University of Virginia Library

HONESTY in Distress, BUT Reliev'd by no Party.

A TRAGEDY, As it is basely Acted by Her Majesty's Subjects upon God's Stage the World.

The Prologue spoken by a Miser going to receive Money.

(Suppos'd at the Play-House.)
I'm in great haste, good Friends, yet cannot chuse,
But stay one Moment just to tell you News:
Dame Honesty to Day, but wond'rous poor,
Wrap'd up in Rags, came mumping to my Door;
What tatter'd Maukin have we here? Said I,
Poor Honesty, says she, both Cold and Dry.
Then Honesty, said I, pray go thy ways,
I ne'er got Three-pence by thee in my Days:
I might have starv'd, I'm sure, long since for thee,
And now thou want'st thou e'en may'st starve for me.
The squeamish Gypsie presently took snuff,
And turn'd her Back upon me in a Huff.
Whether she's rambl'd Heaven knows, for me,
She's not amongst you there, as I can see;
Neither in Boxes, Galleries, or Pit,
In the huge crowd of Fools that gaping sit:
Or can I find her out amongst your Men of Wit.
If in the Audience she has stoln a place,
And durst in Play-House show her honest Face,
Amongst the Ladies sure she would appear;
But, faith and troth, I cannot spy her there:
Yet tho' she's hard to find, I dare engage
You'll see her by and by upon the Stage;
But cloath'd in woollen Rags, no Linen under,
A Begging too, but that will prove no wonder:
For in this Iron-Age we daily see
That Knav'ry gets the start of Honesty;
And, like our wiser Leaders, I protest,
Does always side with those that thrive the best.
Could I but stay I would provoke your Laughter,
And tell you more of what you'll find hereafter;
But the time's come, and I must move from hence,
To fill this Bag with the commanding Pence;
For he that in our Christian City thrives,
Must run when Int'rest, that dear Devil, drives.

ACT I.

Scene a Palace.
Enter Honesty alone.
[Honesty]

Courtier.
[Exit Courtier.]

Honesty
alone.
Enter Lady and Attendance.
[Honesty begins her Suit

The Lady,
turning to her Servants.
How came this Wench within the Palace Gate?
How boldly does the tatter'd Gypsie prate!
With what strange Confidence the Maukin brags
If her starch'd Vertue in her stinkiug Rags.

Ladies Woman.
A saucy Slut, I'll warr'nt her, to profess
Such stiff-neck'd Honesty in that poor Dress;
Honour has Vertue always by the hand,
The latter can't without the former stand.
The Rich and Noble are the Chaste and Good,
The Needy can't be Honest if they wou'd;
When Money tempts, they conquer all Restraints,
And sacrifice their Vertue to their Wants.
Madam, ne'er mind her Talk, poor silly Soul,
The ragged Saint is but some Soldier's Trull,
By Lasiness and Vice reduc'd to Want,
And comes to mount the Guard with her Gallant.
Foh! nasty thing, dissembling, lying Jade;
Bold Hussy, she in Thought and Deed a Maid!
Madam, you stand too near the frowzy Minx;
If this be Honesty I'll swear she stinks.

[Exit Lady and Attendants
The Footman
to Honesty at going off.
Poor Wretch, begone, they'll make thee but their sport;
Honesty's always ridicul'd at Court.
No Beggars here succeed in what they crave,
But the designing Jilt and flatt'ring Knave.

Honesty
alone.
[Exit Honesty.

ACT II.

Scene Westminster-Hall with the Court sitting.
Enter Honesty among the Lawyers.
Hon.

One Lawyer
to another.
The dirty Pug may serve Love's Fire to quench:
Faith, Brother, 'tis a wondrous pretty Wench:
She'll soon leave Begging when she knows the Town
Such Looks will make a tatter'd Smock go down.

Second Lawyer.
Fie, Brother, fie, you talk, upon my Life,
As wild as if you'd quite forgot your Coif;
We're old, and shou'd despise that youthful Thought
And tho' we can't, the World will think we ought.

Third Lawyer.
For shame don't raise such Blushes in the Maid,
She thinks 'tis time that our Colts Teeth were shed.
Tho' sixty odd I such a Lass could please, [Aside

And make her know that an old Rat loves Cheese.
Tell us, my pretty Maid, from whence you came,
The cause of thy Distress, and what's thy Name?

[To Hon.
Honesty.
On distant Plains till now I've liv'd conceal'd,
Which, with due Labour, Food and Raiment yield;
Born of a Race divine, tho' poor and bare,
Justice and Mercy my Relations are;
No Prince on Earth a nobler Kin can boast,
Tho now, in sad distress, I'm almost lost.
Vertue and Truth my loving Sisters be,
And, tho' thus wretched, I am Honesty,
Come hither in this despicable dress,
In hopes, with pity, you would hear my Case.

First Lawyer.
Honesty! Brethren, there's a sawcy Jade:
What bus'ness has she here? why sure she's Mad!
Did ever such a brazen Minx appear
Before i'th' publick Hall at Westminster?

Second Lawyer.
Begone, bold Hussy, or I'll move my L**d
To give your Impudence its just Reward.
How dare you show that despicable Face,
Where Gown-men triumph, and the Law takes place?

Third Lawyer.
Hang her a Jilt, when she was valu'd here,
And carefully preserv'd by Pr*** and Pe**,
We painful Lawyers labour'd but in vain,
And were the Peoples Slaves for little Gain,
Took mod'rate Fees, not daring to encroach,
And hither gladly trudg'd without a Coach;
But since the Jade was banish'd by the Gown,
And wanders like an Outlaw up and down,
You see our Tongues are valu'd at such rates,
That by the Law we now can gain Estates. [Turning to Honesty.]

Begone, bold Vagrant, with thy frightful Looks,
Thou'rt but a Maukin here that scares the Rooks;
Presume no more within these Walls to come,
But let some Parish Alms-house be thy home;
For Honesty, whilst indigent and bare,
Must ne'er expect to find Compassion here.

[Honesty sneaks off and speaks aside
Honesty.

First Attorney.
Zooks, Brother Snap, a Wonder, I protest!
Pray look behind thee, here's a welcome Guest,
A scurvy Omen, Heavens mend us all,
To've Honesty amongst us in the Hall.
Who could have ever thought that she shou'd dare
To show her starving Face at Westminster.

Second Attorny.
I'll warr'nt the Baggage comes to pry about,
And, like a Pickthank, find our Failings out:
Let us but hide our Bills and we are safe,
She may beg on and whine, we'll win and laugh.

Third Attorny.
[Honesty is whisper'd in the Ear by a ruin'd Client.]

[Honesty
aside.]
[Exit Honesty.

ACT III.

Scene the City.
Honesty
Begging along the City.
Dear tender Citizens some Comfort spare
To a poor Object worthy of your Care:
Beneath my Mis'ries may you never fall,
But still command the Choice of Leaden-Hall.
Pray pity that forlorn and friendless She,
Th'uncharitable World calls Honesty.
Behold my feeble Limbs, and meager Face,
My naked Feet, my cold and tatter'd Dress:
Open your Hearts, your Charity extend,
That in this poor Condition I may find,
Within these ancient Walls, some Christian Friend.

Linen-Draper.
Honesty; with a Pox to her, run Tom,
And fetch a Pail of Water, or the Broom;
If she comes hither, wash the lazy Whore,
Or sweep the dirty Baggage from the Door,
Let her not step within the Shop be sure;
For, as I live, I know the hide-bound Jade,
If countenanc'd, would spoil the Linen-Trade:
Nun-like she scorns to wear a Smock, we see,
'Tis more th'effect of Pride than Poverty.
We shall have Jilts to the same Fashion brought,
Because, like her, they would be honest thought:
And, in good Faith, should they no Linen wear,
Our Wives would soon be forc'd to go as bare.

[A precise Apothecary
to his Man.]
Theophilus, on due precogitation,
'Twill be conducing to our Preservation,
That you step backward to the Rubbish-Hovel,
And thence advance the longest Paring-shovel;
For Honesty, that squeamish Jade, I see,
Is, God be thank'd, reduc'd to Beggary.
She mendicates this way, I fear she'll stop,
To crave a dram of Comfort at my Shop,
But, pray, besure you give her not a drop.
If she assumes the Impudence to come
And ask for me, respond, I'm not at home;
For should the Jade behind the Compter run,
In verbo Medici, we're quite undon;
She'll fracture all my Pots, confound my Pills,
And, in a Rage, incin'rate all my Bills.

[Honesty
aside.]
The City too are heedless of my Wants:
Sure all Mankind are deaf to my Complaints.
How they sneak back, and downwards cast their Eyes,
And stop their Ears against my mournful Cries.
Alas! how hateful are the Just and Poor,
To wealthy Knaves that wallow in their Store.

