Poems on Affairs of State

Tell me ye Sages, who the Conscience guide,
And Ecclesiastick Oracles divide,
Where do the Bounds of Sovereign Patience end,
How long may People undestroy'd offend?
What Limits has Almighty Power prepar'd,
When Mercy shall be deaf and Justice heard?

If there's a Being Immortal and Immense,
Who does Rewards and Punishments dispense;
Why is he Passive when his Power's defy'd,
And his Eternal Government's deny'd?
Tell us why he that sits above the Sky,
Unreins no Vengeance, lets no Thunders fly,
When Villains prosper, and successful Vice
Shall human Power controul, and heavenly Power despise?

If 'tis because the Sins of such a Nation
Are yet too small to conquer his Compassion,
Then tell us to what height Mankind may sin,
Before Celestial Fury must begin?
How their extended Crimes may reach so high,
Vengeance must follow and of course destroy;
And by the common Chain of Providence,
Destruction come like Cause and Consequence.

Then search the dark Arcana of the Skies,
And if ye can, unfold these Mysteries:

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His clashing Providences reconcile
The partial Frown, and the unequal Smile.
Tell us why some have been destroy'd betimes,
While Albion's glittering Shores grow black with Crimes?
Why some for early Errors are undone,
Some longer still, and longer still sin on?
England with all her blackening Guilt is spar'd,
And Sodom's lesser Crimes receiv'd a swift Reward:
And yet all this be reconcil'd to both,
Impartial Justice, and unerring Truth.

Why Ostia stands, and no revenging Hand
Has yet dismist her from the burden'd Land:
No Plague, no sulphurous Shower her exit makes,
And turns her Silver Thames to Stygian Lakes,
Whose uninhabitable Banks might flow
With Streams as black as her that made 'em so:
And as a Monument to future Times,
Should send forth Vapours nauseous as her Crimes.

Tell us why Carthage fell a Prey to Rome,
And mourn the Fate of bright Byzantium;
Why antient Troy's embrac'd by Destiny,
And Rome, Immortal Rome, to Fate gives way,
Yet Ostia stands, more impious far than they?

Where are the Golden Gates of Palestine,
Where High Superior Glory us'd to shine?
The mighty City Millions dwelt within,
Where Heaven's Epitome was to be seen.
God's Habitation sacred to his Name,
Magnificent beyond the Voice of Fame:
Those loftly Pinnacles which once were seen,
Bright like the Majesty that dwelt within.
In which Seraphick Glory cou'd reside,
Too great for humane Vision to abide;
Whose glittering Fabrick, God the Architect,
The Sun's less Glorious Light, did once reject.

These all ha' felt the Iron hands of Fate,
And Heaven's dear Darling City's desolate.

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No more the sacred Place commands our Awe,
But all become a Curse, a Golgotha.
The Reverend Pile can scarce its Ruins show,
Forsook by him whose Glory made it so.

Yet Ostia stands, her impious Towers defy
The threatning Comets of the blazing Sky,
Foreboding Signs of Ruin she despises,
And all her teaching Saviour's Sacrifices;
The Jews are Fools, Jerusalem's out-done,
We crucify the Father, they the Son.
Within her Reprobate Gates there are allow'd
Worse Jews than those who crucified their God:
They kill'd a Man, for they suppos'd him so;
These boldly sacrifice the God they know;
His Incarnation, Miracles deny,
And vilely Banter his Divinity;
Their old Impostor, Socinus, prefer,
And the long Voyage of Heaven without a Pilot steer.

Yet Ostia boasts of her Regeneration,
And tells us wondrous Tales of Reformation:
How against Vice she has been so severe,
That none but Men of Quality may swear:
How publick Lewdness is expell'd the Nation,
That Private Whoring may be more in fashion:
How Parish Magistrates, like pious Elves,
Let none be Drunk a Sundays, but themselves:
And Hackney Coach-men durst not ply the Street
In Sermon-time, till they had paid the State.

These, Ostia, are the Shams of Reformation,
With which thou mock'st thy Maker, and the Nation;
While in thy Streets unpunish'd there remain
Crimes which have yet insulted Heaven in vain,
Crimes which our Satyr blushes to review,
And Sins thy Sister Sodom never knew:
Superior Lewdness crowns thy Magistrates,
And Vice grown grey usurps the Reverend Seats;
Eternal Blasphemies, and Oaths abound,
And Bribes among thy Senators are found.

343

Old Venerable Jeph, with trembling Air,
Antient in Sin, and Father of the Chair,
Forsook by Vices he had lov'd so long,
Can now be vicious only with his Tongue;
Yet talks of antient Lewdness with delight,
And loves to be the Justice of the Night:
On Baudy Tales with pleasure he reflects,
And leudly smiles at Vices he corrects.
The feeble tottering Magistrate appears
Willing to Wickedness in spite of Years:
Struggles his Age and Weakness to resist,
And fain wou'd sin, but Nature won't assist.

