The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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To that most senseless Scoundrel, the Author of
Legion's humble Address to the Lords, who
wou'd persuade the People of England to
leave the Commons, and depend upon the Lords.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
147
To that most senseless Scoundrel, the Author of Legion's humble Address to the Lords, who wou'd persuade the People of England to leave the Commons, and depend upon the Lords.
What
Dæmons mov'd thee, what malicious Fiends,
To tempt the People from their surest Friends?
Sooner thou might'st embracing Floods disjoyn,
And make the Needle from its North decline;
Or teach the grateful Heliotrope to run
A different Motion from the enlivening Sun.
To tempt the People from their surest Friends?
Sooner thou might'st embracing Floods disjoyn,
And make the Needle from its North decline;
Or teach the grateful Heliotrope to run
A different Motion from the enlivening Sun.
Our Peers have often for themselves rebell'd,
When did they for the People take the Field?
Led not by Love, but Interest and Pride,
They wou'd not let the Prince their Vassals ride.
That Pow'r they to themselves reserv'd alone,
And so thro' thick and thin they spur'd old Roan.
When did they for the People take the Field?
Led not by Love, but Interest and Pride,
They wou'd not let the Prince their Vassals ride.
That Pow'r they to themselves reserv'd alone,
And so thro' thick and thin they spur'd old Roan.
To Fact and long Experience I appeal,
How fairly to themselves they Justice deal;
For if my Lord, o'erpower'd by Wine and Whore,
The next he meets, does through the Entrails scow'r,
'Tis pity, his relenting Brethren cry,
That for his first Offence the Youth shou'd die;
Come, he'll grow grave, Virtue and he'll be Friends,
And by his Voting make the Crown amends.
'Tis true, a most magnificent Parade
Of Law, to please the gaping Mobb, is made.
Scaffolds are rais'd in the Litigious Hall,
The Maces glitter, and the Serjeants bawl.
So long they wrangle, and so oft they stop,
The wearied Ladies do their Moisture drop.
This is the Court (they say) keeps all in awe,
Gives Life to justice, vigour to the Law.
True, they quote Law, and they do prattle on her,
What's the Result; Not guilty upon Honour.
How fairly to themselves they Justice deal;
For if my Lord, o'erpower'd by Wine and Whore,
The next he meets, does through the Entrails scow'r,
'Tis pity, his relenting Brethren cry,
That for his first Offence the Youth shou'd die;
Come, he'll grow grave, Virtue and he'll be Friends,
And by his Voting make the Crown amends.
'Tis true, a most magnificent Parade
Of Law, to please the gaping Mobb, is made.
Scaffolds are rais'd in the Litigious Hall,
The Maces glitter, and the Serjeants bawl.
So long they wrangle, and so oft they stop,
The wearied Ladies do their Moisture drop.
This is the Court (they say) keeps all in awe,
Gives Life to justice, vigour to the Law.
True, they quote Law, and they do prattle on her,
What's the Result; Not guilty upon Honour.
Should I who have no Coronet to show,
Fluster'd in Drink, serve the next Comer so,
My Twelve blunt Godfathers wou'd soon agree,
To doom me, sober, to the fatal Tree.
Fluster'd in Drink, serve the next Comer so,
148
To doom me, sober, to the fatal Tree.
Besides, how punctually their Debts they pay,
There's scarce a Cit in London, but can say,
By peep of Morn the trusting Wretch does rise,
And to his Grace's Gate, like Lightning flies:
There in the Hall this poor believing Ass,
With gaping on bare Walls seven Hours does pass
And so does Forty more in the same Class.
At last my Lord, with Looks erect and hardy,
“Troth, Friends, my Tenants have been somewhat tardy.
“But for the future, this shall be redrest,
“Delays and Losses may befall the best.
This said, he presses with regardless Pride,
Between the opening Squadrons on each side,
Calls for his Page, then slips into his Chair,
And so, good Gentlemen, you're as you were.
There's scarce a Cit in London, but can say,
By peep of Morn the trusting Wretch does rise,
And to his Grace's Gate, like Lightning flies:
There in the Hall this poor believing Ass,
With gaping on bare Walls seven Hours does pass
And so does Forty more in the same Class.
At last my Lord, with Looks erect and hardy,
“Troth, Friends, my Tenants have been somewhat tardy.
“But for the future, this shall be redrest,
“Delays and Losses may befall the best.
This said, he presses with regardless Pride,
Between the opening Squadrons on each side,
Calls for his Page, then slips into his Chair,
And so, good Gentlemen, you're as you were.
Cease Scribler then, our Grandees to defame,
With feign'd Encomiums that they scorn to claim;
What they can challenge by the Laws o'th' Land,
We freely give, while they no more demand;
But let not in their Praise the Plot be brought,
Thou know'st the Proverb, Nothing due for nought.
With feign'd Encomiums that they scorn to claim;
What they can challenge by the Laws o'th' Land,
We freely give, while they no more demand;
But let not in their Praise the Plot be brought,
Thou know'st the Proverb, Nothing due for nought.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |