The Poetical Entertainer :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Entertainer

Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

Numb. I.

II.

Numb. II.

The Character of a certain rattling Whig.

Whig and Tory.

The Courtier's Compliment.

The Countryman's description of his Mistress.

The Tinker's Courtship.

The deceitful Lady punish'd, AND Innocent Love rewarded.

III.

Numb. III.

IV.

Numb. IV.

Numb. V.

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Numb. IV.

An humble Offering to the Best of Queens, upon the Consummation of Peace.

Long since Thy Royal Grandsire strove in vain
To quell those Rebels that disturb'd his Reign;
He fell a Martyr in the just Defence
Of God's true Church and his own Innocence;
And rather than betray His Royal Trust,
Left his proud Foes to trample o'er his Dust:
But Thou, Great Anna, hast at once subdu'd
Those Factious Crocadiles that weep for Blood,
Rescu'd from Danger both the Church and Throne,
Recover'd all that justly is Thy own;
And hast perform'd more Wonders to restore
A sinking Nation to its ancient Pow'r,
Than Royal Goodness e'er could do before.

Go on, Bless'd Queen, and Prosper, till the Name
Of Whig shall make each Rebel blush for Shame;

Restrain thy wonted Mercy, and command
The Sword of Justice with an awful Hand;
For Lenity to those that persevere,
By Rebels always is misconstru'd Fear;
They triumph o'er their Princes when too tame,
And, in a Monarch, Moderation blame,
Turn all his brightest Vertues into Vice,
And deem his Clemency but Cowardice.
Then raise, O mighty Prince! thy Scepter high,
And with becoming Scorn the Whigs defy;
Exert thy Pow'r as much as they their Spleen,
And make the Rebels know thou art their Queen;
Let not their Treach'ry to the Church and Thee,
Pass off in Silence with Impunity;
Let no vile Traytor to their Native Land,
Enjoy what's reap'd by a rapacious Hand,
But force the Miscreants to refund that Wealth,
Gain'd in the time of War by Fraud and Stealth;
And punish them as Theives deserve who ply
At Fires, to make Advantages thereby,

Where, under a pretence of Aid, they cheat
The Sufferer and make his Loss more great.
Let not Whig Threats thy Royal Courage daunt,
Thy just Designs can no Protection want;
Heav'n hath shown Wonders to preserve Thee thus,
And Thou, Great Queen, hast done the same for us;
At such a time when Faction storm'd the Throne,
And proudly aim'd to make thy Pow'r their own:
But Thou, O gracious Queen! by Heav'n inspir'd,
Hast gain'd that Point which all good Men desir'd,
Rescu'd the Church and set thy People free
From Chains, prepar'd by Foes to God and Thee;
And when the Nation groan'd beneath the smart
Of an expensive War prolong'd by Art,
Thy English-Heart a glorious Peace procur'd,
And heal'd at once the gashes of the Sword,
Giving to all the Christian World a view
Of happier Days than yet they ever knew,
Blessings alone ascrib'd to Heav'n and You.

Proceed, Great Princess, as Thou hast begun,
Crush angry Faction and assert thy Throne,
Raise up the Church above the reach of Foes,
And with new Laws her ancient Rights enclose,
Repair the Breaches which the Whigs have made,
And punish all the ill Designs they've laid,
Bend their stiff Necks to thy Imperial Sway,
Teach them that Duty they abhor to pay,
And by a legal force compel them to obey.
Then to the World Thou wilt appear most blest
Of Queens that e'er the British Throne possest;
All will admire thy Wisdom, and adore,
Thro' Love or Fear, thy Person and thy Pow'r,
Who hath perform'd such Wonders, to advance
The Church and perfect our Deliverance.
In War no Monarch could have more Success,
None reap more Glory and enjoy it less:
No Royal Victor in the End obtain
A nobler Peace to crown a Prosp'rous Reign;

And none with greater Art and Ease o'ercome
A Faction prodigal of Pow'r at home,
When all believ'd, who saw how far they'd run,
The Task too hard to be perform'd so soon;
But Heav'n, who with Resentment cast an Eye
Upon their base Designs tow'rds Majesty,
Inspir'd thy Royal Vertues, e're too late,
With awful Courage, for a Work so great,
Which, in a sinful Land could ne'er have been
So well perform'd but by so Just a Queen.
May hourly Pray'rs, for thy Eternal Reign,
To God, be offer'd by the best of Men;
And may their good Examples teach the rest
To truly know how much in Thee they're blest,
That all may humbly to thy Scepter bow,
And to thy Throne sincere Allegiance vow.
Domestick Jars and Feuds for ever cease,
That our Obedience may compleat thy Ease,
Who makes us truly happy in a glorious Peace.

An Epitaph on a certain Great Man, who broke his Heart upon the change of the Ministry.

Here lies a Turncoat, in this holy Place,
Whose Parish-Chin disgrac'd his noble Face;
A Tory once, but turn'd a Whig for Gain,
Whose Foolish Looks disguis'd the cunning Man:
At Cards, no Gamester with this Rook could deal,
He'd play the Knave, and yet the Knave conceal;
Won mighty Sums, yet was by Fortune crost,
And broke his Heart, because one Game he lost.
Here let him lie lamented now he's dead,
Because his timely Exit sav'd his Head
From Justice, unto whom 'twas forfeited.

A Bitter Draught for a Whig with a foul Stomach.

I

Let the Whigs rave like mad,
And the Loyal be glad,
That our Politick Wars now are ended,
Carry'd on to pull down
Both the Church and the Crown,
That the Government might be mended.

II

But they gallup'd too fast
For their Speed long to last,
As their Fathers had oft done before 'em,
And so Jaded the Land,
When they'd got the Whip-hand,
That they run down the Nation that bore 'em.

III

But now the whole Race
Of Pretenders to Grace,
Are from Britain's old Saddle dismounted,
And those Saints who, like Knaves,
Would have made us their Slaves,
Are but Fools for their Management counted.

IV

Therefore, since they are down,
And the Day is our own,
Let's remember their way of Chastising,
And to make 'em Obey,
Shew 'em true English Play,
And still give 'em a Blow when they're rising.

V

Let them prattle like Fools,
To their credulous Tools,
That we quickly shall have the Pretender,
They may e'en as well boast,
That they'll raise up the Ghost
Of Old Nol, by a New Witch of Endor.

VI

It was always the Cant
Of each Politick Saint,
With some Popish Design to amuse us,
When themselves had on Foot,
Some Fanatical Plot,
With a Godly Intent to abuse us.

VII

When the Saints of the Land
Cry the Pope is at hand,
It is time for the Crown to be fearful,
That a Dutch Commonwealth
Will creep on us by stealth,
If the State are not wonderful careful.

VIII

Therefore let us not mind
What they talk for a Blind,
But be arm'd against them and their Evils;
For the sanctify'd Race
Have a Snake in the Grass,
When they fright us with Popes and with Devils.

IX

Remember Saint Oats,
And their Shaftsbury Plots,
Which were charg'd upon Rome by the Pious,
When the Protestant Breed
Had with Rumbold agreed,
To Assassinate Charles at the Rye-House.

X

Then who would give Ear,
When we've nothing to fear
But themselves, to the Shams they've Projected,
When their Aim is to down
With the Church and the Crown,
Whilst our Eyes the wrong way are directed.

XI

Then let's be too wise
To be gull'd by their Lies,
Since we find 'tis the Way of the Righteous,
To possess us with fear,
That the Lyon is near,
When themselves are the Dogs that would bite us.

The Plain-dealing Lover.

Madam, you Vow and Swear you ne'er was free
With any Mortal but your 'Spouse and me,
That is, you ne'er expos'd your Female Charms,
As you affirm, to any other's Arms.
Have you not often to your Husband said,
And swore, You never wrong'd his Nuptial-Bed?
How then can I give Credit to your Oath,
That know you're false to him, why not to both?
For the same Lust that makes you sin with one,
Will render you so easy to be won
By more, that Two cannot content a Mind
Infected with an Itch of being kind.
Our sep'rate Int'rests we can ne'er unite,
We only Love for sake of Love's delight,
And when that tempts us shall be apt to break
The strongest Ties that you and I can make.