[A Victualler
to the Bar-keeper and his Servants.]
Nouns, Wife, go lay the double Chalk aside,
The Rolls of eighteen to the dozen hide.
Here Jack, Tom, Harry, Will, ye careless Rogues,
Make haste and take away the little Mugs,
Here's Honesty approaching, by my troth,
Who knows but she may call to quench her drowth,
And if she should, we must not shut the Door,
The Tap's a Servant even to the Poor;
You know our Licence binds us to obey
The meanest Vassals, if they can but Pay;
Therefore hide all things that may do us harm,
Who knows but the sly Gypsie may inform.
Ive heard the Jade does many a Man undo,
I dread her more than all my Lord-M***r's Crew.
O ho! I thank my Stars she's past my Door,
Now, as you were, my Lads, the danger's o'er.

[Honesty
aside.]
Bless me! how all the City seems amus'd,
And scowre about in sholes, as if confus'd:
How frightful is my honest Aspect grown,
That Men in such disorder from me run,
Gaze with a seeming hatred on my Face,
And, like Infection, shun me as I pass!

[A Grocer
to his next Neighbour a Hosier.]
Adsnigs! here's Honesty amongst us come,
Why can't the lousie Carrion keep at home?
Neighbour, methinks 'tis both a shame and pity
Such Vagrants should be suffer'd in the City.
Should she come near my Shop, upon my word,
I'd take the lazy Trull before my Lord;
For he, I'm sure, will countenance no Jade,
That's such an open Enemy to Trade:
Were she allow'd to scout and pry about,
What must become of all my damag'd Fruit?
Or if a Weight should chance to prove too light,
Why should she think herself affronted by't;
The Buyer ought to lose, because 'tis plain,
We can't grow Rich without immod'rate Gain:
And who wou'd be that Drudge ('efaith not I)
To live a Retale Slave, and a poor Beggar'dy?

Hosier.
Should we not take the liberty (God knows)
To put off Leicestershire for Strawbridge Hose,
And use some other little slights, our Trade
Would scarce produce fat Fowls to grease our Bread;
And must Dame Honesty, forsooth, give Rules,
Which, if observ'd, would make us starving Fools;
E'en let her Beg, and hug her Misery,
I'm sure she shall have no support from me.

[Honesty
enters the Exchange.]
Good Pious Christians, who are hither come,
From all the Trading parts of Christendom,
Listen with pity to the sad Complaint
Of Honesty, reduc'd to Rags and Want:
My hopes of Succour have at last been crost,
Relieve me now, or I'm for ever lost.

First Merchant.
Prithee, Sweetheart, thy hideous Cries forbear,
I doubt thou'lt find but cool Reception here;
Come not to Change, but to our Churches go,
And let the Clergy thy Condition know,
They should thy chiefest Benefactors be,
They're Charitable Saints, but Traders we,
Who can have no regard to Honesty.

Second Merchant.
Prithee disturb us not with Sighs and Tears,
We know you've starv'd in England many Years;
You take wrong Measures, and are much deceiv'd,
If you expect, on Change, to be reliev'd;
For Honesty and Trade move diff'rent ways,
And where one thrives, the other soon decays.

Third Merchant.
To Cells and Cloisters you your course should steer,
Alas, we have no bus'ness for thee here:
Or else abroad to our Plantations fly,
And in our Western Isles thy Fortune try;
You'll prove a Stranger in that sultry Air,
And Strangers always are most welcome there.
You see Old England frowns upon thy Wants,
Visit the New, and try the Boston Saints:
Conceal thy Name, and thou may'st there grow rich,
But if thou'rt known they'll burn thee for a Witch;
Poor Honesty's despis'd, if once reveal'd,
And can be no where safe except conceal'd.

Honesty.
O wicked Age! that Honesty should find
So little Charity amongst Mankind:
Poor Indians, whom the Christian World deride,
That follow Nature as their only Guide,
Untaught by Scriptures, unimprov'd by Schools,
But from dim Reason draw their doubtful Rules;
Sure such wild savage Slaves, who little know
Of Heaven's Laws, would much more pity show,
Than let poor Innocence become their Sport,
And perish thus for want of due Support.

[Honesty
falls down.]
O cruel City! to refuse your Aid
To a starv'd Wretch, to this sad End betray'd,
Impending Mischiefs threaten you, take heed,
Lest when I'm gone your Ruine shou'd succeed;
For Kingdoms do from me their Strength derive,
And Towns, without me, never long can thrive:
But since I'm hated, slighted, and abus'd,
And by all Parties thus severely us'd,
I'm call'd aloft, where I with speed must go,
And leave you to repent your Ills below.

[She dies.

THE EPILOGUE

Poor Honesty she's gone, we've seen her last,
Her Wants are ended, and her Mis'ries past:
Many, I hear, at her sad Exit griev'd,
Who never could endure her whilst she liv'd;
For Knaves, like Shears, whose Edges are so keen,
Must cut themselves, as we have often seen,
For want of Honesty to put between:
For now she's gone, say they, we've cause to fear,
All Men will prove as errant Knaves as we ar';
And then warm Jars and Struggles must arise,
About which Knave must be the other's Prize.
Like Privateers, they care not to oppose
Each other, 'cause there's nothing got but Blows.
Sharks hate to bite at Sharks; the Wolf, we find,
Cares not, tho' Hungry, to assault his Kind;
But now poor Honesty is snatch'd away,
'Tis well if Man don't prove worse Brutes than they.

A POEM On the Happy Success of His Grace the DUKE of Marlborough In forcing the French Lines.

FORTUNE's Bounty:

OR, AN Everlasting PURSE FOR THE Greatest Cuckold in the Kingdom.