L---l, the Pandor of thy Judgment-Seat,
Has neither Manners, Honesty, nor Wit;
Instead of which, he's plenteously supply'd
With Nonsense, Noise, Impertinence, and Pride;
Polite his Language, and his flowing Stile
Scorns to suppose Good Manners worth his while;
With Principles from Education stor'd,
The Drudgery of Decency abhor'd;
The City-Mouth, with Eloquence endu'd.
To mountebank the listning Multitude,
Sometimes he tunes his Tongue to soft Harangues,
To banter Common Halls, and flatter Kings:
And all with but an odd indifferent Grace,
With Jingle on his Tongue, and Coxcomb in his Face;
Definitive in Law, without Appeal,
But always serves the Hand who pays him well:
He trades in Justice, and the Souls of Men,
And prostitutes them equally to Gain:
He has his publick Book of Rates to show,
Where every Rogue the Price of Life may know:
And this one Maxim always goes before,
He never hangs the Rich, nor saves the Poor.
God-like he nods upon the Bench of State,
His Smiles are Life, and if he Frowns 'tis Fate:
Boldly invading Heaven's Prerogative;
For with his Breath he kills or saves alive.

344

Fraternities of Villains he maintains,
Protects the Robberies, and shares the Gains,
Who thieve with Toleration as a Trade,
And then restore according as they're paid:
With aukward scornful Phyz, and vile Grimace,
The genuine Talents of an ugly Face;
With haughty Tone insults the Wretch that dies,
And sports with his approaching Miseries.

F---e, for so sometimes unrighteous Fate
Erects a Mad-man for a Magistrate,
Equipt with Leudness, Oaths, and Impudence,
Supplies with Vices his defect of Sense;
Abandon'd to ill Manners, he retains
His want of Grace as well as want of Brains.
Before the Boy wore off, the Rake began,
The Bully then commenc'd, and then the Man.
Yet Nature seems in this to do him wrong,
To give no Courage with a saucy Tongue;
From whence this constant Disadvantage flows,
He always gives the Words, and takes the Blows:
Tho often can'd, he's uninstructed by't;
But still he shews the Scoundrel with the Knight,
Still scurrilous, and still afraid to fight.
His Dialect's a Modern Billinsgate,
Which sutes the Hosier, not the Magistrate;
The same he from behind the Counter brought,
And yet he practis'd worse than he was taught;
Early debauch'd, in Satan's Steps he mov'd,
And all Mechanick Vices he improv'd.
At first he did his Sovereign's Rights invade,
And rais'd his Fortune by clandestine Trade;
Stealing the Customs, did his Profits bring,
And 'twas his Calling to defraud his King:
This is the Man that helps to rule the State,
The City's New-reforming Magistrate;
To execute the Justice of the Law,
And keep less Villains than himself in awe;

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Take Mony of the Rich, and hang the Poor,
And lash the Strumpet he debauch'd before.
So for small Crimes poor Thieves Destruction find,
And leave the Rogues of Quality behind.

Search all the Christian Climes from Pole to Pole,
And match for Sheriffs S---ple and C---le;
Equal in Character and Dignity,
This fam'd for Justice, that for Modesty:
By Merit chosen for the Chair of State,
This fit for Bridewell, that for Billinsgate;
That richly clad to grace the Gaudy Day,
For which his Father's Creditors must pay:
This from the fluxing Bagnio just dismist,
Rides out to make himself the City Jest.
From some lascivious Dish-Clout to the Chair,
To punish Lewdness and Disorders there.
The Brute he rides on wou'd his Crimes detest,
For that's the Animal, and this the Beast:
And yet some Reformation he began;
For Magistrates ne'er bear the Sword in vain.
Expensive sinning always he declin'd,
To frugal Whoring totally resign'd:
His Avarice his Appetite opprest,
Base like the Man, and brutish like the Lust:
Concise in Sinning, Nature's Call supply'd,
And in one Act two Vices gratified.
Never was Oyster, Beggar, Cinder Whore
So much caress'd by Magistrate before.
They that are nice and squeamish in their Lust,
'Ts a sign the Vice is low, and wants a Gust;
But he that's perfect in th'Extreme of Vice,
Scorns to excite his Appetite by Price.
'Twas in his Reign we to Reform began,
And set the Devil up to mend the Man.
More might be said, but Satyr stay thy Rimes,
And mix not his Misfortunes with his Crimes.

