
Of two Town-Gossips o'er a Bottle.

“Says Madam Frisk, Come, here's a Glass
“To him that loves a pretty Lass,
“And dares to run thro' Fire and Water,
“To Kiss his Neighbour's Wife or Daughter.
“Come, fill a Bumper; where's the Hurt?
“Is not this Tipling, pleasing Sport?
“Says Madam Pert, I vow and swear it,
“These Men live rarely o'er their Claret.
“Come, t'other Glass: Upon my Life
“The Devil would not be a Wife,
“To steal a merry Hour in Fear,
“Or sit at Home, and drink Small Beer,
“Whilst ev'ry Night our rambling 'Spouses
“Shall tipple 'till they warm their Noses.
“'Tis very hard, says Frisk to Pert;
“But we as oft reward 'em for't;
“For when they're o'er the Bottle blest,
“Don't we provide a standing Feast,
“Which makes our Female Hearts as merry
“As theirs o'er Claret or Canary?

“But still, says Pert, a Cup o'th' Creature
“Makes ev'ry thing go down the better.
“Wine is the only hug me t'ye,
“That makes the Lover brisk and free.
“Kisses, Love-Toys, and am'rous Prattle,
“Are all dry Meat without the Bottle.
“Says Frisk, Two good Things, I must own
“Are better by a deal than one;
“But if I can't have both, I'll rather
“Content my self with one, than neither.
“But prethee put the Glass about;
“'Gad sa' me, who'd have thought 'twas out.
“Here, Drawer, bring us t'other Bottle:
“How this Wine makes us Women tattle!
“Could we but hear our Husbands chat it!
“How their Tongues run, when they are at it!
“Their Bawdy Tales, when o'er their Liquor,
“I'll warr'nt would make a Woman snicker.
“But hold; the Drawer's coming up,
“Let's put to our Discourse a Stop:

“Be silent when the Urchin enters,
“And look as grave as two Dissenters.
“Come, now he's gone, let's take a Glass,
“The Minutes flee away apace.
“Name some obliging pretty Health,
“That we can only drink by Stealth.
“Says Pert, agreed; let's both be free,
“And drink like any Quality.
“Here's to the Two that Kiss'd us last,
“Rememb'ring all our Pleasures past;
“And wishing those we have to come,
“May prove the best in Christendom.
“Well done, says Frisk, such a dear Girl
“Is worth th' Embraces of an Earl.
“I'll pledge thee, Pert, with all my Heart.
“'Tis pity we should ever part.
“I vow and swear 'tis charming Wine.
“Well, now I've drank, the Toast is mine.
“Come, fill your Glass, be brisk and airy,
“We've but a little Time to tarry.

“A Health to all those merry Wives,
“That keep up their Prerogatives,
“And fearless dare, like us, pursue
“Those Pleasures which their Husbands do,
“Without the Dread of Kicking, Cuffing,
“Or any jealous Cuckold's Huffing,
“And will at all times, Tooth and Nail,
“With Tongs or Ladle, Tongue and Tail,
“Maintain that Right which Nature gave 'em,
“In spite of those that would enslave 'em.
“Well toasted, Faith, crys Madam Pert,
“Here's the good Health with all my Heart.
“Cuts Bobs, says Frisk, my Brains grow addl'd;
“Hick-up, crys Pert, I think I'm fuddl'd.
And when thus drunk, the giddy Hussies
Reel'd Home to their cornuted 'Spouses:
“Then, How now, Wife; why, what's the matter?
“My Dear, 'tis nothing but a Vapour.
“You're drunk, you Sow; you reel and slabber.
“You lie, you Hog, I'm sick, but sober.

“Get you to Bed, you stagg'ring Beast.
“I won't, you Buck, at your Request.
“Go sleep, I say, you drunken Quean.
“You cross-grain'd Cuckold, what d'ye mean?
“Hussy, how dare you thus abuse me?
“Sirrah, how dare you thus misuse me?
“You Whore, be silent, or I'll kick ye.
“You Rogue, be civil, or I'll stick ye.
Rare merry Jades! upon my Life;
Who would not covet such a Wife?

Now, stay a little, and I'll tell ye
What Rarities I've here to sell ye.
Such Wonders will I make appear
From this poor little Packet here,
That have not hitherto been known
To any Conj'rer in the Town:
Yet I'm no upstart Albumazer;
Altho' a Fool, no Planet-Gazer;
That in this Coat has made a Sally
From the six Steps in Raven-Alley,

In this Disguise, to boast or brag on
My Female Fern-Seed, or Black Dragon;
For tho' I am a Fool, 'tis true,
That's nothing; be it known to you,
I am an exc'lent Doctor too;
Tho' I can't such Merit plead
As worthy fam'd Sir W--- R---d,
Or help, like him, the Blind to Sight;
Yet, be it known to that Great Knight,
My Honour can both Read and Write.
What, tho' I cannot Sole a Shoe,
As some Astrologers can do,
Or skip and tumble thro' a Hoop,
As well as Doctor Nincumpoop:
But thus much I'll be bold to say,
Tho' they the Knave can better play,
Yet I'll be bound to play the Fool
In Coach, on Horse-back, Stage, or Stool,
With the most topping, grave, and stately
Physician, tho' 'tis Doctor G---tly;

Yet did I ever scorn to boast
Of finding Silver Spoons when lost,
Or making Sigils, to secure
The buxom Jade from turning Whore.
That Word, I know, sounds something rough;
But from a Fool 'tis well enough;
For we, altho' we pass for no Wits,
Claim equal License with the Poets;
For Kings have Fools, that sometimes spare not
To speak what wiser Subjects dare not.

In short, I'm not about to cheat ye
With Juglers Tricks, or yet to treat ye
With Monsters, blazing Stars, or Commets,
But with strange Powders, Pills, and Vomits;
Such that have yet been never heard on
By him that has the oldest Beard on.
In the first place, this very Powder
Deserves Fame's Trumpet, or a louder,
Because, by its provoking Pow'r,
'Twill cause more Mirth in half an Hour,

Than all the Fidlers, Pipers, Songsters,
Young airy Harlots, Wits, and Punsters,
Were every one, to play their Parts,
And to their utmost shew their Arts.
Infuse in Wine, in Ale, or Beer,
The twentieth part of what is here;
Give it to Widow, Wife, or Maid,
Old Thornback, or the squeamish Jade;
And tho' before she seem'd to be
A Saint, all over Modesty,
Pious, reserv'd, morose, unkind,
Skittish, and coy, you'll quickly find
'Twill quite subdue her stubborn Nature,
And make her such an am'rous Creature,
That be she High-Church, be she Whig,
She'll nuzzl' ye like a sucking Pig,
And be so fond of him that gave it,
That tho' a Maid, 'twill make her crave it,
And plainly tell you, she must have it.

'Twill cause a Saint to quit her Pray'rs,
And dry up her repenting Tears;
To Love's Enjoyments so incline her,
That do but press her, and you'll win her
To turn a kind obliging Sinner.
In short, 'twill make the Trades-man's 'Spouse
Graft Horns upon her Husband's Brows;
Betray him, cheat him by the by,
And pick his Pocket, to supply
Some starving Stallion of the Town,
With Cloaths, and now and then a Crown.
'Twill make a D---s slight her Honour,
And let some Scoundrel live upon her;
Provoke Great Ladies to be Cullies
To brainless Beaus, and blust'ring Bullies.
This is the Charm that tempts rich Fools
To marry worthless Jilts and Trulls,
And draws the Man of G--- to wed
The Leavings of his Lordship's Bed.

This makes rich Fortunes from their Coaches
Fall head-long into Sharpers Clutches,
And prize the Dregs of their Debauches
Before the Man of Worth and Sense,
That wants the other's Impudence.
'Twill op'rate, us'd as I have shew'd ye,
From the Court-Lady, to the Dowdy,
As well upon the Dame of Worth,
That boasts of her illustrious Birth.
The Hypocrite, that's always pleading
For Honour, Modesty, and Breeding,
As well as she that's born to carry
The Milk-Pail from the Cow to th' Dairy.
'Twill make them all break Vertue's Chains,
And prize Mens Backs much more than Brains.
Besides, fair Dames, I'd have you know't,
'Twill op'rate on our Sex to boot:
On Scholars, Trades-men, Soldiers, Sea-men,
All sorts of Men, as well as Women.

One Dose will make a Fool despise
A vertuous Wife, that by him lies,
And give him a lascivious Itching
To ramble o'er the Town a Bitching.
'Tis exc'lent good for Ladies Maids,
Their Women, or their Chamber-Jades,
To give their Lords, when they would bob
Their Ladies of a merry Job.
Did they but know what pleasant Sport
'Twould make, it would be priz'd at Court
From the Great Leacher puff'd with Pow'r,
To th' humble P--- that guards the Door.

Let but the City Dame infuse it,
So that her 'Prentice may but use it,
And I dare warrant for a Truth,
'Twill so inspire the am'rous Youth,
That boldly, fearless of Disaster,
He'll make a Cuckold of his Master.
In short, 'twill so improve the Sense
With head-strong Lust and Impudence,

That by its Help, a Country Clown
May bear a Dame of Honour down;
And for his masculine Approaches,
Be made thrice welcome to a Dutchess.
One Virtue more, which is not common,
It cures all Barrenness in Woman;
Removes what does Conception hinder,
And makes her touch and take like Tinder,
Provided she'll be rul'd by Reason,
And be well plough'd and sow'd in Season.
Therefore, if any of you want
A brisk young Husband, or Gallant;
Or any Spark, to bless his Life,
Needs a kind Mistress, or a Wife:
Or if no Children you can bear,
But live in Pain to have an Heir,
Give but this Powder as directed,
Your Bus'ness will be soon effected.
Both Sexes may supply their Wants
With Wives, Whores, Husbands, and Gallants:

The poor Man's House abound with Brats,
As Country Barn with Mice and Rats;
And Parishes be fill'd with By-blows
As thick as Butchers Stalls with Fly-blows,
When every blue-ars'd Insect rambles
Abroad, to persecute the Shambles.

The next rare Instance of my Skill,
Is th' only Wonder of a Pill;
It purges both the Guts and Brains,
And carr's off all those pricking Pains
That shall at any time torment
The hide-bound Conscience of a Saint.
It widens all those narrow Rules
That check Enthusiastick Fools,
And qualifies their Minds, to take
All sorts of Oaths for Int'rest sake.
Warm costive Zeal it cools and supples,
And stretches all restraining Scruples;
Loossens all Sacramental Ties,
And all their Holy Force destroys;

So that they may Commune with those,
When Int'rest leads them by the Nose,
Whom in their treach'rous Hearts they hate,
And worse than K---s abominate.
It also purges from within 'em
All Notions of the Jus Divinum,
And scowrs off all such H--- C--- Matter,
As clean as D--- F---'s new Satyr:
But if without side you would be
From Fundament-Pollution free,
As my Pill works, and proves effective,
Be sure you wipe with his Invective.

It also stops all Veneration
For ancient H--- C--- Ordination,
And raises an immortal Loathing
To B---s, and their S--- Cloathing.
It also strengthens Head and Heart,
Tongue, Tooth, and Nail, and ev'ry Part,
And arms them with a woful Caution
Against C--- W--- and Devotion;

Strongly inclines them to prefer
Dull Hodge Podge to the C--- P---;
Provokes them to reproach, despise
Guides, who are learned, grave, and wife,
And makes them follow prating F---s,
That cant like K---s, and hoot like O---s.

Besides, as true as here we live,
'Tis a most rare Restorative
For any wav'ring He or She,
That's fall'n from their Hypocrisy.
'Twill make 'em sigh, dissemble, pray,
And Chapters read nine times a Day;
Yet shall they make it their Endeavour
To cheat and lie as bad as ever;
Look as demure as Saints, yet drive at
The worst of Vices, when in private.
If Holy Sister, wanting Grace,
By Chance supplies a Harlot's Place,
And takes a kind refreshing Sh---
Upon the Bed of lawless Love;

This Pill, if swallow'd in due time,
Shall quite extenuate the Crime;
Expel the Dregs of her Transgression,
And purge off the Abomination;
Restore her puritannick Face
To all its old dissembling Grace,
And cause the Brethren to believe her
As good a true-blue Saint as ever.
If any Pharisee among ye
Should meet a Sinner, that should wrong ye,
And fire the Tools of Generation
With some Venereal Inflammation;
Nay, tho' the vile Disease be rooted,
And you are ne'er so bad polluted,
Take this, 'twill qualify the Flame,
And smother all the burning Shame
So secretly, that none shall guess
Ye are defil'd with Wickedness.
This pow'rful Pill at first did I
Prepare for Saints, that trod awry.

Thousands 't 'as cur'd, I do aver it,
Who've sinn'd against the Holy Spirit,
And have been clapp'd in woful Case,
In spite of all restraining Grace.
Therefore I call it to this Day,
My Pilula Fanatica.

Thirdly, This small Venetian Bottle,
So prim, so pretty, and so little,
Contains a Beauty-Wash, not common,
The best that e'er was us'd by Woman;
Tho' she be ninety Years, or more,
'Twill bring her back to twenty four,
And so repair old wither'd Maids,
And set off founder'd wrinkl'd Jades,
That Bawds at sixty shall go down
With Country 'Squires at half a Crown.
Ladies or Dowdies, Wives or Lasses,
With Scarlet or Pimgennet Faces,
Tho' caus'd by drinking much cold Tea,
Punch, Nectar, Wine, or Ratifea.

This cures their Redness without fail,
And brings them to a charming Pale,
And so prevents all future Flushing,
That they may drink on without blushing.

Representing Whores and common Drabs,
Pepper'd with Pocky Itch, or Scabs,
Who have for Years been never free
From the Venereal Leprosy;
Let them but wash their Limbs or Features,
Disgrac'd with these malignant Tetters,
And this will renovate their Faces,
Rectify all those fretting Places,
That scar'd their Culls from their Embraces.

All Dandruff, Morphew, Scurff, or Tan,
Caus'd by Heat, Nastiness, or Man,
It fetches off from any Place,
And leaves the Skin as smooth as Glass.
All Country Jugs, with Sun-burnt Faces,
Brown Joans, and Wainscot-colour'd Lasses,

Droll Act'resses, Balcony Mounters,
Punks, Strolers, Market Dames, and Bunters,
Course Wapping Weather-beaten Trulls,
That ply amongst the Oars and Skulls,
May all, by th' Help of this same Wash,
Be made so beautiful and fresh,
That Sweet-hearts aft'r 'em will be crowding,
Like hungry Dogs to dirty Pudding:
Each Sea-Commander will be glad
To turn their Aprons up like mad,
Without consid'ring, or regarding
Whether the Friggot he is boarding,
May prove a Fire-ship, to decoy him
On Board, to burn him, and destroy him.

Besides the Virtues I have nam'd,
And for your Good aloud proclaim'd;
One more I am about to mention,
That most deserves your grave Attention:
If any kind young pretty Maid,
Upon a Couch, Chair, Stool, or Bed,
Should chance to stretch her Maidenhead,

So that, if known, 'twould be by most
Good Folks suspected to be lost;
Let them in this but dip a F---t---r,
And rub it round their st---g L---r,
And they shall find that 'twill restore
What they believ'd they'd lost before;
And do their Bus'ness ten times better,
Than Doctor N---n---ck's Allum Water.

Let any Mother of the Maids,
That deals at Court in Maidenheads,
But teach her Pupils this rare Art,
Which I so frankly here impart,
And the crack'd Vessel may repair,
If brisk and young, her broken Ware;
And pass her Maid'nhead, if she's sound,
To some lewd Fop for fifty Pound:
Nay, let her but repeat the same,
Change but her Eye-brows, and her Name,
And tho' a common hackney Jade,
This will restore the Punk a Maid.

Thus may she daily live a Whore,
And still cheat those that do not know'r.
Therefore I justly title this
My Stiptick Aqua Veneris.

If any Man, Wife, Son, or Daughter,
Wants my Pill, Powder, or my Water,
Now, now's the time for Saints and Sinners
To wash off all past Misdemeaners.
Old Leachers, Harridans, and Cracks,
To mend their Bellies, and their Backs,
Here's something that I'm sure will please
Wives, Widows, Maids, of all Degrees,
From lofty Whores, that ride in Coaches,
To those that live by their Debauches.
Yet will they cost you but a few Pence;
Take my three Prodigies for two Pence:
Buy 'em, they're yours for little Coin;
If not, they're still the Fool's, that's mine.

FINIS.

3. Part the Third.

CANTO III.

Autumn , that Raggamuffin Thief,
That blows down ev'ry fading Leaf,
And robs each fruitful Plant and Tree
Of all their pleasing Verdency;
Beginning now his searching Reign,
Which feeble Age endures with Pain;
Dreaded by all, whose old Debauches
Have brought their crazy Limbs to Crutches,
And fill'd 'em with repenting Aches:

'Twas then, when August near was spent,
That Bat, th' excoriated Saint,
Had usher'd in his Smithfield-Revels,
Where Punchionelloes, Popes, and Devils
Are by Authority allow'd,
To please the giddy gaping Crowd.

T' encrease the Numbers of the Fools
That thither flock'd in mighty Shoals,
I mov'd with the tumultuous Stream,
To view the Fair, that Devil's Dream,
In hopes to meet with some new Droll,
So Hyperbolically dull,
Play'd so prepost'rously and madly,
So wrong, so exquisitely sadly,
That I might praise it, when I'ad seen it,
For something very odious in it,
As Ladies do those ill-shap'd Creatures,
Dutch Mastiffs, for their ugly Features.

No sooner had I pass'd the Gate,
Where fetter'd Villains dread their Fate,

And enter'd into Gilt-Spur Street,
But such a Nosegay did I meet,
Arising from the Pig and Pork,
Of greasy Cooks at sweating Work,
Enough to 've made a faithless Jew,
Or freckly Scotch-man Keck or Spew,
Who are of Swine's-Flesh much affear'd,
E'er since the Devil drown'd the Herd,
And brought the Hogs he had possest,
To a bad Market at the best.
Poor Creatures so to loose their Lives!
But needs must, when the Devil drives.

At last I came into the Fair,
Where Crowds in such Confusion were,
Acting as if bereft of Wits,
Like so many loose Bedlamites;
Some squeezing in amidst the Rout,
And others elbowing to get out.
Fair Ladies clinging close to Cullies,
Jilts guarded from Affronts by Bullies;

White-Apron Whores in home-spun Dresses,
Link'd Arm in Arm by Pairs and Leashes,
Dogg'd by reforming Pimps, who watch 'em,
Hoping in some Intrigue to catch 'em,
That when detected, they might snack
The sinful Premium each poor Crack
Had gladly earn'd upon her Back.
Laborious Alley-Slaves in Swarms,
Their Trulls with Bastards in their Arms,
Squalling and roaring to be fed
With Apples, Pears, and Ginger-Bread.
Some pregnant Dames, well plough'd and sow'd,
Or, as the Scotch will have it, mow'd,
Were strutting with their Bellies big,
Longing, as I suppose, for Pig,
Brought thither to their Husband's Cost,
Least Hans en Kelder should be lost:
For how uneasy must their Lives
Be made, that stint great Belly'd Wives?

Young am'rous 'Prentic'd Beaus and Blades,
Stoll'n out with Cooks and Chamber-Maids,
To view the Wonders of the Fair,
And next, upon a Tavern-Chair
To take a Taste of Love's Delight,
And so walk home by Nine at Night,
One stepping in before the other,
Denying that they've been together.
So the young Lass, that bends her Love
Tow'rds him her Parents disapprove,
Steals out to Kiss him by the by,
Then seals the Secret with a Lie.

Old Cits, with jolly Wives and Daughters,
Young Jilts, with gen'rous Fornicators;
Fair Concubines, with keeping Cullies,
And Rural Swains, with Jugs and Dollies,
Jumbling and jostling to and fro,
Some from, and others to a Show.
Pick-pockets for a Booty diving,
Whores plying, Hackney Coach-men driving;

Cooks winding up their ratling Jacks,
Preparing Food for Culls and Cracks;
Some sweating very hard at Work,
In basting Meazly Pig and Pork,
Whilst greasy Pearls of Serum ran
From their Brows into th' Dripping-pan.
Who knows but Human Fat, tho' fulsome,
May make the Flesh of Hog more wholsome?
Since 'tis allow'd extreamly good
In Med'cine, pray why not in Food?

Others stood busy at their Doors,
In dirty Shirts, some fine, some course,
Tinctur'd beneath the Arm-pits, yellow,
By their own nauseous melted Tallow,
Each crying out with Boatswain's Voice,
Here's dainty Pig, and Pork that's choice,
Crisp, brown, and fine; most nicely ready:
You're welcome, Sir: Walk in, my Lady.
Then down he rubs his shining Hairs,
And drys his dripping sweaty Ears

Next, stepping nimbly as a Grig,
With the same Clout he wipes his Pig:
Rare Pig and Pork, my Lads and Lasses;
Walk in; step up, and take your Places.
So the poor Nurse, when she's in haste
To get her good Man's Dinner drest,
Does oft with shitten Dish-clout clean
The greasy Porridge-pot within;
Thus makes the Rag, that's once defil'd,
Serve both the Kitchen, and the Child.
Therefore 'tis said by wise old Matrons,
Most Nurses will be nasty Slatterns.

All sorts of Noises blended were,
T' improve the Musick of the Fair.
Drums ratling, Lott'ry-Trumpets farting,
And croaking Fools their Lungs exerting.
Young Flat-caps, with extended Throats,
Crying their Damsons, Pears, and Nuts.
Boys with their penny Cat-calls tooting.
The Mob at Merry Andrew shouting.

The Actors bawling to the Rabble.
A Riot here, and there a Squabble;
That twenty thousand wild Cats squalling,
Met at one gen'ral Catterwowling,
With a large Pack of deep-mouth'd Dogs,
Mix'd with a Herd of grunting Hogs,
In Consort could not have supply'd us
With Discord so confus'dly hideous:
Nay, Hell and Bedlam broken loose,
Could scarce so damn'd a Noise produce;
Or in a truer Emblem show us
The wretched State of those below us.

Next, I the wooden World beheld,
That did such various Wonders yield,
Built for imaginary Princes
To strut in Buskins, and in Tinseys;
From whence Philosophers might learn
To treat proud Majesty with Scorn,
And gaze with a reproachful Eye
On all their Pomp and Vanity.

For if a stroling strutting Ape,
Crept into an Heroick Shape,
Can to the Life, with graceful Art,
Perform a gallant Hero's Part;
And Punk, that lives by her Debauches,
Can represent some beauteous Dutchess,
Th' Originals, some foolish Puppies
May think no better than the Coppies,
So fancy Honour but a Whim,
Lessen its Worth in their Esteem,
And think all Grandure but a Dream;
For Peasants nothing truly know
Of Greatness, but by outward Show.
Therefore, what Notions must they have
Of a King mimmick'd by a Slave,
Or haughty States-man by a Knave?
None can a Giant's Stature guess,
That only sees his Picture less.

Thus gazing on the glitt'ring Trains,
Stoll'n out from bawdy Nooks and Lanes,

Where the lewd Punk and Jack of Dandy
Carouse at Night o'er English Brandy;
And Smithfield Queens, disrob'd of Pride,
In tatter'd Smocks their Honour hide,
'Till City Cull, with half a Crown,
Knocks all that Princely Greatness down,
That look'd so proud on slit-deal Throne.
At last, as staring round about,
With Eyes advanc'd above the Rout,
A pompous Train, in great Decorum,
Popp'd out, with an old Fool before 'em,
And march'd in State behind the Tony,
The utmost length of the Balcony.
The Zany, grinning, danc'd along,
To please the much more foolish Throng,
That crowded Ankle deep in Dirt,
To laugh at Merry Andrew's Sport,
Who labour'd hard t' oblige the Asses
With antick Tricks, and odd Grimaces.

A strutting, frowning, Bullet-headed
Brawny Bravado, next succeeded;
Knit Brows and a Majestick Scorn
Did his stern Countenance adorn;
And when his Eyes vouchsaf'd to throw
One Glance upon the Fools below,
The Favour which the Tyrant show'd,
Was with such Insolence bestow'd,
As if some frenzical Conceit
Had made him, in Opinion, Great,
And crown'd the Bully, in his Fancy,
Monarch of some strange Land beyond Sea.
So raving Bedlamites (poor Souls!)
On Beds of Straw in Piss-burnt Holes,
When miserably drawn beside
Their Wits, by an Excess of Pride,
Believe, when most bereft of Senses,
They're some strange forreign Kings or Princes.

