Poems on Affairs of State

The City's view'd, now Satyr turn thine Eye,
The Country's Vices, and the Court's survey:
And from Impartial Scrutiny set down.
How much they're both more vicious than the Town.
How does our Ten Years War with Vice advance?
About as much as it has done with France.

Ride with the Judg, and view the wrangling Bar,
And see how leud our Justice-Merchants are:
How Clito comes from instigating Whore,
Pleads for the Man he cuckol'd just before;

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See how he cants, and acts the Ghostly Father,
And brings the Gospel and the Law to gether:
To make his pious Frauds be well receiv'd,
He quotes that Scripture which he ne'er believ'd.
Fluent in Language, indigent in Sense,
Supplies his Want of Law with Impudence.
See how he rides the Circuit with the Judg,
To Law and Lewdness a devoted Drudg.
A Brace of Female Clients meet him there.
To help debauch the Sizes and the Fair:
By Day he plies the Bar with all his might,
And Revels in St. Ed---'s Streets at Night:
The Scandal of the Law, his own Lampoon,
Is Lawyer, Merchant, Bully, and Buffoon;
In drunken Quarrels eager to engage,
Till Brother Justice lodg'd him in the Cage:
A thing the Learned thought could never be,
Had not the Justice been as drunk as he.
He pleads of late at Hymen's Nuptial Bar,
And bright Aurelia is Defendant there.
He courts the Nymph to wed, and make a Wife,
And swears by G--- he will reform his Life.
The solemn Part he might ha' well forbore,
For she alas! has been, has been a Whore:
The pious Dame the sober Saint puts on,
And Clito's in the way to be undone.

Casco's debauch'd, 'tis his Paternal Vice;
For Wickedness descends to Families:
The tainted Blood the Seeds of Vice convey,
And plants new Crimes before the old decay.
Thro all Degrees of Vice the Father run,
But sees himself outsin'd by either Son;
Whoring and Incest he has understood,
And they subjoin Adultery and Blood.

This does the Orphan's Cause devoutly plead,
Secures her Mony and her Maidenhead:
And then persuades her to defend the Crime,
Evade the Guilt, and banter off the Shame.

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Taught by the subtile Counsellour, she shows
More nice Distinctions than Ignatius knows:
In Matrimony finds a learned flaw,
A Wife in Honour, and a Wife in Law.
“Choice is the Substance of the Contract made,
“And mutual Love the only Knot that's ty'd:
“To these the Laws of Nations must submit,
“And where they fail, the Contract's incomplete.
“So that if Love and Choice were not before,
“The last may be the Wife, the first the Whore.
Thus she securely sins with eager Gust,
And satisfies her Conscience and her Lust:
Nor does her Zeal and Piety omit,
But to the Whore she joins the Jesuit:
With constant Zeal frequents the House of Prayer,
To heal her prostituted Conscience there;
Without remorse, adjourns with full Content,
From his lascivious Arms to th'Sacrament.

The Brother less afraid of Sin than Shame,
Doubles his Guilt, to save his tottering Fame:
'Twas too much risque for any Man to run,
To save that Credit which before was gone:
The Innocent lies unreveng'd in Death,
He stop'd the growing Scandal in her Breath:
Till time shall lay the horrid Murder bare;
No Bribes can crush the Writs of Error there.

Nor is the Bench less tainted than the Bar;
How hard's that Plague to cure that's spread so far!
'Twill all prescrib'd Authorities reject,
While they're most guilty who should first correct.
Contagious Vice infects the Judgment-Seats,
And Vertue from Authority retreats:
How should she such Society endure?
Where she's contemn'd she cannot be secure.

Milo's a Justice, they that made him so
Should answer for th'oppressive Wrongs he'll do;
His Lands almost to Ostia's Walls extend;
And of his heap'd up Thousands there's no end,

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If Magistrates, as in the Text 'tis clear,
Ought to be such as Avarice abhor,
This may be known of the Almighty's Mind,
That Milo's not the Man the Text design'd.

Satyr, be bold, and fear not to expose
The vilest Magistrate the Nation knows:
Let Furius read his naked Character,
Blush not to write what he should blush to hear;
But let them blush, who in a Christian State
Made such a Devil be a Magistrate.