Therefore, tho' I am Young and you are Fair,
And both to each a mutual Liking bear,
Let us all frothy needless Vows avoid,
For neither know how soon we may be cloy'd:
Besides, whoever breaks their Nuptial-Troth,
Can ne'er be bound to Justice by an Oath:
Tis Pleasure makes us covet to Embrace,
The same will make us like some newer Face.
Then let us Love as long as e'er we can,
That is, till you affect some other Man,
Or I by some fresh Beauty am decoy'd,
To leave what must grow Stale when long enjoy'd;
For Woman is by Nature giv'n to Change,
And Man, in spite of Conscience, prone to Range.
Then Swear not that you are or will be true,
You're False to one, and may be so to two:
Besides, I cannot be confin'd to you.

THE Extravagant Drunkard's Wish.

Had I my Wish I would distend my Guts
As wide as from the North to Southern Skies,
And have, at once, as many Mouths and Throats,
As old Briarius Arms, or Argos Eyes.
The raging Sea's unpallatable Brine,
That drowns so many Thousands in a Year,
I'd turn into an Ocean of good Wine,
And for my Cup would chuse the Hemisphere:
Would then perform the Wager Xanthus laid,
In spight of all the Rivers flowing Streams,
Swill, till I piss'd a Deluge, then to Bed,
And please my thirsty Soul with Small-Beer Dreams.

Thus Drink and Sleep, and waking Swill again,
Till I had drunk the Sea-Gods Cellars dry,
Then rob the Niggard Neptune and his Train
Of Tritons, of that Wealth they now enjoy.
Kiss the whole Nerides, and make the Jades
Sing all their charming Songs to please my Ear,
And whether Flesh or Fish, Thornbacks or Maids,
I'd make the Gypsies kind thro' Love or Fear.
And when thus Wicked and thus Wealthy grown
For nothing good, I'd turn Rebellious Whig,
Pull e'ery Monarch headlong from his Throne,
And with the Prince of Darkness make a League,
That he and I, and all the Whigs beside,
Might rend down Churches, Crowns in pieces tare,
Exert our Malice, gratify our Pride,
And settle Satan's Kingdom e'erywhere.

Upon the late Learned and Ingenious Dr. William King.

Rowze up ye British Bards, no longer sleep
In envious Silence, but awake and weep!
Shake off those fading Laurels from your Brows,
Glean'd by dull Farce at the degen'rate House,
Or by worse Op'ras introduc'd to please
Fantastick Slaves to Folly, Pride, and Ease:
No longer upon Playhouse Praise depend,
Where Wise-men laugh at what the Fools commend:
Nor think you've Title to the Bays, because
You've oft been flatter'd with unjust Applause;
But to Apollo with Devotion fly,
Confess your Wants and beg a fresh supply
Of that Celestial Fire on none bestow'd
But Fav'rites of the kind Harmonious God,
Such as the late Learn'd King, whose teeming Brain
Gave Life Immortal to his artful Pen;

Till tir'd with an unthankful Jarring Age,
He fled his Muse, forsook the worldly Stage,
And left Apollo's Rival Sons to vie
Their poor remains of Wit in Elegy.
So the Coy Nymph, whose Charms each Swain admires,
When close pursu'd, to distant Shades retires,
Where, undisturb'd, in Solitude she stays,
And leaves the Rival Crowd to sing her Praise.
Therefore since King, who once was the delight
Of all who read what he vouchsaf'd to write,
Hath shook off dull Mortality to soar
Among the Blest, where Time shall be no more,
Embrace with ardour the capacious Theme,
And shew how much he merited Esteem;
Whose golden Writings will direct the way,
And teach you how to Think, and what to Say:
Record his Labours in immortal Verse,
And sing his Vertues round his pious Hearse;
Remember all his Learning and his Worth,
And mourn him back to his maternal Earth;

Tell what a Vein of Wit, what Chain of Thought
Enliven'd and adorn'd whate'er he wrote;
What Care he took in Ovid's Art of Love,
To change the Serpent to a harmless Dove,
And give us in a modest English Dress,
What in the Roman was obscene and base;
As if the British Bard was proud to shew
Himself the greater Poet of the two;
Who, as an Honour to that ancient School
Where Rev'rend Busby long maintain'd the Rule,
Bequeath'd his worthy Reliques to be laid
In those learn'd Cloisters where he first was bred.
There let him rest in Peace, but still admir'd
By all whom the kind Muses have inspir'd;
Whilst the fam'd Products of his matchless Pen
Shall, to the last, their native Worth retain,
Preserve their Beauties fresh without decay,
And ever shine around his mould'ring Clay.
Nor was his Wit, tho' chearfully dispos'd,
With Christian Bounds and Fences uninclos'd;