The Cap the stalking Hero wore,
Was set with Bristol Jems before:

On top, stood mounted, most compleatly,
A Plume, to make him tall and stately,
Whose lofty cock'ring feather'd Pride
Nodded at each Majestick Stride.
Thus did he straddle up and down,
Like stalking Cock with copple Crown,
Looking in his fantastick Gere,
Proud as the crowing Chanticlere.
To add an awful modern Grace
To his broad Shoulders, and his Face,
His Head was drown'd in Horse-hair Wig,
Profusely long, and hugely big,
Which o'er his Back dishrevel'd lay,
To make his Majesty more gay,
Hanging from's Head, that Brainless Lump,
Some Inches down below his Rump,
Like the long Locks of Adam's Wife,
When painted by the Tree of Life.

His Roman Mantle, and his Dress,
Were so bedaub'd with Copper Lace,

That had the Metal been translated,
Which made the Mimmick so conceited,
It would have prov'd (some Tinker's Thought)
Enough to 've made a Porridge-Pot:
But yet beneath his Robes of State,
His Britches seem'd of ancient Date,
New vamp'd, upon this grand Occasion,
Against his Kingship's Coronation.
Nor did his Hands-Skoons well agree
With his Majestick Finery,
His Paws be'ng cover'd with a Pair
Of Gloves, clean wash'd against the Fair,
Which look'd of such a tawny Yellow,
Scarce fitting for so fine a Fellow.
But well ma' imaginary Lords
Grow saving, who have got no Hoards,
Since Quality use now-a-days
The very same penurious Ways.

Thus dress'd, with Buskins round his Shanks,
He stalk'd along the yielding Planks

In Shoes, which by their clumsy Tread,
Seem'd lately soal'd, or under-laid.
A good Shift too! for I have seen
A stroling Monarch, and his Queen,
In Country Barn, the Hobs amuse,
With but one Heel to both their Shoes.

A Princess next to her dear Bully,
Mov'd most Majestically slowly;
Yet at each leisure stately Stride,
She stretch'd her self most wond'rous wide,
To shew what Room there was between
Those Legs, where many a Spark had been.
Her wither'd Face, long blown upon
By half the Rake-Hells of the Town;
Publick in Stews, as on the Stage,
Decay'd by Physick, more than Age,
Was now touch'd up with so much Air,
And painted so divinely fair;
Improv'd by Secrets she had bought
In Viol, Box, and Gally-pot;

From whence, new Charms were plaister'd on,
To fit her for a Smithfield Throne.
Her Eye-Brows were to Arches turn'd,
Shap'd by a Cork in Candle burn'd,
Like Cupid's Bows, from whence her Darts
Were shot, to wound unwary Hearts.
Her Lips of a Vermilion Dye,
Look'd so inviting to the Eye,
That ev'n the very Words she said,
Must needs be tinctur'd o'er with Red,
The Paint was so profusely spread.
Her Cheeks, which knew not how to blush,
Were stain'd with such a charming Flush,
That none could see, for Paint and Patches,
The Reliques of her lewd Debauches.
Her Bubbies, which she forward thrust,
Boil'd o'er her Stays with very Lust,
That tho' she lov'd, behind the Curtain,
To sip off, now and then, a Quartan,

Yet none could view her, but must think,
O'th' two, she'd rather Whore, than Drink.
Her feather'd Plumes, and borrow'd Locks,
Gave to her Charms, new Baits and Hooks;
With Diamonds sticking round her Head,
In Southwark, at some Glass-House made,
Which added to her plaister'd Face,
Such a true Play-House Jilting Grace,
That her affected Looks, and Cloathing,
Would turn one's Liking to a Loathing:
For borrow'd Charms appear but Apish,
And Punks, in spite of Art, but Trapish.

Her Honour's Petticoat and Gown,
Were nicely made of blew Saloon,
Which had long since, without a Joke,
Lin'd some Lord's Coach-Man's Liv'ry Cloak,
which, thro' some botching Fool's Assistance,
Look'd most Refulgent at a Distance,
Embroider'd round with fine gilt Leather,
Or Tinsey pink'd, I know not whether;

Adorn'd with here and there a Spangle,
That made her glitter like an Angel;
In which the scornful Gipsy trod
As stiff, as stately, and as proud,
As Dutchess at a Queen's Cor'nation,
Or Lord Mayor's Horse in Grand Procession.
Her Train, from her posterior Grope-hole,
Was full as long as any Hop-pole,
Born by two Pages up, well known
To be both Bastards of her own,
Being either big enough to trot
For Quartan, or for Ale-House Pot,
Or watch the Door, upon Occasion,
Whilst Mother's at her Occupation,
Dealing to some young Cull above,
Twelve Pen'worth of her Lustful Love.

Next came a Pack of mincing Jades,
Attending as her Grace's Maids
Of Honour, tho' alas! the Title
Avail'd the Baggages but little;

For when their waiting Hours were done,
Then, as you were, Whores ev'ry one.

Behind these, came two Bully Hecks,
With feather'd Cock'd up Cordebecks,
In Piss-burnt Wigs, and tawdry Dresses,
Made fine with tatter'd Copper Laces,
From Skirts and Sleeves about the Edges,
Hanging like Sheeps Wooll torn by Hedges:
These were in Sight of the Beholders,
To Fight in Jest, like Train-band Soldiers,
'Till one was Slain by Dint of Tilt,
Without one Drop of Blood being spilt.

Next these, there came two cringing Beaus,
Ordain'd by th' Poet, I suppose,
To represent a fawning Sort
Of Flatt'rers that attend a Court;
Who were to humour in the Droll,
King Bounce, and his imperious Trull.

Thrones must have Sycophants about 'em,
Alas! there's nothing done without 'em.

The rest were sneaking Pimps and Slatterns,
From Tower-Hill, Wapping, and St. Kather'ns,
Who look'd as if they were, within,
To act the same they'd always been;
Thus play the Parts of Rogues and Whores,
And never change their Characters;
For true low Comedy best suits
A stroling Pack of Knaves and Sluts:
For she that is a Jilting Jade
By Education and by Trade,
Must needs to great Perfection play
The Part she studies ev'ry Day.
So he that's Roguish in his Heart,
Must well perform a Villain's Part,
Because it is his constant Pains,
To practise what we think he feigns.
But when a Scoundrel represents
A Valiant and a Vertuous Prince,
The huffing, strutting, silly Cur
Does so confound the Character,

And Vertue does so lamely shew,
'Twould make a skilful Audience Spew:
But when old Smithfield undertakes
To shew us Drunkards, Whores, or Rakes,
They play their Pranks so wond'rous well,
That they the Theatre excel;
Because we see in ev'ry Part,
Their own true Nature, void of Art:
But if they're rais'd above their Sphere,
And in Majestick Robes appear,
Their Heroes they like Bullies paint,
And make the Devil of a Saint;
Whilst R---s Slaves, or C---s Fools,
Well skill'd in old Dramatick Rules
Can alter both their Meins and Phizes,
Screw up to Kings, or sink to Niseys,
And be whate'er the Poet pleases.

Behind the strutting Train, appears
A hung'ry Guard of Halbertiers,

Old, Crasy, Spindle-shank'd, and Tall,
Long Nos'd, thin Jaw'd, and Pale withall,
Looking, with Eyes sunk into Sockets,
Like Ghosts dress'd up in Yeomens Jackets.
These were the ill-look'd Guard du Cor'
To Majesty, stalk'd on before,
In all the Risques the Hero run
Of Bayliff, Press-Gang, or of Dun;
Three Dangers, which his Royal Person
Ne'er car'd to Face, but turn'd his Arse on,
Lest th' Actions of such wicked Men
Should put a Period to his Reign;
For should they lay vile Hands upon him,
They'd first most shamefully Dethrone him,
Disrobe him next, and after Bone him.

The Hero thus, with painful Struts,
Led up his tawdry Knaves and Sluts,
Mix'd to improve the pompous Show,
With here and there a Rakish Beau,

Attended, as before you've heard,
With an old Candle-Snuffing Guard:
All moving, to allure the Eye,
In a long Train, as Wild Geese fly;
Each strutting Ape, and jutting Strumpet,
Stepping in Consort with the Trumpet:
To add to whose Bellonian Sound,
A Drum was beaten on the Ground,
By an old Red-Coat tatter'd Scrub,
To imitate the Kettle Dub;
From whose inspiring Tub-like Tone,
The Bully seated on his Throne,
Might fancy 'mself to be the Thing
He represented, that's a King.

Thus in their Pomp I left the stroling
Prepost'rous Mimicks to their Fooling,
Squeezing along the Fair, to please
My self with some new Rarities.

At length I made another Stop,
To view the Dancers of the Rope;

Fond to oblige my wand'ring Eyes
With Lady Betty's Legs and Thighs,
Exempt from any wicked Thought
Of Love's inviting Beauty-Spot,
Because, tho' am'rous, 'twas obscene,
To think of what was plac'd between:
Tho', when a Youth beholds the Punks,
In their alluring Smocks and Trunks,
I must confess, 'twould be no Wonder
For him to covet what was under.

Thought I, this is that Wooden College,
Where Impudence, instead of Knowledge,
Inspires the Buffoon'ry Fool,
Untaught in any other School,
To change his Comical Condition,
And Commence travelling Physician,
Who for one Fortnight in the Year,
Will still his painted Doublet wear;
And all th' eleven Months beside,
Does Quacking round the Country ride,

To kill the Sick, and darken quite
Those Eyes that had but little Sight.
But why should Men with such Derision,
Scoff Merry Andrew turn'd Physician,
Since the learn'd Doctor, bred at School,
Repugnant to the common Rule,
Does Vice versa, oft turn Fool?

When I had view'd the Ladies Limbs,
And all their Members, but their Whims;
Nicely examining their Faces,
Set off with Bridewell Charms and Graces,
Out popp'd a Damsel on a suddain,
In Colour like a Hog's black Pudding,
An Ethiopian merry Crack,
With Lady's Legs, but Sampson's Back,
Full Chest, broad Shoulders, Buttocks plump,
So strongly built, from Neck to Rump,
As if a Score of drudging Porters,
Could not have tir'd her strenuous Quarters.

Thought I, this black Infernal Maulkin,
Must needs entice the Mob to walk in,
For who'd not readily advance
A Sice, to see the Devil Dance.

The Male Performers Faces were
All stigmatiz'd with such an Air,
No Man could guess but, by their Looks,
Their Fingers must be Fishing-Hooks.
So that had T---r view'd the Vermin,
It would have puzzl'd 'm to determin,
Which by their Phiz'nomy was chief
Of their Degrees, Quack, Fool, or Thief.
One Caperer above the Rest,
In his high-flying Trousers drest,
With Hat squeez'd down upon his Block,
Turn'd up into the Tyburn Cock;
Had something in his Looks external,
So damn'd deceitful and infernal,
That in each Brow was plainly shown,
The Print of what he danc'd upon.

Thought I, if any thing there be
Of Truth in Phiziognomy,
As certain as that Forehead thine is,
So sure will Funis be thy

FINIS.

N. B. The Pastimes of the Musick-Houses, and the Humours of the Cloisters, shall be contain'd in the next.

4. Part the Fourth.

Near to this Hempen Dancing-School,
Where a fam'd Doctor play'd the Fool,
A Booth diminitive their stood,
Where Pigmy Actors, made of Wood,
Were leaning o'er a Canvas Clout,
And squeaking to the Rabble Rout.
As the two Puppets thus were sporting,
Guided by Hands behind the Curtain,
Young Coridon, from Country Farm,
With Phillis hanging on his Arm,
Dress'd up in all their Rural Pride,
As fine as Bridegroom and his Bride,

Were gazing round, to feast their Eyes
With the Fair's tempting Rarities:
No sooner had they fix'd their Peepers
Upon the Life-less Whipper-Snappers,
But Roger jogging of his Dolly,
And pointing up, to shew his Folly,
Cry'd out, Wolaw! there's little Folk:
Ads Heart! how prettily they talk?
Did'st ever see two prattling Fairies
Before, so full of arch Figaries?
Look, look, Joan, how the Vezons fight!
Who'd think they were so full of Spite?
What woundy Polts one gives the other?
Nouns, how he mauls his little Brother.

Says Joan, a Murrain take 'em both,
E'en let 'em fight it out, in Troth,
'Till one knocks t'other on the Head.
No matter if they both were dead.
These are the ugly Elves, that creep
At Night, and nip us in our Sleep.

I'm sure their Fingers I may rue,
They've often pinch'd me black and blue.
Prethee, good Roger, let's pass by 'em,
Methinks I tremble to be nigh 'em:
Faw, ill-look'd Urchins, out upon 'em;
Had I my Will, I'm sure I'd Stone 'em.
Thus Joan, be'ng not content to stay,
Lugg'd Roger thro' the Crowd away.
There's no resisting Female Force,
Grey Mare will prove the better Horse.

When thus the wrangling Clouts and Sticks
Had pleas'd the Rabble with their Tricks,
Out from a Door, or dusky Hole,
There popp'd a Head upon a Pole,
That had a much more frightful Phiz,
Than Magog over little Ease.
The Mob beheld with great Surprize,
The Paste-board Nose and painted Eyes,
Whilst frighted Children trembling star'd
On his huge Whiskers, and his Beard.

The Hoop-stick Body, that was made
To answer this prepost'rous Head,
Was of so strange a Mushroon Nature,
That it improv'd its growing Stature
At least six Foot in half a Minute,
By th' Help of some Device within it.
To this Gigantick monst'rous Figure,
Great as Goliah, if not bigger,
A Centaur, to improve the Face,
Came in, half Man, and half a Horse,
Like a Rehearsal War-like Trooper,
In Cloak that hid his Prancer's Crupper.
This little Mortal of a Fellow,
Scarce twice the Bulk of Puncheonello,
Mounted upon a Steed with two Legs,
That look'd most strangely with so few Legs,
Such as Droncanso oft has slain
By whole Brigades in Drury-Lane;
Arm'd like a Warrier, did appear
Fierce as Dragoon or Granadier.

This doubty Knight, in furious manner
Riding abroad in search of Honour,
Meeting the Giant in his way,
Began a cruel Bloody Fray,
And in his bold robust Attack,
Flung him so hard upon his Back,
That made his Hoop-stick Bones to crack.
St. George, so fam'd in ancient Story,
Could never merit greater Glory,
Or strut with more victorious Pride,
When he had thwack'd the Dragon's Hide,
Than did the little Don Furioso,
Tho' he perform'd his Part but so so.
'Tis true, the Fight was fierce, but short,
Th' unweildy Giant made no Sport;
Tho' arm'd with a stupendious Club,
Yet t'other gave him such a Drub,
That did his Paste-board Noddle wound,
And brought him head-long to the Ground;

At which, the Mob huzza'd for Joy,
And cry'd aloud, Well done, my Boy!

Thought I, what Monarch would be proud
O'th' nauseous Flatt'ries of the Crowd,
Who thus bestow their noisy Shouts
On such prepost'rous Sticks and Clouts?

When with much Pain the Front I'd view'd,
And elbow'd thro' the Multitude,
I rambl'd round into the Rear,
To see the hair-brain'd Doings there,
Where a young Fry of Mob I found
In Boats and Coaches, flying round
Between the Heavens and the Ground.
Thought I, this represents most truly
The Rabble's Giddiness and Folly,
Who tho' they earn their Bread like Horses,
Yet never fail to draw their Purses
To feed the Knave, that finds a Way
To please 'em on a Holy-day.

Thus he, who by his Wit advances
New Whims, to rock their tott'ring Fancies,
May be assur'd to gain his Ends,
And make the giddy Fools his Friends.

The subtile preaching-gifted Saint,
That can but humour 'm in his Cant,
And lift 'em up into the Air,
But nearer Heaven than they were;
Tho' like these Jim-cracks, in the main,
He sets 'em gently down again,
And leaves the Block-heads reinstated,
Just as they were before he prated;
Yet, thro' their Ears, he finds a Way
To pick their Pockets e'ery Day.

So Politicians form Devices,
And raise new Whims, to please the Niseys;
Then take th' Advantage of their Blindness,
And pass an Jnj'ry for a Kindness
So slily, that the foolish Throng
Shall hug the Man that does 'em wrong;

And with their loud Huzza's, proclaim,
In open Streets, his wond'rous Fame,
Tho' all his fair Pretences, tend
To gull and cheat 'em in the End.

CANTO IV.

Having thus gratify'd my Eyes
With these external Vanities,
And, Squirril-like, with Hazle Nuts,
Both tir'd my Jaws, and stuff'd my Cuts,
I squeez'd again into the Crowd,
Where Musick-Booths in Clusters stood;
Invited by the Organs Hum,
And Marshal Sound of Kettle Drum,
With Trumpets, Fiddles, Hautboys, Flutes,
That please the Ear with Scrapes and Toots:
Thought I, if here I pitch my Tent
'Till half an Hour or more be spent,

Something may offer worth my View,
Very ridiculous and new:
Besides, beholding in the Entry,
A dancing Female standing Centry,
Loose rigg'd in Petty-coat and Smock,
With leach'rous Brow, as black as Crock;
Her Skin unwrinkled, plump, and fair,
Pretty her Face, and brisk her Air;
I could not shew so much ill Nature,
As to pass by the tempting Creature;
But in I stepp'd, in hopes to please
My Eyes with her Performances;
Not doubting, but the active Lass
Had more Inducements, than her Face,
That would our Admiration raise,
And merit the Spectator's Praise.

Thus ent'ring, am'rously I prest
With gentle Hand, her tender Breast,
Which, thro' her Holland Smock, I found
Was so inviting, plump, and round,

That had she in another Place
Appear'd in some more modest Dress,
I should have thought the pretty jade
To've been, as Times go now, a Maid.
Then, putting by the Tapstry Skreen,
By Madam I was usher'd in,
Where more wild Projects were in use,
Than Hockley-Hole could e'er produce,
In order to delight the Rabble,
Who crowding swarm'd at e'ery Table.
Sots for more Brandy-Wine were bawling,
Whores for more Cakes and Cyder calling;
Some Sparks with Madams very fine,
Were knocking, I suppose, for Wine;
Others for Pipes and Candles roaring;
The Tapsters in a Hurry scowring,
With Jugs and Bottles, here and there,
Confus'd like Helpers at a Fire,
Who are so eager at their Labour,
That one Man jostles down his Neighbour:

The Trumpets farting, Bautboys tooting,
Some scraping, other Minstrels fluting,
Strings breaking, and the Fidlers fretting;
All lab'ring, stinking, fizzling, sweating,
Whilst noisy Crowds at Tables sat,
And with the Musick mix'd their Chat.

I'th' middle, Tumblers, Clowns, and Slouches,
Fools, Harliquins, and Scaramouches,
Were join'd with Dancers bred to hop,
Both on the Ladder, and the Rope:
So that should Fate decree, that they
Should live and die the self same way,
Their Exit must be in their Calling,
Either by Hanging, or by Falling;
For any Conjuror, that sees
Their Looks, and their Performances,
Would guess, without much Calculation,
They're under the Predestination
Of dying some way in their Station.

No sooner had I edg'd my Haunch
Upon a hard uneasy Bench,
Amongst a Crowd of Sots, half boozy,
With e'ery one his tattling Huzzy;
But from the Bar a nimble Imp,
Whose Countenance proclaim'd him Pimp,
Came scowring to me, and enquir'd
What sort of Liquor I desir'd?
I told him, Half a Flask of White,
Provided he could warr'nt it right.
Good, says the Rascal, I'll maintain it.
Sir, you shall have it in a Minute.
But when he'ad brought it to the Table,
Hoop'd round with Straw as thick as Cable,
I guess, at most, there might be in't,
Of Wine and Water, half a Pint,
Such Stuff that ne'er had cross'd the Ocean,
Each Glass more nauscous, than a Potion;
A cursed Scandal to the Vine,
That drank like Physick, more than Wine.

Thus he that is so full of Folly,
As to mispend his Time so dully,
Truly deserves (if they deceive him)
No better Usage than they give him.

I had not been two Minutes seated,
And by the Drawer thus out-witted,
But sliding to my Table came
A strapping Whore of Amsterdam,
With Buttocks like a Flanders Mare,
Dress'd in her Pendants, and her Hair,
Looking as masculine and cloudy,
As any Amazorian Dowdy.
Madam, said I, my Service t'ye.
Me thank you kindly, Sir, said she.
With that, I ask'd her to sit down,
Which she consented to as soon,
Displaying all her Belgick Charms,
In hopes to tempt me to her Arms:
But, Nouns, thought I, an English Harlot,
That stands the Tilt of ev'ry Varlot,

And turns up her insatiate Tail
For Brandy, or for Bottled-Ale,
Is a dear Angel of a Phillis,
To this Dutch bulky Amarilis.
The Face of this Batavian Trull,
Look'd broader than the Moon at Full,
Invelop'd so with Rolls of Fat,
'Twas quite as round, if not as flat.
Her Udders look'd more large and flabby,
Than the soft Bum of sucking Baby,
Swelling from Shoulder unto Shoulder,
Above her Stays, that scarce could hold her,
As huge East Dumplins, when they're hot,
Do o'er the Brim o'th' Porridge Pot.
Her nauseons Breath stunk worse than Carr'in,
Of oily Butter, and Red Herring,
So strong, as if her Mouth above
Had lately kiss'd the Lips of Love,
And brought from thence a fishy Stink,
Entail'd on that unsav'ry Sink.

When I had view'd the Flemmish Punk,
And prais'd my Lady Vanderdunk;
For Whores, tho' homely and ill-natur'd,
Are ne'er too ugly to be flatter'd.
Madam, said I, we often hear
There's a strange Diff'rence, you know where,
Between a true-born English Lass,
And she that is of Flemmish Race:
Pray therefore let me truly know,
Whether Love's Cabinet below,
For which we have such Veneration,
Varies an Inch in Situation?
Myn Heer, replys the smiling Fro,
If you the Difference would know,
Let us in private but repair
To some snug Tavern in the Fair,
And you shall freely, out of hand,
Be satisfy'd how Matters stand.

Madam, said I, you're kind and pleasant,
But truly I'm engag'd at presant,

Or else I should be glad to find,
To which o'th' Parties you're inclin'd;
Since you are free to let me know,
Whether your Whim be high or low,
Or that, like Trimmers now-a-days,
(Whom Knaves delude, and Blockheads praise)
You equally extend both ways.

The Fro believing from my Joaks,
I fancy'd not her Butter-Box,
Cock'd up her Head, took leave in Scorn,
To seek one fitter for her Turn;
And as the swanking Trull march'd off,
I view'd the moving Kitchen-Stuff;
But in my Life ne'er saw the Fellow
Of such a broad-ars'd Blowzabella.

The Fidlers, with their Chaplets crown'd,
Now gave the Mob a Cheshire-Round,
To which, a Sloven paw'd the Floor,
And us'd the same Steps o'er and o'er,

Scraping with's Feet the dirty Boards,
Like Dung-hill Cock o'er Stable Turds,
'Till the whole Company were tir'd,
And he alone by 'mself admir'd.
Next came the Miller, with his Wife,
And wanton Trull, that bred much Strife,
All hopping to some Tune about,
'Till with her Rival, Joan fell out,
And left her Dancing, to attack
The Rigging of her Spouse's Crack.
Betwixt 'em now, there was such Howling,
Such Clawing, Tumbling, and such Rowling,
So pleasing to the gazing Crowd,
That all the Rout laugh'd out aloud.
By which a wise Man may descern
The Temper of the Mob, and learn,
That nothing more delights the Brutes,
Than Battels, Quarrels, and Disputes.

The Dame of Honour next advanc'd,
Jutting along, as if she danc'd,

Dress'd up in good old English Stuff,
Set off with Fardingale and Ruff,
Such as good Hussifs, to their Praise,
Put on in old Queen Bess's Days,
When Peace and Plenty bless'd the Nation,
And Honesty was more in Fashion.
At length she stretch'd her Lanthorn Jaws,
And sung a Ballad, with Applause,
In which the list'ning Crowd were told
What noble Ale she brew'd of old,
And what brave ruby Noses won her,
When Madam was a Dame of Honour.
The Step, the Swinging of her Train,
The Jut, the Motion of the Fan,
The Bows, the Coupies, and the Faces,
The Wiles, the Smiles, and other Graces,
Which the arch Gypsy put upon it,
Were so adapted to her Sonnet,
That none knew which had most Delight,
The Sense of Hearing, or of Sight:

Besides, she look'd as if she cou'd,
Like other Female Flesh and Blood,
Oblige the Feeling at a Game
Which Modesty won't let me name.

Next these Diversions, in there came
A Man of Metal, and of Fame,
Dress'd up in Trunks, that gave us Hope
He'd work some Wonders on the Rope,
Tho' soon we found his Talent lay
A diff'rent, tho' a dang'rous way.
On's Shoulder he a Ladder bore,
So near his Neck, that many swore,
One Time or other it would cost
The Knave a Fall, if not his Last.
No sooner, with an active Slight,
He 'ad fix'd his Ladder bolt upright,
But up he ran, and made no more on't,
Than la Bee does to dance a Courant:
He skipp'd, and leap'd, and frisk'd about,
And so amaz'd the gaping Rout,

That all the Women were in Pain,
For fear a Slip should prove his Bane.
Well might they be so, since the Ladder
Has turn'd off many a handsom Padder,
And left the Wretches past all hope
Of Mercy, to the fatal Rope.