In Britain's Eastern Provinces he reigns,
And serves the Devil with excessive Pains:
The Nation's Shame, and honest Mens surprize,
With Drunkard in his Face, and Madman in his Eyes.
The Sacred Bench of Justice he profanes,
With a polluted Tongue and bloody Hands:
His Intellects are always in a Storm,
He frights the People whom he should reform.
Antipathys may some Diseases cure,
But Vertue can no Contraries endure.
All Reformation stops when Vice commands,
Corrupted Heads can ne'er have upright Hands.
Shameless ith' Class of Justices he'll swear,
And plants the Vices he should punish there.
His Mouth's a Sink of Oaths and Blasphemies,
And Cursings are his kind Civilities;
His fervent Prayers to Heaven he hourly sends,
But 'tis to damn himself and all his Friends;
He raves in Vice, and storms that he's confin'd,
And studies to be worse than all Mankind.
Extremes of Wickedness are his Delight,
And's pleas'd to hear that he's distinguish'd by't;
Exotick ways of Sinning he improves,
We curse and hate, he curses where he loves;
So strangely retrograde to all Mankind,
If crost he damns himself, if pleas'd his Friend.

This is the Man that helps to bless the Nation,
And bully Mankind into Reformation,

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The true Coercive Power of the Law,
Which drives the People which it cannot draw:
The Nation's Scandal, England's true Lampoon,
A Drunken, Whoring, Justicing Buffoon.

With what stupendious Impudence can he
Punish a poor Man's Immorality?
How should a Vicious Magistrate assent
To mend our Manners or our Government?
How shall new Laws for Reformation pass,
If Vice the Legislation should possess?
To see Old S---y Blasphemy decry,
And S---e vote to punish Bribery;
Lying exploded by a Perjur'd Knight,
And Whoring punish'd by a Sodomite:
That he the Peoples Freedom should defend,
Who had the King and People too trepan'd.
Soldiers seek Peace, Drunkards prohibit Wine,
And Fops and Beaux our Politicks refine:
These are Absurdities too gross to hide,
Which wise Men wonder at, and Fools deride.

When from the Helm Socinian H---t flies,
And all the rest his Tenents stigmatize,
And none remain that Jesus Christ denies.
Judas expell'd, Lewd, Lying C--- sent home,
And Men of Honesty put in their room.
Blaspheming B---s to his Fen-Ditches sent,
To bully Justice with a Parliament,
Then we shall have a Christian Government.
Then shall the wish'd for Reformation rise,
And Vice to Vertue fall a Sacrifice.

And with the nauseous Rabble that retire,
Turn out that Bawdy, Saucy Poet P---;
A Vintner's Boy the Wretch was first prefer'd,
To wait at Vice's Gates, and pimp for Bread;
To hold the Candle, and sometimes the Door,
Let in the Drunkard, and let out the Whore:
But, as to Villains it has often chanc'd,
Was for his Wit and Wickedness advanc'd.

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Let no Man think his new behaviour strange,
No Metamorphosis can Nature change;
Effects are chain'd to Causes, generally
The Rascal born will like a Rascal die.

His Prince's Favours follow'd him in vain,
They chang'd the Circumstance, but not the Man.
While out of Pocket, and his Spirits low,
He'd beg, write Panegyricks, cringe and bow;
But when good Pensions had his Labours crown'd,
His Panegyricks into Satyrs turn'd,
And with a true Mechanick Spirit curst,
Abus'd his Royal Benefactor first.
O what assiduous Pains does P--- take,
To let great D--- see he could mistake!
Dissembling Nature false Description gave,
Shew'd him the Poet, and conceal'd the Knave.

To---d, if such a Wretch is worth our Scorn,
Shall Vice's blackest Catalogue adorn;
His hated Character, let this supply,
Too vile even for our University.