In wicked Times, when wanton Wives
Led injur'd-Husbands wretched Lives,
Blind Fortune, in a gen'rous Mood,
Resolv'd to do some Cuckold good;
But being a Purblind Female Creature,
And of a fickle wav'ring Nature,
She could not readily agree
What the kind Benefit should be,
Or, who have Title to receive
The Noble Prize she meant to give.
Thus puzzled, as she musing sat,
Confounded quite 'twixt who and what:
At last remembring 'twas a fau't,
To do great Things with little Thought,
She to some lonely Cloud retir'd,
To Think, as Matters well requir'd.
The Wise should use deliberation,
E're they bestow a large Donation.
Lord-May'rs are seldom over speedy
In building Alms-Huts for the Needy;
But take seven Years Consideration,
About the Pious Work's Foundation:
Nay, Benefits, tho' small, we find,
Come slow, as if with half a Mind.
The Saint will fumble near an Hour,
And have some Witnesses by, before
He'll give his Farthing to the Poor,
That they may praise the Niggard's Bounty,
And blaze the Wonder thro' the County.
But Fortune, after some Confusion,
Came, in short time, to a Conclusion,
And made this following Resolution:
Which was, That ev'ry Marry'd Noddy,
Tongue-teas'd and Govern'd by his Dowdy,
Tormented with eternal Clamour,
More noisie than a Pewt'rer's Hammer;
And every peevish tortur'd Spouse
That wears his Corns upon his Brows,
And raves to think he cannot mend
The Failings of his Wife's low'r-end:
Also the Patient and the Wise,
Who smother all their Injuries,
And kindly Father, without fretting,
A Brood of G---d knows whose begetting.
These Fortune had resolv'd to Summon,
But each t'appear without his Woman;
Lest Female Tongues should spoil the Sport,
And make the Crowd turn Dover-Court.
Her Edicts, sign'd with her own Name,
Were scatter'd all abroad by Fame,
Declaring what she had design'd
For the most Wretched of Mankind:
As to the place of Rendezvous,
For every Horn'd unhappy Spouse,
She bearing Cuckoldom in Mind,
Guild-Hall was by the Dame assign'd,
Most fit above all other places,
For Henpeck'd Slaves to shew their Faces.
The merry Time at last drew near,
On which the Bucks were to appear,
Dame Fortune, at the Hour appointed,
Attir'd like any Lord's Anointed,
In Robes of a Camelion Dye,
That chang'd, i'th' twinkling of an Eye;
Was sometimes Red, and sometimes Blue,
But alter'd still to something new;
Shewing by Colours variation,
Women are subject to mutation:
Tho' some will say, the fickle Dame,
That's always changing's still the same.
A pair of Horns, of wondrous size,
All Gold, to dazle Humane Eyes,
Made full of Antlers Buds and Sprouts,
In Foster-Lane, or thereabouts,
By some, if Folks don't falsly Jear 'em,
That have no little Right to wear 'em;
Were carried on a lofty Pole,
Before Queen Fortune, to the Hall,
Just as his Custard-Cap does bear
The Sword before the City-May'r:
In mighty Pomp she past along,
Attended with a numerous Throng,
Gather'd together, by degrees,
From th'Four and Twenty Companies.
At last into the Hall she came,
Where all paid Rev'rence to the Dame.
Who gaz'd around, and as they bow'd
To th'Horns, she Cursi'd to the Crowd.
At last it pleased her fickle Grace
To find her Jilting Bum a place:
The Court of Conscience being clear
Of Business, she ascended there;
And on the Bench, O fy upon her!
She clapt her Tail, that is, her Honour.
For Female Honour, you must know,
Is humbly seated very low;
Therefore high Conscientious Places
Do not become a nunquam satis.
However, there the Gypsie staid,
And sate as modest as a Maid;
With her huge gilded Mace before her,
Which caus'd the Cuckolds to adore her.
Thus seated on the Bench alone,
Like Playhouse Queen on slit-deal Throne,
Such Crowds came staring in and gaping,
Even from Westminster to Wapping,
That sure the Hall was ne'er so full
Of City Stags at Sheriffs Poll.
Vintners and Vict'lers flock'd in shoals,
Made graceful by their flowing Bowls,
Whose Heads became the noble Crest,
So far exceeding all the rest,
That the whole Herd aloud cry'd out,
They never ought t'appear without.
Lawyers in Droves flow'd in as fast
As if the Term had not been past,
Who hid their Horns beneath their Gowns,
And so incur'd Dame Fortune's Frowns:
But rather than they'd spoil the Jest,
At last they wore them like the rest,
Which made the Black-Rob'd Tribe appear
Like Oxen at a Suffolk-Fair:
However, they resolv'd to try
For Fortune's Favour by and by,
Well knowing that their wedded Evils
Had Tails like Goats, and Tongues like Devils,
And that they'd all the Plagues of Life,
That Man could meet with in a Wife.
Our Teachers too their Horns exalting,
Some young and brisk, some old and halting;
Flow'd in from ev'ry part o'th' Nation,
As thick as at a Visitation;
All fill'd with Hopes, and well prepar'd,
To shew what tameless Shrews they'd Marry'd.
The angry Crowd in great disdain,
Cry'd, Priests, above all other Men,
Shou'd not b' admitted to complain,
Because their Function were the first
That made us Mortals thus accurs'd,
And that they punish'd Fornication,
And first brought Wedlock into fashion.
But Fortune minding not the Crowd,
Most humbly to the Pastors bow'd,
And told them (tho' she ne'er design'd it)
She'd be their Friend, and they should find it.
They thank'd her for the Grace she'd done 'em,
But found 'twas but a Jest upon 'em.
In numbers flock'd Physicians too,
Who knew not how to tame a Shrew,
Or cure for th'ease of their own Lives,
The Falling-Evil in their Wives;
Who when their Frensies were upon 'em,
And on their Backs their Fits had thrown 'em,
They could not rise, left Folks bely 'em,
Whilst any Man was standing by 'em;
But heave and pant, and wink and pink,
And breathe so short that one would think,
Who did but see their Freaks transacted,
That they were Dying or Distracted.
Besides the Swarms I mention here,
All sorts of Traders did appear;
For no degrees of Men can be
From Cuckoldom and Av'rice free;
Therefore most Husbands had pretence
To Fortune's kind Benevolence.
The Hall was crowded in a Minute,
That not one more cou'd squeeze within it.
Then Fortune, loud as she cou'd bawl,
Commanded Silence in the Hall;
And rising up, from off her Breech,
She standing made this gen'rous Speech.
My Lords and Gentry, that appear
According to my Summons here,
I'm hither come, with Joy to meet ye,
And with sincere Affection greet ye;
I must confess, your Good alone
'Twas brought me hither, not my own,
And you shall always surely find,
(Tho' some, perhaps, are so unkind,
To think me of a fickle Mind,)
My Heart not Foreign, but Domestick;
Not Popish, but Ecclesiastick.
With that the Churchmen standing ready,
Bow'd low and cry'd, Your Servant Lady;
Hoping by this their good Behaviour,
To win their Dame and curry Favour;
But they, alas, were at a loss,
In thinking to her Love ingross;
For Fortune's Kindness wa'n't exprest
To them alone, but all the rest:
After some pause she thus again
Began, and made the Matter plain:
All you that bear the heavy Curse
Of, The Grey Mare the better Horse;
Or wear the Failings of your Spouses,
A small degree above your Noses,
Let ev'ry one his Grievances show,
That I the naked Truth may know.
And he who is in Wedlock join'd
To the worst plague of Woman-kind,
And leads the most confounded Life
That e'er did Man with wicked Wife;
Let her be either Young or Old,
Fair, Homely, Sluttish, Whore, or Scold;
Or he be Churchman or Dissenter,
A Trimmer, Puritan, or Ranter;
Or neither Whig, or yet a Tory,
But does in Moderation glory;
Let him be Libertine or Saint,
So that he's but a Protestant,
And he alone, to ease his Curse,
Shall have a Neverfailing Purse;
Besides, this forked golden Prize,
Of such a large and ample size,
That 'twill adorn and grace the Hall
Of the best Noble of you all;
Therefore disclose the wretched Lives
You bear with your unruly Wives,
That I may judge, among you all,
On whom my Bounty ought to fall.
The Dons and Coms could not agree,
At first, about Precedency;
But such Debates and Feuds arose,
As if their Words would end in Blows;
Each pelting each with all the Lyes
Their Heat and Malice could devise:
Wise Men stood by and shook their Noddles,
To hear their Betters such Tom-doodles;
Whilst all the dull unthinking Rabble,
Seem'd much delighted with the Squabble;
And thereupon the Fools divided,
And with the diff'ring Parties sided;
Some for the Dons declar'd their Zeal,
Some for the Coms were Tooth and Nail;
Bad Words were scatter'd at no rate,
The Hall was turn'd to Billingsgate,
And every Blockhead in the Crew,
Espous'd one Party of the two,
Tho' very few could tell for what
They roar'd down this, or cry'd up that;
But since ill Men had made a pother,