Next, a tall Slattern of a Blowz,
Pot-belly'd, like Westphalia Sows,
Came dancing on the yielding Boards,
Arm'd in each Mutton-Fist with Swords,
Which, by the Help of Candle-Light,
Glitter'd so terribly and bright,
That Jove, with his refulgent Beams
Of Light'ning, bundl'd up in Streams,
Or Furies, with their Scorpious Rods,
Stol'n out from their accurs'd Abodes,
Could not be better stor'd with Arms,
Or furnish'd worse with Female Charms.
To 'er Eyes, her Nose, her Mouth, her Chest,
She press'd the Points, that on her Breast

Such Pricks appear'd, which had they been
Elsewhere, the Marks had ne'er been seen;
For many stand a Push, that find
The Weapon leaves no Scar behind.
Upon her Toes, the nimble Crack
Turn'd, like the Flyer of a Jack,
That the Wind caus'd her Coats to swell
In Compass like a Tennor Bell,
Which wanted nothing, but a Clapper,
To make her twang at e'ery Caper.

Thus round as any Top she spun,
For half an Hour, before she 'ad done;
Then, with a Curtsy, stopp'd her Dance,
And peep'd about for scatter'd Pence.

Besides these various Whims and Humours,
Devis'd to entertain all Comers,
There were abundance more, not worth
Describing here, or setting forth;
As a Song, sung by an old Woman,
So ill perform'd, 'twould pleasure no Man,

An Indian Dance, with tomb'ry Basses,
Was spoil'd by four black ugly Faces,
With Time so false, and Steps so bad,
As if the Fools were drunk, or mad.

Four Dutch-men, of a bulky Stature,
As clumsy as they are by Nature,
With Bottles full of Brandy stor'd,
(The only God they e'er ador'd;)
By their sides, Knives for Snick-a-snee,
Whose bloody Weapons well agree
With old Amboyna's Cruelty.
These frisk'd about, and danc'd together,
Like pamper'd Hogs in windy Weather.

We also had, to gratify us,
A Quaking Song from Ananias,
Who sung it as a Man may say,
His Chorus being, Yea and Nay.

Two Punches next, with wond'rous Vigour,
Perform'd a Dance in double Figure;

Tho' I have seen, some Years ago,
The Fools out-done in Puppit-show,
Shame on such clumsy Flesh and Blood,
That are so far excell'd by Wood.

Next, the fair Lady climb'd the Rope,
Of whom I had such wond'rous Hope,
And shew'd her pretty Legs and Thighs,
To pleasure the Spectators Eyes:
But as she shook her nimble Feet,
The Rope, being full of damn'd Deciet,
Gave way, and let the Gypsy drop,
Most treach'rously, from off the top:
But Merry Andrew, standing ready,
Made shift to save the falling Lady;
Tho' some were apt to think, that she
Fell down by Choice, to let us see
How lofty Madams, full of Charms,
Oft tumble into Blockheads Arms.

Old Roger next, his Maggots shew'd,
To farther entertain the Crowd;

Perform'd, as Fame is pleas'd to say,
By that rare Artist de la Hay:
Tho' I confess, for ought I see,
A Clown may dance as well as he:
But 'tis too common to admire,
That Fame shou'd prove an arrant Lyar.
To crown the Show, we'ad Tumbling, Vaulting,
Mimick'd by Merry Andrew haulting;
And many other quaint Devices,
To win Applause from gaping Niseys,
Who, fond of Nonsence, and of Noise,
Punish their Guts, to please their Eyes.

Thus tir'd with all their vain Delights,
Their nauseons Dances, Songs, and Sights.
I pay'd three Shillings, in a Huff,
For my half Pint of liquid Stuff;
And to refresh with something better
Than this confounded Wine and Water;
To honest M---les's I repair'd,
Where, from true Judges I had heard,

His Entertainments, like his Wine,
Were very good, and very fine.

FINIS.

N. B. The Humours of the Cloisters, shall be contain'd in the next.

5. Part the Fifth.

No sooner had I pass'd the Curtain,
Which from the Rabble skreen'd their Sporting,
But all things nobly did appear,
As in the Royal Theatre.
The Booth with Tapstry hung all round,
Down from the Cornish, to the Ground;
Which did, to please the Sight, contain
Stories, both Sacred and Profane.
Each Figure with such Art was wove,
They look'd as if they'd Pow'r to move;
And that they'd stole away together,
From some illustrious Pallace, thither,

To grace the Revels of the Fair
With something marvellously rare.
Candles in order shone on high,
Like Constellations in the Sky,
Whilst gazing Mortals, with Delight,
Sate wond'ring at the glorious Sight.

The Musick was so well perform'd,
That every Tune the Fancy warm'd,
And so engag'd the list'ning Crowd,
That not a Word was heard aloud;
But by their Silence, I could see
The whole were charm'd with Harmony.

Thus pleas'd, the Hustings did I mount,
Where Persons of the best Account,
In Crowds were seated, with Design
To feast with Musick and with Wine.
As soon as I my self had plac'd
Commodiously amongst the rest,
For noble Red I gave the Word,
Which soon was brought me to the Board;

Good Measure, and delightful Wine,
That needed neither Bush nor Sign;
So brisk and fine, that better Claret
Is no where sold, I do aver it.
By th' time I'ad liquor'd down my Gullet,
And with two Glasses pleas'd my Palate,
A Brood of Swans came hopping in,
With Indians, to improve the Scene,
In order, and due Time performing
A Dance s' amuzing, and so charming,
That all th' wond'ring Crowd seem'd frighted,
And at the self-same time delighted.

Next came a Set of Clowns or Slouches,
Dress'd up in Black, like Scaramouches,
Attended with three moving Chairs,
That danc'd like Ladies, not like Bears;
Why not? for Ladies have but two Legs,
Yet they can caper with so few Legs:
No Wonder, therefore, Chairs with more Legs,
Should dance as finely upon four Legs.

Besides these many wond'rous Feats
Of Men transform'd to Birds and Seats,
We'ad Scaramouch and Harliquin,
As well perform'd as e'er was seen;
A Dance that does the Diff'rence show
Betwixt the High Fly'rs, and the Low;
Concluding with a zealous Speaker,
That out-cants Francis B---g, the Quaker.

A nimble pretty Maid, that capers
With a whole Magazine of Rapiers,
Enough to arm a Troop of Soldiers;
With which, to th' Wonder of Beholders,
She does a thousand pretty Fancies,
And picks her Teeth the while she dances,
From any Rags of Meat or Crumbs,
And never pricks or hurts her Gums;
Turning her Body on the Ground
With all her Swords, as swiftly round,
Nay, and much faster, I may swear,
Than Spinning-Wheel in full Career;

But who can view her, and not smile,
To think what's finely fann'd the while.

A Dance perform'd by Granadiers,
Where their whole Exercise appears;
Done with such Spirit, one would think
The Knaves had rather fight, than drink.

Amongst the rest, a spritely Youth
Danc'd with such Comliness and Truth,
That sure no Pupil of his Age,
Like him could e'er adorn the Stage;
For Shadow-like, himself he threw
From Place to Place, as if he flew:
In every various Pass and Bound,
Such strange Variety we found,
That each new Step fore-run Desire,
And gave us something to admire.
But if such Praises we allot him,
Pray what must he deserve, that taught him.

Rope-Dancing to a great Perfection,
Tumbling so fine, beyond Correction;

With more delightful Shews of Art,
Than I have Leisure to insert:
From Noise, and all Disorder free,
Perform'd with so much Modesty,
That even Quakers ventur'd in,
And thought the harmless Sport no Sin;
But ev'ry Person, when they went
Away, express'd so much Content,
That no Man grutch'd the Coin he spent.

CANTO V.

Reviv'd with Musick, and with Wine,
I mov'd, about the Hour of Nine,
From thence, into the neighb'ring Cloisters,
Where Bullies, full of Oaths and Blusters,
And well kept Punks, of high Degree,
Were mix'd with Rakes of Quality.

Cullies flock'd into Shops in Crowds,
With Jilting Beauties, mobb'd in Hoods,
Who join'd to purchase some new odd Thing,
A Snuff-Box, Thimble, or a Bodkin:
Then on the Compter, or a Table,
They raffl'd for the Silver Bauble.
The Beaus the greatest Hazard run;
The cunning Punks had two to one;
For when they could not win the Prize
By the kind Fortune of the Dice,
They'd Arts to crave it with their Eyes:
For soothing Ladies, when they long
For what's improper for the Tongue,
Their very Looks will make Complaint,
And tell us what it is they want.

Thus, as I elbow'd too and fro,
Like Country Hob at Lord May'r's Show,
Viewing the Shops on ev'ry side,
Where Lasses, in their utmost Pride,

Sate dizen'd up, to please the Sight
With borrow'd Charms, by Candle-light,
Painted and patch'd like Play-house Queens,
And smooth'd by other artful Means,
That those who were to Shops confin'd,
Might look as tempting and as kind,
As Ladies strol'd from Nooks and Allies,
Reaking from Highway-men and Bayli's,
Whose Vices blushing in their Faces,
Gave Colour to their wanton Graces.

Amongst the strange promiscuous Crowd,
That dress'd in Quirpo, hither flow'd,
Non-fighting Bullies, Cloth'd in Red,
Fit only for a Lady's Bed,
Swagger'd about from Punk to Harlot,
To pay their Compliments in Scarlet.
Women and Mackrel, some Folks say,
Are to be caught the self same way;
Bait but your Hook with Soldier's Cloth,
And you may eas'ly take 'em both.

These Marshal, strutting, Bully Huffs,
Sniffing their fashionable Snuff,
Stunk worse of nasty Portuguese,
Than Beggars do of Bread and Cheese;
Whilst beauteous Punks, in gaudy Plumes,
Refresh'd the Air with their Perfumes,
Borrow'd to help offensive Nature,
And make their tainted Breaths the sweeter,
From Orange, Flowers, Gums, and Spices,
To cheat the Noses of their Nisies;
Or from the odorif'rous Sweat,
(Occasion'd by a lustful Heat)
That drips, as common Fame relates,
From th' Arses of Moscovy Cats.
Hard Fate! that Woman should not prove
Sufficient to excite our Love,
Without such study'd Charms as these,
Deriv'd from foreign Brutes and Trees.

Madam, crys one Sir Foplin Fumble,
Your Ladyship's most very Humble.

Faith, my dear Child, altho' it's Night,
Your charming Beauty shines more bright
Than all this dazling Candle-light.

Laud, Sir, replies the Jilt, 'tis pitty
A Man, so handsome and so witty,
Should spend his Eloquence to flatter
Such an unworthy silly Creature,
Who has no Merits to induce
Your Fancy to be thus profuse.

Madam, says he, I vow and swear
I'm taken with your very Air.
Prethee, my Dear, let's go and tattle,
For a few Minutes, o'er a Bottle;
For Beauty, when inspir'd with Wine,
Does always most refulgent shine;
It adds a Liveliness that's wanting,
Like Varnish to a piece of Painting;
Besides, a merry Cup o'th' Creature,
Yields great Advantages to Nature;

Heightens our am'rous Inclinations,
And gives a Fillip to our Passions.
Come, lend's your Hand, let's march, my Dear;
There's nothing but Confusion here.

Dear Sir, says Madam, let me court ye
To take a Coach, because it's dirty.

For certain, Lady, crys the Cully;
And so away he led his Dolly,
To run the Hazard, I suppose,
Of both his Pocket, and his Nose.

Dear Angel, crys another Fop,
Let's step into yon Raffling Shop;
Methinks you look with such good Nature,
And shew such Luck in ev'ry Feature,
That if you'll throw the Dice, instead
Of me, I'll venture on your Head.
Sir, replies Phillis, since you guess
That I'm attended with Success,
My best Endeavours will I use,
But don't you blame me, if I loose;

For whatsoe'er depends on Fortune,
Is very doubtful, and uncertain:
You know she's of the fickle Gender,
And sometimes little Things offend her.
Howe'er, I'll try with all my Heart.
Madam, says he, I thank you for't.
But, Sir, returns the merry Jade,
Tho' Woman lends her utmost Aid,
Yet, thro' ill Luck, we often find
Things will not happen to our Mind:
However, if you please to try me,
I'll shake the Box, if you'll stand by me.
Thank you, my Dear, the Spark replies;
Do you but hustle well the Dice,
And tho' I loose, as I'm a Sinner,
Your pretty Self shall be a Winner.
So stepping in, where Punks and Beaus,
With Satan's Bones were vying Throws,
Amongst the Gamesters, that were sporting,
They crowded in to try their Fortune,

By way of Preface to a Game,
Which Modesty won't let me name.

Thus some with merry Cracks were tatling,
Others the Devil's Ribs were ratling:
Young Harlots saunt'ring, Bullies huffing,
Beaus ogling ev'ry Jilt, and snuffing.
Some very humbly bowing down
To common Strumpets of the Town,
Whose highest Price was half a Crown;
But would not show themselves unwilling,
In these hard Times, to earn a Shilling.
These curts'ing, in Return to those,
Who tip'd their Fingers to their Nose,
Seeming by these their sly Behaviours,
To thank the Ladies for their Favours,
Which they'd so lately been possessing;
They could not yet forget the Blessing;
So gave that Item, by the by,
Assisted with a winking Eye,

As the most private thankful Token
For what's to fulsome to be spoken.

Thus Bullies, Cullies, Knaves, and Fools,
Campaigners, Gamesters, cringing Owles;
Town-Sharpers, Divers, Beaus, and Boobies,
Pimps, Panders, Stallions, brawny Loobies,
Were mix'd with sundry Sorts and Sizes
Of trading Punks of diff'rent Prizes:
Old Harradans, young tempting Jades,
Wives, Widows, but alas! few Maids;
Jilts, Shoplifts, Files, and brimstone B---es,
Old Bawds, worse wrinkled than old Witches,
Cloking their Coives with modest Dress,
And outward Signs of Holiness;
With each a young Jilt following after,
Who passes for the darling Daughter;
But he that trys, is sure to find
The Bawd before, the Whore behind.
Amongst the rest o'th' revel Rout,
Two crazy Watch-men crawl'd about;

The Beadle, with his Staff, before 'em,
To keep the Crowd in due Decorum;
For in so dangerous a Place,
Where Men want Honour, Women Grace,
'Tis fit, if they'd prevent a Pother,
To set some Knaves to watch the other.

At last, when I, with much ado,
Had squeez'd and shuffl'd almost thro',
Within a Shop at that same End,
That does tow'rds Little Brittain tend,
I saw a Crowd of Beaus and Ladies,
Young spend-thrift Heirs, and grave old Daddies;
All helter skelter, closely mix'd,
With Butchers here and there betwixt:
Without side, Pennyless Beholders,
Leaning o'er one another's Shoulders,
To see who Fortune blest or crost;
What Sharper won, what Blockhead lost.
I crowded in amongst the Rakes,
And stood behind the Gamesters Backs,

Looking with Pain on tip-toe over,
That I their Pastime might discover;
At last, with very much ado,
Stretching my Neck, I gain'd a View,
And found the Whim was something new;
A Bite more knavish than the Oak,
That has so many Hundreds broke:
But I'll say that for English Men,
Tho' bubbl'd ne'er so oft, 'tis plain
New Cheats will gull 'em o'er again.
This Fraud, to humour Human Folly,
Had the Dutch Name of, Rowly Powly;
And if the bless'd Invention came
From Amster, or from Rotterdam,
Sure 'twould make all, but Men of Gotham,
Mistrust some Rog'ry in the Bottom;
For what new Projects can we borrow
From Holland, but to England's Sorrow?
'Tis true, the Table, some will swear,
Is Mathematically fair,

And does conceal as little Guile,
As we can find in Cross and Pile.
What then? Let half a Score go play,
With ten Pounds each, for half a Day,
And they shall ev'ry one, for certain,
Come Loosers off, in spite of Fortune;
For he that keeps the gainful Bauble,
Whose Judgment's to decide each Squabble,
Who runs no Hazard, but of kicking,
For false, or for untimely speaking.
His Odds of Twelve-pence in the Seven,
Will make the Gamesters Moneys even;
And in Success of Play, his Fee
Will break 'em all insensibly.
Therefore, altho' the Table's fair,
The Figures plac'd upon the Square,
The Ball unbyass'd in its running,
Yet still the Keeper's bloody cunning.
Then since out-witted I must be,
If once I play; what is't to me,

Whether the Board be foul, or him
A tricking Knave, that keeps the Whim:
If in the main I'm chous'd and cheated,
What matt'r is't where the Rog'ry's seated:
Since betwixt both there is a Juggle,
In vain with Fortune do we struggle.
The Lucky have but one sure way
To save themselves, that's not to play.

The Time I thus stood gazing by,
Pass, or no Pass, was all the Cry.
Some Loosers screw'd, like angry Apes,
Their Faces into ugly Shapes,
Whilst others bit their Nails for Madness,
To see some Rivals win with Gladness.
A Butcher, plac'd amongst the rest,
In greasy Frock of Canvas drest,
As fat and frousy, I may swear,
As Hampshire Hog, or Indian Bear,
Sweating and reaking like a nasty
Horse Dung-hill in a Morn that's frosty:

His blubber Cheeks with Claret dy'd,
And ruby Jems so beautify'd;
His Face with such a Nose adorn'd,
Whose Colour vary'd as he turn'd;
And borr'wing diff'rent Rays of Light,
Look'd like a Rainbow to the Sight,
Changing its Beauty to the Eye,
As the Camelion does her Dye:
Sometimes 'twould, at a lucky Throw,
Like new-blown lighted Charcoal, glow:
But when ill Fortune turn'd the Scale,
The Snout, as Luck declin'd, grew pale;
Then by degrees would change as blue
As Damsons varnish'd o'er with Dew.
A Wig he'ad on, so very fair,
Made of Cow-Tails and Horses Hair,
Such as your Sweet'ners us'd to wear,
Whose yellowish Cast, gave such a Grace
To his ignif'rous Platter Face,

That as a Bonfire, I may say,
Well lighted on a joyful Day.
His Head appear'd the very same;
His Face the Coal, his Wig the Flame;
Or rather like a Beacon fir'd
Upon a lofty Pole aspir'd,
Because it truly may be said,
That bright and glowing Pile, his Head,
Was plac'd, or it deceiv'd my Eye,
On brawny Shoulders, six Foot high.

Next to this hockly greasy Beast,
Stood a young Beau, most nicely drest.
The Fop so scented, and so neat,
The Kill-Calf so besmear'd with Sweat,
That 'twixt the Slouch and his Reverse,
The two Extreams begot a Farce.
The melting Sloven cough'd and slabber'd,
And wip'd the Sweat from off his gray Beard;
Then haulk'd and spit, and blow'd his Nose,
Cleaning his Fingers on his Cloths.

Under his Arms, or on his Britches,
Rememb'ring that the Proverb teaches,
Who hoards up Muck, shall come to Riches.
The squeamish Spark, in Pain and Labour,
Stood nestling by his beastly Neighbour,
Looking upon him, now and then,
With so much Anger, and Disdain,
As if, like Canibal, or Hog,
He could have eat the nasty Dog;
Sometimes he'd damn the Board and Ball,
Confound his Stars, his Luck and all;
But all the while he curs'd ill Fortune,
He meant the Butcher, for a certain;
For whensoe'er he was enrag'd,
His Eyes tow'rds him were still engag'd,
As if he fear'd the Sloven's Frock
Worse than the Devil, or ill Luck:
Sometimes, to be the more at Ease,
He'd nestle from him by degrees.

The Butcher still would follow after,
And rub him, to provoke our Laughter.
At last his Choler being fir'd,
His Passion up, and Patience tir'd;
You ill-bred Sloven, crys the Beau;
What makes you shove your Betters so?
You're not equipp'd to thus appear
Amongst us Men of Fashion here:
You're only fit for that rough Sport,
Where Fellows, like your Self, resort.

The Butcher staring at the Beau,
Provok'd to be affronted so,
With Voice as hoarse as double Curtal,
Crys, Who are you, you smock-fac'd Mortal?
You taudry Fop, with Diamond Ring;
You little Thingum of a Thing;
You cow'rdly Cony-groaping Imp;
You little Lap-dog of a Pimp;
You Coxcomb buckl'd to a Sword;
Give me another sawcy Word?

And I'll, in Sight of the Beholders,
Knock off your Noddle from your Shoulders.
With that, Sir Courtly Nice withdrew,
And bid the Company adieu,
Shuffling away in Fear and Haste,
Mutt'ring these Threat'nings as he past:
I'll find you out in Leaden-Hall;
Your Nose will light me to your Stall.
I'll mark you for a Rascal, Sirrah,
Some other Time, if not to Morrow.
Which Words, the Butcher over-hearing,
Fell into a damn'd Fit of Swearing,
Concluding with, Good Night, you T---d;
I fear no Blockhead, nor his Sword.
So ill does gentle Breeding sute
With the morose unpolish'd Brute,
That should not Laws beget a Fear
To curb the Hatred that they bear,
Like the Pelonga, and the Noy,
They'd strive each other to destroy.

No sooner had the spruce young Blade,
Biting his Thumbs, his Exit made,
And giv'n a very timely go-by
To the Gygantick angry Looby,
But to the Cloisters I withdrew,
And walk'd to take a second View,
Hoping, amongst the Crowd, to find
Some new Adventures to my Mind;
But just as I the Board had quitted,
And left the Fools to be out-witted,
Amongst the Rout I heard a Cry
Of, D---n you, Sir, I say you Lye;
Draw, Sir; I say she is my Wife;
You never knew her in your Life.
Nouns, draw, tho' you are some Town-Bully,
I'll make you know, Sir, I'm no Cully.
Says t'other, You're a Scoundrel, Sirrah;
You dare not meet a Man to Morrow,
But only rattle here to Night,
Where no Man ought to draw or fight.

I tell you, Sir, I know your Creature;
I say, Sir, she's a Whore, no better,
And you're a Pimp to vindicate her.
At these provoking Bugbear Words,
Amidst the Crowd both drew their Swords:
Sirrah, says one, engage me fair;
Make Room, stand by, pray have a Care.
The Ladies squeak'd, the Beaus all drew:
In short, there was the Dev'l to do.
Thought I, by the ill Language given,
They're Rogues, as sure as Light's in Heaven;
And only make this noisy Racket,
That their vile Gang may pick a Pocket:
Therefore I wisely fac'd about,
And homewards mov'd, to shun the Rout,
Leaving those Fools to see fair Play,
Who had so little Wit to stay,
And run the Hazards of a Fray.

FINIS.

6. Part the Sixth.

CANTO VI.

Upon that Day, when City Mayors
Lead up the Aldermen by Pairs;
And when mechanick Dolts, to please
Their gazing Wives, and 'Prentices;
Creep dagling in the Dirt about,
Surrounded by the Rabble Rout,
Who move, in Tumults, to and fro,
To wonder at the Raree-Show;
'Twas then that I, t' improve the Jest,
Made up one Fool among the rest;

Without side warm, within side merry,
By th' Help of Wine, and Drab de Berry;
For he that trudges, to behold
The pretty Sight in Dirt and Cold,
And has no Right to be a Guest
To spoon up Custard at a Feast,
Had need have Wool and Wine together,
To save him from the piercing Weather.

Thus arm'd, the better to sustain
My self against the Wind and Rain,
In Case the Elements should frown,
And piss upon the s--- Gown;
Thro' dirty Kennels did I wade,
To view the pompous Cavalcade,
Beheld with Pleasure and Amazement,
From Sash Balcony, and from Casement;
I came at length into Cheapside,
Where beauteous Dames, in all their Pride,
Appear'd aloft, to grace the Show,
That march'd along in State below.

Heads upon Heads, were pil'd above,
To see the grand Procession move;
As if each Knot of fair Belinda's,
That peep'd in Clusters out at Windows,
Had been a Hidra, that was staring
To see the C--- go a May'ring;
Gazing so wish'ly at the Sight,
From out of e'ery unglaz'd Light,
As if each Lady, by her Eyes,
Expected to obtain a Prize,
And win some jolly strong-back'd Lover,
To please her, when the Show was over.
No sooner was I crowding come
Within the Sound of Kettle-Drum,
But to my Post I did proceed,
(Which was a very Post indeed)
Where strugling with some little Hardships,
I waited, to behold their Lordships,
Inviron'd with a Crowd of Fellows,
For nothing fit, but Sea or Gallows,

Who did so squeeze me, as they past,
Jostling along in mighty Haste,
Hugging me up against my Post,
Provoking with each Mobbish Thrust,
My Christian Patience to a Passion,
'Till e'ery Rib fear'd Dislocation;
Crying at every Push they gave me,
All fair. Thought I, as G---d shall save me,
You lye like Rogues; but was affear'd
To say so to the Scoundrel Herd;
For no Man, in his Wits, would squabble,
Or vex a giddy Hair-brain'd Rabble,
Lest he would hazard Mortal Drubs
From their unconscionable Clubs:
Therefore, the Man that has more Grace
Than that infernal cursed Race,
And mixes with those Sons of Thunder,
To gaze at any Sight, or Wonder,
Foolishly ventures Life and Limb,
To gratify an idle Whim.