Now, Satyr, to one Character be just,
M---n's the only Pattern and the first:
A Title which has more of Honour in't,
Than all his antient Glories of Descent.
Most Men their Neighbours Vices will disown,
But he's the Man that first reforms his own.
Let those alone reproach his want of Sense,
Who with his Crimes have had his Penitence.
'Tis want of Sense makes Men when they do wrong,
Adjourn their promis'd Penitence too long:
Nor let them call him Coward, 'cause he fears
To pull both God and Man about his Ears.
Amongst the worst of Cowards let him be nam'd,
Who having sin'd 's afraid to be asham'd:
And to mistaken Courage he's betray'd,
Who having sin'd 's asham'd to be afraid.
Thy Valour, M---, does our Praise prevent,
For thou hast had the Courage to repent:

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Nor shall his first Mistakes our Censure find,
What Heaven forgets let no Man call to mind.

Satyr, make search thro all this sober Age,
To bring one season'd Drunkard on the Stage;
Sir Stephen, nor Sir Thomas won't suffice,
Nor six and Twenty Kentish Justices:
Your E---x Priesthood hardly can supply,
Tho they're enough to drink the Nation dry.
Tho Parson B---d has been steept in Wine,
And sunk the Royal Tankard on the Rhine,
He's not the Man that's fit to raise a Breed,
Should P---k, P---l, or R---n succeed
Or match the Size of matchless Rochester,
And make one long Debauch of Thirteen Year;
It must be something can Mankind out-do,
Some high Excess that's wonderful and new.
Nor will Mechanick Sots our Satyr sute,
Tis Quality must grace the Attribute.
These like the lofty Cedars to the Shrub,
Drink Maudlin-College down, and Royston-Club.
Such petty Drinking's a Mechanick Evil,
But he's a Drunkard that out-drinks the Devil:
If such cannot in Court or Church appear,
Let's view the Camp, you'll quickly find 'em there.

Brave T---n, who revell'd Day and Night,
And always kept himself too drunk to fight;
And O---d in a Sea of Sulphur strove
To let the Spaniards see the Vice we love.

Yet these are puny Sinners, if you'll look
The dreadful Roll in Fate's Authentick Book.
The Monument of Bacchus still remains,
Where English Bones lie heap'd in Irish Plains:
Triumphant Death upon our Army trod,
And revell'd at Dundalk in English Blood.

Let no Man wonder at the dreadful Blow,
For Heaven has seldom been insulted so.
In vain Brave Schomberg mourn'd the Troops that fell,
While he made Vows to Heaven and they to Hell.

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Our Satyr trembles to review those Times,
And hardly finds out Words to name their Crimes;
In every Tent the horrid Juncto's sate,
To brave their Maker and despise their Fate;
The Work was done, Drunk'ness was gone before,
Life was suspended, Death could do no more.
Five Regimented Heroes there appear,
Captains of Thousands, mighty Men of War,
Glutted with Wine, and drunk with Hellish Rage,
For want of other Foes they Heaven engage.
Sulphur and ill-extracted Fumes agree,
To make each Drop push on their Destiny.
Th'Infernal Draughts in Blasphemies rebound,
And openly the Devil's Health went round:
Nor can our Verse their latent Crime conceal,
How they shook hands to meet next day in Hell;
Death pledg'd them, Fate the dreadful Compact read,
Concurring Justice spoke, and four or, five lay dead.
When Men their Maker's Vengeance once defy,
'Ts a certain Sign that their Destruction's nigh.
'Tis vain to single out Examples here,
Drunk'ness will soon be th'Nation's Character;
The grand Contagion's spreading over all,
'Tis Epidemick now, and National.
Since then the Sages all Reproofs despise,
Let's quit the People and Lampoon the Vice.
Drunk'ness is so the Error of the Time,
The Youth begin to ask if 'tis a Crime:
Wonder to see the grave Patricians come,
From City Courts of Conscience reeling home;
And think 'tis hard they should no Licence make,
To give the Freedom which their Fathers take.

The Seat of Judgment's so debauch'd with Wine,
Justice seems rather to be drunk than blind:
Lets fall the Sword, and her unequal Scale
Makes Right go down, and Injury prevail.

A Vice, 'tis thought, the Devil at first design'd
Not to allure, but to affront Mankind;

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A Pleasure Nature hardly can explain,
Sutes none of God Almighty's Brutes but Man.

An Act so nauseous, that had Heaven enjoyn'd
The Practice, as a Duty on Mankind,
They'd shun the Bliss which came so foul a way,
And forfeit Heaven, rather than once obey.