They would be of one side or t'other.
Just so it is in Hockley-Hole,
When Rose and Brindle fight the Bull:
Some on the Dogs will set their Heart,
Some take the horned Champions part.
When thus dispos'd, the Rabble-Rout
Soon find occasion to fall out:
Then Fools and Dogs, and Bulls and Bears,
Fall all together by the Ears,
Whilst wiser Men securely sit,
And overlook the wrangling Pit,
Keep silent Tongues, no Party take,
But view the Sport the Puppies make.
The Feud grew higher still and higher,
For Knaves and Fools encreas'd the Fire;
Poets and Scriblers watch'd their Waters,
And ply'd them with Lampoons and Satyrs,
Each drew his Pen in Rhime or Prose,
To serve his Friends or scourge his Foes,
Whose Follies yet were never shown
Apart, without the Author's own.
Which did to Men of Judgment's view,
Seem always greatest of the two.
However, rather than conceal
Their Faults, they would their own reveal:
The Reason's plain, for you must know, it's
The Talent of our modern Poets,
With stupid Malice to delight ye,
Because the jarring envious City,
Love Scandal more than what is Witty.
Thus Libels publickly were cry'd,
And flew about from side to side,
The common People to incense,
And aggravate the difference.
This Speech (altho' there's little in it)
Made them good Friends in half a Minute;
That all cry'd out in voce una,
God save the mighty Queen Fortuna.
The whole Assembly being pleased,
And all their Heats and Feuds appeased,
A Fleet-street Vintner, in the Crowd,
Open'd his Case, but first he bow'd.
Madam, says he, upon my Life,
I've got the Devil of a Wife;
She's Lustful, Ugly, and she's Old,
And, besides these, a cursed Scold,
Her Crabbed Looks, the Parish knows it,
Will turn new Milk into a Possit.
When I am kind she's still so base,
Her Eyes dash Verjuice in my Face;
Nay, Pepper dwells upon her Tongue,
Which she shakes o'er me all day long:
No Smithfield-Cook sure e'er abus'd,
Or us'd Roast-Beef as I am us'd;
Besides, I can with safety swear,
The Jade confounds me every Year,
A Hundred Pounds more than is fitting,
In Dainty-Bits for her own Eating;
And Drinks, I may with Justice say,
Two Quarts of Palm-Wine every Day;
But that which I resent most ill,
And is, of all, the bitter'st Pill,
When she's got Drunk, the Whore of Whores
Turns up her Honour to my Drawers,
And picks my Pocket of my Pelf,
To make them Richer than myself.
With that he Sigh'd, and wip'd his Eyes,
And cry'd, he hop'd such Miseries
Might give him Title to the Prize.
When this his sad Complaint was heard,
All the Blue-Squadron gap'd and star'd,
And tho' the major Party had
Such Wives that were profusely Bad;
Yet none cou'd say he had a worse,
So every one conceal'd his Curse,
Sneak'd off their Horns, as Prudence bid'em,
And underneath their Aprons hid 'em,
Believing their Cornuted Brother
Must bear the Bell from all the other.
Next him a Doctor of the Body,
A mighty Spruce Cornuted Noddy,
Advanc'd, and humbly did beseech
Dame Fortune to observe his Speech.
Madam, says he, upon my Honour,
I have a Spouse, a Pox upon her,
So Lustful, that I'm sure her Tail is
As hot as Lapis Infernalis.
'Tis troubled with a Wolfish Evil,
And eats Raw-Flesh like any Devil,
Gobbles up Handfuls at a time,
Yet thinks the Gluttony no Crime.
Tho' I must needs confess 'tis true,
It has no Teeth and cannot Chew;
Yet will it mumble't so about,
'Till it has suck'd the Goodness out,
And that small Cud which does remain,
It Spits as nauseous out again;
Yet raves the next succeeding Minute
For more, as if the Devil was in it.
I feed the Vulture all I can,
But 'tis too much for one poor Man.
It therefore will have change of Diet,
Yet all wo'nt keep the Monster quiet;
And if these Plagues deserve no Favour,
Old Nick take Wife and Prize together.
The rest of th'Æsculapian Crew,
At this course Plea, look'd very blue;
They all expecting to have heard
A Speech becoming of a Bard.
Some hem'd and haw'd, whilst others vex'd,
And no one car'd to venture next.
Till an old Fox of great Renown,
Wrap'd up in Legislative Gown,
Finding the Quacks were not agreed
About what Brother shou'd succeed,
Steping 'twixt Fortune and the Crowd,
Cry'd, Madam, by your leave, and Bow'd:
Then upright as an Arrow stood,
Stuck Thumbs i'th' Wastband of his Breeches,
And baulk'd the Doctors of their Speeches.
Madam, says he, (and looks upon her)
I'm much beholding to your Honour,
For I must needs confess, in truth,
I've been your Favourite from my Youth;
Yet tho' I'm now so highly mounted,
And have at Westminster been counted
So Just and Wise, thro' all my Life,
I'm almost gally'd with a Wife.
What tho' I'm learn'd in every Cause,
And long have doated on the Laws,
Yet could I never find out one
To make the Gypsie hold her Tongue.
An Age I've pleaded at the Bar,
And am no puny Orator,
Yet tho' she's Old, my Jangling Gillian
Will still out-talk me by a Million,
And for one Word I speak, she musters
Whole troops, and pelts my Ears by clusters.
Therefore, kind Lady Fair, cries he,
I hope, to ease my Misery,
You will, to me the Purse impart,
For I love Gold with all my Heart.
Fortune reply'd, she'd be his Friend,
And do him Justice in the end.
A Parson next, of wondrous Note,
Betwixt a Polecat and a Stoate,
Advanc'd with very sickly Look,
Hem'd thrice, and thus to Fortune spoke.
Madam, I come not here to Preach,
Or show my Elegance of Speech;
Nor shall I now maintain that Schism,
Which some Men call Socinianism:
Or teach you how a Man that's Crafty,
May take Oaths pro and con with safety.
In short, I'm come to give you notice,
In verbo vero Sacerdotis,
That no poor Mortal of my Function,
Was ever under more Compunction;
Not for my own Erroneous Life,
But for the Failings of my Wife,
Who has a Tongue that Squalls and Bawls
As loud as any Bell in Paul's.
At Meals, instead of Grace, she'll sit
And Scold before and after Meat:
Nay, find more Seasons ev'ry Day,
To Rave, than I can do to Pray;
And rants with such a taunting Air,
Adsnouns, she'd make a Parson swear.
Besides, as I'm a Priest and Sinner,
I dare not take a Friend to Dinner;
Or show that Love to a poor Brother,
We ought to bear to one another,
Lest she, my good Intent to cross,
Should give our Meat such sowre Sauce,
That meeting with a Tongue so evil,
My Friend should think me so uncivil,
To make him Mess-mate with the Devil.
Believe me, 'twas alone her Tongue,
That aw'd my Conscience all along,
And made me such a wav'ring Priest,
That I became a common Jest;
But who that's wedded to a Scold,
Can blame me now the Truth is told?
For while a Man's so plagu'd and nettled,
How should his Conscience e'er be settled,
With that the Crowd both hiss'd and smil'd,
And all his quaint Oration spoil'd,
Crying aloud, since he had hung
His Faith upon so vile a Tongue,
They hop'd the Devil wou'd adapt her,
To plague him to the end o'th' Chapter.
Besides, they cry'd, it was not fit,
That he who had so little Wit,
To let his Wife's tempestuous Tongue
His Reason sway, 'twixt Right and Wrong,
Should in a Pious Christian Nation
Be trusted with a Congregation,
And that the puny Wretch that knew
Not how to teach and tame a Shrew,
Must needs before his Wife preach Booty,
And oft, thro' Fear, evade his Duty;
For how should he that has a Scold
Of's own, and dare not be so bold
To scourge her Failings any one day,
Reclaim Five-hundred on a Sunday?
This Rub made all the Gown-men sneak,
Who found 'twas now in vain to speak.
Touch'd with this close sarcastick Scoff,
They dop'd their Heads, and so slid off;
Renounc'd the Prize, and left the Hurry
Went some to Christen, some to Marry,
Some to Read Prayers, and some to Bury.
No sooner were the Black-birds flown,
But then the mighty Dons came on,
Some smil'd and sniggar'd unperplex'd,
Whilst others look'd disturb'd and vex'd;
Much Whisp'ring pass'd from Mouth to Ear,
About no Good a Man may swear,
Because Don Quirk was busie there.
Projecting Snap stood list'ning by,
Seem'd sometimes free, and sometimes shy;
That's Wrong, says he, and will not Nick 'em,
But this is Right, and there we'll Trick 'em,
Whilst they were thus Caballing got,
About the Lord knows who or what,
A bold Heroick Don, well Drest,
Stept slyly from amongst the rest,
And Whisper'd Fortune in her Ear,
But what he said no Man could hear;
Whether he spoke about his Wife,
Or self, I know not, by my Life;
But Fortune seeming much surpris'd,
Yet pleas'd at what he advertis'd,
Cry'd out aloud, if that's thy Curse,
I think thou well deserv'st the Purse,
It justly to thy Lot does fall,
Here, prithee take it, Horns and all.
Madam, says he, it is great Pity,
Of such a Prize to rob the City;
So took the Purse, but was so kind,
To humbly leave the Mace behind.