C---n, superbly Wise and Grave of Life,
Cou'd every one reform, except his Wife:

346

Passive in Vice, he pimps to his own Fate,
To shew himself a Loyal Magistrate.
'Tis doubtful who debauch'd the City more,
The Maker of the Masque, or of the Whore.
Nor his Religion less a Masquerade;
He always drove a strange mysterious Trade:
With decent Zeal, to Church he'll gravely come,
To praise that God which he denies at home.
Socinian T---d's his dear Ghostly Priest,
And taught him all Religion to digest;
Took prudent Care he shou'd not much profess,
And he was ne'er addicted to Excess.
And yet he Covets without Rule or End,
Will sell his Wife, his Master, or his Friend;
To boundless Avarice a constant Slave,
Unsatisfy'd as Death, and greedy as the Grave.

Now, Satyr, let us view the numerous Fry,
That must succeeding Magistrates supply,
And search if future Years are like to be
Much better taught, or better rul'd than we.
The Senators of Hospital Descent,
The upper House of Ostia's Parliament,
Who from Destruction should their City save,
But are as wicked as they shou'd be grave:
With Citizens in Petto, who at need,
As these do those, so those must these succeed.

D---b, the Modern Judas of the Age,
Has often try'd in vain to mount the Stage:
Profuse in Gifts and Bribes to God and Man,
To ride the City-Horse, and wear the Chain.
His Vices, Ostia, thou hast made thy own;
In chusing him, thou writ'st thy own Lampoon:
Fancy the haughty Wretch in Chair of State,
At once the City's Shame and Magistrate;
At Table set, at his right Hand a Whore,
Ugly as those which he had kept before.
He to do Justice, and reform our Lives,
And she receive the Homage of our Wives.

347

Now, Satyr, give another Wretch his Due,
Who's chosen to reform the City too;
Hate him, ye Friends to Honesty and Sense,
Hate him in injur'd Beauty's just Defence:
A Knighted Booby insolent and base,
“Whom Man no Manners gave, nor God no Grace.
The Scorn of Women, and the Shame of Men,
Matcht at Threescore to innocent Fifteen;
Hag-rid with jealous Whimsies let us know,
He thinks he's Cuckold, 'cause he should be so:
His vertuous Wife exposes to the Town,
And fears her Crimes because he knows his own.

Here, Satyr, let them just Reproach abide,
Who sell their Daughters to oblige their Pride.
The Ch---er---n begins the doleful Jest,
As a Memento Mori to the rest;
Who fond to raise his Generation by't,
And see his Daughter buckl'd to a Knight,
The Innocent unwarily betray'd,
And to the Rascal join'd the hapless Maid;
The Purchase is too much below the Cost,
For while the Lady's gain'd, the Woman's lost.
What shall we say to common Vices now,
When Magistrates the worst of Crimes allow?
Ostia, if e'er thou wilt reform thy Gates,
'T must be another Set of Magistrates;
In Practice just, and in Profession sound;
But God knows where the Men are to be found.
In all thy numerous Streets 'tis hard to tell,
Where the few Men of Faith and Honour dwell:
Poor and despis'd, so seldom they appear,
The Cynick's Lanthorn would be useful here.

No City in the spacious Universe,
Boasts of Religion more, or minds it less;
Of Reformation talks, and Government,
Backt with an Hundred Acts of Parliament:
Those useless Scare-Crows of neglected Laws,
That miss the Effect because they miss the Cause:

348

Thy Magistrates, who should reform the Town,
Punish the poor Mens Faults, but hide their own;
Suppress the Players Booths in Smithfield-Fair,
But leave the Cloysters, for their Wives are there,
Where all the Scenes of Lewdness do appear.

Satyr, the Arts and Mysteries forbear,
Too black for thee to write, or us to hear;
No Man, but he that is as vile as they,
Can all the Tricks and Cheats of Trade survey.
Some in clandestine Companies combine,
Erect new Stocks to trade beyond the Line:
With Air and empty Names beguile the Town,
And raise new Credits first, then cry 'em down:
Divide the empty Nothing into Shares,
To set the Town together by the Ears.
The Sham Projectors and the Brokers join,
And both the Cully Merchant undermine;
First he must be drawn in, and then betray'd,
And they demolish the Machine they made.
So conjuring Chymists, who with Charm and Spell
Some wondrous Liquid wondrously exhale;
But when the gaping Mob their Mony pay,
The Charm's dissolv'd, the Vapour flies away;
The wondring Bubbles stand amaz'd to see
Their Mony mountebank'd to Mercury.

Some fit out Ships, and double Fraights ensure,
And burn the Ships to make the Voyage secure:
Promiscuous Plunders thro the World commit,
And with the Mony buy their safe Retreat.