I had not tarry'd very long
Amidst the rude unpollish'd Throng,
Leaning, for greater Ease, on Top
Of my defensive Wooden Prop,
But there advanc'd, before the rest,
A Set of Trumpets, richly drest;
Their Coats belac'd, from Skirt to Collar,
Like a Bride's Wedding Shoes, or fuller;
With two great Leading-strings behind,
As if to put the World in Mind,
That tho' we now to Men are grown,
Yet once we could not go alone.
These led the Van, each crown'd with Feather,
Tooting harmoniously together,
Adapting to the pretty Show,
A Tune, call'd, Cuckholds all a Row.
Behind 'em came a Porter sweating,
Loaded with Kettle-Drum, for beating,
And dagling at his brawny Rump,
A Master of the Martial Thump,

Who, to delight the list'ning Mob,
Gave now and then a sullen Dub,
That with the Trumpets bore a Bob;
Producing, at the Porter's Crupper,
Much sweeter Musick, than a Cooper,
When round an empty Tub he dances,
And plays us twenty pretty Fances;
Tho' 'tis, by jolly Trouts, confest,
The Cask that sounds the least, is best;
For by our drinking, 'tis a Sign,
The Musick which we think Divine,
Lies not i'th' Hooping, but the Wine.

Next these, a Gang of R---s, in Blue,
Came creeping on by two and two,
In piss-burnt Wigs, and flapping Hats,
Looking as rough as Counter Rats;
Some seeming drunk, and others drowsy,
Fing'ring their Collars, as if lousy.
Thus greater Vermin will pursue
The lesser Vermin of the two,

And, full of Malice and ill Nature,
Punish the little eight-legg'd Creature
For biting those decreed by Fate
To bite the poor Unfortunate.
A Louse, thought I, should Mercy find
From Serjeants, above all Mankind,
Because both live by one base Knack
Of catching others by the Back.
Therefore, ye Debtors, tell me, why
Should one be sav'd, and t'other die,
Since all the World, in joint Concurrence,
Detest 'em both with like Abhorrence?
O let the Louse forsake the Soldier,
To dwell upon the Bayliff's Shoulder!
And cursed be the horny Thumb,
That parts the Vermin and the Bum.

Behind these Compter-Caterpillars,
These Hawk-ey'd Shoulder-dabbing Dealers,
A gilded Mace, and monst'rous Sword,
Were born, in Honour to my L---d;

A Sword, which, if a Man could weild
The Massy Blade in open Field,
'Twould smite our Foes, whom we defy,
Like Sampson's Jaw-bone, Hip and Thigh:
But since it is too big by far
For Human Arm in bloody War,
We'll leave the huge pacifick Sword
To awe the Mob, and guard my Lord
To Church, or, if he thinks it fitting,
To the Jews Synagogue, or Meeting.
For since the Ruff of Moderation
Is brought of late so much in Fashion,
I shall be careful how I steer
My Betters, either here or there,
But let 'em free from Poet's Quill,
Be d---d or sav'd, which way they will.

The Man that bore this mighty Weapon,
Had got so fam'd a Custard Cap on,
That when I view'd the hairy Whim,
All Crown, without one jot of Brim.

The Man, thought I, that does advance
With this huge Cap of Maintenance,
Seems to the Rabble, in the Street here,
As if he was my Lord's Cole-Meeter,
Because he had, as some Folks said,
The standard Bushel on his Head;
For truly 'twas, in Shape, most like
That Measure which we call a Strike.
Behind this comely graceful Figure,
(No Dutchess could desire a bigger)
The scarlet Train, in mighty Pomp,
Most richly dress'd from Head to Rump,
Rid on by two and two, and made
A very stately Cavalcade.
The Lordly Brethren first advanc'd
On Nags, that to the Musick danc'd,
And carr'd their Heads with much more Pride,
Than those that did the Beasts bestride.
Next these, to make the Show more pretty,
Came all the Elders of the City,

In Gowns, to make the Crowd adore 'em,
That blush'd for some of those that wore 'em,
And hid at once, like Cloak of Trooper,
The Rider, and his Prancer's Crupper,
In order to defend together,
Both Man and Horse from Wind and Weather:
For Men of Mercy, you must know it,
Will even to their Cattel show it;
For 'tis a Sin, without Dispute,
To use ill Nature to a Brute,
Because bad Usage shows Dishonour
To him that is the Creature's Donor.

A Chain, at least four Cubits long,
Round ev'ry Elder's Collar, hung
Down from the double Chin to Navel,
Put on in Print, to please the Rabble.
From each wise Noddle, hung a Wig
S' extravagantly long and big,
That each grave Don had twice more Hair
Upon him, than a Greenland Bear:

On top of which, in Quirpo, sat
A broad Umbrella Pot-lid Hat,
Which bore the Print of Brush and Rubber,
To show 'twas newly furbish'd over.
So Greens, to please the active Bowlers,
Derive a Smoothness from their Rowlers;
By which it eas'ly may be seen,
Where, and where not, the Stone has been:
The sumptious Trappings of each Horse,
Hung down in Pomp, from Head to Arse,
That 'twould be difficult to answer,
Whether each Rider, or his Prancer,
Did most contribute to the Show,
Or which was finest of the two.
Some cry'd, Look how Sir Humphry Waddle
Sits like a Hog upon a Saddle!
Whilst others, more intent upon
The Horses, than the Men thereon,
Cry'd, There's a pretty Nag, how well
He carr's his Head, and waves his Tail!

'Tis true, the Women in the Crowd,
Would now and then cry out aloud,
There goes a handsome Man, I'll sweer,
Pointing with Finger to the M---r;
Passing that Compliment of Old,
Which ev'ry weeping Oyster Scold
Does on each whining Wretch they see
Drawn backwards to Eternity.
Thus some commended those that rid,
Others the Beasts that they bestrid.
So that I found my self unable
To gather from the gazing Rabble,
Which of the two gain'd most Renown,
The bridl'd Brute, or scarlet Gown;
Nor is it wonderful in Nature,
To find the Beast the wiser Creature,
As well as of a stronger Stature,
Since Balaam's Ass foretold much more
Than e'er his Rider knew before,

And in his strange, concise, pathetick
Oration, shew'd himself prophetick.
Therefore if in those pious Days,
An Ass (be't spoken to his Praise)
Could teach his Master to be wise
By supernat'ral Prophesies,
What modern Wonders may we then
Expect from Beasts, instead of Men,
Who sucking Poyson from their Nurses,
Are fond of new degen'rate Courses,
And lead more Brutish Lives, than Horses?

Thus the tremendious awful Troop,
Each Gennet's Nose in t'other's Poop,
With all their Mermydons before 'em,
Jogg'd on in State, and great Decorum;
Each with a Foot-man by his Side,
More for their Safety, than their Pride,
Whose Bus'ness was, to catch their Masters,
In case of unforeseen Disasters,

And keep their Coursers in their Ranks,
If subject to unlucky Pranks:
For well may Horse-men ride in Fear,
Who mount their Steeds but once a Year;
Especially since one kind Brother
Broke's Neck, as Warning to each other.
For this same Cause, about two Couple
O'th' wiser Elders, made a Scruple
Of riding o'er the rugged Stones,
To th' Hazard of their crazy Bones;
So left their Steeds lock'd up in Stable,
To th' Disappointment of the Rabble,
And came more safely in their Coaches,
Where Age, tho' lame with old Debauches,
Lolling, ne'er finds the Want of Crutches.
So wary Snails, that slowly crawl
From Cabbage Leaf, up Garden Wall,
To save their slimy Heads and Horns
From rugged Boughs and frosty Morns,

Travel with Houses on their Backs,
Like Northern Pedlars with their Packs.

Next came a Set of whiffling Fellows,
Trick'd up in Ribbons, Blues, and Yellows,
Which, like the Belt of Round-head Soldier,
Hung dangling from the dexter Shoulder
Down to the sinister Supporter,
About a Span below the Garter;
Each having in his clumsy Hand,
A Rod, like a Magician's Wand,
As if the Emblem was design'd
To shew what Conj'rers came behind;
For he that ne'er has been a Gazer
In Ptolomy or Albumazer,
May be well skill'd in Scenes, as Tragick,
And Hellish Arts, as black as Magick;
Or else some Men, with grumbling Gizzards,
Could never act so much like Wizards.

These were succeeded by a Noise
Of Trumpets, blown by Men and Boys,

With Drums, more terrible than Thunder,
Ratling, to raise the Rabble's Wonder.
Streamers, on Sticks like Kentish Hop-poles,
As thick and tall as Country May-poles,
Were born aloft by brawny Fellows
In Jackets, dress'd like Puncheonello's;
Those sweating Slaves to City-Barges,
For Silver Badge and sorry Larges,
Who live like the amphibious Otter,
Partly by Land, and partly Water:
These mov'd along with painful Stride,
Loaded with Heraldry and Pride,
Cursing the weighty Pomp they bore,
That made their Backs and Shoulders sore:
For tho' that Philosophick Slave,
Old Epictetus, was so brave,
His Master's Cruelty disdaining,
To bear all Pain without complaining,
Yet English Slaves are stubborn Fools,
That scorn such Philosophick dull Rules.

Good Usage only makes them humble,
For when they're hurt, they always grumble.

Behind these wrangling Sons of Oars,
(Mistake me not, I mean not Whores)
The Master, Ward'ns, and better Sort,
That make up the Assistance Court,
March'd on in Gowns well lin'd within
With Fur, tho' some say Coney-skin,
Because that Name, amongst the Wise,
Sometimes, in merry Mood, implies
A pretty little charming Creature,
That yields the richest Fur in Nature,
Or else no J---, to make Repairs
For the bare Loss of five poor Hairs,
Would gravely give, upon the B---,
Five Guineas to the plunder'd Wench.

Behind the old paternal Dons,
Whose Riches lay in Banks and Loans,
The Liv'ry Train, most grave and dull,
By two and two, walk'd Cheek by Jole,

Like Oxen yoak'd, who gently drag on,
By leisure Steps, a loaded Waggon.
Next, some with Hats cock'd up, to show
The Pertness of a City Beau;
Treading as nicely with their Legs,
As if the Streets were pav'd with Eggs,
And that they fear'd their weighty Heels
Should crack or incommode the Shells.
So have I seen a gaudy Fop,
Fit only for a Lady's Lap,
Dance cross a Street with so much Pride,
As if, at ev'ry Bound and Stride,
He scorn'd his dirty Grannum Earth,
From whence old Adam had his Birth,
Yet has his proud fantastick Grace
Fall'n down at last i'th' nasty'st Place.

Others, amongst this City Herd,
That in their short-back'd Gowns appear'd,
Lugg'd down their Beavers o'er their Faces,
And leering, made such odd Grimaces,

As if they copy'd some grave dull Pate
They'd heard in Independent Pulpit,
Where Block-heads learn, we daily see,
More Postures, than Divinity.

Others, more modest than the rest,
In blushing Looks their Shame exprest,
To see their Pageantry and Splendor
Only become the Rabble's Wonder,
Whilst those of Sense, the better Sort,
Made the dull Op'ra but their Sport.
These, by their Smiles, let others know
How much themselves despis'd the Show,
Tho' with their Company they muster'd,
Not for the sake of Pride, but Custard;
Therefore, like honest Men, they thought,
In common Justice, that they ought
To creeping, daggle with the rest,
And share the worst, as well as best.
So he that loves a Lass that's coy,
And would the lushious Feast enjoy,

Before he's welcome to be doing,
Must undergo the Plague of Wooing.

In this fine Order they proceeded,
The Grave, the Wise, the Bullet-headed,
The Old, the Young, the Rich, the Needy,
The pidling Puny, and the Greedy;
The Tall, the Small, the Fat, the Meagre,
The clumsy Lout, and Man of Figure;
The Crasy, Gouty, and the Corny,
The Cuckhold-maker, and the Horny;
The Spendthrift, and the plodding Looby,
The Nice, Sir Courtly, and the Booby;
All mix'd, to let the Rabble see
What wonderful Variety
The City can at once afford,
To give Attendance to my Lord;
Tho', 'tis believ'd, some hungry Sinners
Assembl'd rather for their Dinners,
Just as to Church the Beggar moves,
Not for the Lord's sake, but the Loaves.

In the same Order all the rest
Came after, in like manner drest;
Therefore, if you would understand
What farther Show there was by Land,
I pray let this Account content ye,
That two times Twelve makes Four and Twenty,
Because that Number does no less
Than all their Campanies express;
And if but one you chance to see,
In all their Pomp and Vanity,
The rest appear but just the same,
Distinguish'd by another Name,
The Colours that their Whifflers wear,
And diff'rent Ensigns that they bear;
But still each sev'ral Brotherhood
Are so alike, some bad, some good,
That none, but by their Streamers, knew
What Hall they did belong unto.
Therefore in my describing one,
You've all; and so by Land I've done.

But, by the way, some Folks may think
I'm sparing of my Pen and Ink,
Because my Muse forbears to write
Of Pageants, to improve the Sight;
But if you'd truly know the Reason,
They're Popish Jimcracks, out of Season;
Abominations, that displease
The Saints in pious Times, like these,
And by the Dolts, are held to be
Full as prophane as Poetry;
Tho', I believe, if Truth was known,
The Cits are such good Husbands grown,
That, to retrench their Charge, they made none,
And that's the Reason that they had none.

When I had stay'd to see the last,
And all the pompous Train were past,
To warm my Toes, I trotted a'ter,
To view the glorious Sight by Water:
Down to the King's-Bench Walk I hasted,
Where many a Sharper's Hours are wasted,

And by those odorif'rous Huts,
Where reeling Students ease their Guts,
I starving stood amidst a Throng,
To see the Barges skud along.
At last the noble Fleet set out,
Huzza'd by all the Rabble Rout,
Who stay'd on Shore, to wish my L---d
A prosp'rous Voyage, when on Board;
And that no Rock, or blust'ring Storm,
Might cross his Hopes, or do him Harm.
No sooner had they left the Land,
And took a Farewel of the Strand,
But Drums and Guns began to rattle,
As if engag'd in dismal Battel;
Some firing from the Southern Shoar,
Did, like a Storm of Thunder, roar,
As if they fear'd the floating Host
Design'd to land upon their Coast.
Small Tenders did in Numbers wait
Upon the bold tremendious Fleet,

Who dreading neither Wind nor Weather,
Row'd on undauntedly together,
Defying all the frightful Flame
That from those loud-mouth'd Engines came,
Which spouting lay upon the Beach,
Altho' they sail'd within their Reach.

His L---p, in a first Rate Barge,
Profusely fine, and very large,
With double Grace and Courage blest,
Rid as High Adm'ral o'er the rest.
The painful Hands he had on Board,
Were worthy of so Great a Lord;
For e'ery short, tho' strenuous, Stroak
The Gally Slaves in Triumph took,
We, the Spectators, could discern,
Left the rest farther still on Stern.
Thus with their Trumpets, and their Hoi'boys,
Sounding like Lott'ry-men and Show-boys,
Drums beating, and their Streamers flying,
All Dangers of the Deep defying,

They plough'd that boist'rous Ocean, Thames,
Without their Daughters, or their Dames;
Who, as it was believ'd by some,
Found more delightful Sport at Home.
Away the Heroes skudding went,
As proud as Godwin Earl of Kent,
When up the River, long ago,
He made a most Rebellious Show,
And did his Host in Barges bring,
To fight his Father, and his King.

Thus all the Way they row'd by Water,
My Eyes were still directed a'ter,
'Till they arriv'd at Palace Stairs,
The Place of Landing for our May'rs;
From whence they crep'd along in State,
To Swear, I vow I know not what.
Thus almost starv'd with Wind and Weather,
I left 'em marching all together,
To see his L---p kiss Calves Leather.

Therefore, if any curious Sinner
Would know how they got back to Dinner,
I think I may presume to say,
That they return'd the self same Way,
About as Wise as they went thither,
As near as I can guess or gather.

FINIS.

7. Part the Seventh.

CANTO VII.

Oh! the sad Day, when Guido's Crew
Had like to've blown up God knows who!
And by a dismal Powder-Plot,
Destroy'd, no mortal Man knows what!
Then who can sing the Tragick Scene
That might in such a Case have been,
Since none can possibly declare
The Fate of Things that never were?
So, tho' 'tis likely there may be
Some strange, mysterious Verity
In old bifarious Prophesy,

Yet we the Truth can ne'er discover,
Until the Things foretold, are over.
How then should we, in doleful Verse,
Those sad Calamities rehearse,
Which would have follow'd, ten to one,
In Case the Mischief had been done?
But the vile Plot was disappointed
By th' Lord, or else the Lord's Anointed,
Who, as some People do suppose,
Had got so excellent a Nose,
That he could smell out Powder-Treason,
Like a Jack-daw in Cherry-Season,
Who is too shy to be undone
By sudden Pop of Gard'ner's Gun:
Therefore the Plot they were designing,
Jacobus smelt from its beginning,
And knew as well how they had laid it,
As those vile Jesuits that made it:
So that the Powder ne'er took Fire
According to the Pope's Desire,

Because there chanc'd a happy Slip
Betwixt the Goblet and the Lip.
Thus, since the lighted Match in vain
Was laid to the infernal Train,
We, that in after Ages live,
And swallow what Account they give,
Should think it difficult to know
The Truth of Things so long ago,
Since wicked Plots of later Date,
Betwixt the People and the State,
Have puzzl'd many a prudent Man,
To find by which they were began,
Because each wiser Head may see,
In every great Discovery,
The Fox, who is the crafty Finder,
Does oft project, as well as hinder,
And as our Highway-men now do,
Proves Actor and Discov'rer too.
Thus cunning Knaves the Mischief lay,
Draw others in, and then betray.

However, whether known or not,
How 'twas begun, the Plot's a Plot,
That serves the Rabble to remember
Upon the fifth Day of November;
A pions Time when ragged Popes,
With Pastboard Crowns, and Paper Copes,
Are hoisted on the Rabbles Shoulders,
To please fanatical Beholders;
Who, tho' they in Oblivion bury,
The thirtieth Day of January,
Yet is their due Abhorrence shown
Of e'ery Plot, except their own;
And as for those, if they miscarry,
They turn the Handle quite contrary;
By which dissenting Subtility,
They keep themselves from Scandal free,
And fix the Blame on Popery:
For Saints too cunning are, to boast
Their Plots, when the Success is lost,

Tho' none can glory more, we see,
Than they in prosp'rous Villany,
Or look with greater Scorn upon
Those Suff'rers they have once undone.
Just so the fierce and cruel Cat,
That catches Mouse, or conquers Rat,
Does with her trembling Victim play,
And triumph o'er her dying Prey.

When jangling Bells from e'ery Steeple
Proclaim'd aloud to all good People,
That now the joyful Day was come,
That freed the Nation from the Doom
Pronounc'd against the Land by Rome;
The Mem'ry of which Powder-Plot,
Made all the Rabbles Brains so hot,
That tow'rds the Ev'ning, Men and Boys
Fill'd e'ery Street with hideous Noise,
All threat'ning, by their brutish Rudeness,
Much Mischief, and excessive Lewdness;

That by their Actions, we might see,
The good Reverse of Popery.
'Twas then, about the Hour of six,
When Boys were stealing Tubs and Sticks,
And lustier Mob, to please their Maggots,
Were begging Pence to purchase Faggots,
That I was jogging Home, to shun
Those Revels which were just begun:
But as I walk'd along, tho' Night,
Each Window shone so very bright,
By Dint of Rush and Cotton Light,
That when our late Dutch Sov'reign came
From Amster, Brill, or Rotterdam,
The City Saints could not consume
More Tallow, sure, to light him Home;
Which shew'd, when he Abroad had been,
Vent'ring his Corps, which was but lean,
That we as forward were to burn
Our Fat, to welcome his Return.

I gaz'd about from side to side,
To view the City's Zeal and Pride,
Express'd in Candles, shining round,
From four, to twenty in the Pound,
Mounted in Candle-sticks of Clay,
Which just before o'er Bung-hole lay,
But now were model'd into Sockets,
For flaming Lights, that shone like Rockets.
These, by the City Maids and Dames,
Were stuck upon their Window-Frames,
From the first Story, to the Garret,
For all the noisy Mob to stare at.
The Candles in each shining Pile,
Like Soldiers stood in Rank and File,
To show us how the Dames within
Were skill'd in Marshal Discipline;
And tho', perhaps, not quite so fair,
That yet like Venus, they could bear
The Onsets of the God of War:

For lesser Beauty's, by their Charms,
May foil a valiant Man at Arms;
Since only those, at Kick and Cuff,
Are beat, that cry they have enough;
But when at Push a Pike we play
With Beauty, who shall win the Day,
Her Courage so profusely great is,
That still we find her Nunquam satis.

Lighted on e'ery Side, along
Amidst a strange infernal Throng
I sail'd, in this tempestuous Flood
Of Mob, as safely as I cou'd,
Who, like rebellious rising Slaves,
Were arm'd with such unlawful Staves,
As if, like Naples stubborn Rabble,
They'd quarrell'd with some Tax or Gabel,
And were resolv'd to chuse a Fellow,
To rule the Roast like Massanello.

At last, before a House I came,
That made no Show of Candle Flame;

Whatever Light there was within,
No glim'ring Cranny could be seen,
But all appear'd as black without
As a Dark-Lanthorn closely shut.
So ho, my Lads! crys Captain Tom,
Where are you, Boys? Pray hither come;
This House, I'm sure, without a Light,
Belongs to some damn'd Jacobite,
Or else, upon a Day so blest,
He'd put out Candles, like the rest:
Thump at the Door, demand the Reason,
Why they forget the Powder-Treason?
Command 'em, on this grand Occasion,
To put out some Illumination;
Or, by my Club, if they deny,
And will not readily comply,
We'll make the Popish Rogues remember
Their Powder-Plotting in November.
No sooner had this Babe of Grace,
With brimless Cap, and colly'd Face,

His great Command most proudly given,
But to the Door stept six or seven,
And with the Knocker, and their Kicks,
Their short Battoons, their Staves and Sticks.
They gave the Door such Bangs and Drubs,
That fifty Coopers hooping Tubs,
Were Jews Trumps, to their noisy Clubs:
But still no mortal Soul appear'd,
In Answer to the scoundrel Herd.
When Captain Tom, and all his Rout,
Perceiv'd the Garrison so stout,
They'd not capit'late with his Forces,
He storm'd 'em then with Oaths and Curses,
And upwards cast an Eye, to see
What Glass-Works there aloft might be.
But the Besieg'd had been so wise,
To guard themselves against Surprize,
And by strong Shutters, fix'd without,
Secur'd their Windows from the Rout,

Who otherwise, with Dirt and Stone,
Had soon unglaz'd 'em e'ery one.
But when they found the House defended
Against those Mischiefs they intended,
And that in vain they cast their Pellets,
(Hard Words were Shot, instead of Bullets,
The old fanatick Way to rail,
When other Plots and Projects fail,
For Scandal will sometimes obtain
That End, which Violence cannot gain;
'Tis that of late, instead of Force,
That sets the Cart before the Horse;
Does Virtue daily overthrow,
And keeps industrious Merit low;
Whilst those that use the shameful Means,
Grow fat, like Hogs in others Beans.)

The Rabble finding that their Sport,
Which only lies in doing Hurt,
Was disappointed by the Craft
Of those that sat within and laught,

They damn'd all Papists in a Rage,
And quitted their successless Seige.
Thus in a hurry they retir'd,
With Low-Church Indignation fir'd,
To think they could not use their Spite
To him, who for the want of Light,
Was branded as a Jacobite.
Thought I, before I farther go,
I'll, by Enquiry, try to know
Upon what Faith this Man's Relyance
Is, who durst bid the Mob Defyance?
And without changing of my Ground,
I soon inquisitively found,
The Family so much suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
Were, to the Glory and the Praise
Of W---m P---n, all Yea's and Nay's,
And therefore wisely thought it right
To only mind the inward Light,

And not prophane their Habitation
By outward vain Illumination.
Thought I, those Quaking Saints, I see,
That do not with the Crowd agree,
Must bear a Portion of the Wrongs
That daily flow from wicked Tongues;
Therefore what Credit can be given
To th' Scum of Earth, and Scorn of Heaven,
Since sober Men, that hate the Rude
Distractions of a Multitude,
Must suffer in some odious way,
Because they're not as mad as they?
How foolish, or at least, how knavish?
How domineering, or how slavish
Must they appear, who mind the Babble
Of such a curs'd fanatick Rabble,
Who're taught, with Crys of Popes and Devils,
To justify their own base Evils,

Encourag'd purely to enslave
The Wise, the Virtuous, and the Brave,
Who scorn the Fool, and hate the Knave?