A double Crime, by which one Act w' undo
At once the Gentleman and Christian too;
For which no better Antidote is known,
Than t'have one Drunkard to another shown.
The Mother Conduit of expatiate Sin,
Where all the Seeds of Wickedness begin;
The Introduction to Eternal Strife,
And Prologue to the Tragedy of Life;
A foolish Vice, does needless Crimes reveal,
And only tells the Truth it should conceal.

'Tis strange how Men of Sense should be subdu'd
By Vices so unnatural and rude;
Which gorge the Stomach to divert the Head,
And to make Mankind merry, make them mad:
Destroys the Vitals, and distracts the Brain,
And rudely moves the Tongue to talk in vain;
Dismisses Reason, stupifies the Sense,
And wondring Nature's left in strange suspence;
The Soul's benumb'd, and ceases to inform,
And all the Sea of Nature's in a Storm;
The dead unactive Organ feels the Shock,
And willing Death attends the fatal Stroke.

And is this all for which Mankind endure
Distempers past the Power of Art to cure?
For which our Youth old Age anticipate,
And with luxurious Drafts suppress their Vital Heat?
Tell us ye Learned Doctors of the Vice,
Wherein the high mysterious Pleasure lies?
The great sublime Enjoyment's laid so deep,
'Tis known in Dream, and understood in Sleep.
The Graduates of the Science first commence,
And gain Perfection when they lofe their Sense:

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Titles they give, which call their Vice to mind,
But Sot's the common Name for all the Kind:
Nature's Fanaticks, who their Sense employ,
The Principles of Nature to destroy.
A Drunkard is a Creature God ne'er made,
The Species Man, the Nature retrograde;
From all the Sons of Paradise they seem
To differ in the most acute Extreme;
Those covet Knowledg, labour to be wise,
These stupify the Sense and put out Reason's Eyes.
For Health and Youth those all their Arts employ,
These strive their Youth and Vigour to destroy;
Those damn themselves to heap an ill-got Store,
These liquidate their Wealth, and covet to be poor.

Satyr, examine now with heedful Care,
What the rich Trophies of the Bottle are,
The mighty Conquests which her Champions boast,
The Prizes which they gain, and Price they cost.

The Ensigns of her Order soon displace
Nature's most early Beauties from the Face.
Paleness at first succeeds, and languid Air,
And bloated Yellows supersede the Fair;
The flaming Eyes betray the nitrous Flood,
Which quench the Spirits, and inflame the Blood,
Disperse the Rosy Beauties of the Face,
And fiery Blotches triumph in the place;
The tottering Head and trembling Hand appears,
And all the Marks of Age, without the Years;
Distorted Limbs gross and unweildy move,
And hardly can pursue the Vice they love.
A Bacchanalian Scarlet dyes the Skin,
A sign what sulphurous Streams arise within.
The Flesh emboss'd with Ulcers, and the Brain
Oppress'd with Fumes and Vapour, shews in vain
What once before the Fire it did contain.

Strange Power of Wine! whose Vehicle the same
At once can both extinguish and inflame:

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Keen as the Lightning does the Sword consume,
And leaves the untouch'd Scabbard in its room.
Nature burnt up with fiery Vapour dies,
And Wine a little while Mock-Life supplies:
Gouts and old Aches, Life's short Hours divide,
At once the Drunkard's Punishment and Pride:
Who having all his youthful Powers subdu'd,
Enjoys old Age and Pain before he should.
Till Nature quite exhausted quits the Wretch,
And leaves more Will than Power to debauch.
With Hellish Pleasure past Excess he views,
And fain would drink, but Nature must refuse:
Thus drench'd in artificial Flame he lies,
Drunk in Desire, forgets himself and dies.
In the next Regions he expects the same:
And Hell's no Change, for here he liv'd in Flame.

Satyr, to Church; visit the House of Prayer,
And see the wretched Reformation there;
Unveil the Mask, and search the Sacred Sham;
For Rogues of all Religions are the same.
The several Tribes their numerous Titles view,
And fear no Censure where the Fact is true.
They all shall have thee for their constant Friend,
Who more than common Sanctity pretend;
Provided they'll take care the World may see
Their Practices and their Pretence agree.
But count them with the worst of Hypocrites,
Whom Zeal divides, and Wickedness unites,
Who in Profession only are precise,
Dissent in Doctrine, and conform in Vice.

They who from the Establish'd Church divide,
Must do it out of Piety or Pride;
And their Sincerity is quickly try'd.
For always they that stand before the first,
Will be the best of Christians, or the worst.
But shun their secret Counsels, O my Soul!
Whose Interest can their Consciences controul;

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Those Ambo-Dexters in Religion, who
Can any thing dispute, yet any thing can do:
Those Christian-Mountebanks, that in disguise
Can reconcile Impossibilities:
Alternately conform, and yet dissent,
And sin with both Hands, but with one repent.

The Man of Conscience all Mankind will love,
The Knaves themselves his Honesty approve:
He only to Religion can pretend,
The rest do for the Name alone contend.

The Verity of true Religion's known
By no Description better than its own:
Of Truth and Wisdom it informs the Mind,
And nobly strives to civilize Mankind;
With potent Vice maintains Eternal Strife,
Corrects the Manners, and reforms the Life.

Tells us, ye learned Magi of the Schools,
Who pose Mankind with Ecclesiastick Rules,
What strange amphibious Things are they, that can
Religion without Honesty maintain,
Who own a God, pretended Homage pay,
But neither his, nor humane Laws obey?
Blush England, hide thy Hypocritick Face,
Who has no Honesty, can have no Grace.

In vain we argue from Absurdities,
Religion's bury'd just when Virtue dies:
Virtue's the Light by which Religion's known,
If this be wanting, Heaven will that disown.
We grant it merits no Divine Regard,
And Heaven is all from Bounty, not Reward:
But God must his own Nature contradict,
Reverse the World, its Government neglect,
Cease to be just, Eternal Law repeal,
Be weak in Power, and mutable in Will,
If Vice and Vertue equal Fate should know,
And that unbless'd, or this unpunish'd go.

In vain we strive Religion to disguise,
And smother it with Ambiguities:

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Interest and Priest—may perhaps invent
Strange Mysterys, by way of Supplement:
School-men may deep perplexing Doubts disclose,
And subtile Notions on the World impose;
Till by their Ignorance they are betray'd,
And lost in Desarts which themselves ha' made.
Zealots may cant, and Dreamers may divine,
And formal Fops to Pageantry incline;
And all with specious Gravity pretend
Their spurious Metaphysicks to defend.

Religion's no divided Mystick Name,
For true Religion always is the same;
Naked and plain her Sacred Truths appear,
From pious Frauds and dark Ænigma's clear:
The meanest Sense may all the Parts discern,
What Nature teaches all Mankind may learn:
E'en what's reveal'd is no untrodden Path,
'Tis known by Rule, and understood by Faith;
The Negatives and Positives agree,
Illustrated by Truth and Honesty.

And yet if all Religion was in vain,
Did no Rewards or Punishments contain,
Vertue's so suted to our Happiness,
That none but Fools could be in love with Vice.

Vertue's a native Rectitude of Mind,
Vice the Degeneracy of Human Kind:
Vertue is Wisdom Solid and Divine,
Vice is all Fool without, and Knave within:
Vertue is Honour circumscrib'd by Grace,
Vice is made up of every thing that's base:
Vertue has secret Charms which all Men love,
And those that do not choose her, yet approve:
Vice like ill Pictures which offend the Eye,
Make those that made them their own Works deny:
Vertue's the Health and Vigour of the Soul,
Vice is the foul Disease infects the whole:
Vertue's the Friend of Life, and Soul of Health,
The Poor Man's Comfort, and the Rich Man's Wealth:

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Vice is a Thief, a Traytor in the Mind,
Assassinates the Vitals of Mankind;
The Poison of his high Prosperity,
And only Misery of Poverty.

To States and Governments they both extend,
Vertue's their Life and Being, Vice their End:
Vertue establishes, and Vice destroys,
And all the Ends of Government unties:
Vertue's an English King and Parliament,
Vice is a Czar-of-Muscow Government:
Vertue sets Bounds to Kings, and limits Crowns;
Vice knows no Law, and all Restraint disowns:
Vertue prescribes all Government by Rules;
Vice makes Kings Tyrants, and their Subjects Fools:
Vertue seeks Peace, and Property maintains;
Vice binds the Captive World in hostile Chains:
Vertue's a beauteous Building form'd on high,
Vice is Confusion and Deformity.