For none whose sprightly Genius flow'd his way,
To Holy Things could greater def'rence pay;
None in Religion's sacred Vineyard spent
More Time and Labour to improve Content;
Or with a truer Zeal could recommend
Those heav'nly Truths by Wits so oft prophan'd,
That to the Poet we may justly join,
Not the Civilian only but Divine:
In one rich Breast he made the Trine agree,
And was profoundly learn'd in all the Three:
By Nature much inclin'd to others Good,
And flow'd with Bounty, Love, and Gratitude;
Was kind to Friends, for whom he much impair'd
His Fortune, which too lib'rally they shar'd;
Yet, tho' his Gen'rous Hand reduc'd his Store,
H'enjoy'd too much Content to e'er be Poor;
And when Dame Fortune prov'd the most unkind,
Would still be rich in Thought and great in Mind
Thus, like the wise Philosophers of old,
Who taught us to despise the Charms of Gold,

He did the gauling Cares of Life defeat,
By Contemplation and a safe Retreat;
In which Angelick State he stood prepar'd
To suffer all that could on Earth be fear'd;
As if compleatly arm'd against his Fate,
And more than could on humane Nature wait,
Pruning those Talents Heaven had bestow'd,
And to Industry new Improvements ow'd,
Till he had conquer'd each politer part
Of Learning, and was skill'd in e'ery Art,
Yet ne'er affected to be thought more wise
Than they who could not to his Knowledge rise,
Scorning to tyrannize o'er those he found
Too weak or modest to maintain their ground,
Cooly forbearing rather to contend,
Than argue to expose an erring Friend,
Tho' other Wits their utmost strength advance,
To triumph o'er mistaken Ignorance,
And hazard Friendship only to appear
Too vainly Learn'd or wittily Severe.

But King disdaining such pedantick Pride,
Would tacitly his own Perfections hide,
Much rather than sollicit human Praise,
By making others, not his Equals, less;
Yet, like a kind Preceptor, took delight
To set a misled Adversary right;
But did it by such means as must convince
Mistaken Zeal, without the least offence;
With no ill Nature would his Wit debauch,
But modestly correct without Reproach.

To thee, O Julius! I submit the rest,
Thou know'st his Worth and all his Vertues best,
Who in his Sickness, like a faithful Friend,
Lent him thy kind Assistance to his End,
And by the artful Helps by thee apply'd,
Sustain'd weak Nature long before he dy'd;
Thy skilful Hand still gave the Worthy Breath
And Courage to resist approaching Death,
Till watchful Fate advantage took at last,
And to the Ground the bleeding Victim cast.

So costly Fabricks which appear so fair,
And Monuments which now so beauteous are,
Must fall at last, in spight of all repair.

Nor didst thou leave him when bereft of Life,
But acted like a fond forsaken Wife,
With Grief distracted, follow'd to his Grave,
And mourn'd the loss of him no Art could save:
Therefore, dear Widow-Friend, to thee alone
Belongs the Elegiack Praise of him that's gone;
None but thy amicable Muse can claim
The right of weeping, as she sings his Fame:
O prune her Wings that she aloft may tow'r,
And borrow Aid of some superior Pow'r,
That in Seraphick Numbers she may sing
Aloud, the Praises of Immortal King.
O Julius dwell upon a Theme so good,
That from thy Friendship, Grief and Gratitude,
Others may labour to refine their Dross,
And learn of thee to mourn so great a Loss.

Dy'd vomiting of Blood.

Upon Singing Birds in a Prisoner's Room.

Poor Innocents! how suits my Case with theirs,
Since either Species has its Iron-Bars!
But yet how different is their Case from mine,
They sing amidst their Bonds, while I repine.
Great Jove! Mankind their Liberty allow,
And condescend to hear thy Votary's Vow,
Grant that these Birds to Men may be transfer'd,
Or else vouchsafe to make this Man a Bird.

