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The Muses, like the Cavaleers, confin'd,
(For Wit and Loyalty are best, when joyn'd)
Have now their liberty: the time affords
Poets to use their Pens, and those their Swords:
The Tyrant knew by both he might be harm'd;
So Playes he voted down, and them disarm'd.
For he did doubt whether more hurt might rise,
Or from the Standish, or the Mortar-piece.
Arm'd against Swords, but not 'gainst Cleveland's Quill,
More sharp than Porcupines, it pierc'd his Steel.
Twas try'd of old when feather'd Arrows flew,
They far more Foes than all our Cannons, slew.
'Twas this made him so cautiously severe;
Poets and Souldiers tam'd, he did not fear.
But all his cruel Policies were vain;
Mastiffs are much the fiercer for the Chain.

Helicon rougher runs when 'tis disturb'd,
And Pegasus kicks more for being curb'd.
Who did his Provant, and his Curb neglect;
Nor would those clear Streams his grim looks reflect.
'Tis true, a Slave or two, to shew his face,

Let some of our fam'd Poets and their Consciences be here examined.

Made Stix, not Helicon his Looking-Glass.
Their Turkish Souls and fancies were so vain
To serve as Footstools to that Tamberlane.
Their mercenary Bays as largely spread
Upon the Tyrant's as the Prince's head.

One noted Poet, his Panegyrick upon Oliver.

Base! that in verse Rebellion should appear;
As though Apollo were turn'd Presbyter.
As th' Muses (stirred up by zealous wrath)
Should lend their Treasures to the Publick Faith.
Wretches! who if they live to better days,
May merit Hempen Wreaths, instead of Bayes.
Wit, like true Courage, never should abate,
But bravely stand unmov'd in spite of Fate;
Confront the Tyrant in his guarded Den,
And, like bold Brutus, stab him with a Pen.

He fir'd it, and then laid it on the Christians.

Nero set Rome on fire, a crime Severe!
Noll fir'd three Kingdoms, and then warm'd him there;
Play'd o're the Flames, and long exulting stood;
Then strove to quench them with the Natives blood.

Nor was't enough to make our Purses pay;
But Taxes on our Consciences to lay.
We might connive not only at his Guilt,
But take on us the blood the Tyrant spilt.
The Commons did it; he like Pilate, stands;
And we the Water hold to wash his hands.

Prodigious arrogance! he did defie
The chiefest pow'rs both of the Earth and Sky!
Against both God and Church he stood alone;
Thrust one fro' th' Church, the other from the Throne.
His sacrilegious hands at once pluck'd down
The sacred Myter, and the regal Crown.
The Graces, and the Muses he accus'd,
Because by's lust they would not be abus'd.
And yet this devillish Hypocrite would pray,
Hyena-like, would cry, and then betray.
With counterfeiting groans he hid his wiles,
Like to the treacherous sobs of Crocodiles.
His Tears, like those of baneful Yew did trill,
Whose baneful drops their neighb'ring Trees do kill.
His whining always did portend some harm:
So hardest Marbles weep against a Storm.
His Trulyes cheated, and his Smiles betray'd;
In Velvet-skabbard lay his murd'ring blade.
His poys'nous heart in Beds of Flowers lay;
Like Quagmires into which their Greens betray.
A Sodom-Apple, rotten at the Coar;
A Pestilential Bubo plaister'd o're.
But now the Botch is broke; his Reign is done,
And he himself into Corruption run.