From hence the giddy World may see
The honest Man, that can't agree
In every Folly with the rest,
Must live despis'd, and much oppress'd.
Nor is the Cant of Moderation
Design'd to soberrize the Nation,
But a meer Plot, profoundly laid,
To make us all alike run mad:
And he that will not sacrifice
His Reason to the grand Device,
Must fall a Victim to the Rage
Of cunning Knaves, who mount the Stage,
And madly with the rest engage.
'Tis true, the Scene is Reformation,
A Picture very much in Fashion,
And tho' alive it seems to be,
'Tis but dead Col'ring that we see.

So Temples, Woods, and Groves appear
At Distance in the Theatre;
But if we once so near approach,
That we the painted Cloth can touch,
We then discover the Deceit,
And find it but an artful Cheat.

Thus walking, full of Care and Thought,
As Men that live by Thinking, ought;
At length I met a frantick Crowd,
Roaring in Triumph very loud,
Ratling their Clubs above their Noddles,
And kicking Dirt from miry Puddles,
To disoblige each other's Rags,
That hung in Tatters, and in Jags;
I'th' Front sat mounted on a Bier,
A Pope for Children to admire,
Condemn'd, as I suppose, to th'Fire;
His Face was such a frightful Vizard,
That look'd more ghastly than a Wizard,

His holy Nose b'ing something greater
Than that which grac'd our late Salvator;
Beneath which Member, hung a Chin,
As long as Tuffen's, and as lean;
To which was tagg'd a Horse-Hair Beard,
That made each gazing Child affear'd,
And caus'd him, in Surprize, to fly
From stern Infallibility.
A tripple Crown the B---p wore,
Built up three Story high, or more,
Guilt o'er, to show the Pride of those
That lead whole Kingdoms by the Nose;
Those Enemies to human Ease,
That plague the Publick as they please,
And triumph o'er Mens Consciences.

In Spite to th' Whore of Babylon,
Th' 'ad put the holy Puppit on
A Surplice, made of ancient Smocks,
Fit only for the Tinder-box

Given by Female Saints, to cover
His scare-crow Holiness all over;
Who, tho' without, he seem'd to be
The Image of rank Popery,
Yet were his Antichristian Guts
Stuff'd with fanatick Rags and Clouts;
Which shews, altho' some Men dispence
With wearing Popish Ornaments,
Yet could their Insides but be seen,
You'd find 'em Puritans within;
Or else no false dissembling Brother
Would look one way, and row another;
Or would the Papists, Tooth and Nail,
Add Weight to the fanatick Scale,
Were not their Insides near related
To those by whom we think they're hated;
When, if we search 'em, we should find
Both were exactly of a Mind;
And tho' they are sometimes at Strife,
Like a proud Man, and haughty Wife,

Who give each other Scars and Scratches
In Contests, who shall wear the Breeches;
Yet will they lovingly unite,
And join their Forces and their Spite
Against the Man, who in the Hurry
Steps in to reconcile their Fury,
Who quarrel for no other Ends,
But to become the greater Friends.
So the old Babylonian Blouze,
And her demure fanatick Spouse,
Altho' they rave, and seem to quarrel,
Like Tinkers o'er a strong Beer Barrel;
Yet can they readily agree,
And cease their wonted Enmity,
To pull down those that stand between 'em,
As once already we have seen 'em:
Therefore 'twould surely be a Crime,
Not to beware the second Time,
Since fighting Dogs will quit their Hold,
To worry what's their Game of old.

Behind this Papal Image, stood
A Devil made of Flesh and Blood,
Some little sooty Chimney-sweep,
Who, with the Cry of Fast asleep,
Us'd to awake the drouzy Maids,
And early raise the lazy Jades;
This little Imp such Gestures show'd,
That caus'd much Laughter in the Crowd,
Who were so tickl'd, and so pleas'd,
To see his Holiness so teaz'd,
As if they thought the Dev'l was meant
For Pastime, more than Punishment;
And that each noisy Raggamuffin
Believ'd the black infernal Ruffin
Was destin'd for their Sport, to be
A Scaramouch to Popery;
And that his Darkship was unable
To terrify an English Rabble,
Secure beneath the Nomination
Of Protestant; to which Profession

As well as to its sacred Name,
They're both a Horror, and a Shame.

Behind this Babylonian Whore,
About the Streets in Triumph bore
A younger Fry of mobbish Vermin,
The Sons of Porters, and of Carmen,
With Paper Miters round their Skulls,
Walk'd on in State, as Cardinals;
Each in his dirty right Hand bore
Cross'd Lath, instead of Crosier,
And from their left a Necklace hung,
By their fanatick Mothers strung;
And to their forward Children lent,
Thro' Zeal, with a devout Intent
To ridicule the Popish Way
Of using Trinkets when they pray;
Altho' the little heath'nish Race,
So void of Sense, as well as Grace,

Perhaps were so untaught, that they,
Their Pater-Noster could not say
With Beads, or any other Way;
For in this pious Christian Nation,
There is a vip'rous Congregation
Instructed daily to forbear
Our Father, as a Popish Pray'r:
Therefore, what Wonder can it be
For righteous Men to weep, and see
Religion made the Ridicule
Of e'ery canting Knave and Fool?
Who wear it in no other Places,
But in their Gestures, and their Faces;
And think it of no other Force,
Than fit to be a stalking-Horse
To Wordly Int'rest, and their Pride,
And many vicious Ends beside;
Nay, use it as the very Hinge,
On which they open their Revenge,

And shut Preferment's heavy Gate
Upon the Heels of those they hate;
Such who're too conscious to agree
With e'ery pious Villany,
And scorn to bend their honest Wits
To painted Frauds, and holy Cheats.

In Triumph, thus the Popish Bauble
Was carry'd by the scoundrel Rabble,
Attended by a ragged Crew
Of Link-boys, and the Lord knows who!
Made Cardinals for this good Night,
The more t' improve the frantick Sight,
That reeling Saints, as drunk as Rats,
Might leer beneath their Pot-lid Hats,
And laugh to see their Tools, the Rabble,
So fit, so willing, and so able,
To pull down what they deem as Babel;
For thus our Puritannick Friends
Accomplish their revengeful Ends;

They trembling first, proclaim a Fear
Of some strange Popish Danger near,
And under this demure Pretence,
Devoutly labour to insense
The giddy Mob, those heath'nish Creatures,
Against the Pope, and his Abettors:
And when the Saints have thus prepar'd
The Hydra for their Body-Guard,
They boldly then dare strike their Blow,
To drive that Nail they mean should go;
And he that durst oppose their grand
Design, and their Intrigues withstand,
'Tis but their crying, He's suspected
Of being Popishly affected,
And soon the base unthinking Crowd
Will cry the Infamy aloud,
And by the Help of common Fame,
So fix the Antichristian Name,
That all Efforts shall prove in vain
To cleanse him from the odious Stain;

For as he washes, still they watch him,
And fling more Dirt where e'er they catch him;
So that in fresh Attacks they cast
Their Lies and Calumnies so fast,
That make him truckle, and decline
Opposing every base Design
Carr'd on against the publick Safety
T' advance the Godly and the Crafty:
Nor do they stop, 'till they exclude,
By th' Clamours of the Multitude,
Those Persons whom they fear or hate,
From all Employments in the State.
By Machiavillian Arts like these,
The Saints accomplish what they please,
And gain more Footting by degrees.
So angry Statesmen, to foment
Our Jealousies of Government,
Fill with false Tales the Rabbles Mouths,
Who eccho round the base Untruths,

And make the giddy Vulgar fear
Evils remote the Lord knows where,
Whilst in the Grass a Serpent lies
Obscur'd by Shams from common Eyes,
Design'd to overturn the State,
And make the vile Projector Great.
If therefore you'd be free from Wrongs,
Ne'er listen to the Rabbles Tongues;
For all Distractions and Confusions,
Domestick Wars and Revolutions,
Are elbow'd on by those vile Wretches,
Whom Heav'n abhors, and Hell bewitches.

Shouting and Roaring in the Streets,
Like drunken Sots, or Bedlamites,
The noisy Rake-hells march'd along,
Surrounded by a gazing Throng,
Who, like true Protestants, bestow'd
Their Pence according to the Mode,
That all the Standers by might see
How much they hated Popery.

Thought I, as these an Idol frame
Of Rags, and fix the frightful Name
Of Pope thereon, that all who see
The Bugbear's sad Catastrophe,
May triumph, in Despite to Rome,
O'er Puppit Grey-beard's Martyrdom.
Just so the Saints ill Names devise
For those who do their Cant despise,
And make them next their Sacrifice.

FINIS.

8. Part the Eighth.

CANTO VIII.

About that Season of the Year,
When Rebels, void of Shame and Fear,
Did at one sad infernal Blow,
Their Fury, Pride, and Malice show;
And when the Sons of Decolation,
To manifest their Approbation
Of all those Mis'ries and Disorders,
Those Treasons, Rapines, Spoils, and Murders,
By their vile Fathers done long since
Upon their Country, and their Prince;

Do meet together, and contract
The Guilt of e'ery wicked Act
Upon themselves, by giving Glory
To such a black and dismal Story,
And making Royal Blood and Slaughter,
The Subject of their scornful Laughter.
'Twas near that Time of January,
When Calves-head Miscreants grow merry,
To think how Rebels once could wound
The Church, and Monarchy confound,
Abuse the Laws, subvert the State,
And make themselves unjustly great,
That I by Bus'ness, was induc'd,
To drink where factious Zealots us'd,
Such whose rebellious Tongues could dare,
To justify that Civil War,
And all the Evils that arose
From those Domestick cruel Blows,
Whose dismal Truths no Man can learn
From Story, but with deep Concern,

Except th' Approvers of such Evils,
Whose Consciences are sear'd like Devils:
For Rebels glory in their Shame,
And praise what loyal Subjects blame;
Despise the Pow'r they can oppress,
And measure Justice by Success.
So Rogues, when fortunately base,
Support their Projects with a Grace,
As if their Crimes were Scandal free,
When flatter'd with Prosperity.

Stepping one Night into this House,
Where tipling Saints strong Ale carouse,
And aged Sots, with shaking Hands,
Liquor at once their Lips and Bands;
Whilst raving Hot-spurs, void of Reason,
Infect the smoaky Room with Treason:
Such Doctrine, that in Times of Yore,
Each Babler must have suffer'd for,
Tho' now 'tis made the common Cant
Of e'ery democratick Saint;

Who talks of Sov'reign Crowns and Scepters,
Of Rev'rend Bishops, Deans, and Chapters,
Not onl' as if they did not love 'em,
But that they gladly would remove 'em,
To set their worthless Selves above 'em:
For Saints, thro' their abounding Grace,
Have Right not only to displace
The Wicked and Prophane, but also
To pull down those they're please to call so,
Which are all such, that honour Merit
Above the Grumbling of the Spirit,
And scorn to see such Knaves and Fools
Make honest Men their Slaves and Tools;
Whose Fall, their Tribe must first devise,
Before themselves can hope to rise;
For Merit must be driven low,
E'er Ign'rance can to Power grow.
The Cap can never brave the Crown,
'Till Justice first is trampl'd down;

Nor Blockheads into Pulpits creep,
(Those Wolves that prey upon their Sheep)
'Till Learning's hush'd and lull'd a sleep.
I sat me down amidst a Crew
Of Old and Young, the Lord knows who!
Some puffing Sot-weed o'er their Glasses,
In one another's Parchment Faces,
Which were of tawny Colour dy'd,
Like Yarmouth Herrings, smoak'd and dry'd;
Shrivell'd with Envy, and with Age,
Like Witches on the Play-house Stage,
Such as their Daughters us'd to see
In some old dismal Tragedy;
Others sat pinn'd in little Boxes,
Driv'ling, as Sinners do in Fluxes,
Each raising, as he loll'd at Ease,
His Salivation by Degrees,
With sucking his Virginia Fuel,
And drinking Ale like Water-Gruel,

Which might, no Doubt on't, do as well,
For by its Colour, none could tell
Which was the best for fluxing Throats,
This brew'd of Malt, or that of Oats.

Others, more jolly, brisk and young,
A Calves-Head Hymn in Consort sung,
The frothy, rude, unpolish'd Strains
Of some dull jingling Rebel's Brains,
Who was of Rhimes enough a Master
To be a Calves-Head Poetaster;
For to that Club of Imps so hated,
Despis'd, condemn'd, abominated,
His Ballads all were dedicated,
And practis'd here by wicked Apes,
That mimmick Hell in Human Shapes,
Against that sad and bloody Time,
Not to be nam'd without a Crime,
That their vile Tongues might perfect be
At their accurs'd Solemnity,

In yelling with their croaking Throats,
Those Tragick Songs in joyful Notes,
That fill th' Infernal Shades with Wonder,
And make the Devils tremble under.

Others there were, whose odious Tongues,
Mov'd by the Breath of poys'nous Lungs,
Pour'd out such Venom on the Dust
Of Kings, so merciful and just,
That none but Rebels, void of Shame,
Could injure their Immortal Fame,
And nip those Blossoms with their Lies,
That from their fragrant Ashes rise;
Whose Praises, and whose patient Wrongs,
Distilling from impartial Tongues,
Will fructify their injur'd Clay,
Restore their Vertues fresh and gay,
And make 'em flourish o'er their Urns,
'Till Mercy smiles, and Envy mourns,
And Malice ceases to degrade
The living Actions of the Dead.

But when those happy Times will be,
Not even P---ge can foresee,
By all his vile Astrology;
Nor gifted Saint, of greater Merit,
Who boasts Pre-knowledge by the Spirit:
For he that is so weak and blind
To trust in either Knave, will find
One's Impudence, and t'other's Rules,
Are only Baits to fish for Fools.
But this I know is a Digression,
I attone therefore by Confession:
However, you shall quickly see
I'll reassume my Company.
But Poets, sure, when Whimsy dances,
May stray a while, to please their Fancies,
Without incurring the Aspersion
Of Vagrancy, or Theme Desertion,
Since trimming Saints, and Moderators,
Vary from Church for slender Matters,

And so return, upon Discretion,
As they themselves shall see Occasion.

Thus, Tinker like, I've made a Pother,
To mend one Hole, and make another.

Seated as you before have heard,
List'ning and stroaking down my Beard,
Surrounded by Rebellious Sots,
Hugging their Glasses, Pipes, and Pots,
In Puritannick Bands and Dresses,
Full as ill-favour'd as their Faces,
Whose Wrinkles, Lines, and long-hair'd Moles,
Betray'd the Baseness of their Souls,
That Men, judicious, might discern
Morosness in their Looks, and learn,
By outward ugly Signs and Features,
The damn'd Perverseness of their Natures.
So he who peeps in Bull-Dog's Face,
Descended of Bear-Garden Race,
May, by his sullen Leers, compute
The ill Conditions of the Brute,

And in his surly Phiz, discover
Of what rough Game he is a Lover.

At last a swarthy dub-nos'd Fellow,
With Cheeks like rusty Bacon, yellow,
And Saucer-Eyes, not quite so small
As those we see at Leaden-Hall,
In Bullock's Head, at Butcher's Stall,
Began to stretch his envious Jaws
In favour of the good old Cause,
And speak profusely in the Praise
Of Nol and Bradshaw's blessed Days;
Commending, at a publick Table,
Each cruel sanguinary Rebel,
Who sat in that Infernal Court,
That made their suff'ring King their Sport,
Extolling all their barbarous Crimes
For Justice in those pious Times,
Stiling 'em Saints of Preservation,
Rais'd up to save a sinking Nation

From Pop'ry, Tyranny, and Slav'ry,
Church-Persecution, and Court-Knav'ry,
And all the wretched Plagues that fell on
This Kingdom from their own Rebellion;
Most vilely charging all the Guilt
Of Blood in those Disorders spilt,
Upon the Throne, altho' the Stain
Does on their cursed Tribe remain,
Like that which God once fix'd on Cain.
No Wonder, since they still, we see,
Retain their ancient Policy
In charging Plots themselves-invent,
On others that are innocent.

Their present Mischiefs all are laid
Upon those Persons they invade.
They can't oppress, but must accuse
The injur'd Suff'rers they abuse,
Of Ills their Party only use.
By cheating thus, they win the Game,
And make the Looser bear the Blame.

So subtle Thieves, at Night pursu'd
By th' busy Snow-ball Multitude,
Mix with the Crowd, run on their Way,
And cry Stop Thief, as well as they.

After I'd sat a while in Pain,
To hear this Monster of a Man
Belch out his wicked vile Excursions,
And all his frantick base Aversions,
I could no longer sit in Silence,
To hear such Infamy and Vi'lence
Us'd to the Mem'ry of a King
So mild and just in e'ery Thing,
So consciencious, and so good,
That none but such a Vip'rous Brood,
That stung his Royal Breast to Death,
Could poys'n his Ashes with their Breath.
Therefore, tho' very well I knew
My self surrounded with a Crew
Of Imps and Furies, that could show
More Spite than those that dwell below,

Yet I resolv'd to let 'em see
A true, tho' short, Epitome
Of the base Usage they had given
To the bless'd Martyr now in Heaven,
Which they endeavour'd to disguise
And paliate with their odious Lies.

Unwilling that their false Reproach
Should any list'ning Ear debauch;
Provok'd and vex'd, I thus began
With him, whose Tongue so long had ran.

Sir, with much Patience have I heard
Your Malice wag your picked Beard,
Endeav'ring with your ill-bred Lips,
To injure, blacken, and eclipse
That vertuous King's Immortal Fame,
Whose Suff'rings magnify his Name,
And raise his Glory, and your Shame.
But now, to let you see what Errors
You've basely broach'd among your Hearers,

I'll prove the Mis'ries of those Time
All owing to your Party's Crimes;
Those Rebels, from whose Loyns, I doubt,
Your envious self was hammer'd out.

Why, how now, crys the spiteful Saint,
What angry High-Church Disputant
Have we got here? Some Popish Priest!
Or snarling Jacobite at least!

Said I, No matter what I am
To any here, or whence I came:
The naked Truths I shall declare,
I'd have your Calves-head know, I dare
To publish here, or any where.
Hear him, crys some, the Lord forbid
That Truth should lye in Darkness hid.
What have we done, that we deny,
And dare not boldly justify.
No Villany, thought I, that can be,
But what you've Impudence to stand by;

For, Satan like, 'tis still your Nature
To back one Evil with a greater.
However, these, for fear of broken
Noddle, were Sentiments unspoken:
For what at Foot-ball we suppose
Are Odds, must be the same at Blows.
So looking round the glaring Brood,
I open'd, mildly as I cou'd,
My Charge against those pious Devils
That glory in the worst of Evils.

Said I, When first those dismal Days
Began, which I have heard you praise,
And bold Mechanick Miscreants
Set up themselves for preaching Saints,
Who in dark Holes, in spite of Laws,
Gave Succour to your good old Cause,
And nurs'd the monst'rous cruel Beast,
'Till grown too big to be supprest;
Did you not then corrupt, or find
A H--- of C--- to your Mind,

Who did with brasen Fronts withstand
Their Prince in e'ery just Demand,
'Till they had drove him, by Delays,
To lawful, but uncommon Ways,
Of raising Money, to supply
His Government's Necessity?
For who, that bears supream Command,
Can give Protection to a Land,
If they that only Current stemn,
That must preserve both him and them?
But when they found the Throne had made
A present Shift, without their Aid,
Did they not clamour and abuse
The Means they'd forc'd the King to use,
And charge that Fault upon the Crown,
Which long Delays had made their own?
For if a Prince declares his Want
To those whose Duty 'tis to grant,
And they, thro' Obstinance, deny
The Sov'reign Pow'r a due Supply,

And he a needful Sum shall raise
By some impracticable Ways;
Those that obstruct the common Spring,
Abuse the People, not the King.

When by Refusals and Complaints,
The House, regardless of his Wants,
Had brought his Majesty to Streights,
And plagu'd him with their vile Debates;
Did they not dayly grow upon him,
In order to at last dethrone him?
And hire the Scots t' invade the Land
With thirty thousand Pounds in hand?
Which Sum (that all the World may see
Their Impudence and Villany)
They added to the King's Account,
As if Rebellion could amount
To meritorious Service done
The Kingdom, or the sinking Throne?
The Rabble may as well untile
A House against the Owner's Will,

Then make him answer their Demands,
For the vile Labour of their Hands.

Did they not next torment and teaz
The Throne with base Remonstrances,
False and rebellious, with intent
To scandalize the Government,
And make the People look awry
On the supream Authority?
For Calumny's the piercing Sting
That at a Distance wounds the King,
And is the only Tool in Play,
By which Rebellion cuts its way?
When by their base reproachful Arts,
(As false and trayt'rous as their Hearts)
And by their sawcy proud Petitions,
They'd fill'd the Nation with Suspicions,
Did they not then in Triumph bring
The Rabble, to insult their King
With Cries of Justice at his Gates,
(The common Cant of Reprobates)

When all their base inglorious Ends
Were first to sacrifice his Friends,
That they with Ease might sack the Throne,
And make the Regal Pow'r their own?
For Rebels can no King betray,
'Till first they snatch his Friends away;
But when that's done, altho' he may
Stand for a little Time at Bay,
Yet must he perish in the Close,
A Victim to his cruel Foes?
So the fat Buck, that rules the Herd,
And treads as if he nothing fear'd;
Yet, when he's singl'd from the rest,
And by the Hounds too hardly prest,
Dispairing of his Force or Speed,
He groans, and so submits to bleed.

When thus the Righteous Band of Saints
Had spread their Clamours and Complaints,
And by their canting Pulpiteers,
Had fill'd the Land with Doubts and Fears;

(For no Rebellion e'er could rise
So high, to give a King Surprize,
Without their Holy Exercise)
Then flush'd with Hopes of their Success,
They chas'd the King from Place to Place,
With Libels humbly call'd Petitions,
And Treasons stil'd their Propositions,
So smoothly penn'd, so well design'd,
So modestly express'd, so kind,
That they insisted on no more
Than all the Right of Sov'reign Pow'r;
Which, if his Majesty would grant,
O! then no Money should he want;
Meaning, that when they'd got his Head,
He no Supplies would need when dead;
For 'tis the old fanatick way,
When they've usurp'd the Sov'reign Sway,
To murder those they should obey.
And that you may more plainly see
The Drift of all their Treachery,

First bear, then judge ye as ye please,
By their Proposals, which were these:

That what the Commons should insist on
Was Law, the King was not to question.

That very Article alone
Sets Parliaments above the Throne,
And gives Rebellion Pow'r to play
The Devil with their Kings each Day.

That Precedents (as useless Readings)
Should give no Bounds to their Proceedings.

From hence a Man may clearly see
What cursed Tyrants they would be,
Who make their Wills, to Malice bent,
Their standing Rules of Government.

That for the publick Good, they might
Dispose of King or Subject's Right;
And that alone the Parliament,
Without the King, or his Assent,
Were Judges of the State o'th' Nation,
And e'ery Thing, that bore Relation
To th' People's Good or Preservation.

Pray, is not this to plainly say,
That they have Pow'r to take away
The King's or any Subject's Right,
When e'er themselves shall think it fit?
For if they vote the Publick Good
Requires your Fortune, or your Blood,
What Man, that is of Lands possess'd,
Altho' he has no Law transgress'd,
Can vouch, at this unhappy Rate,
His Life's his own, or his Estate?

That no good Member should, for Treason,
Or any other Crime, or Reason,
Be troubl'd, 'till the Parliament
Should judge the Fact, and give Consent,
(If they should see sufficient Cause)
He should be punish'd by the Laws.

Traytors by this, are made secure
Against the Gripes of Sov'reign Pow'r,
That Rebels, with a bolder Grace,
Might spit in Monarch's Royal Face,

And spur on with more Heat and Passion,
Those ill Designs in Agitation.

That the whole Sov'reign Pow'r and Sway
Alone in both the Houses lay;
And that the King had no such Choice,
As a denying Vote or Voice.

This shews their Villany unpainted,
And tells us plainly what they wanted,
That Pow'r supream, and nothing less,
Would satisfy their Greediness;
For if the King must give Assent
To Laws that bear an ill Intent,
And cannot, when there's just Occasion,
Deny his Royal Approbation,
Such Majesty is but a Mouse,
Less than a Member of the House;
For he, without Restraint, can show
His Choice in voting Yea or No.

That levy'ng Forces in the Land
'Gainst the King's personal Command,

Tho' present in the House, when they
His Royal Pleasure disobey;
Yet 'tis not such a wicked Thing,
As raising Arms against the King,
But levy'ng War (a pretty Trick)
Against his Person Politick.

A quaint Device, contriv'd to cripple
The Understandings of the People,
And make 'em think, that they might fight
Against the Crown with all their Might,
Yet ne'er intend one evil Thing
Against the Person of the King;
As if to give their Sov'reign Chase,
And drive him from his Royal Place;
Making his Troubles but their Sport,
Was not to mean his Person Hurt.
Or as if Kings could loose their Right
Of Pow'r, and suffer nothing by't.
The Lord preserve us in our Wits
From such base Logical Deceits;

Which sure could never find a Place
In Men of either Sense or Grace.

That no Man can commit a Treason
'Gainst the King's Life, for other Reason,
Than that he's trusted with the Throne,
And all Things that depend thereon;
Nor longer than he rules aright,
Not in the Lord's, but People's Sight;
For that the Parliament have still
The Power to judge, when e'er they will,
Whether he governs well or ill.

If, right or wrong, the House shall say
The King abus'd the Sov'reign Sway,
Then all his Subjects may dispense
At once with their Allegiance,
And buffet him, if they see Cause,
Without the Danger of the Laws;
Because the House has Pow'r to tell,
Whether the King rules ill or well.

If they say ill, then all are free
To pull down Popish Tyranny,
Tho' themselves acted in the State
The very Things they seem'd to hate;
And as their Fury made it plain,
Rul'd more like Devils, than like Men.

That with the King they may such Measures
Use, as best suit their Wills and Pleasures:
And when themselves shall think it meet,
Dispose of him as they see fit.

This last Proposal, tho' exprest
Concisely, sums up all the rest;
And plainly says, That when they will,
They may dispose of (that is, k---ll)
The King; which doubtless was their Sense,
As we may judge by th' Consequence.

To be concluded in the next Part.

FINIS.

9. Part the Ninth.

Did not these Tres'nable Petitions
Contain most humble Propositions,
For pious Saints of Reformation
To offer tow'rds Accommodation
Of all those Mischiefs, and Confusions,
Occasion'd by such vile Enthusions,
Who had already robb'd the Throne,
And made the Sov'reign Pow'r their own?
Yet, were not easy, or content
With their rebellious Government,
Without the King (too wise to do it)
Would grant 'em better Title to it,

And by an Art, beneath his Nature,
Make them the supream Legislator?
So the rich Knave, that once has gain'd
Possession of another's Land,
If th' injur'd Person wants a Purse
To guard him against Fraud and Force,
The wealthy Rogue, to be more sure
Of what's already in his Pow'r,
Takes (as the Rebels did, we see)
Th' Advantage of Necessity,
And tempts the other for a Trifle,
To give up all his Right and Title.

When the good injur'd King, like one
Divinely worthy of a Throne,
Had giv'n the sawcy Saints an Answer
Becoming Anna's Royal Grandsir,
And with just Indignation fir'd,
Refus'd the Kindness they desir'd;
Did they not teaze him o'er and o'er,
With nineteen Propositions more,

Stil'd with a counterfeit Submission,
Their humble (tho' their proud) Petition?
Not with Design to show Allegiance,
Or the least Glim'rings of Obedience,
But that all Rebels might discern
Their damn'd Hypocrisy, and learn
From them the Rulers of the Nation,
The Art of vile Dissimulation;
A Talent by the Saints allow'd of,
And is a Gift their Priests are proud of,
Especially when not abus'd,
But to some base Advantage us'd:
For all Deceits of Holy Friends,
Are lawful to obtain their Ends
Against those People, which the picked
Beard shall mark out to be the Wicked:
For if, say they, it is no Evil
To be too cunning for the Devil,
It is no Sin to cozen, sure,
His Subjects, that support his Pow'r:

For how should Holy Zion flourish,
Unless the Sons of Darkness perish?
From hence the Saints have Right to plunder,
And turn old Satan's Kingdom under;
Which Place, the Righteous take for granted,
To be where e'er themselves are planted;
For none e'er knew 'em rest, (God love 'em)
Until they'd pull'd down all above 'em,
And rais'd their Holy Tribe aloft
By Treason, Cruelty, and Craft;
As we may prove by a Review,
Both of Old England, and of New.

When thus the craving modest Saints
Had to the King declar'd their Wants,
Which were much more, you may believe,
Than he had Will or Pow'r to give;
For pious Rogues ne'er mince their Matters,
Or ask by halves, like fearful Traytors,
But when they durst their Sov'reign teaz
With craving Importunities,

'Tis their good Conscience to insist,
If not on more, on all at least:
For thrifty Rebels must be greedy,
Because all Pow'r usurp'd, is needy
Of more, to guard what's got already.
But that which does extend, and make
Their Impudence appear more black,
They're angry, if the Throne denies
To give, or do as they advise;
Tho' what they ask's so out of Reason,
That 'tis no less than downright Treason.
So Ruffains, who, with Crows and Betties,
Break Houses, when it dark and late is,
After they've gagg'd and bound in Bed
The Servants from their Master's Aid;
At last they gently to him creep,
Surprize him from his harmless Sleep,
And threat'n him, if he don't resign
His hidden Plate, and hoarded Coin;

Nay, beat, torment him, and abuse him,
And with their utmost Malice use him,
Because, perhaps, he don't relieve 'em
With more than he has Pow'r to give 'em.

By this Time having warm'd the Crew
Of Zealots I was talking to,
A meagre Saint, as full of Spite
As glowing Phœbus is of Light,
Fix'd on my Face his glaring Eyes,
Like Cat of Mountain in Surprize,
And having study'd what to say,
He made these Queries by the way.

Says he, Did not that Popish Prince
God humbl'd for his Sins long since,
Begin the War that brought the Nation
Within Aumes Ace of Desolation,
In order, by his Army's Brav'ry,
And his Advisers hidden Knav'ry,
To bring in Popery and Slav'ry.

Said I, a Man may eas'ly see
From whence you draw your History;

Not from the Chronicle, but Pulpit,
Where some Euthusiastick Dull-pate
Has labour'd, by the Dint of Lying,
Set off with Groans, and painful Sighing,
To make the Malice of his Heart,
(Disguis'd with all his Holy Art)
And the base Venom of his Mouth,
Pass current for authentick Truth.
Therefore, could you but lay aside
Rebellious Prejudice, and Pride,
Your Questions I could answer soon,
And make the Point as clear as Noon:
So, if you'll give my Tale a Hearing,
You may, or kiss it, that's no Swearing.

When the mild King had been for Years
Teaz'd with Rebellious Scoffs and Jears.
(For each Petition, or Address,
The Godly offer'd, seem'd no less)
At last, he having granted more
Than any Faction could implore,

But such who proudly thought a King
A servile, or a useless Thing.
Then looking with a just Contempt
On all the Libels that they sent,
Couch'd with the Titles of Petitions,
Advice, Remonstrance, Propositions,
And fifty Rebels Tricks beside,
To shew their Arrogance, and Pride,
The King resolv'd, when he had sound
Such Usage, now to stand his Ground,
And not dishonour God's Anointed
With such Concessions as they wanted;
For ev'ry Thing they gain'd upon him,
Was but in order to dethrone him.
And what good Prince, so wise as he,
That could their base Design foresee,
Would further his approaching Ruin,
And lend a Hand to's own Undoing.
That's giving Cudgel to a Foe,
Who means to tender you a Blow,

And then be forc'd, with naked Arm,
To bear off the approaching Harm.

Therefore, since Rump, by Dint of sitting,
Reforming, coz'ning, and out-witting,
Had forc'd the King, thro' Pride and Malice,
To wander from his Royal Palace,
And in his Troubles, to depend
On those that did his Cause befriend,
Whilst Rump was dayly still ingrossing
That Sov'reign Pow'r the Throne was loosing;
The King, with a judicious Eye,
Beholding Danger very nigh,
Thought it high Time to be prepar'd
'Gainst Rebels with a better Guard,
That's Person might have Preservation
From Bondage, or Assassination;
Having, by what had pass'd, good Reasons
To be secure against their Treasons:
For pious Saints, that undertake
To pull down Kings for Jesus Sake,

Will do all Villanies beside,
To gratify their Holy Pride:
For all Rebellions in a Nation,
Built on Religious Reformation,
Can ne'er perform the Work o' th' Lord,
Without much Blood-shed by the Sword.

The busy Rump, displeas'd to see
The King in such Security
Amidst those Northern Troops, that stood
A Safeguard to his Royal Blood,
Voted, the King made War against
His Sov'reign Lords, the Parliament;
For so, by what they did, we see
They look'd upon themselves to be.
Great Comfort, sure, such Madness brings,
When Knaves turn Priests, and Rebels Kings,
In pious Times of Reformation,
When Villains triumph'd o'er the Nation,
And most Men ran in Quest of Freedom,
Arse foremost, as the Rump would lead 'em!

The common People, void of Thought,
Must be well govern'd, and well taught,
When Crowds of Tyrants made the Laws
Subservient to their wicked Cause,
And preaching Saints, with flippent Tongues,
Base Principles, and poys'nous Lungs,
Made Treachery and Treason glorious,
And black Rebellion meritorius.

The jealous Rump, in woeful Pain
To hear of these new listed Men,
Began to stink, like fizling Tail,
For Fear the King should turn the Scale,
Who had, as I have said before,
Rais'd a few Men, which were no more
Than just a fitting Guard du Cor:
But well might the rebellious Herd,
At such a small Allarm, be scar'd,
Since Traytors always are afear'd,
Like trembling Rogues, who rob by Night,
That start at e'ery glim'ring Light;

Or hiding Knaves, that bolt from Alleys,
Who fancy all they meet, are Bayly's.

The Rump thus frighted at a Feather,
Began to lay their Tails together,
And to debate in House of Office
The raising Sums for Men and Trophies,
Declaring, that the King's Intent
Was to attack the Parliament.
Suppose he had began the War,
It was no more than what was fair;
For if his Subjects do molest him,
And of his Government divest him,
It must be lawful then of Course,
Either by Stratagem, or Force,
To vanquish Rebels, that detain
The Throne, where he has Right to reign;
Or how shall be protect a Nation
From Innovation, and Oppression,
And from Disorder, and Confusion;
Preserve its ancient Constitution;

Support the Church, defend the Faith
Establish'd, from Fanatick Wrath;
Our Freedoms, and our Lives secure;
Distribute Justice to his Pow'r;
Uphold the Laws, and guide the Throne,
As other Kings before have done?
I say, how should a Prince make good
This sacred Compact as he shou'd,
That has no Right, by Arms, to quell
Revolted Subjects, that rebel,
And with a Trayterous Intent,
Controul him in his Government?
How shou'd a King discharge his Trust,
And to his solemn Oath be just,
That cannot lawfully defend
His Right of Pow'r to this great End?
And when requir'd, with Warlike Blows,
Chastize his refractory Foes,
Who, for base Ends, shall allienate
Their due Obedience from the State?

How shall a King bear Sov'reign Sway,
Unless the Subjects do obey?
And what can bind 'em, if they won't,
But Pow'r to force 'em, when they don't?

Yet, after all, I may aver,
The King did not begin the War;
The Rump alone incurr'd the Guilt
Of all the Blood in Battel spilt,
And by the Saints, those kind Abettors,
Those sanctify'd fool-hardy Traytors,
Were all those horrid Mischiefs done,
'Twixt fifty eight, and forty one.
Suppose a Gang of Rogues unite
To rob you of your lawful Right,
And, tho' unarm'd, they bid you stand,
And boldly do your Purse demand;
But you refuse to let 'em have it,
Because they have no Right to crave it;
And they dismount you from your Horse,
Next rob you, tho' by gentle Force;

And, for their Safety, turn a drift
Your Nag, and leave your self to shift:
I hope, if you the Country raise,
To seize 'em in their crooked Ways;
And when you meet, you fall upon 'em,
Attack 'em, kill 'em, over-run 'em,
Take 'em, that Justice may be done 'em.
You that are robb'd, are not in fault,
The Villains made the first Assault;
And all the Ills that happen in it,
Are due to them that did begin it.

Besides, if two Men chance to quarrel,
And fight 'till one receives his Farewel;
Since both were drawn, no matter who
Was the most nimble of the two:
He's the Aggressor in the Laws,
That gave the first provoking Cause:
For no Man can receive more Wrong,
And live, than from a spiteful Tongue.

Therefore, when War's in Agitation,
'Tis common Safety, no Transgression,
To make the earliest Preparation.
The first chief Causers of the same,
In Justice, ought to bear the Blame,
Because the primitive Offences
Produce the evil Consequences;
And that the Rump, by their Invasion
Of the King's Right, were the Occasion
Of all those sad intestine Jars,
Those Rapines, Spoils, and bloody Wars.
Their base Proceedings are enough
To give the World sufficient Proof;
But Truth and Reason, loose their Forces,
With Men more stubborn far than Horses.
No other cogent Arguments,
But Int'rest, will convince the Saints,
That darling Eccho, which they follow,
As one Owl does another's Hallow.

The Rump, with pannick Fear confounded,
In e'ery Vote to Battel sounded,
Declaring, that the King's Intent
Was to make War with's Parliament;
And therefore order'd, that each Round-head,
Should be prepar'd against the Crown'd Head;
And that forthwith the Saints should run
To th' Exercise of Pike and Gun,
That when expert in Arms, they might
Exert their Malice, and their Spite,
Those puritanick Spurs, that make
Men fight like Devils, for God's Sake,
And are of greater Use by far
Than Courage in domestick War,
Because the latter Qual'fication
Gives Room for Mercy, and Compassion,
When Malice will no Pity show,
But stab a conquer'd, gen'rous Foe;
And when they've won the bloody Day,
Denying Quarter, cut and slay;

For stubborn Saints, inspir'd by Zeal
To draw Enthusiastick Steel,
Ne'er limit their victorious Swords
I th' Battel, which they call the Lord's;
But wicked to the worst Degree,
Crown all Success with Cruelty.

Their canting Teachers now take care
(Those holy Firebrands of the War)
To give the People strange Alarms,
And in their Pulpits groan to Arms,
Beating up Voluntiers on Cushions,
With double Fist, to shew their Passions;
Basely applying the Athalian
Murder, to justify Rebellion;
Inferring wickedly from thence,
That God's most chosen Lambs, the Saints,
Might dip their Hands in Royal Blood,
When e'er they thought 'twas for their Good.
Thus Treason never wants a Text
To back it, when the Saints are vext;

Example, tho' it's ne'er so bad,
Is a good License, when they're mad,
For them to act the worst of Evils
That e'er was done by Men or Devils:
It is enough for them to shew
A Precedent for what they do,
Especially, if 'tis but screw'd
From Scripture, then the Action's good:
Altho', perhaps, recited there
To shew how wicked some Men were,
And not to teach us how to run
Into those Evils we should shun:
As if the killing Amaziah,
Or David's Treach'ry to Uriah,
Jehoiada's Command to slay
Th' Apostate Queen Athaliah,
Were for the Saints a righteous Plea
For Murder, and Adultery,
Or good authentick holy Reasons
For them to copy the like Treasons.

'Tis true, such Doctrine often suits
Th' Atchievements of fanatick Brutes,
Who never are so much at Ease,
As when Rebellion flourishes,
And crafty Hypocrites bear Sway
O'er lawful Pow'rs, they should obey:
The Reason's plain, because Dominion,
In their wild frensical Opinion,
Alone, forsooth, in Grace is founded,
And Grace giv'n only to the Round-head;
A Mercy by the Saints ingross'd,
Pretended to by Knaves the most.
So Bawds, and Midwives, never want,
At publick Meetings, Scripture-Cant,
But always talk with large Pretence
To Grace, to hide their Impudence.

The Saints now urg'd by preaching Tonies,
To bring in both their Plate, and Moneys,
And to extend their best Assistance,
To give tyrannick Pow'r Resistance,

Were soon prevail'd on to resign
Their Silver Beakers, and their Coin;
That such a just and holy Strife
Might want no Wealth to give it Life:
For who, but Papist, Jew, or Turk,
Would not assist the Godly Work,
And lend the Saints a helping Hand
To over-run the promis'd Land?
The needy Crowd flung in their Doits,
And pious Widows toss'd their Mites;
The Servant-Maids look'd up their odd Things,
And gave their Thimbles, and their Bodkins,
That the good Work might be effected,
And end in Glory, as expected.
Nay, Sums by holy Guides were given,
Who love their Mammon, more than Heaven;
That from each pious Knave's Example,
The Fools might make their Gifts more ample.
So Misers, who deny their Wealth,
To purchase wholesome Food for Health,

Unbind their Hoards, and feed the Laws,
To spur on a revengeful Cause.

The Rump now having serv'd their Wants,
By fleecing their fanatick Saints,
Who ne'er refuse a needful Sum,
When sweet Rebellion is in Bloom;
Had quickly rais'd a powerful Force
Of spiteful Men, and able Horse,
To fight, O wretched, cursed Cant!
For th' King, and eke the Parliament;
Meaning by King, the Pow'r Supream,
Not vested now in him, but them:
So, that Altho' they did oppose
His Person, and his Friends, as Foes,
And labour'd Tooth and Nail, to beat 'em,
Where e'er they could o'ertake, or meet 'em;
Yet, in a Sense Enthusiastick,
Or else bifarious, and fantastick,
By Fools mistaken, for Scholastick;

Against the King it was no warring,
But fighting Vice versa for him.
Rare Logick! to support their Treason,
In case 'twould bear the Touch of Reason.
By the same Rule, when doing Evil,
They're serving God, and not the Devil;
Or that rebelling 'gainst the Lord,
Is fighting for his holy Word,
And mystically strugling still,
In due Obedience to his Will.
'Tis true, by all their wicked Crimes
Transacted in those pious Times,
False Logick, and falacious Quibling,
So us'd in Preaching, and in Scribling,
Were Arts on which the Saints rely'd,
Instead of Scripture, for their Guide.
For holy Writ was never us'd,
But when distorted and abus'd,
Because God's Word, in which we trust,
So exquisitely good and just,

Could never serve, unless 'twas maim'd,
That wicked End, at which they aim'd;
Therefore, when Evil they pursu'd,
To make it look as if 'twas good,
They stretch'd the holy Scriptures to't,
As Crispin does a Shoe or Boot.
So Witches, in their Invocations,
Turn Godly Pray'rs to Imprecations;
Apply 'em to Designs most evil,
And say 'em backwards to the Devil.

Howe'er, the Rump, by Arts like these,
Still prosper'd in their Villanies,
And rais'd an Army fit to do
The worst of Mischiefs in their View,
Made ripe, by Diabolick Canting,
For all rebellious Parts of Sainting,
Theft, Murder, Treason, Rapine, Spoil,
And e'ery Crime that's capital,
Which Saints, by holy Teachers back'd,
May take the Priviledge to act;

For when their Oracle declares
His Will, it must be God's and theirs.

The injur'd King, in great Distress,
Beholding all their Forwardness,
His Army small, his Hopes no greater,
And little Coin to raise a better,
Had lost no Time to be prepar'd,
But found his Disappointments hard;
For Loyalty, when Kings decline,
Like handl'd Glow-worms, cease to shine;
And Money'd Friends, when Foes prevail,
Creep on but slowly, like a Snail:
Altho' the King had, Day by Day,
Sent out Commissions of Array,
Yet was the Royal Cause neglected
By many, whom the King expected.
But Kings, like other Men, we see
Are slighted in Adversity:
Court Flatt'rers seldom stand their Ground,
When Dangers do the Throne surround;

But when a threat'ning Storm appears,
Like sluggish Asses, hang their Ears;
Or, if they act, they're never hearty,
Except to the prevailing Party.

The Author could not conclude upon this Subject in this Part, as he intended, but hopes to do it in the next.

FINIS.

10. Part the Tenth.

The King thus wanting Men and Coin,
Proceeded to his Magazine,
The ancient Northern Town of Hull,
Where Hotham mounted on the Wall,
With bold rebellious Impudence
Deny'd the Ent'rance of his Prince;
Who, much offended at the Matter,
Caus'd him to be proclaim'd a Traytor.
Small Punishment for such a Crime
Committed at so ill a Time!
Unless his Sov'reign Justice cou'd
Have hang'd the Traytor where he stood;

Because, when Rebels rule the Roast,
The Brand of Infamy is lost;
For, by the Saints, a Man is priz'd
The more for being stigmatiz'd,
'Cause each Dishonour whet's his Spleen,
And makes his Malice still more keen
Against that Pow'r that does disown him,
And puts the evil Mark upon him.
Besides, the greatest Proof of Zeal,
That Saint can give for Common-weal,
Is, (when he finds a proper Season)
To do some bold successful Treason;
For he who' as forfeited his Life,
To carry on rebellious Strife,
And knows, if Justice once prevails,
There is no Mercy in her Scales,
Will, for his Safety, forward run,
To finish what he has begun;
For he that backward looks, must find
His Fate persuing close behind.

Thus Rebels toil beneath the Curse
Of propping, with their utmost Force,
Their wicked Actions still with worse.
So tim'rous Villains, when they're robbing,
Proceed thro' Fear, from Theft to Stabbing,
In Hopes, by Murder, to prevent
Their being brought to Punishment.

After the King, to gather Aid,
His Progress round the North had made,
That injur'd Majesty might move
His Subjects to obedient Love,
By giving them a feeling Sense
Of all his suff'ring Innocence,
From thence, with slender Force, he came,
For more Supplies, to Nottingham,
Hoping the Justice of his Cause,
Deriv'd from Heav'n, and Human Laws,
Might influence e'ery loyal Heart
To take their injur'd Sov'reign's Part;

But found Rebellion still had got,
In sordid Minds, so deep a Root,
That few, as yet, appear'd to be
So truly fix'd to Loyalty,
As to be ready to perform
Their Duty in so sad a Storm;
But rather fearful of their Lives,
Their Lands, their Children, and their Wives,
Stood nuter for a While to see,
Who first should gain a Victory;
That when Success had once been try'd,
Tho' given to the Rebels Side,
They might with Safety join the strong-
-Est Party, whether right or wrong,
Resolv'd to judge that Cause the best,
Which with the most Success was blest,
Believing that the longest Sword
Still fights the Battel of the Lord,
And that they're most belov'd of Heaven,
To whom the Victory is given.

So when a Prince usurps a Throne,
And makes another's Crown his own,
Fools, Knaves, and Cowards, always boast
His Right to rule that's uppermost,
Forgetting, that if Justice bore
No other Scales, than those of Pow'r,
That then each Villain, who by Force
Could rob a House, or take a Purse,
Might plead an equal Right to plunder
All those he could by Strength bring under;
For Justice no more License gives
For Kings to rob, than common Thieves,
The Highway-man, or brave Commander,
The Pyrate, or great Alexander:
If alike wicked, All are even
That break the standing Laws of Heaven,
Which make no Diff'rence in th' Offences.
Of petty Knaves, or pompous Princes,
But punishes the evil Doer,
Without Respect to Rich, or Poor

The King with Crosses half confounded,
And with important Cares surrounded,
Display'd his Standard, to invite
His loyal Friends to do him Right;
That is, such speedy Aid to lend,
As might be able to defend
His Royal Person, and the Throne
From those, who did his Pow'r disown,
And labour'd daily to o'erthrow,
And bring their lawful Sov'reign low.
But the vile canting, wicked Babble,
Preach'd up in Hovel, Barn, and Stable,
Had so misled the common Crowd,
From all Things that were just and good,
That Loyalty was deem'd to be
A leading Vice to Slavery,
And sweet Rebellion only thought
A Saint-like Vertue, as 'twas taught.
So that the King, as yet, could find
Small Comfort for his troubl'd Mind

Amidst those Sorrows that opprest
His pensive, but undaunted Breast,
Prepar'd with Vertue, to sustain
The worst Afflictions of his Reign.
For sacred Innocence ne'er feels
The Tongue that wounds, or Sword that kills,
But with a Martyr-like Content,
Bears nobly what it can't prevent.
Whilst wicked Men, o'ercome with Fear,
Can bravely no Misfortune bear,
But sink with Horror and Dispair.

