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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)

[section]

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

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XVII.

II.

VOL. II.

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III.

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VIII.

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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.