W. P.

On Belinda setting the Seed of an Amaranth, and lamenting the Fate of Annuals.

O lovely Amaranth! from thy Seed break forth,
And rise in full Perfection at thy Birth;
Unbosom all thy Beauties to the Light,
With swelling Pride engage Belinda's sight;
Nor mourn the loss of the departing Sun,
Or think thy Odour or thy Lustre gone,
Each Ray that darts from her all-pow'rful Eyes,
Autumnal Suns and April Show'rs supplies.

T. W.

A Congratulatory Poem to a certain Gentleman lately Honour'd by Her Majesty.

When Storms arise, and all above looks dark,
And Rocks and Shelves surround the rowling Bark,
The Sailors grow dispirited with fear,
Till Stars auspicious do aloft appear,
And peeping through the breaking Clouds portend
The threat'ning Tempest to be near its end;
Then comforted with hopes they boldly steer,
And Joy to think fair Weather is so near.

So when a sinking Nation dreads her Doom,
'Twixt Enemies abroad and worse at home,
Dejected Thousands look, alas, dismay'd,
To see their Country beggar'd and betray'd,
Reflect on past Prosperity with pain,
And mov'd by present Fears aloud complain.

But when such Stars, such Patriots as you,
To the Throne Loyal, to your Country True,
Arise in Glory and adorn the Stage,
Your gen'rous Smiles a happy Change presage,
And in the midst of Danger let us see
The glimm'rings of a near Prosperity;
Such as revive a Nation in distress,
Enlarge our Hopes and make our Suff'rings less,
At such a time when blended Factions grin
And labour to prolong the bloody Scene.
But Royal Anna's Wisdom, and the Care
Of that Great Man her chosen Minister,
Back'd by such Friends as you, still give us hopes,
And if they fail our Constitution drops:
But all the wond'rous Steps already made,
Shew the Foundation of the Structure laid
With so much Art and Strength, that 'twill sustain
The greatest Work of Anna's glorious Reign;
A Work that must successfully go on,
Since Heav'n itself hath fix'd the Corner-Stone;

For, tho' unfinish'd, we may see there's more
Of God in e'ery Stroke than humane Pow'r.
So Prophets, when inspir'd with Pens divine,
Almighty Dictates shew in e'ery Line.
Nor could the Gracious Queen vouchsafe her Friends
A greater Instance of the Glorious Ends
Her Royal English Heart has now in view,
Than in the Honour she's conferr'd on You;
Who need no gaudy Herald to proclaim,
Or artful Tongue to magnify your Fame:
No Poet's Pen to set your Vertues forth,
Your Actions have enough confirm'd your Worth:
Your Hospitable House, where Plenty flows,
At once your Bounty and Discretion shows:
Your wise Deportment in your present Trust,
Declares you Gen'rous, Circumspect and Just.
The late great Honour to your Merits done,
Bears witness of your Duty to the Throne,
Whilst the whole Conduct of your Life defies
The Malice of your Whiggish Enemies;

And by Reverberation wounds the Hearts
Of Faction with their own ill-natur'd Darts;
As the firm Rock rebounds the Pebble-stone,
Against the Breast of him by whom 'twas thrown.

May all your Loyal Wishes come to pass,
And downy Peace instead of War take place,
That the proud Whigs, those Vultures in disguise,
Who always threaten Mischief when they rise,
May perch no more on Churches, prey on Kings,
But droop their Heads and hang their soaring Wings;
And Loyal Worthies, like yourself, who scorn,
For Ill-got Wealth, to serve a Factious Turn;
B'enabl'd to recover, e're too late,
Their bleeding Country from a wretched State,
That when a glorious Peace is well secur'd,
And Men of Worth shall only be impowr'd,
In London the Pretorian Chair may prove
Your least Great Honour, and your next Remove.

May the Fair Partner of your Cares and Joys,
Happy in you, and you in such a Choice,

All Honours, Comforts, and Enjoyments share,
Due to the Vertues of so blest a Pair;
That neither may determine whose Delights
Are most compleat, the Lady's or the Knight's;
But both from all Indispositions free,
Maintain the ballance of Felicity,
And to a pitch of such Contentment rise,
That you may turn this World to Paradise,
And taste of Heav'n before you mount the Skies.