In vain we strive these two to reconcile,
Vain and impossible, th'unequal Toil:
Antipathies in Nature may agree,
Darkness and Light, Discord and Harmony;
The distant Poles in spite of Space may kiss,
Water capitulate, and Fire make Peace:
But Good and Evil never can agree,
Eternal Discord's there, Eternal Contrariety.

In vain the Name of Vertue they put on,
Who preach up Piety, and practise none.
Satyr, resume the Search of secret Vice,
Conceal'd beneath Religion's fair Disguise.

Solid's a Parson Orthodox and Grave,
Learning and Language more than most Men have;
A fluent Tongue, a well-digested Stile,
His Angel Voice his Hearers Hours beguile;
Charm'd them with Godliness, and while he spake,
We lov'd the Doctrine for the Teachers sake.
Strictly to all Prescription he conforms,
To Canons, Rubrick, Discipline, and Forms;

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Preaches, disputes, with Diligence and Zeal,
Labours the Church's latent Wounds to heal.
'Twould be uncharitable to suggest,
Where this is found we should not find the rest:
Yet Solid's frail and false, to say no more,
Dotes on a Bottle, and what's worse, a W---
Two Bastard Sons he educates abroad,
And breeds them to the Function of the Word.
In this the zealous Church-man he puts on,
And dedicates his Labour to the Gown.

P---, for so his Grace the Duke thought fit,
Has in the Wild of Sussex made his Seat:
His want of Manners we could here excuse,
For in his Day 'twas out of Pulpit-use;
Railing was then the Duty of the Day,
Their Sabbath-work was but to scold and pray.
But when transplanted to a Country Town,
'Twas hop'd he'd lay his fiery Talent down:
At least we thought he'd so much Caution use,
As not his Noble Patron to abuse.

But 'tis in vain to cultivate Mankind,
When Pride has once possession of his Mind.
Not all his Grace's Favours could prevail
To calm that Tongue that was so us'd to rail.
Promiscuous Gall his Learned Mouth desil'd,
And Hypocondriack Spleen his Preaching spoil'd;
His undistinguish'd Censure he bestows,
Not by Desert, but as Ill-nature flows.
The Learned say the Causes are from hence,
An Ebb of Manners, and a Flux of Sense;
Dilated Pride, the Frenzy of the Brain,
Exhal'd the Spirits, and disturb'd the Man;
And so the kindest thing that can be said,
Is not to say he's mutinous, but mad:
For less could ne'er his Antick Whims explain,
He thought his Belly pregnant as his Brain;
Fancy'd himself with Child, and durst believe,
That he by Inspiration could conceive;

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And if the Heterogeneous Birth goes on,
He hopes to bring his Mother Church a Son:
Tho some Folks think the Doctor ought to doubt,
Not how't got in, but how it will get out.

Hark, Satyr, now bring Boanerges down,
A fighting Priest, a Bully of the Gown:
In double Office he can serve the Lord,
To fight his Battels, and to preach his Word;
And double Praise is to his Merit due,
He thumps the Pulpit and the People too.

Then search my L--- of L--- Diocess,
And see what R--- the Care of Souls possess;
Beseech his L--- but to name the Priest,
Went sober from his Visitation Feast.
Tell him of sixteen Ecclesiastick Guides,
On whom no Spirit but that of Wine abides;
Who in contiguous Parishes remain,
And preach the Gospel once a Week in vain:
But in their Practices unpreach it all,
And sacrifice to Bacchus and to Baal.

Tell him a Vicious Priesthood must imply
A carless or defective Prelacy.
But still be circumspect and spare the Gown,
The Mitre's full as Sacred as the Crown;
The Church[OMITTED] Sea is always in a Storm,
Leave them[OMITTED] Latter Lammas to reform.
If in their G[OMITTED] Vice thou should'st appear,
Thou'lt certain to be lost and shipwrack'd there:
Nor meddle with their Convocation Feuds,
The Church's F---, the Clergy's Interludes;
Their Church-Distinctions too let us lay by,
As who are low Church R--- and who are high.
Enquire not who their Passive Doctrine broke,
Who swore at random, or who ly'd by Book:
But since their Frailties come so very fast,
'Tis plain they should not be believ'd in hast.