A Protestant Scourge FOR A Popish Jacket

In slavish Times, when Peter rul'd the Roast,
And Priests alone the sacred Word ingrost;
When stubborn Zeal each Christian Conscience sway
And pious Souls were by ill Guides misled,
'Twas then, the Roman Harlot's wanton Charms,
Entic'd all Europe to her sinful Arms.
Albion, amongst the rest, by Fame betray'd,
Caress'd th'Adult'ress for a spotless Maid;
Ador'd that Beauty which was only Paint,
And hug'd the splendid Strumpet for a Saint:
Age after Age tyrannick Sway she bore,
Whilst Priests, who had debauch'd her long before,
Varnish'd her Errors, and disguis'd the Whore.
That still she might appear to common sight,
Sincerely Vertuous, and divinely bright;
That her bald Vouchers might be well maintain'd,
My Gifts she from her weak Admirers gain'd.
To the poor Bully, by his Mistress fed,
Defends the Punk whose Vices yield him Bread;
Brib'd by her Lust he guards her from Disgrace,
And swears she's Honest, tho' he knows she's Base.
Long was our Isle thro' Ignorance distrest,
When every Layman labour'd for his Priest:
The crafty Guide bestrid th'illit'rate Fool,
And made the toiling Peasant but his Mule.
Salvation then was often bought and sold;
The very Keys of Heaven were made of Gold,
To signify to those who had Estates,
They were not to be turn'd at easy rates.
'Tis true, they seldom would admittance grutch
To th'Poor, but shew their Charity was such,
To save for little, those who had not much.
Thus, Devil-like, to keep their sleights in use,
They'd play a small Game rather than refuse;
For when they found the Assets but a few,
The Priests could make the fewer Masses do:
And, like a Lab'rer, sparing of his Pains,
Slight o'er the Work that brought but little Gains.
All Learning to themselves the Church ingross'd,
The Layman's Right of Literature was lost:
God's Word they made peculiar to their Schools,
Learn'd were their Shepherds, but their Flocks were Fool
Who pray'd and paid, and without further thought,
Believ'd in gross whate'er the Pulpit taught.
All humane Sense to holy Craft gave place,
And Reason was a Slave to doubtful Grace.
So blind was Zeal, the People so unwise,
That in their transubstantiate Sacrifice,
They'd trust their erring Guides before their faithful Eyes,
Believe the Euch'rist to be Flesh indeed,
Which their own Senses prov'd to be but Bread.
Sure that Relig'on ne'er could be of Heav'n,
That robs us of that Knowledge God has giv'n.
If Reason must not judge of Faith's true light,
How came our Guides to know the wrong from right,
Or, how their rev'rend Heads distinguish plain,
Betwixt the Bible and the Alchoran.
I doubt, were they of Reason dispossest,
'Twould puzzle 'em to determine which was best.
Reason's the heav'nly Ray that lights the Soul,
And the Faith dark that does its Power controul.
Fools without Thought are in Opinion stiff,
But wise Men on sound Reason ground Belief:
How that they find what for the Soul is good,
As by their Smell and Taste they judge their Food;
For who but each Man's Reason ought to try
'Tis Faith, who must be sav'd or damn'd thereby.
But useful Reason was, alas! deny'd,
And Souls depended on their outward Guide.
Th'eternal Word implicitly they took,
And did not dare to soil the sacred Book;
But, hoping well, took all things on content,
And, to enrich their Priests, kept always Lent;
Gave Sums of value, each to his degree,
For worthless Baubles of Idolatry;
Increas'd their own great Miseries and Wants,
T'adorn with gay Attire their wooden Saints.
When the Church Puppits were t'appear in State,
No Robes could be too rich, no Cost too great;
Each Bigot club'd, that the unharnas'd Shrine,
For sainted Log, might be profusely fine.
The People largely gave, but Heaven knows,
The Priest play'd booty when he bought the Cloaths,
And could not for his Soul be so upright,
To do his Saints that Justice which he might.
New Tissue Mantles for the Waxwork Child,
New Clouts and Cradle, for the Old were soil'd.
For good St. Peter a Pontifick Dress,
And costly Net his Function to express,
Of Gold and Silver made, which shew too plain,
Those were the only Nets to fish for Men:
Yet tho' their Saints were all so nobly clad,
The saving Clergy this wise Conduct had,
To keep their wooden Gods thus fine and gay,
Like foundling Bastards, at the Parish Pay.
Ten thousand Fopp'ries more did they contrive,
To gull the Laity that the Church might thrive.
Indulgences for any Sins they sold,
None fear'd Damnation, lest they wanted Gold:
But rigid Penance was enjoin'd the Poor,
And all such Misers as conceal'd their Store:
For very strait and rugged was the way
To Heav'n, for him that could and would not pay:
This Text was greatly by the Priests admir'd,
Where much is given, much shall be requir'd;
Whose genuine sence they basely did confound,
And, to their Gain, the sacred Words expound.
Thus their poor Hearers craftily were won,
First to be Bigots, next to be undone.
The Catalogue of mouldy Saints, 'tis true,
And number of their Beads, the People knew;
Were also taught in a strange Tongue to pray,
And could their Ave and Pater say:
But the blind Suppliants understood no more,
The sacred Jargon that they mumbled o'er,
Than Sappho's Parrots, taught to cry aloud,
That Sappho was a great and mighty God.
Thus Zeal advanc'd as People grew worse Fools,
The Priests prov'd Workmen, and the Laymen Tools.
The aged Guides, made by experience wise,
Prevail'd by Arguments and solemn Lies,
Whilst the young am'rous Priest the Wives bestrid,
And taught them how they should their Husbands ride:
From which old practise Women ever since
Claims, in all Holy things, preeminence,
Will chuse, tho' marry'd, to be slyly blest,
In some Bie-Faith, not by her Spouse profest,
And follow the blind Guide she fancies best.
In those sad Times, when Women rul'd the Roast,
And Man's Dominion was intirely lost,
The Husband sure must lead a cursed Life,
Rid first by Priests, and secondly his Wife;
And she, good Woman, careless of her Troth,
T'oblige the Church, was finely feagu'd by both.
So Satan, when he sought the Fall of Man,
Most wisely with the weaker Sex began;
Knowing if once he could her Heart secure,
She soon would bring her Part'ner to his Lure.
As Ignorance and Zeal rose hand in hand,
And scatter'd blind Devotion thro' the Land,
Soul-saving Terms were by the Priests enhanc'd,
And more expensive Projects still advanc'd.
Their Hothouse now became a gainful Trade,
No Soul could cool till the Church Fees were paid;
And those they made s'unconscionably large,
'Twould beggar the next Kin to pay the Charge.
Peter grew so insatiate by degrees,
None but huge Sums could turn the heav'nly Keys,
The Rich gave large Estates to purchase future Ease.
Frighted, when dying, with their purging Flames,
And terrify'd with Holy Cheats and Shams.
The doubtful Sinner yielding to their Lure,
Resign'd his All to be of Heav'n secure:
Just so our modern Misers who, by Fraud,
Gain mighty Sums, at last by Conscience aw'd,
Dreading those Pains that might their Guilt ensue,
They vainly hope Damnation to eschew,
By building Alms-Huts for the Lord knows who.
The Priests still more industrious to deceive,
And make poor Fools their gainful Cheats believe,
Rais'd Imps, laid Sp'rits, hobgoblin Doctrines taught,
Strange things foretold, and many Wonders wrought,
To make the People more devoutly mad,
And further shew what heav'nly Power they had;
When with these Juggles they amus'd the Crowd,
A Miracle! the Fools cry'd out aloud,
Express'd much Joy whene'er the Trick was us'd,
And seem'd the better pleas'd, the more abus'd.
The cunning Guides, fond of their new Deceit,
Practis'd, and soon grew Masters of the Cheat:
Were such expert Exorcists, that the Gown,
In Days of Ignorance, gain'd more renown,
By subtil Sleights, than all the modern Train
Of Moorfields Conj'rers, who, by Charles's-Wain,
Or wise observance of the thirteen Moons,
Recover lost Gold-Rings, and Silver-Spoons:
So the wise Prophet did of old exceed
Whate'er th'Egyptian bungling Wizards did.
Thus Miracles in pious Times ne'er ceas'd,
Nor ever will, whilst there's a Popish Priest;
Who by the pow'r of some worm-eaten Saint,
Can heal the Sick, and future Ills prevent;
Nay! raise dead Children, that unchristen'd dye,
To be Baptiz'd, that they to Heav'n might fly;
Like stroling Juglers they perform'd their Feats,
And, by Confed'rates, carry'd on their Cheats;
By hireling Hypocrites they rais'd their Fame,
Restoring Limbs to those who ne'er were Lame:
Cur'd all by Holy Touch, and were so kind
To give new Eyes to the dissembling Blind.
Thus did the Priests extend their healing Pow'r,
Only to such who needed not their Cure.
Paul was a better Husband far than they,
And would not lavish such a Gift away,
But ev'n in time of need his Pow'r conceal'd,
And left his sick Friend Tychicus unheal'd.
By Shams like these in Cloysters hatch'd, and Schools,
And spread in Pulpits to deceive poor Fools,
Priests, Monks, and Abbots were in time made Lords
Of all the fertile Lands our Isle affords;
That the proud Prelates were so haughty grown,
They trampl'd on the Laws and brav'd the Throne:
Aw'd Kings and Princes with a threat'ning Brow,
And made the Scepter to the Crosier bow;
Opprest the Land, the Civil Pow'r o'er-run,
Rais'd whom they pleas'd, whom they dislik'd pull'd down
And rid ten thousand Asses to their Master's one.
Not yet content with the vast Pow'r they'd gain'd,
Willing to be within no Bounds restrain'd,
All the young Virgin Beauties they ingrost,
And cloyster'd up to satisfy their Lust,
By hideous Doctrines rais'd their childish Fears,
And took th'advantage of tender Years;
Improv'd the Mis'ries of a marry'd Life,
And made it dangerous to become a Wife.
Heighten'd the Cares, the Pains, and Discontent,
That to a wedded State were incident,
With all that Lust and Learning could invent.
Then to allure the Maid the Father gives
Some luscious Tales of their Monastick Lives;
And with the canting Rhet'rick of a Priest,
Sets forth how much the cloyster'd Dames are blest;
How far their Minds from worldly Cares are freed,
What Peace th'enioy, what happy Days they lead,
Besides the assurance that their Holy State
Gives them of future Joys immensely great,
Beyond the reach of Envy, or the Pow'r of Fate.
By Wiles like these young Virgins they betray'd,
To be Monastick Slaves and Pris'ners made;
Who when decoy'd within their sacred Doors,
From Novices turn'd Nuns, from Nuns to Whores.
Some forward Wantons skilful in delight,