A necessary Caution to a worthless Prodigal, who fancies himself Great without Authority, Wise without Knowledge, and Rich without Money.

Why, haughty Wretch! art thou so proud and vain,
To look awry on others with Disdain?
Why dost thou damn that Fellow for a Fool,
When thee thyself art so profoundly dull?

Why brand that blust'ring Bully with the Name
Of Coward, when thou know'st thou art the same?
What makes thee strut, command, and look so big,
Since thus adorn'd with new unpaid-for Wig?
And by some trusting cozen'd Taylor made,
According to the Mode, so spruce a Blade,
When all the Jauntee Outside which you boast,
Consists of borrow'd Plumes at others cost;
And thy unpolish'd Inside, at the best,
Furnish'd with nothing but a faithless Breast,
Where only filthy Lusts and Passions dwell,
Like Dirt and Cobwebs in a Hermet's Cell.
Porters, 'tis true, thy Quality mistake,
And, bowing, call thee Master, when they spake.
The Drawer Sirs thee up at e'ery Word,
And Tapster Tom pays Homage to thy Sword.
Maim'd begging Sailers, dogging at thy Heels,
Give thee the Style of Captain, in Moorefields,
And pray, perhaps, Your Honour, as you pass,
To bless them with your Charity in Brass.

These Flatterers, in Thought may make thee Great,
Because they're Strangers to thy vagrant State;
Prompt thee to vainly fancy that they see
Not half so much in others as in thee:
But he, alas, who knows thee, well observes
Thy Pride's too soaring for a Wretch that starves,
And sits amaz'd to hear so little Worth
Set others Failings with such envy forth.
As if bewilder'd with a vain Conceit
Of thy own Learning, Honesty, and Wit,
When none but thy mistaken self can find
One real Vertue seated in thy Mind,
Except the lewd Delights of Punk and Glass,
For wise Pursuits and great Atchievements pass;
And tricking Frauds impos'd upon a Friend,
Are Deeds that to Immortal Glory tend.
How therefore canst thou proudly Pish and Poh,
And snarl at what thy Betters say or do,
Rake into other's Dunghils that the Steem
Of thy own Filth, may less offensive seem,

Injure the Worthy, at their Merits snort,
And make their Vertues thy indecent sport?

So mercenary Strumpets, void of Shame,
On the chast Damsel cast the odious Name
Of Private Whore, too cunning to be caught,
The silent Sow that drinks up all the Draught.

But prithee, Friend, if thou deserv'st that Stile,
E'er thou blam'st others, be thyself less Vile.
For he that spreads his Neighbour's Faults should be
From the same Errors and Aspersions free;
Else every Scandal that he throws, rebounds
Upon himself, and his own Conscience wounds,
And makes his Follies, who reflects the same
On others, terminate in twice the Shame
Of him who seeks to wrong his Neighbours Fame.

A Hymn sung before Her Majesty, by the Charity-Children, at Kinsington.

Bless'd Monarch of Eternal Day!
Enthron'd in Glory and in Peace,
To Thee we humbly Sing, and pray
Thy Grace may with our Strength encrease.
O King of Kings, Almighty Lord
Of Princes, save the Queen,
Ordain'd to sheath the cruel Sword
And change the bloody Scene.

Chorus.

All Honour, Glory, Praise and Power,
To Thee, O Lord of Host,
Who does, in Anna's Peace, restore
The sundry Blessings we before,
In forreign Wars, had lost.

O Heaven! bless the Royal Dame,
Who stretches forth Her bounteous Hand
To feed, and teach us to proclaim
Thy Mercies thro' the British Land.
Preserve Her as the only Dove,
That to her People brings
The Olive-Branch of Peace and Love,
Whence human Comfort springs.

Chorus.

All Honour, &c.

On all our Benefactors pour
Thy daily Blessings down,
But more especially on Her
Who wears the British Crown.
We bless, O Lord, thy Holy Name,
For Wonders Thou hast wrought,
And pray, with one accord, for them
By whom we're Fed and Taught.

Chorus.

All Honour, &c.

A new Psalm, to be sung by a Congregation of Poets.