The fizling Rump, who now, by Virtue
O' th' preaching Blockheads of their Party,
Had rais'd malicious Men and Coin
Sufficient for their base Design,
Began to cock their Tails, to see
They'd got the Start of Loyalty,
And that their Scripture-Quacks, by Canting,
Dissembling, Whining, Sycophanting,

Had so invegl'd Knaves and Fools,
That both were fond to be their Tools,
And to extend a helping Hand,
To plunder and enslave the Land.
Thus were the giddy Crowd prepar'd
To cause those Mis'ries that they fear'd,
And thro' blind Zeal, to hurry on
Those Ills they arm'd themselves to shun.
So Lucifer, when swell'd with Pride,
Drew winged Legions on his Side;
But all the Time his Angels fought
For Pow'r and Glory, as they thought,
They only labour'd to encrease
Their own eternal Miseries,
And for their dire Rebellion, fell
From Heav'n to everlasting Hell.
Therefore, if such seraphick Rebels
Were chang'd from Angels, into Devils,
What Curses must reward the Merits
Of Saints, that mock such wicked Spirits?

When Nottingham, that tainted Town,
Remiss in Duty to the Crown,
Had, to their Scandal, disappointed
The Measures of the Lord's anointed,
The King to Shrewsbury proceeded,
Where he soon rais'd what Force he needed,
Believ'd sufficient to oppose
At present, his Rebellious Foes,
Commanded by a noble P---r,
Who did such forked Antlets wear,
As if he meant to brow-beat those
That should the Rebels Cause oppose,
With Buts, instead of man-like Blows:
Altho' a P---r, so basely fitted,
And by a Female Tail outwitted,
A Man would think Revenge should take
Against one Rump, for t'other's Sake.
As he that thinks he has a Friend,
But finds him treach'rous in the End,

Taking Aversion to the Name,
Will credit none that bears the same.
But tho' one Rump a Cuckold made him,
And to the horned Plague betray'd him;
Yet t'other Rump, to tip the Crest
That mark'd him for a Woman's Beast,
Made the Buck Gen'ral o'er the rest.
Thus from a C---d, was he made,
Of Round-head Rams, the horned Head,
As if he hop'd, as some do guess,
With greater Shame, to hide the less.

Now give me Leave to light my Fuel,
And sip a little Derby Gruel;
And when refresh'd, I'll make appear
Those farther Truths you hate to bear.

CANTO IX.

Both Parties being now impower'd
To try their Valour by the Sword,
One spur'd by Duty, t'other Spite,
Seem'd equally prepar'd to fight;
So that 'twas difficult to guess,
Which Army should obtain Success,
The Side with Loyalty inspir'd,
Or those which were with Malice fir'd;
Both Motives greatly do engage,
But the last bears the keener Edge;
For Love and Duty, tho' they make
The Gen'rous bold, for Justice Sake;
Yet, by the Mercy which they use,
The End propos'd they often loose,
When Malice always wants a Will
To spare, when it has Pow'r to kill,

And does by Cruelty, obtain
The very End it hop'd to gain.

The King now join'd with able Force,
Consisting both of Men and Horse,
Commanded by a Loyal Peer,
Of noble Birth and Character;
His March from Shrewsbury began,
Attended with his warlike Train,
Moving tow'rds London, where the Godly,
Half dead with Fear, look'd very odly,
Least pious Rump should now be thrown
From Sadle, which they thought their own;
And from that Pitch, to which they'd soard,
Tumble like PRIDE into a T---d.
No sooner had the King made Way,
And march'd by where the Rebels lay,
But their brave General Cornutus,
With Head like Buck, and Heart like Brutus,
Brandish'd his Horns before the Herd,
And closely follow'd whom he fear'd.

The King conceiving that the TUP
Design'd to block his Army up
Betwixt the Round-heads and the Town,
Those equal Rebels to the Crown;
With Princely Courage fac'd about,
And put Cornutus to the Rout,
Prepar'd before by loving Wife
For Heaven, in case he'ad lost his Life;
Perhaps on purpose that he might
With greater Zeal and Courage fight.
For if a Man, before he dies,
Is certain to surmount the Skies,
How can he fear the Loss of Breath,
That's sure of Heaven after Death?

When loyal Friends, by Fortune's Wheel,
Had won the Battel at Edghil,
The King, with all his Force, inclin'd
Tow'rds Town, as he before design'd,
Which set the Saints in such a Trembling,
It almost put 'em by Dissembling,

And made them in good Earnest pray,
Instead of Jest, their common Way:
Their busy Leaders hung their Ears,
And all their Hopes were chang'd to Fears:
Their Coin, belov'd above their Souls,
They hid in Corners, and in Holes;
Shut up their Shops, for Preservation,
As in the Time of Visitation.
The Saints all looking so forlorn,
As if they now had Cause to mourn
Some other Plague, besides the Horn:
However, tho' in sorry Pickle,
When once chear'd up at Conventicle,
They reassum'd their former Spite,
And still were Rebels to the Height.

When Guides had thus, by holy Arts,
New-ground the Malice of their Hearts,
And made the Saints Revenge as keen,
As ever it before had been;

Another Army soon sprang up
From Workhouse, Warehouse, Stall, and Shop,
That made the Rebels Force more great,
Than what the King before had beat:
Enthusiasticks flock'd in Shoales,
To fight, not for their Lives, but Souls;
For some believ'd their Cause so good,
That he who sacrific'd his Blood,
To propagate the Int'rest of it,
Should merit Heaven for his Profit,
To make amends for Loss of Life
In such a glorious holy Strife.
A youthful Fry were join'd to these,
Of giddy crop-ear'd 'Prentices,
Who thought no more of Death or Wounds,
Than Hares new kindl'd, do of Hounds;
But spurr'd by Masters, and by Parents,
Were blind, but resolute Adherents,
Who turn'd not wicked out of Conscience,
But follow'd others, not their own Sense,

Thinking no more of Heaven or Hell,
Than that 'twas sinful to rebel:
These, tho' they wanted Skill or Brains,
Had youthful Vigour in their Veins;
So that their Folly made 'em bolder,
Than some much more expert and older.
For he that does himself betake
To Arms, for only Fighting's Sake,
And does no other End propose,
But the Destruction of his Foes;
Much Malice, and but little Wit,
Will make him for the Purpose fit;
For too much Foresight, we have found,
Have made sometimes the Wise give Ground,
When Clod-skulls, at the worst o'th' Lay,
By brutal Rage, shall make their Way,
And blind to Danger, win the Day.

When thus the train-band Ninconpoops,
Join'd with auxiliary Troops,

Were arm'd, and in a ready Plight
To march, to plunder, or to fight,
Cornutus, willing still to head 'em,
By Night crept into Town, to lead 'em,
In Hopes, by this fanatick Host,
To gain that Honour he had lost:
But the good King, who now had ventur'd,
To march so near the Town, as Brentford,
Foreseeing, with Concern and Pitty,
The headstrong Baseness of the City,
And that they were so well prepar'd
To stand on their rebellious Guard;
Return'd to Oxford, when inform'd
How Malice had the City warm'd,
B'ing not adviseable to try
Against such Odds, for Victory;
Tho' by an unexpected Blow,
He gave a fatal Overthrow
To three bold Regiments of Rebels,
That fought for wicked Rump, like Devils;

That Rump, which now upon the Brink
Of Danger, ready was to stink.

Thus was that bloody War begun
I th' fatal Year of Forty One;
Not by the King, but by the crafty
Saints, who had forc'd him, for his Safety,
To do most justly what he did,
To stop their Cruelty and Pride;
Which lastly, notwithstanding, wrought
The King's Destruction, which they sought.
For say, Fanaticks, what you can
To palliate that Rebellion,
The bloody Scenes, in which it ended,
Shew'd plainly what the Saints intended.

The Kingdom thus with War oppress'd,
From North to South, and East to West,
That all Things tended in the Nation,
To Ruin, Spoil, and Desolation,
Look'd as if Heav'n was now beginning
To scourge the wicked Land for Sinning,

And humble the Rebellious-hearted,
By Judgments which themselves had courted;
For Justice very oft has granted
The Sons of Wrath those Things they wanted,
On purpose, that the sad Event
Might prove their earthly Punishment,
That they at last, with Shame might see
The Fruits of all their Villany,
And with repenting Horror fill'd,
Bemoan the Blood of those they'd kill'd,
And all their cruel Wrongs they've done
By Murder, and Rebellion.

For tho' they prosper in their Evil,
'Tis not from God, but from the Devil;
For Heav'n, we see, does oft permit
The sordid Ruffain in the Street,
To stab, and quench his bloody Thirst,
But still he's but the more accurst;
For tho', by pow'rful Friends, perhaps,
The shameful Gallows he escapes,

Yet must he live beneath the Guilt
And Horror of the Blood h'as spilt,
Which makes each Moment of his Breath,
Much worse than a repenting Death;
Whilst he that perish'd by his Sword,
God's Mercy can at once reward,
And give to his departed Ghost,
Eternal Life, for that he lost.
Hence we may learn, that when Success
Attends on Human Wickedness,
'Tis but the Flatt'ry of the Devil,
That draws Man on to farther Evil,
'Till Terror and Remorse, at last,
Does all his Sun-shine Days o'ercast,
And then he views, with sad Dispair,
The Fruits his evil Actions bear.

The Nation under strange Delusion,
Being now reduc'd to such Confusion,
That Brother against Brother fought,
And Sons their Fathers Ruin sought;

The King still stud'ing all he cou'd,
To save his misled People's Blood,
The kindest, softest Measures try'd,
T' abate their Malice, and their Pride,
Off'ring such Terms and Propositions,
And making daily such Concessions,
Almost beneath a King to grant
To Imps too wicked to recant;
Who but the more their Prince abus'd,
For all the gentle Means he us'd,
And with the greater Zeal persu'd
Their Ends, by Rapine, Spoil, and Blood:
So that of Reason quite bereft,
The King, no other Way they'd left
To save his Life, and be restor'd,
But by the down-right Dint of Sword;
That now the Rebels of the Rump,
And Friends that bore the loyal Stamp,
With equal Eagerness, were bent
To push the War to its Event,

Which no one could, as yet, foresee,
Except the wise Eternity.

The Great, the Gen'rous, and the Good,
For Sov'regn Right, undaunted stood,
Resolv'd the King and Throne to save,
Or, in Attempts so just and brave,
To make the bloody Field their Grave.
The misled, brutish, scoundrel Herd,
That never thought, and nothing fear'd,
Lead by base Upstarts, rais'd aloft
From Dunghils, by their Cant and Craft,
With Zealots, full of Spite and Pride,
Whom crafty Teachers first misguide,
And then like Mules and Asses ride:
These made up the rebellious Party,
That to the Rump appear'd so hearty,
And serv'd 'em with as great a Gust,
As if their Quarrel had been just:
For Saints will more for Malice do,
Than Justice can induce 'em to.

Thus pious Knaves will sooner fight,
To gratify their own ill Spite,
Than to defend another's Right.
Yet all the While, thro' Fraud or Folly,
They sanctify the War as holy,
And in a base dissembling Tone,
Call it G---d's Cause, when 'tis their own,
And springs from nothing else beside
Their Malice, Avarice, and Pride.
The Saints in Love with Pike and Gun,
Now push'd the War with Vigour on,
And both the Parties, full of Heat,
Disputed sharply when they met;
Divers keen Battels, to the Cost
Of many Lives, were won and lost;
Tho' Fortune, for the first three Years,
Smil'd chiefly on the Cavaliers,
So far, that doubtful Rump confest
The loyal Side had got the best,

And that the King's successful Force
Were strongest, both in Men and Horse:
This fill'd them full of Doubts and Fears,
And made the Godly hang their Ears,
Dispairing of the promis'd Land,
The Zealots wanted to command,
In case those wicked Sons of Thunder,
The Loyalists, were brought but under,
Whose Wealth the Saints mark'd out for Plunder:
T' accomplish these, their wicked Ends,
The Scots they courted for their Friends,
Not doubting but their Mother Kirk
Would help 'em in the righteous Work;
Especially, in Hopes to share
The Blessings of so just a War.
For Saints, tho' in Opinion Brothers,
Like Thieves, will never join with others,
Unless they are allow'd to snack,
The Booty which they jointly take;

For tho' i'th' Faithful 'tis no Stealth
To rob the Wicked of their Wealth,
And plead they have a Scripture-Patent
To seize it wheresoe'er they light on't.
Yet Saints to Saints must upright be,
Or else, where lies their Honesty?
For should the holy Tribe oppress,
And wrong the Sons of Righteousness;
As the good Brethren do for Gain,
Those stil'd the Wicked, and Prophane,
The Devil would not trust 'em then.
Therefore, the Scots, both wise and wary,
Thought it but justly necessary,
That they should join, and take a Share,
In such a gainful holy War,
In which they were assur'd to be
Well-paid for all their Villany;
Knowing Rebellion never wants
Supplies of Money from the Saints,

When 'tis to pull the Wicked down,
In Hopes of making all their own.

Thus did the Rump, by seeking Aid,
Most plainly show they were afraid,
That the King's Side as yet were able
To cope with their fanatick Rabble;
Nor could the Rebels e'er have found
A Race of Men above the Ground,
So fitting for the Work design'd 'em,
As that contagious Brood that join'd 'em;
Whose corrupt Minds and Bodies, bare,
Of Northern Plagues, an equal Share;
The one from Scabs, is never free,
The other's curs'd with Treachery.

FINIS.

11. Part the Eleventh.

Fear , Malice, Av'rice, Zeal, and Pride,
Kindling the War on e'ery Side,
No Part o' th' Nation now was free
From warm Disputes for Victory:
Confusion e'ery where arose,
And Brothers were to Brothers Foes;
Fathers against their Children fought;
And Sons their Parents Ruin sought.
The noisy Gun, and glitt'ring Sword,
The drowthy Soil with Blood manur'd;
The nobler Plants, in Fields and Plains,
Suck'd up what flow'd from loyal Veins,

That the kind sanguinary Juice
Might live for ever, and produce
Something still worthy of our Use:
Whilst bleeding Rebels, with their Gore,
Did trampl'd Weeds to Life restore,
And fill'd those Places, where 'twas spilt,
With prickly Emblems of their Guilt.

Battels now fought, 'twixt Host and Host,
Alternately were won and lost;
So that when one Side gain'd Success,
Some shrew'd Mishap soon made it less,
To shew that what depends on Fortune,
Is still precarious, and uncertain.
Therefore, the giddy Fool that's bent
To judge of Things by the Event,
Mistakes what's fickle Chance, to be
The Consequence of Heav'n's Decree,
And thinks that Cause or Quarrel, must
Not only be more safe, but just,

That with the most Success is blest,
And does in Battel prosper best.
When the good Fortune, that befriends us,
Or the ill Luck, that so attends us,
Do oft appear, by Circumstance,
To be alone the Works of Chance,
And all the boasted great Event,
To be no more than Accident.
But proud rebellious Saints, to gloss,
With holy Cheats, their wicked Cause,
When Chance the Victory has given,
Ascribe it to the Hand of Heaven;
By which fanatick Piece of Cunning,
Whilst headlong to Old Nick they're running
Th' insinuate, that the Lord engages
In all their villanous Outrages;
And that he does, thro' Justice, bless
Their sinful Works with good Success.
Therefore, when Whims Enthusiastick,
Make 'em thus wickedly fantastick,

Well may they fancy Wrong is Right,
And that their blackest Deeds are white;
Rebellion just, their Treasons holy,
Because they prosper in their Folly.
Thus, whensoe'er they chanc'd to smite
Their En'mies Hip and Thigh in Fight,
Aloud their canting Teachers cry'd,
The Lord we see is on our Side,
And helps us to confound their Pride.
O, Israel, to your Tents again,
Your great Success has made it plain,
The Lord of Host, in whom we trust,
Has bless'd our Cause, because 'tis just:
Therefore with joyful Hearts go on,
And pull the Dagon Idol down;
Then shall the Saints, with awful Hand,
Possess and rule the promis'd Land.

So may the Ruffian, that succeeds
In bloody, base, ignoble Deeds,

Hold up his Hands, and turn his Eyes,
Like prosp'rous Rebels, tow'rds the Skies,
And thank the Lord, that he has blest
Those Ills, his Goodness does detest,
And never long escape, we see,
The Vengeance of Eternity.

Thus sacred Villains oft express
Their Thanks to Heav'n, for their Success,
Tho' th' Cause of their Prosperity
Is wicked to the last Degree:
As if the hypocritick Cant,
And pious Glav'rings of a Saint,
Could sanctify the Guilt of Blood,
And make his sinful Actions good;
Or consecrate their vile Rebellion,
By putting a Religious Veil on.
'Tis true, it sometimes may disguise
Their Villainy from human Eyes,
And gloss it over, to delude
The base misjudging Multitude:

But Heav'n in Wrath beholds the Cheat,
And, when his Justice thinks it meet,
Pours Vengeance down, to let 'em see
He hates their vile Hypocrisy;
And that each boasted prosp'rous Evil,
Is not from God, but from the Devil.

When both Sides had in Heat and Choler
Made equal Trial of their Valour,
And labour'd hard, in Blood and Sweat,
Who should the final Vict'ry get;
Yet neither scarce, for Years, could tell
On whom the most Success had fell;
Fortune to both alike inclin'd,
Would not to either long be kind,
But toss'd her Flatt'ries to and fro,
As Men their Balls at Tennis throw;
Using her Smiles, as Jilts are wont
To do 'twixt Husband and Gallant:
So mutually conferr'd her Favour
On both Sides, but was true to neither.

At last, the faithless scabby Brood,
Who never yet did England good,
Join'd with their Brother Rebels here
Against the Royal Sufferer;
That pious Saints, to their Renown,
Might, with reforming Hands, pull down
That Popish Enemy, a Crown.
No Wonder, that their Zeal and Spite
Should make 'em readily unite,
Since puritannick Sons of Grace,
Altho' they different Lands possess;
Yet if Rebellion once be started
By any of the Righteous-hearted,
The distant Brethren always join
To carry on the good Design;
And, by a sympathizing Spirit,
Deem Plots and Treasons, Works of Merit:
Nay, canting Guides must stretch their Jaws,
In straining Heaven's holy Laws,
To propagate the good old Cause.

This is the Time, my loving Friends,
In which the living Lord intends
To shew his Mercy unto all,
That never bow'd their Knees to Baal,
And to deliver you his People
From that tall Idol, call'd a Steeple:
Therefore I do not only teach ye,
But humbly pray ye, and beseech ye,
That your Assistance be not wanting
To forward what the Lord is granting.

Such pious Frauds, and holy Cants,
Delude at once the list'ning Saints,
To think they're bound, by Heaven's Laws,
To venture all to serve the Cause:
For if their Teachers do but head 'em,
And tell them, that the Lord does need 'em;
No Matter if the Devil drives,
They'll hazard both Estates and Lives.
Thus dear Rebellion and Confusion,
Like the sad Cry of Persecution,

Always inspire each holy Brother
To closely stick by one another;
By which united Strength and Craft,
They foil the Wicked very oft,
And work most wond'rous Revolutions,
Which always end in such Confusions,
That after-Ages have been bound
To curse their Ashes under Ground.

When thus the mangy Loons had join'd
The English Rebels to their Mind,
They were not much unlike the Rabble,
That Heav'n confounded once at Babel:
For tho' this sanguinary Crew
Had not so many Tongues, 'tis true;
Yet may I boldly testify,
Without that Saint-like Grace, a Lie,
They'd more Religions in their Host,
Than Babel Languages could boast:
From whence, to all the World's Surprize,
As great Confusions did arise,

As e'er could hinder and turmoil:
The Builders of the lofty Pile.

The Presbyterians led the Van,
And made the wicked Path more plain;
Crying out, Popery and Slavery,
To cast a Mist before their Knavery.

The Independants follow'd next,
Each chewing some mysterious Text,
That might defend, upon Occasion,
Their godly Work of Decolation.

The Baptist Churl, with meagre Jaws,
Came on to help the good old Cause;
Crying aloud, with grizly Beard on,
Lord cleanse us in thy River Jordan,
And make us worthy to become
The Follow'rs of thy Kettle-Drum.

The Fifth-Monarchical Fanaticks,
The maddest of the four Pragmaticks,
March'd next with melancholly Mein,
Almost devour'd 'twixt Zeal and Spleen;

Cry'ng, down with all those wicked Things,
Those Idols of the Earth, call'd Kings:
Give us thy Holy One to please us;
For we'll obey no King, but ------

Next came those pale Fanatick Troops
Of ill-look'd pious Ninconpoops,
Muggleton's Saints, and Seventh-Day Men,
Who knew no other Priests, but Lay-men;
Nay, chose their greatest Fools to teach 'em,
Because they should not over-reach 'em:
A rare Receipt to keep their Sides
From being gall'd by canting Guides;
Who, if they find they can bestride ye,
Will prove by Scripture they may ride ye.

Papists, disguis'd amongst the rest
In puritannick Querpo drest,
Join'd with the Rebels to pull down
Those Hereticks, the Church and Crown:
Nay, all the Jesuits in the Nation
Obtain'd a Holy Dispensation

From Grandsire Greybeard, that they might,
Like gifted Brethren, preach or fight,
T' assist the Luciferian Party
In carrying on their Olygarchy;
Hoping that when they'd brought the Nation,
By still pretending Reformation,
Into a mis'rable Condition
Of Malice, Bloodshed, Irreligion,
That then the Bald-pates might once more,
By Plots and Stratagems, restore
The ancient Babylonian Whore.
For Atheism, which Fanatick Scrubs
Advance by yawning in their Tubs,
And which their puritannick Hearers
Call Reformation from Church-Errors,
Has always been approv'd to be
A leading Card to Popery.
For when the People have been long
Misled, and humour'd in the Wrong,

'Till thro' ill Custom they have lost,
All Sense of what is right or just,
'Tis then most easy to enslave 'em,
And make 'em what you'd please to have 'em.
So he that works in Wax or Metals,
That makes fine Images or Kettles,
When he designs such Alteration
Of either, as to change their Fashion,
He melts down what such Pains had cost,
By which its ancient Form is lost;
And when it's thus reduc'd by Fire,
New moulds it to his own Desire.

When bonny Scots, by Rump invited,
Had with these mingled Troops united,
And made the vile rebellious Rabble
Against the King, more formidable,
They now began to think, that all
Must soon into their Clutches fall;
And that the pious Work, wherein
The stubborn Sons of Grace had been

So busy with such little Fortune,
Would now go rarely on, for certain.
For when they'd thus increas'd their Force
With mangy Foot and scrubbed Horse,
They doubted not but Heav'n would bless
The strongest Army with Success;
Tho' long before, they preach'd and cry'd,
The Lord of Host was on their Side;
Yet failing in that righteous Work,
They hop'd to finish with a Jerk,
They begg'd the Scots to make 'em stronger,
Which shew'd they'd trust the Lord no longer;
For bad they thought their Quarrel just,
In God they still had put their Trust;
Not in a People so p---s,
So b---ly tr---s, tho' religious.

The King, by Hamilton's Persuasion,
Not fearing any Scotch Invasion,
Was falsly flatter'd all along
To credit what at last prov'd wrong;

And to believe the Scots his Friends,
Whose fawning Kindness always tends
To nothing, but their own by-Ends.
But when th' injur'd King had heard
The only fatal News he fear'd;
And that the freckly Loons, at best,
Were but false Rebels, like the rest,
And once more prov'd themselves to be
True Scotch-men, by their Treachery.
The King was now disturb'd, to find
Both Kingdoms of one wicked Mind;
And, that the Presbyterian Kirk
Of Scotland, so approv'd the Work
Of base dissenting Rebels here,
As to assist that Holy War;
Which gave the Godly such Occasion
Of shewing their vile Inclination
To Murder, Treason, and Oppression,
Those three Inducements, that inspire
The warlike Saints with martial Fire,

And in a wrong Cause make 'em fight
More desp'rately, than if 'twas right.
So the keen Sportsman, who so brags
Of running Horses, Guns, and Dogs,
Is apt to take much more Delight
In stealing a fat Buck by Night,
Than in a Brace, that he obtains
By any just and lawful Means,
Because the Pleasure, most Men do agree,
Lies not i' th' Ven'son, but the Roguery.

When thus the Rump, to serve their Ends,
Had join'd their Northern scabby Friends,
Who, to promote the pious Work,
March'd their united Force to York,
In order to besiege that Town,
Which was as yet i' th' Hands o' th' Crown.
The King surpriz'd at this Alarm,
And growing resolutely warm,
Gave to his Gen'rals strict Command
To march, and fight 'em out of Hand,

And speed'ly to relieve the Town,
'Fore which the Rebels were sat down.