Satyr, for Reasons we ha' told before,
With gentle Strokes the Men of Posts pass o'er;

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Nor within Gun-shot of St. Stephen's come,
Unless thou'rt well prepar'd for Martyrdom;
Not that there's any want of Subject there,
But the more Crimes we have the less we'll hear.
And what hast thou to do with S--- P---?
Let them sin on and tempt the Fatal Hour.
'Tis vain to preach up dull Morality,
Where too much Crime and too much Power agree;
The hardn'd Guilt undocible appears,
They'll exercise their Hands, but not their Ears.
Let their own Crimes be punishment enough,
And let them want the Favour of Reproof.

Let the Court Ladies be as lewd as fair,
Let Wealth and Wickedness be M--- Care;
Let D--- drench his Wit with his Estate,
And O--- sin in spite of Age and Fate;
On the wrong side of Eighty let him whore,
He always was, and will be lewd and poor.
Let D--- be proud, and O--- gay,
Lavish of vast Estates, and scorn to pay:
The antient D--- has sin'd to's Heart's content,
And, but he scorns to stoop, would now repent;
Would Heaven abate but that one darling Sin,
He'd be a Christian and a P--- again.
Let poor Corrina mourn her Maidenhead,
And her lost D--- gone out to fight for Bread.
Be he embark'd for P--- or S---
She prays he never may return again,
For fear she always should resist in vain.

Satyr, forbear the blushing Sex t'expose,
For all their Vice from Imitation flows;
And 'twould be but a very dull Pretence,
To miss the Cause, and blame the Consequence:
But let us make Mankind asham'd to sin,
Good Nature'l make the Women all come in.
This one Request shall thy Rebukes express,
Only to talk a little little less.

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Now view the Beaus at Will's, the Men of Wit,
By Nature nice, and for Discerning fit:
The finish'd Fops, the Men of Wig and Snuff,
Knights of the Famous Oyster-Barrel Muff.
Here meets the Dyet of Imperial Wit,
And of their weighty Matters wisely treat;
Send Deputies to Tunbridg and the Bath,
To guide young Country Beau's in Wit's unerring Path.

Prigson from Nurse and Hanging-sleeves got free,
A little smatch of Modern Blasphemy;
A powder'd Wig, a Sword, a Page, a Chair,
Learns to take Snuff, drinks Chocolate, and swear.
Nature seems thus far to ha' led him on,
And no Man thinks he was a Fop too soon,
But 'twas the Devil surely drew him in,
Against the Light of Nature thus to sin:
That he who was a Coxcomb so compleat,
Should now put in his wretched Claim for Wit.
Such sober Steps Men to their Ruin take,
A Fop, a Beau, a Wit, and then a Rake.

Fate has the Scoundrel Party halv'd in two,
The Wits are shabby, and the Fops are Beau;
The Reason's plain, the Mony went before,
And so the Wits are Rakish 'cause they're poor.
Indulgent Heaven for Decency thought fit,
That some shou'd have the Mony, and some the Wit.
Fools are a Rent-Charge left on Providence,
And have Equivalents instead of Sense;
To whom he's bound a larger Lot to carve,
Or else they'd seem to ha' been born to starve,
Such with their double Dole shou'd be content,
And not pretend to Gifts that Heaven ne're sent:
For 'twou'd reflect upon the Power Supream,
If all his Mercies ran in one contracted Stream:
The Men of Wit would by their Wealth be known,
Some wou'd have all the Good, and some ha' none.
The useless Fools wou'd in the World remain,
As Instances that Heaven cou'd work in vain.

369

Dull Flettumacy has his Heart's Delight,
Gets up i'th' Morning to lie down at Night;
His Talk's a Mass of weighty Emptiness,
None more of Business prates, or knows it less;
A painted Lump of Idleness and Sloth,
And in the Arms of Bacchus spends his Youth:
The waiting Minutes tend on him in vain,
Mispent the past, unvalued those remain.
Time lies as useless, unregarded by,
Needless to him that's only born to die;
And yet this undiscerning thing has Pride,
And hugs the Fop that wiser Men deride.

Pride's a most useful Vertue in a Fool,
The humble Coxcomb's always made a Tool:
Conceit's a Blockhead's only Happiness,
He'd hang himself if he cou'd use his Eyes.
If Fools cou'd their own Ignorance discern,
They'd be no longer Fools.
From whence some wise Philosophers ha' said,
Fools may sometimes be sullen, but can't be mad.
'Tis too much thinking which distracts the Brain,
Crouds it with Vapours which dissolve in vain;
The fluttering Wind of undigested Thought
Keeps Mock Idea's in, and true ones out:
These guide the undirected Wretch along,
With giddy Head and inconsistent Tongue.
But Flettumacy's safe, he's none of them,
Bedlam can never lay her Claim to him;
Nature secur'd his unincumbred Scull,
For Flettumacy never thinks at all:
Supinely sleeps in Diadora's Arms,
Doz'd with the Magick of her Craft and Charms;
The subtil Dame brought up in Vice's School,
Can love the Cully, tho she hates the Fool:
Wisely her just Contempt of him conceals,
And hides the Follies he himself reveals.
'Tis plain the Self-denying Jilt's i'th' Right,
She wants his Money, and he wants her Wit.

370

Satyr, the Men of Rhyme and Jingle shun,
Hast thou not Rhim'd thy self till thou'rt undone?
On Rakish Poets let us not reflect,
They only are what all Mankind expect.

Yet 'tis not Poets have debauch'd the Times,
'Tis we that have so damn'd their sober Rhymes:
The Tribe's good-natur'd and desire to please,
And when you snarl at those, present you these.
The World has lost its ancient Tast of Wit,
And Vice comes in to raise the Appetite;
For Wit has lately got the start of Sence,
And serves it self as well with Impudence.

Let him whose Fate it is to write for Bread,
Keep this one Maxim always in his Head:
If in this Age he would expect to please,
He must not cure, but nourish their Disease.
Dull Moral things will never pass for Wit,
Some Years ago they might, but now 'ts too late.
Vertue's the saint Green-sickness of the Times,
'Tis luscious Vice gives Spirit to all our Rhymes.
In vain the sober thing inspir'd with Wit,
Writes Hymns and Histories from Sacred Writ;
But let him Blasphemy and Bawdy write,
The Pious and the Modest both will buy't.
The blushing Virgin's pleas'd, and loves to look,
And plants the Poem next her Prayer-Book.

W---ly with Pen and Poverty beset,
And Bl---re vers'd in Physick as in Wit;
Tho this of Jesus, that of Job may sing,
One Bawdy Play will twice their Profits bring:
And had not both carest the Flatter'd Crown,
This had no Knighthood seen, nor that no Gown,

Had Vice no Power the Fancy to bewitch,
Dryden had hang'd himself as well Creech;
Durfey had starv'd, and half the Poets fled,
In Foreign Parts to pawn their Wit for Bread.
'Tis Wine or Lewdness all our Theams supplies,
Gives Poets Power to write, and Power to please:

371

Let this describe the Nation's Character,
One Man reads Milton, forty Rochester.
This lost his Taste, they say, when h' lost his Sight;
Milton had Thought, but Rochester had Wit.
The Case is plain, the Temper of the Time,
One wrote the Lewd, and t'other the Sublime.

And shou'd Apollo now descend to write
In Vertue's Praise, 'twou'd never pass for Wit.
The Bookseller perhaps wou'd say, 'Twas well:
But 'Twou'd not hit the Times, 'Twou'd never Sell;
Unless a Spice of Lewdness cou'd appear,
The sprightly part wou'd still be wanting there.
The Fashionable World wou'd never read,
Nor the Unfashionable Poet get his Bread.
'Tis Love and Honour must enrich our Verse,
The Modern Terms, our Whoring to rehearse.
The sprightly part attends the God of Wine,
The Drunken Stile must blaze in every Line.
These are the Modern Qualities must do,
To make the Poem and the Poet too.

Dear Satyr, if thou wilt reform the Town,
Thou'lt certainly be beggar'd and undone:
'Tis at thy Peril; if thou wilt proceed
To cry down Vice, Mankind will never read.

University of Virginia Library

II. PART II.