Others seek out to Africk's Torrid Zone,
And search the burning Shores of Serralone;
There in insufferable Heats they fry,
And run vast Risques to see the Gold, and die:
The harmless Natives basely they trepan,
And barter Baubles for the Souls of Men:
The Wretches they to Christian Climes bring o'er,
To serve worse Heathens than they did before.

349

The Cruelties they suffer there are such,
Amboyna's nothing, they've outdone the Dutch.

Cortez, Pizarro, Guzman, Penaloe,
Who drank the Blood and Gold of Mexico,
Who thirteen Millions of Souls destroy'd,
And left one Third of God's Creation void;
By Birth for Nature's Butchery design'd,
Compar'd to these are merciful and kind;
Death cou'd their cruellest Designs fulfil,
Blood quench'd their Thirst, and it suffic'd to kill:
But these the tender Coup de Grace deny,
And make Men beg in vain for leave to die;
To more than Spanish Cruelty inclin'd,
Torment the Body and debauch the Mind:
The lingring Life of Slavery preserve,
And vilely teach them both to sin and serve.
In vain they talk to them of Shades below,
They fear no Hell, but where such Christians go;
Of Jesus Christ they very often hear,
Often as his blaspheming Servants swear;
They hear and wonder what strange Gods they be,
Can bear with Patience such Indignity.
They look for Famines, Plagues, Disease, and Death,
Blasts from above, and Earthquakes from beneath:
But when they see regardless Heaven looks on,
They curse our Gods, or think that we have none.
Thus Thousands to Religion are brought o'er,
And made worse Devils than they were before.

Satyr, the Men of Drugs and Simples spare,
'Tis hard to search the latent Vices there;
Their Theologicks too they may defend,
They can't deceive, who never do pretend.
As to Religion, generally they show
As much as their Profession will allow:
But count them all Confederates of Hell,
Till B--- they with one Consent expel.
B---, our Satyr startles at his Name,
The College Scandal, and the City's Shame;

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Not satisfy'd his Maker to deny,
Provokes him with Lampoon and Blasphemy;
And with unprecedented Insolence,
Banters a God, and scoffs at Providence.

No Nation in the World, but ours, would bear
To hear a Wretch blaspheme the Gods they fear:
His Flesh long since their Altars had adorn'd,
And with his Blood appeas'd the Powers he scorn'd.
But see the Badg of our Reforming Town,
Some cry Religion up, some cry it down:
Some worship God, and some a God defy,
With equal Boldness, equal Liberty.
The silent Laws decline the just Debate,
Made dumb by the more silent Magistrate;
And both together small Distinction put
'Twixt him that owns a God, and him that owns him not:
The Modern Crime 'tis thought no being had,
They knew no Atheist when our Laws were made.
'Tis hard the Laws more Freedom should allow
With God above, than Magistrates below.

B--- unpunish'd, may Heaven and Earth defy,
Dethrone Almighty Power, Almighty Truth deny;
Burlesque the Sacred, High, Vnutter'd Name,
And impious War with Jove himself proclaim.
While Justice unconcern'd looks calmly on,
And B--- boasts the Conquest he has won;
Insults the Christian Name, and laughs to see
Religion bully'd by Philosophy.

B--- with far less hazard may blaspheme,
Than thou may'st, Satyr, trace thy Noble Theme:
The Search of Vice more hazard represents
From Laws, from Councils, and from P---
Thou may'st be wicked, and less Danger know,
Than by informing others they are so:
Thou canst no P---r, no Counsellor expose,
Or dress a vicious M---r in his proper Clothes;
But all the Bombs and Canon of the Law,
Are soon drawn out to keep thy Pen in awe:

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By Laws post Facto thou may'st soon be slain,
And Innuendoe's shall thy Guilt explain.

Thou may'st lampoon, and no Man will resent,
Lampoon but Heaven, and not the P---:
Our Trustys and our Welbelov'ds forbear;
Thou'rt free to banter Heaven, and all that's there;
The boldest Flights thou'rt welcome to bestow
O'th' Gods above, but not the Gods below.

B--- may banter Heaven, and A---l Death,
And T---d poison Souls with his infected Breath:
No Civil Government resents the Wrong,
But all are touch'd and angry at thy Song.

Thy Friends without the help of Prophesy,
Read Goals and Gibbets in thy Destiny;
But Courage springs from Truth, let it appear,
Nothing but Guilt cun be the Cause of Fear.
Satyr go on, thy keenest Shafts let fly,
Truth can be no Offence to Honesty:
The Guilty only are concern'd, and they
Lampoon themselves, when e're they censure thee.

University of Virginia Library

I. [PART I.]