These Royal Orders they pursu'd,
Fearing (as gallant Heroes shou'd)
The Loss of Vict'ry, more than Blood:
But when the loyal Army came
To York, that Town of ancient Fame,
The Rebels were retir'd before,
Some Miles from thence, to Marston-Moor,
That fatal Field, wherein was fought
The Battel, where the Rebels got
That bloody Day, that turn'd the Tide,
And swell'd the democratick Side
With joyful Insolence and Pride.
O strange! that Stars, (if they could steer,
Or Influence Human Actions here)
In spite of Justice, should determine
The Vict'ry for such wicked Vermin!
Sure, when the first rebellious War
Was rais'd in Heav'n by Lucifer,

And all his winged Troops were thrown,
By the Almighty's Vengeance, down,
That some were hang'd i' th' middle Way,
To warn us how we disobey.
From thence were model'd, since their Fall,
To Stars, which now we Planets call;
So still continue, and dispense
Their old rebellious Influence;
To shew, tho' conquer'd, they abhor
(Fanatick like) all sov'reign Pow'r;
And since they once were Heaven's Foes,
Will still remain inclin'd to those
Who love, on Earth, to be at Varience
With the same God, and his Vice-gerents:
Or, sure, if they could Favour show
To distant Mortals here below,
They'd ne'er befriend the Rebels Side,
And all their kinder Aspects hide
From injur'd Princes, when distress'd,
And by rebellious Brutes oppress'd.

But Stars, like those that read their Faces,
And measure their unweary'd Paces,
Are so ambiguous, and uncertain,
That neither can predict our Fortune,
Or shew us what's behind the Curtain.

When thus the Royalists had lost
That Battel, which futurely cost
The King his Int'rest in the North,
And all those Towns that were of Worth;
Such preaching, praising, and such canting,
Such writing, boasting, and such vaunting,
Were us'd amongst the yawning Saints,
To all their list'ning Sycophants,
As if their stupid Zeal was fir'd
With Hopes of all that they desir'd.
Thanksgivings in each Barn and Stable,
Were made by Guides, to please the Rabble;
And in each Tub the joyful Story
Was so enlarg'd, to God's great Glory,

As if the old fanatick Spirit
Had told 'em, 'twas a Saint-like Merit
T' improve the Truth into a Lie
Before th' eternal Majesty.
But the same Talent's still in Use
With Guides, who do their Flocks amuse,
Not with Divinity, but News;
As if their Doctrine had been most
Collected from the Flying-Post;
And that Advice from Spain or Flanders,
Sent over by our Great Commanders,
Was far more welcome to their Flocks,
Than Apostolick Orthodox.
But notwithstanding that the Brood
Of Rebels such Rejoycings shew'd,
And made such boasting Acclamations
Throughout the two united Nations;
Yet 'twas the King's good Luck, soon after,
T' abate their Joy with such a Slaughter,

Of stubborn Rebels, that the Saints
Were fill'd with Murmurs and Complaints,
And now again began to think,
In Spite of Fate, their Cause would sink,
And that the Rump at last must stink:
For Waller, swell'd with mighty Hopes,
March'd with his puritannick Troops
Tow'rds Worc'ster, meaning to pursue
The King with his rebellious Crew,
Believing now the same Success,
Would still attend their Wickedness;
But the King knowing his Intent,
Turn'd back on the fanatick Saint,
And made his Army feel the Weight
Of Royal Vengeance, made more great
By being so unfortunate.
This gallant Action of Renown
Was owing to the King alone;
His Princely Courage led the Way,
And prudent Conduct won the Day,

Cov'ring the Field with Rebels slain,
And seizing their Artill'ry Train,
Killing and taking, in the Fight,
All but those Traytors, who by Flight
Escap'd, befriended by the Night.

No sooner had this Vict'ry spoil'd
That Joy, with which the Saints were fill'd,
And turn'd their Boasting and their Gladness
Into dispairing Grief and Sadness;
But the King, mov'd by this Success,
Resolv'd to give Cornutus Chase,
So march'd his loyal Troops away
To Cornwall, where the Rebels lay;
There, by his Conduct, hemm'd 'em round,
And drove 'em into such a Pound,
That Earl Cornutus, in a Fright
Was forc'd to steal away by Night,
In a small Bout, to save his Beacon,
Or else the Rebel had been taken;

A good Shift too, for many find
The Sea so merciful and kind
To save those Traytors from the Hand
Of Justice, that should swing by Land.

Their Gen'ral having thus deserted,
The rest were all quite broken-hearted.
An Army, when their Leader's fled,
Is like a Man without a Head,
The Limbs of either cannot do
That Office they're appointed to.
Now fearing all to be destroy'd,
Their Horse, the Danger to avoid,
By Night, broke thro' the Royal Quarters,
And so escap'd their dying Martyrs
For that good Cause, which e'ery Guide,
That canted on the Rebels Side,
Had so devoutly sanctify'd:
But the poor Foot, in woeful Plight,
Having no Hopes by Day or Night,

To shun the Danger, or eschew
The sad Destruction in their View,
Had no Way left 'em, but to quit
Their Arms, and humbly to submit,
Knowing his Mercy was so tender,
To whom they did their Lives surrender,
That he'd forgive their Disobedience,
Upon their Promise of Allegiance;
Which at the Royal Army's Head
They all in solemn Manner made,
And so were suffer'd to depart,
When hanging was their just Desert:
But Mercy from a King they hate,
Tho' ne'er so generously great,
Can no fanatick Saints reclaim,
For Rebels will be still the same.
So he that does, thro' Pitty, save
A Thief from Gallows, and the Grave,
Preserves a Rogue will ne'er regard him,
But cut his Weason, to reward him.

The Truth of this the gracious Prince
Soon found by sad Experience,
For in the next severe Dispute
Between the King, and Earl Cornute,
Which happen'd near to Newbury Town,
Where angry Fortune cast a Frown
Upon the King, and gave the Pride
Of Vict'ry to the Rebels Side,
Because those Traytors, who before
Made solemn Vows to never more
Bear Arms against the Sov'reign Pow'r,
Had all their sacred Oaths forgot,
And with more Heat and Fury fought,
Than all their other base Adherents,
Not bound by Mercy to Forbearance;
So that it plainly did appear,
Th' unhappy King's Misfortunes here,
Were owing to the Rogues he'd spar'd,
Who to their Vows had no Regard,
But were by Mercy made more hard.

Therefore, from hence the World may see
That Rebels cannot grateful be;
In Nature they're avers'd to Good,
And love to bathe in Loyal Blood;
No Favours will reclaim the Brutes,
Or stop their villanous Pursuits;
Severity's the only Way
To make 'em truckle, and obey:
For like rank Nettles, that are found
Aspiring in neglected Ground,
The more they're crush'd, the less they wound.

FINIS.

12. Part the Twelth.

The thankless Rump, not yet content
With their last fortunate Event,
Owing to that malicious Brood,
By Nature so averse to Good,
That Royal Mercy could not move
Their Hearts Gratitude or Love;
Now fancy'd, that their late Success
Was made, thro' some Misconduct, less;
And that their Gen'ral had neglected
Doing those Wonders they expected;
Nor that he'ad won at Newb'ry Fight,
So great a Vict'ry as he might;

That is, he did not kill and slay
The Wicked when he'ad won the Day,
Nor shew his Temper in cool Blood
So barb'rous, as they thought he shou'd.

Thus Doubts and Jealousies arose,
Among the ruling Saints, of those
Who to their Int'rest were as true,
As Turk to Turk, or Jew to Jew,
And scorn'd, as all wife Men suggest,
To be less wicked than the rest.
But he that undertakes to please
A Tribe of Hypocrites, like these,
Rebels so sacred and religious,
Must something do that is prodigious;
Not sneak, but act his cruel Part
With so much Wickedness and Art,
That might, at one rebellious Heat,
Their bold infernal Work compleat,
And make the Devils blush to see't:
Such Heroes they alone admire,
Cruel as Wolves, and hot as Fire,

Who can do e'ery Thing that's vile,
Yet talk Religion all the while,
And in the Lord's Name, break his Laws,
To spur on their fanatick Cause.

Therefore, the Rump took speedy Courses
To mend and regulate their Forces,
That when new model'd, they might be
More fit for e'ery Villany.

Cornutus seeing now most plain,
That all his Labours were in vain;
And, that the mighty Feats he 'ad done,
Were but as Trifles look'd upon,
Because they thought he was too much
A Roy'list, to be truly such
A rig'rous Rebel as they needed,
To bring the King to be beheaded,
And to declare his Approbation
Of all their Ills in Agitation.
Yet 'twas by honest Men believ'd,
In's Lordship's they were much deceiv'd;

For that he was, without Contest,
As grand a Rebel as the best;
And had as true a Roundhead's Will
To conquer, plunder, and to kill,
As any Traytor to the Crown,
Tho' of less Honour and Renown.
Thus Mighty Men, who would be thought
To live almost without a Fau't,
Who boast so much of noble Blood,
And of their being Wise and Good,
When Faction once turmoils a State,
And Kingdoms grow unfortunate,
We see how oft they do mistake,
And what ignoble Shifts they make,
Abstracted from the Publick Well-fare,
To save themselves from any Ill-fare;
Nay, sacrifice the Royal Throne,
And pull down him that sits thereon,
To please a Crowd, who, like the Devil,
Delight in nothing, but in Evil;

And all to hear the Rabble cry,
Here comes Salvator Populi.
Therefore, methinks, that's sneaking Honour,
That will not vindicate its Donor,
And help the Crown, that made 'em Noble,
Whenever 'tis oppressd with Trouble:
Besides, when such oppose the State,
Who should be Good, as well as Great,
They teach all Men of Worth and Sense,
To scorn what they should reverence,
And think, that Honour's but a Mark
Only for Service done i'th' Dark:
And therefore Kings alone confer it
On fawning Tools, not Men of Merit,
And that's the Reason they're so oft
Pull'd down by those they've rais'd aloft:
For no rebellious Feud or Strife,
Could last above a Mushroon's Life,
If Honour were not pleas'd to head 'em,
And thro' their base Atchievements lead 'em,

For Honour oft supplies the Place
Of Justice, Honesty, or Grace,
And gives their Cause a better Face.

Cornutus finding their Suspicion,
In Time surrender'd his Commission;
Not thro' a Check from wading further
In Treason, Rapine, Spoil, and Murder,
But 'cause the Rumpers were about,
Thro' Jealousy, to turn him out,
Thinking he might have done much more
Than Fortune gave into his Pow'r.
For stubborn Rebels, boundless Pride,
Is, like their Consciences, so wide,
'Tis never to be satisfy'd.

When this was done, the next Gradation
Made tow'rds this Marshal Innovation,
By th' ruling Saints behind the Curtain,
Uneasy at their doubtful Fortune,
Was to procure a Vote, that no
One Member of the House below,

Or of the Lords, should, in the Host,
Bear any Military Post,
Or any other Office Civil;
At which some grumbl'd like the Devil,
To think they should be us'd so oddly
By the Rump Saints, that seem'd so Godly,
After they'd ventur'd Souls and Bodies
To serve the democratick Noddies:
For by this oblique Ordinance,
So call'd by Legislative Saints,
The jealous Rump at once got rid of
Those doubtful Friends they had no need of,
That only such might bear Command,
More zealous for the Work in Hand,
Whose cruel Tempers made 'em fit
For all that Rebels could commit.
Therefore, to shew what Love they bore
To their dear Idol Oliver,
That barb'rous, tho' a praying Saint,
So fam'd for Courage, and for Cant:

Him, for his Service, they excepted,
Because they knew him well adapted
To e'ery villanous Intention
The wicked Rump could frame or mention.

To sooner had the Senate planted
Such Men in Office as they wanted,
And for those Mischiefs they design'd,
Model'd the Army to their Mind;
But Hero Fairfax lead his Men
To the Relief of Taunton-dean,
Whilst Cromwell, with an armed Rout
Of puritannick Horse and Foot,
Watch'd the King's Motions; tho' the Rebel,
To give him Battel, was unable.
The injur'd Prince, well pleas'd to find
An Opportunity so kind,
March'd out of Oxon all his Force,
Artill'ry, Infantry, and Horse,
To shew, by his Approaches near 'em,
He had too great a Soul to fear 'em.

This caus'd the Senate to recal
With speed their Western General,
And ord'r 'im to besiege the Town
Of Oxford, in the Hands o' th' Crown.
Their Hero their Commands obey'd,
And to the Walls his Army lead,
In hopes, by his rebellious Fools,
To spoil the Colledges and Schools,
The ancient Fountains of those three,
Religion, Learning, Loyalty;
Those Glories of a Christian State,
Which sordid Rebels only hate,
Who, like the Devil, bend their Wits
To subtil Lies and vile Deceits,
And labour chiefly to advance
Confusion, Pride, and Ignorance.

Cromwell now wanting Strength, retir'd,
And gave what Way the King desir'd,
Who march'd his Forces on to Chester,
Reliev'd it, and return'd to Leic'ster,

A Town well stor'd with Ammunition,
Artill'ry, Arms, and good Provision,
But too rebellious to surrender,
Nothing but Force could bring 'em under;
Which the King us'd, with such Success,
That made him Master of the Place,
Which was of great Importance to him,
And did such timely Service do him,
That when this Town he had possest,
The very Rump themselves confest
The Loyal Party had the best.

The Rump now being advertis'd
Of their ill Fortune, seem'd surpriz'd,
And so confounded in their Wits,
That some were free to quit their Seats,
And fly the Land, in hopes to shun
That Fate they fear'd was drawing on.
But, upon due Deliberation,
They thought it best to keep their Station,
And so resolv'd at once to try
For a decisive Victory,

Relying, as their last best Way,
Upon the Fortune of one Day.

To put this suddain Resolution
Into a speedy Execution,
Their Gen'ral Fairfax they oblig'd
To quit the Town he had besieg'd,
Commanding him to join his Force
To Cromwell's, which were chiefly Horse,
And with united Strength, endeavour
To gain a Vict'ry, now or never;
For that the Cause must be undone,
Without a speedy Battel won,
To raise the Spirits of the Saints,
Inclin'd to Murmurs and Complaints.

Fairfax, encourag'd by his Zeal
To th' Rump, as well as Common-weal,
Join'd Cromwell, and the King pursu'd
With all the Force and Speed he cou'd.
In Naseby-Fields both Armies met,
Their Envy, like their Numbers, great;

And in that spacious fatal Place,
Contended boldly for Success,
'Till the rank Soil was overflow'd
With Show'rs of Sweat, and Streams of Blood;
And dying Pray'rs, and dismal Groans,
Were loud as Thunder from their Guns;
For Hours they kept the wreaking Field,
No Side inclinable to yield;
Foes, eagerly engag'd with Foes,
Exchang'd such undeciding Blows,
That neither, for a while, could see,
Which should be crown'd with Victory,
'Till Fortune (who, because she's blind,
Proves often to the Wicked, kind)
Discover'd in the fatal End,
Her self to be the Rebels Friend;
And gave at once the utmost Fruits
Of Vict'ry to the spiteful Brutes;
Who, tho' so vile, did yet obtain
All that a conqu'ring Host could gain.

Thus was the best of Kings undone,
That ever was in Field o'erthrown,
And the small Remnants of his Troops,
Left destitute of future Hopes;
So that the King, who just before
Was thought by all superior,
By th' ill Fortune of one Fight,
Lost all he had, except his Right,
And those inherent Vertues, which
Preserv'd his Mind still Great and Rich,
Whose Graces multiply'd their Store,
By each Misfortune that he bore:
As Camomil, when most 'tis prest,
Grows up, and flourishes the best.
When Fortune, that inconstant Jilt,
Had favour'd their rebellious Guilt,
And crown'd the Scum of human Race,
At their last Stake, with such Success,
Flush'd with the Vict'ry they had won,
Which had at once their Bus'ness done;

They daily now enlarg'd their Ground,
And rang'd the bleeding Nation round;
Those Loyal Towns and Holds subdu'd,
Which bravely had so long withstood
Those Hunters after Royal Blood.

The King, with some few broken Troop
Too weak to comfort him with Hopes,
Wander'd about from Place to Place,
His Loyal Remnants to encrease,
Giving the Round-heads, here and there,
A few Side-Boxes of the Ear;
But still his Loss, at Naseby Fight,
Had struck his Friends with such a Fri
That he no farther Strength could add
To those few Forces that he had,
Who, when they found that no Supplies
Would join 'em 'gainst their Enemies,
Deserted by Degrees, and left
Their most unhappy King to shift:
For suddain Fear, that will asswage
The most malicious human Rage,

Had startl'd now the Just and Good,
And chill'd the Warmth of Loyal Blood.
So that the flatt'ring Scene of War,
That seem'd so prosp'rous just before,
Was now so chang'd, that it appear'd
With Streams of Loyal Gore besmear'd,
And look'd so dreadful to the Sight,
When view'd by that rebellious Light;
Which of a Suddain, only shone
Like the Eclipsed Moon or Sun,
And falsely glimmer'd here and there,
Thro' Clouds of Horror and Dispair.
For so the dreadful Storm appear'd
To those, that to the King adher'd
Who, now, good Prince, of all bereft,
And by his routed Army left,
Could no kind Star behold, that shew'd.
It self inclining to his Good:
Yet, with a Soul, divinely great,
Unmov'd at all the Frowns of Fate,

With Christian Patience still inspir'd,
To Oxon be again retir'd;
Whose ancient venerable Walls,
Fam'd Colledges, and sacred Schools,
Were greatly reverenc'd long since
By that forgiving injur'd Prince,
Whose Suff'rings made his Virtues shine,
As if not Human, but Divine;
For nothing could his Soul oppress,
Or make his Royal Greatness less.
So the old Christian Proto-Martyrs,
Amidst their cruel Pains and Tortures,
Despis'd their Wracks and flaming Piles,
And crown'd their Torments, with their Smiles,
That barb'rous Heathens, swell'd with Spite,
Who glory'd in the dismal Sight;
Might, to their own Conversion, see
Their Patience, and Stability;
And wonder, as they gazing stood,
To find in sinful Flesh and Blood,
Minds so immovable, and so good

The King, when under this Distress,
Consid'ring his unhappy Case,
And viewing with a careful Eye,
Those Dangers that appear'd too nigh;
Thought himself very ill provided
At Oxford, where he now resided,
Against those Rebels, who pursu'd
With reaking Sword, his Royal Blood;
And would not be content alone,
To rob their Sov'reign of his Throne;
But spurr'd by Malice, hurry'd further
To crown their Rapine, with his Murder.
Just so, the sanguinary Thief
That robs, to give his Wants Relief,
In Hopes his Rogu'ry may be stifl'd,
Destroys the Person he has rifl'd.
Therefore, the King, who saw too late,
Some Omens of his evil Fate,
And knowing that the Rump Defenders,
Those cruel, sanctify'd Pretenders,

Now rais'd by Fortune, Cock-a-hoop,
Would soon in Oxford block him up,
Resolv'd, upon Advice, to try
The treach'rous Scots Fidelity,
Who'd sent beforehand to assure him,
Of the great Duty they had for him;
Making large Vows and Protestations,
(But with damn'd mental Reservations)
He should not only be protected,
But daily honour'd and respected:
Tho' all their fawning Invitations,
Back'd with such base Asseverations,
Prov'd but the old fanatick Way,
Of flatt'ring those they should obey,
In order to at last betray.
However, as the Scene appear'd
So full of Dangers to be fear'd,
The King was forc'd to now rely
Upon the Scots Integrity:
Accordingly he made his Way
Disguis'd, and on the first of May;

At Newark found the scabby Host,
Unhappy Monarch, to his Cost!
Great Shews of Friendship did they give him,
That they the better might deceive him.
For Scots, like Sicophants at Court,
Fawn upon those they mean to hurt;
And like our Saints, bow lowest to
That Sov'reign Pow'r they would undo.
So when a Trayt'rous Plot is grown
Full ripe against a flatter'd Throne,
Th' audacious Villain cringes low,
In his Approach, that gives the Blow.
Thus Royal Goodness, by a Turn
Of Fate, was made the Rebels Scorn,
And by one unexpected Blow,
Reduc'd from Strength, superior low;
Which shews, that Victory in Fight,
Befriends the Wrong, as well as Right,
And is no standing Rule to try
The Justice of a Cause thereby;

For tho' no Mortal could disown
His lawful Title to the Throne;
Yet Fortune, who does often please
The Wicked with her Flatteries;
Brought (after many warm Disputes,
With restless and rebellious Brutes)
The best of Monarchs to rely
O'th' Mercy of an Enemy;
And forc'd him, in Distress, to trust
An Army that could ne'er be just:
Whilst their base Av'rice, could foresee
An Int'rest in their Perfidy;
For Mammon is the only Idol,
In which Fanaticks do confide all;
That makes the Presbyterian Race,
So cruel, treach'rous, and base;
And is alone the very Wheel,
That turns their Conscience, and their Zeal,
And makes them of a Suddain vary
From one Thing to the quite contrary.

For Government, or other Matter,
Is damn'd with Libel, Lies, and Satyr,
When any Thing starts up a new,
That seems to promise at first View,
The greater Int'rest of the two.
So, if as Whim Poetick teaches,
The God of Hell's, the God of Riches.
Let him but bait his Hook with Gold,
That tempting Devil's Dross of old,
And he may catch such Saints as fast,
As Boys do Roach with colour'd Paist.

No sooner had the King made Way
To th' Scotch at Newark, where they lay;
But they were gently moving Home,
To th' Canaan of all Christendom,
That only Northern Paradise,
Which overflows with Scabs and Lice,
And not with lushious Milk and Honey,
For Food is there, as scarce as Money;
Yet, O how blest is Caledonia!

Where Vertue does all Vice repel,
And none but Saints and Sinners dwell,
Whose pious Deeds I'll not rehearse
In such memorializing Verse.
'Cause it's a sacred Task, we know,
Becoming none but D---l F---e;
He's only worthy of a Theme,
That needs so much Poetick Cream,
Mix'd up with Brimstone, and with Sage,
That every Distich may asswage
The Northern Scab, that is so catching,
And please the Scots, instead of Scratching.

Next to Newcastle, did they bring
The credulous unhappy King,
Where new dethroning Propositions,
Stuff'd full of treas'nable Conditions,
Were by some stiff-neck'd Rebels sent
To th' King, from the Rump Parliament,
If possible requiring more,
Than what they 'nsisted on before,

Because the Battel they had won,
Confirm'd them all was now their own,
And that the King, who'd lately lost
His chosen Friends, and Loyal Host,
And was but Pris'ner, in a Manner,
Beneath the Presbyterian Banner;
Would grant 'em all the Sov'reign Pow'r,
To have his Life the more secure;
But he, most gen'rous Prince, too great
To stoop to Ill, thro' Fear of Fate,
Regarding more the Nation's Good,
And his own Honour, than his Blood;
Refus'd to gratify their Pride,
And boldly their Demands deny'd,
With such Contempt, that did evince
The just Resentments of a Prince;
And, at the same Time, let them see
Their Insolence, and Infamy:
The very Scots themselves declar'd,
The Rump's Proposals were too hard,

Not thro' their Duty or Respect
To th' King they'd promis'd to protect;
But that their Brethren might discern
Their Aim, and by their Cavils learn,
That they design'd not to betray
The King, except for present Pay;
And therefore if they meant to try him,
That first they must agree to buy him.
The Rump soon took their Hellish Hint,
And found the Drift the Scots had in't;
So gave two Hundred Thousand Pound,
A Sum so tempting, and so round,
The Price of Royal Blood, much more
Than Scotland ever saw before;
Altho', at Home, they'd often Times
Been guilty of as wicked Crimes;
But never met with like Reward,
For all their Rog'ries on Record.

When thus the Scots had prov'd so crafty,
The King, to whom they'd vow'd such Safety,

Was to those Ruffains now resign'd,
Of base Descent, and bloody Mind:
Those Villains to receive him, sent
By th' Malice of the Parliament;
Pick'd out on Purpose to abuse him,
And by severe Restraint misuse him.

O cursed Scots! who for the Sake
Of Dross, could make your selves so black,
And stain your Country with an Action,
That bears so Hellish a Complexion:
A matchless Villany, compounded
Of all the wicked, damn'd, confounded
Evils, e'er done by Rump, or Round-head:
A solemn Treach'ry, that does make
Th' Infernals blush, for Scotland's Sake,
To think that a perfidious Race,
So false, so barbarously base,
Should all the sinful World exceed,
In such an execrable Deed;
So complicated of all Evils,
That it outdid the very Devils;
For in their Treach'ry might be seen
All that was infamous in Men;
Feign'd Religion, holy Fraud,
Rebellion, Treason, Guilt of Blood,
Perjury, Flatt'ry, Avarice,
Perfidiousness, and Cowardice,
Injustice, Cruelty, and Fear,
And all the Ills that could appear

In a Scotch Brood of Presbyterians,
Or pious English Oliverians.

The King, who tho' he could foresee
His Fate, from their Severity,
Bore still, with a Majestick Grace,
A patient Mind, and cheerful Face;
His Cares and Troubles, tho' their Weight
Were now become profusely great,
And only fit to be endur'd
By a good Prince to Wrongs inur'd,
Whose Soul was by his Vertues rear'd
Above the worst that could be fear'd;
No Suff'rings could his Passions move,
His steddy Mind still soar'd above,
And bore his Royal Fame too high
For all their cursed Calumny.

FINIS.