O Lord direct us in the ways
Of Truth, and keep us in the same,
And grant us Numbers fit to praise
Thy Works, and Thy Eternal Name:
Inspire us with such heav'nly Flights,
As may become the Holy Theme;
Reform our Lives, refine our Wits,
Thou everlasting Great Supreme.
O teach us to obey Thy Laws,
Those standing Rules of humane Good.
And strength'n us to defend Thy Cause
With Zeal, when ever 'tis withstood.
Let no Regard to Life or Health,
Postpone our Duty to Thy Throne;
Nor suff'r us, for the sake of Wealth,
To do what we should leave undone.

Let not the Lust of Party-Praise,
Debauch our Fancies and our Pens,
To fill the World with factious Lays,
That impious Knaves may gain their Ends.
But give us Grace to learn and write
Thy Holy Precepts in our Hearts,
And make Religion our Delight,
Instead of vain deceitful Arts.
On Earth there is no solid Joy
But flows, O God, from Thee alone;
Nor can it be obtain'd, but by
The Mediation of Thy Son:
The sacred Doctrine He hath taught,
If well observ'd, true Comfort brings;
And to be Christians as we ought,
Is to be Greater far than Kings.
Worldly Externals raise us high,
'Tis true, in other Mens Esteem,
But if into ourselves we pry,
We find those Gugaws but a Dream.

Why then do Princes swell with Pride,
And boast aloud their Royal Blood,
Since none to Heaven are ally'd,
But the Meek, Faithful, and the Good?
The Great forget that they must Dye,
But where's their Wealth and boasted Birth,
Since all e'relong must huddl'd lie
In the dark Bowels of the Earth?
Where Tyrants no Dominion bear,
Nor humble Slaves Obedience pay,
But where they both alike must fare,
And, undistinguish'd, mix their Clay.
Then give us Grace, instead of Wealth,
Much Faith, instead of humane Pow'r,
And grant us long to live in Health,
Prepar'd against our dying Hour;
That when our Souls forsake their Clay,
They may to heavenly Mansions climb,
And there enjoy Eternal Day,
Unmeasur'd by the Glass of Time.

Tom Tell-truth:

OR, THE PLAIN-DEALER.

The Church and the Faction are striving
To baffle each other's Design:
The Tories for J---s are contriving,
The Whigs for the H---r Line.
Whilst others by trimming and shamming
'Twixt both, do their Favours divide:
Which shews that they only are aiming
To answer the ends of their Pride.
The Tories are gaping for Places,
The Whigs are in hopes of the same,
But both are made Bubbles and Asses,
By some that I care not to name.
We blame both the French and the Dutchmen,
For breaking their Leagues and their Words;
But sure there's no Nation of such Men,
As Britain at present affords.

The Feuds by our Leaders fomented
Are only for Places of Trust;
And when they have got what they wanted,
All Parties are equally just.
Tho' at odds, by a joint Approbation,
They once pull'd their Sovereign down,
That they better might bubble the Nation,
By setting up one of their own.
Revolution will cause Revolution,
Till we rectify what is amiss;
For remember that young Canticusian
Brought the Turks to be Masters of Greece.
Even so did our L---s and our C---ns
Call over the Dutch to our Aid,
For fear that King James and his Romans
Should the Protestant Int'rest invade.
But had they been equally careful
Of a cursed Fanatical Crew,
Of whom we've more cause to be fearful,
They'd have given the Devil his due.

At the Great Gates in Red-Bull-Yard, between St. John's-Street and Clerkenwel-Green

There, on that ancient venerable Ground,
Where Shakespear in Heroick Buskins trod,
Within a Good Old Fabrick, may be found
Celestial Liquors fit to charm a God.
Rich Nectar, Royal Punch, and Home-brew'd Ale,
Such as our Fathers drank in Times of Yore,
When Beef, Fat Bacon, and salubrious Cale,
Were Food and Physick for the Rich and Poor.
Commodious Rooms, with Hamstead Air supply'd;
Obliging Usage for each civil Guest;
A Garden Spot, whose fertile Banks provide
Refreshing Salads to delight the Taste.
No Bacchanalian Ensigns at the Door,
To give the Publick notice, are display'd,
Yet Friends are welcome: We shall say no more,
But hope their Friendship will promote a Trade.

FINIS.