Who knew to judge their Holy Fathers right,
Tempted by sweet experience, they retir'd
For more of that which they so much admir'd:
Not to repel, but feed their am'rous Flame,
And glut on Pleasure free from publick Shame,
To dwell with those kind Masters of the Text,
Who sinn'd one Minute and forgave the next;
That tho' they liv'd like common Punks, or worse,
They still could tell their Beads without remorse.
Thus some, thro' Lust, a Cloister'd Life would chuse,
For Nunn'ries were no more than sacred Stews,
Where the plump Clergy, to refresh their Lives,
Made wanton Nuns supply their want of Wives.
For who, except he's Gelt, could prove so chaste,
To let his youthful Days pass by in waste,
Amidst such lushious Fruit, and not desire to taste
Therefore when Continence was first enjoin'd
The Roman Clergy, if the Church design'd
Their sacred Cloisters, and their Nuns should be
Kept from Polution, and Dishonour free,
The stubborn Flesh they should have dispossest
Of those loose Toys, that make the Saint turn Beast,
Gelding's the only means to tame a vicious Priest;
Which Swedeland knows, and therefore when they find
A Roman Locust wandring in their Land,
In a cleft Stick they bind his Manhood fast,
And round him do a Load of Brushwood cast;
Then give a Knife into his trembling Hand,
In this sad plight does the poor Culprit stand,
Till the Fire's kindled, then the Mob with scorn
Hoot to behold the Bald-pate cut or burn.
They serve 'em right to send them Eunuchs home,
Because they bode no good where-e'er they come,
But like an Earthquake or a Blazing-Star,
When in protesting Countries they appear,
Always portend some fatal Mischief near.
When thus the Pope's Ecclesiastick Brood,
With Tricks and Sleights did Albion's Sons delude,
And ev'ry Fool was so with Zeal possest,
He'd give his All to be futurely blest,
The crafty Tribe encreas'd, more Pow'r obtain'd,
And spread like Egypt's Locusts o'er the Land,
Grew Fat by Luxury, and Rich by Guile,
And liv'd at Ease upon the Lay-man's Toil;
Enjoy'd at large what little they deserv'd,
And fed on Roast-meat whilst the People starv'd;
Till Jove, Almighty in his Wrath, look'd down,
And did on all their sacred Juggles frown,
Angry to see his Holy Altars stain'd,
And his blest Name dishonour'd and profan'd;
His Church defil'd, his Precepts disobey'd,
And Priesthood turn'd into a gainful Trade;
Th'eternal Word misconstru'd and abus'd,
And Heav'n's great Law to subtle Ends misus'd;
Pity'ng distressed Albion thus misled,
By vicious Priests, he shook his awful Head,
Displeas'd to see his People led astray,
By Guides that knew, but wou'd not teach the way;
And that the Land on whom he had bestow'd
Knowledge of Christ, that everlasting Good,
Should be no longer blind, a sudden Light
Drop'd down from Heav'n, and clear'd the Nation's sight,
Who now grew weary of the Papal Yoke,
And thus aloud the English Genius spoke.
Why should God's Word, that only certain Guide,
Be to his People, by his Priests, deny'd,
Since by that Law all Christians must be try'd?
'Tis hard we should be punish'd for a breach
Of hidden Laws our Knowledge cannot reach.
How should we model, and with safety build
Our Christian hopes on Promises conceal'd?
How should the sacred Text instruct or bind,
Lest plain to those for whom it was design'd?
If God's Commands in a strange Tongue be given,
How should we know or do the Will of Heaven?
If on our Guides we wholly must rely,
What must we do if they should tread awry?
If he that Steers mistakes the Heav'nly Coast,
Then he that follows must be surely lost:
But if by God's own Word we're taught the way,
And our loose Guides from the true Path should stray
We then may leave them when they walk not right,
Follow with safety Scriptures faithful Light,
And by this means escape blind Error's Night.
Why should frail Man, on Man too much depend
But on good Heav'n, who is our surest Friend.
Why then the Church in a strange Language hide
That Truth from us which is our only Guide?
For if the Priests God's Word must only read,
We blindly follow, tho' they rightly lead:
But if their Doctrines should our Souls deceive,
And we those Errors, they affirm, believe,
If to false Faith there is no Mercy shown,
We're damn'd for others Failings, not our own:
And if we stray, yet find eternal Light,
By a wrong Path, what signifies the right?
Therefore no doubt but we shall punish'd be,
Whether we err misled, or wander free;
Of both, if sinful, we shall curse the End,
Whether we on our Priests or selves depend:
Therefore, 'twixt both, let Scripture be the Guide
By that we should be taught, and must be try'd.
Heav'n heard the Kingdom's Genius, and, e'relong,
Gave them the Scriptures in their native Tongue,
Which from the Laity were before conceal'd,
And only to their crafty Guides reveal'd.
Each Christian now by God's own Compass steer'd,
The Truth no more in Masquerade appear'd,
But by divine appointment chang'd her Dress,
And shew'd, without Deceit, her lovely Face:
Our Mode embrac'd, put English Habit on,
And thro' the Land intelligibly shone.
Low Reformation did apace arise,
The Priests grew angry, but the People wise;
The Layman could the sacred Scriptures read,
And form from thence his Conscience and his Creed;
Grew soon too cunning to, in gross, believe,
Or pin his Faith upon his Teacher's Sleeve,
But by his Reason, to his Guides great loss,
Refin'd the Heav'nly Gold from Popish Dross.
Just so, with sweating Brows, the careful Swain
Blows off the worthless Chaff, and keeps the useful Grain.
But how can this wise Christian Age admire
At the dark rise of Purgatorian Fire?
Or startle at the wondrous Tales of old,
That were by Priests, to our Forefathers told,
When we behold what Flames, about our Faith,
Our modern Guides have kindled with their Breath
What Feuds have been begot, what Discords sown,
Between th'aspiring Cloak and lofty Gown,
That the loose Herd, confounded with their Jars,
Seem ripe to try their Faiths by Civil Wars:
Bad Air from Pulpits blown, their Malice feeds,
And arms unthinking Souls for cruel Deeds;
Widens Divisions in the Commonweal,
And frets those Sores our Teachers ought to heal:
What Ills in Christian Annals can be shown,
But Pulpit-storms and Hurricanes have done:
They blow down Monarchs from their lofty Thrones
And from their sacred Temples rend their Crowns
They 'nflame the Rout, crush Justice under Foot,
And tear up Constitutions root by root.
They stir up Envy, and disturb our Peace,
And make the dearest Friends turn Enemies.
Domestick Jars and Foreign Wars they raise,
And gull the list'ning Crowd ten thousand ways;
Preach up those Doctrines which we fear to trust,
Because they seem more Politick than Just.
The Learned Guide who hopes for Lawn soars high,
And scorns to with the mod'rate Herd comply,
Damns all that stray into a new found Path,
And keeps to th'ancient Standard of his Faith;
Will lay aside no Babylonian Smock,
To ease the Scruples of a scabby Flock;
Will bate no Portion of the Common-Pray'r,
No part of the divine Oblation spare,
To please a restless Tribe that ne'er contented are.
The hum-drum Teacher of the lower Class,
Whose Parts are mean, and his Intentions base,
The rails against the learn'd and reverend Guide,
Whose Conscience cannot stoop to t'others Pride.
Popefies all who will not condescend,
To change those Rites no human Pow'r can mend,
Invents new Slanders, to the Church defile,
And does with odious Lies her Sons revile:
So angry Sinners do their Envy shew,
To those chaste Beauties they could ne'er subdue;
And with malicious Impudence upbraid
The charming Nymph, too wise to be betray'd.
In short, the warm Debates by Teachers spread,
Dissuse their heat, and further Discords breed;
The dusky Notions cuff'd into our Ears
By callow Guides, or obstinate Grey-hairs,
Raise such Disputes, such Seeds of Envy sow,
That into sad destructive Quarrels grow;
Such that, in spight of Art, for Ages last,
And, in the end, lay ancient Kingdoms waste.
Religion in itself's too pure and good,
To be refresh'd so oft with humane Blood;
Love, Peace, and Unity are her supports,
She's pleas'd with contrite, not with bleeding Hearts;
Religion ne'er was meant to heighten Jars,
And to be made the sham pretence of Wars;
'Tis nothing but the sinful Craft and Pride
Of Priests, that make our Discords still more wide;
This Side they rail at, t'other Side commend,
And, by example, teach us to contend:
One Doctrine warmly for a time maintain,
E'relong, for Int'rest, preach it down again,
As if the way to Heav'n was still unknown,
Or else had more mutations than the Moon.
All Sects and Parties that dispute their Faith,
And seek one center in a different Path,
Are taught alike t'inflame the holy Fray,
And earnestly contend about the way.
How therefore should that Kingdom be at rest,
Where sundry Faiths are lawfully profest,
And Pow'r and Wealth are partially ingrost,
By th'Sect that shall aloft be favour'd most;
In such a Country Quarrels ne'er can end,
One Side will growl when th'other does ascend.
Malicious Knaves their envious Darts will fling
The Fox abhors to see the Goose take wing.
Thus whilst contending Priests dispute the way,
Their list'ning Flocks must diff'rent Rules obey,
The Word which well explain'd should be our Guide,
Is now to humane Politicks apply'd,
Not to advance Religion, but maintain
The Cause that's most conducing to their Gain.
As the Wind blows we Weather-cocks must turn,
Laugh with our Guides, and, when they bid us, mourn;
Swear as they please, and when our Priests advise,
Absolve by humane Laws our sacred Ties:
'Tis true, by such whose Doctrines do consent
With Heav'n, much good is done, and more is meant,
But fatal is the Breath by Factious Teachers spent.
It turns our Christian Love to dev'lish Hate,
And makes us do and say we know not what.
It bars our Freedom, makes us partial Slaves,
And only leads us to be Fools or Knaves.
It vents strange Whims, not to be understood,
And makes us raving Mad, instead of Good.
It bids us tack, when Justice bids us stand,
And gives Church-Int'rest the supream Command,
Conscience it makes a Whirligig we find,
A Weathercock that turns with ev'ry Wind,
And Loyalty, as modern Changes show,
A Shuttlecock that's battled to and fro.
In short, false Guides by their contagious Breath,
Now threaten all the Ills on this side Death;
And if not stop'd by God's Vicegerent here,
We must expect, if this wrong course we steer,
The dreadful'st Storm that human Race can fear.

BRIBERY and SIMONY:

OR, A SATYR Against the Corrupt use of MONEY.

Money! thou universal Indian Curse,
That flies the Poor, and fills the Misers Purse,
That tempts the needy Rogue to meet his Fate,
And makes the wary prosp'rous Villain Great;
That sets the Dunce, the Coward, and the Knave,
Above the Wise, the Honest, and the Brave,
And makes the learn'd experienc'd Head bow low
To empty upstart Fools that nothing know.
Money, long since, the vast Distinction gave
Betwixt the mighty Noble, and the Slave;
'Twas thee the Lordly Difference first began,
And set the Master so above the Man:
Not Right, but Riches, gives to some the sway,
And makes the starving Multitude obey;
'Tis Wealth alone does at such distance place
The Country Gaffer, from his Courtly Grace,
For pompous Titles (tho' conferr'd by Kings)
Uncrown'd with solid Wealth, are empty things;
Such Royal Marks no Pauper's Wants can skreen,
But make the Wretch more despicably mean:
Badges of Honour haughty Minds may please,
But wiser Heads scarce think them worth their Fees;
Tis true, the City oft sends forth a Tool,
Who barter Money to be dub'd Sir Fool;
But what vain Prodigal would humour Pride
At such Expence, except to please his Bride;
But if the Knight grows Poor, the stately Toy
Becomes the Scorn of ev'ry Prentice-Boy;
For needy Honour, like a King subdu'd,
Moves but Contempt and Laughter in the Crowd;
'Tis Wealth alone that raises our Esteem,
It gives all Pow'r, and is the only Jem
That adds an awful Lustre to the Diadem.
Gold is the Monarch, Argent is the Queen,
That rule the World and sway the Hearts of Men;
Princes themselves those Indian Gods adore,
And barter Christian Lives for Heath'nish Ore,
To stamp their sacred Image on their Coin,
That wicked Mammon, and the Prince Divine,
Join'd in one Piece, may both together shine;
But tho' the Gold's adorn'd with Royal Face,
Casting a watchful Eye tow'rds Heav'ns Grace,
Yet in this Age each Idiot's grown so wise,
To know the Value in the Substance lies;
And if the Touchstone proves the Mettle base,
They prize no Cæsar's Image, or God's Grace.
Gold, tho' so pow'rful, yet thou'rt oft misus'd,
By those that love thee most thou'rt most abus'd;
The Miser, tho' he dotes upon thy Charms,
And with thy Looks his craving Fancy warms,
Yet places o'er thee his Vulcanian Guard,
And so close hugs thee that he gripes too hard.
So the fond Husband of a Beauteous Wife,
To keep secure the Comfort of his Life,
Confines her close, or watches her with Spies,
Lest some should rob him of his Charming Prize.
Money o'er all things bears a sov'reign Sway,
And thro' the World makes needy Fools obey,
Subdues as well the Avaritious Great,
And rules the Hearts of Kings, as they the State;
Makes them oft break those solemn Words they've give
That should be binding as the Laws of Heaven;
Dishonour that Majestick Pow'r they hold,
And wave their Scepters to the Idol, Gold.
False flatt'ring Favourites, who on Princes wait,
And by their Cringes make them seem more Great
For base Bye-Ends their humble Fawnings pay,
Gold makes them bow, dissemble, and obey,
And Gold, for which they serve, will tempt them to betray;
So the poor worthless Cur, for nothing good,
Fawns most, because he least deserves his Food;
But when by some new Hand he's better fed,
He leaves his Master, who the Mungril bred.
Money, the Tyrant's Lust, and Soul of Pow'r,
The Teeth by which the Rich the Poor devour,
The Judges Fav'rite, and the Client's Friend,
The Jury's Conscience, who the Cause must end,
Bag'd up in Bribes, around the Darling flies,
She talks, perswades, she conquers, and she buys;
On every Court clandestinely she calls,
And for her sake the Pleader sweats and bawls;
No adverse Pauper can withstand her Might,
The Cause sh'espouses most is always right:
Thus Justice, who is blind to either side,
Has now got Money for her partial Guide;
Gold leads the hoodwink'd Dame from Court to Court,
And makes the purblind Tool a publick Sport;
Who, in this Age, has lost her Christian Fame,
And is so chang'd she's nothing but a Name,
Which grisly Foxes, by the Court made Great,
In awful Robes most gravely celebrate,
To cheat the foolish World, and serve the wiser State.
Money! to make thy Empire more compleat,
The Heav'nly Sisters to thy Pow'r submit;
Religion dotes on thy commanding Charms,
And Vertue seeks to hug thee in her Arms;
The craving Prelate, who against thee rails,
Calls thee base Dross, and damns thee Teeth and Nails,
Making thee seem, thro' his Scholastick Skill,
Heil's wicked Agent, and the Root of Ill;
Yet tho' the holy Satyr pelts thee more,
Than yawning Schismatick does Babel's Whore,
No sooner from his Pulpit he descends,
But he esteems thee best of all his Friends,
And stumbles at no Simony to gain
The Dross he held so worthless and so vain,
But does the Church as well as World deceive,
And sells what only he has right to give;
Which should the just Reward of Vertue be,
T'encourage Learning, Truth, and Piety;
Inable Guides well qualify'd to preach,
Who strive to practice what they toil to teach;
Men who the Glory of the Church would raise,
Attend their Flocks, be watchful of their Strays,
And by their own correct Examples show,
God's Will they do, and Heaven's Laws they know.
But Money, thou in every Cause art all,
And Gold is now become Episcopal:
To Copes and Miters thou'rt a welcome Guest,
That makes them oft ordain a Dunce a Priest:
Triumphant o'er the Hierarchy it rides,
And fills Fat Livings but with Feeble Guides,
Who swell in Pulpits, where they proudly Preach,
And with Contempt look down on those they teach.
Some grac'd with Scarves at unexperienc'd Years,
Disdain the Desk, and are too big for Pray'rs;
Made Prodigal by Nobles, they profane
The Badge of Doctor, long before they're Men;
Submit in private to their Patron's Gripe,
And gain good Livings e're their Brains are ripe.
Well may the unlearn'd Layman worship Gold,
Since Christian Flocks, like Geese, are bought and sold.
What Conscience will endure a Starving Faith,
When Priests seek Heaven in a Golden Path?
But where his Int'rest lies, that Church maintain,
And save himself as cheap as e'er he can.
Well may the foolish Sheep mistake their way,
Since Mammon does the Belweathers betray,
And leads our Avaritious Guides astray.
In this good Age, when Christian Zealots join
In Clubs, to talk Religion o'er their Wine,
And pious Porters, when they meet, ne'er fail
To make it Nutmeg to their Toast and Ale,
Yet should a Calf, like Aaron's, be advanc'd,
Idolatry would soon be countenanc'd:
Let but the State, to try Man's Faith, declare
Who worship'd should have Title to a share,
What stiffneck'd Christian, nay, what stubborn Priest
Would not bow down before the wealthy Beast,
Rather than lose his part of such a Golden Feast?
For Gold we now, like Heathens, hold Divine,
Tho' not in Calves, we worship it in Coin;
Then since the tempting Metal Man ensnares,
And not the Artificial Form it bears,
What's matter into what strange Shape 'tis made,
Whether a Calf, or stamp'd with Cæsar's Head;
For by the Christian Law the Sin's as great,
To worship Cæsar's Image stamp'd on Plate,
As 'tis the Picture of a Roman Goose;
For Man's no more a De'ty than a Mouse.
But wo to that Lay-Patron or Divine,
Who basely sells the Cure of Souls for Coin;
For Guides that Purchase, we may justly fear,
Will cheat the List'ning Flocks beneath their Care,
And sell their Heav'nly Sustenance too dear;
The Priests that buys will all Advantage take,
And the best Market of his Function make:
The Patron's Bonds too much in mind he bears,
And lays, like Rome, base Taxes on his Pray'rs:
The needy Sick may unprepar'd expire,
Who cannot pay Heav'n's Labourer his Hire;
But when the wealthy Miser gasps for Breath,
The Parish-Crow attends the Carrion's Death,
Applies his Balm the wounded Soul to heal,
Prays till he Sweats, with all external Zeal,
In hopes to be remembred in his Will.
Gold! 'tis for thee our Counsels are betray'd,
Statesmen by thy kind Influence are sway'd;
Hearts that should secret as the Grave remain,
Break thro' their Oaths, discover all for Gain:
Few Tongues so faithful that can Silence hold,
When safely tempted to betray with Gold;
Grave Senators, tho' ne'er so Rich and Great,
Will still be nibling at the shining Bait;
Its pleasing Lustre dazles Humane Eyes,
And takes, sometimes, the Honest by surprise;
Who by the glorious Sight are so o'ercome,
They think of nothing but the pow'rful Summ;
Forget how vilely they abuse their Trust,
And think the Ills they are to do but Just.
For Gold, contending Factions toil and sweat,
And Pro and Con so painfully debate;
For thee the Crafty quarrel with the Throne,
And to the Publick Good prefer their own;
Each steers and labours for the Golden Coast,
The main Dispute is, who shall gain the most:
'Tis Int'rest makes each Party disagree,
They clash, they jangle, and contend for thee;
All Sides would raise their Fortunes in the State,
The Weak behold the rising Pow'r with hate,
And every Goose grows mad to see the Fox so great.
The fighting Hero that delights in Wars,
Whose Sword's his Voucher, and his Pride his Scars,
Who dreads Dishonour more than sudden Fate,
And is by Blood and Wounds made desperate;
Who boasts of Towns and Battles he has won,
And rattles of the mighty Deeds h'as done,
To serve his King and Country, and secure
Our dear Religion from the Romish Pow'r;
If Truth be canvas'd, Int'rest leads the Van,
And makes the Soldier such a valiant Man;
Where he's best us'd he thinks the Cause most right,
'Tis Pay and hopes of Plunder makes him fight;
And when the first of these Temptations fails,
Tho' in God's Cause, whole Legions turn their Tails,
Forget their Henour, which was once their Pride,
And fly for Succour to the richest Side:
So the proud Statesman, if he once has shown
Some signal Service to a thankless Throne,
Finding his Prince forgetful to requite,
In haste turns Rebel to revenge the Slight.
War is the Sport of Kings and mighty Lords,
The Key that opens all the Nation's Hoards,
And those in Arms that in the Project join,
Fight not for Country, but their Country's Coin;
'Tis hopes of Wealth that warms the Hero's Veins,
In long cold Marches, and in wet Campaigns;
'Tis the rich Plunder that's within the Town,
That makes th'Assailants go so bravely on
And not Religion, that's but a Pretence,
To make God's Lambs part freely with their Pence;
For those that wade thro' bloody Fields, maintain
They kill for Pay, and what they more can gain,
Or else the Priests might draw Religion's Sword
Themselves, to fight the Battle of the Lord;
And lazy Cits expose their own dear Lives,
To save their Wealth, their Daughters, and their Wives.
Few are of Ease so prodigal and vain,
To bear another's Burthen, but for Gain,
And were it not for Pay, few Heroes would be slain.
Money! it is by thy prevailing Aid,
Callow-chin'd Boys are Noble Captains made;
Much fitter to attend a Lady's Train,
Than strut before a Warlike Troop of Men,
Whose braver Hearts despise the Tender Chit,
To whom they're hardly destin'd to submit;
Whilst Men well skill'd in Arms, who long have serv'd,
Want those Advancements they have well deserv'd,
And unregarded at a distance stand,
Cringing to those they rather should Command.
Thus Gold in Armies often rules the Roast,
And lifts the Coward to the Brave Man's Post.
Marriage, that should a Sanction give to Love,
That State which many try, but few approve,
By Money now's so mercenary made,
Like Priests, both Sexes use it as a Trade:
With th'Old, the Ugly, Peevish, or Deform'd,
If beautify'd with Wealth, our Hearts are charm'd;
For Fortunes much superior to our own,
Are now the only Gifts we dote upon;
We ask not how Discreet, how Young, how Fair,
How Chast or Vertuous, but how Rich they are?
Beauty's kind Charms, as worthless Toys, we slight,
Because Experience proves, Love's soft Delight
Blesses but some dark Moments of the Night.
Riches, that welcome Jewel with a Bride,
Beauty outshines, and ev'ry Grace beside;
For most Men think, the Fortune, not the Wife,
Is all th'Advantage Wedlock adds to Life.
In this loose Age few love so well to wed
Alone for th'Blessings of the Marriage-Bed:
Great Men themselves their Honour bow to Gold,
And join their Noble Blood t'ignoble Mould.
The Grasier's Heiress, with her Father's Hoard,
Is now a welcome Lady to my Lord:
The Daughter of a Cit, grown Rich by Trade,
May match at Court, and be a Dutchess made:
Honour's a Trifle, Vertue but a Dream,
Riches alone procures the World's Esteem:
Beauty's more fit to bless a Monarch's Bed,
Daily for Wealth with fumbling Dotage wed;
The Gallant Youth the Humpback'd Lady takes,
And, for her Gold, a flatt'ring Husband makes,
Fawns on his Female Chaos like a Slave,
And hugs the Lump he wishes in the Grave;
What she desires he liberally grants,
Relieves her Lust, and she supplies his Wants.
The Charming Maid, as Fortuneless as he,
As gladly joins with Rich Deformity,
Prostrates her Charms to some Baboon she hates,
And hugs the Clog her Soul abominates;
Bears all his Jealous Taunts he cannot hide,
To be a rich decrepid Miser's Bride:
Thus Beauties oft comply for filthy Gain,
To marry Elves, and cross the lovely Strain;
Producing what the World abhor to see,
A crooked half-got, peevish Progeny.
Vertue, of which some squeamish Ladies boast,
Proud of that nescio quid by others lost,
The force of all Love's Batteries may endure,
And stand behind Bellona's Shield secure,
Till Gold, the mighty Conqueror that subdues
The Cloister'd Maid, as well as those in Stews,
Attacks the Virgin in a pow'rful Summ,
And then she soon submits to be o'recome:
Hugs the dear Man who with full Bags assails,
And by such kind and pleasing Means prevails;
Thus the proud Fair One, who has oft been try'd,
And courted by her Equals for a Bride,
Is often found too Cunning, or too Coy,
The Bliss of Love to lawfully enjoy,
Because her Hopes, which Youth and Beauty starve,
Aspire to what her Fortune can't deserve;
Yet for the sake of Gold and Liberty,
She shall at last be tempted to be free,
With Gouty, old infirm Nobility:
Thus Woman's Vertue is no more than Pride,
Which only can by Gold be gratify'd.
Money's the base betrayer of Mankind,
It numbs our Senses, makes our Reason blind,
Tempts us to hide those Ills we should declare,
And oft to speak what's Prudence to forbear;
Nay, makes us warmly labour to deceive
Others with what we don't our selves believe,
And in more weak Societies maintain
False Conntradictions 'gainst the Truth that's plain;
Where we Dependance or an Int'rest have,
With honest Characters we hide the Knave;
And without cause, to serve our Purpose, stain
The Reputation of deserving Men:
This Man we flatter, t'other we abuse,
The Guiltless blame, the Guilty oft excuse:
Thus from all Truth and Honesty dissent,
To make our own Advantage the Event,
Abuse our Knowledge to mislead the Blind,
When mercenary Gain corrupts the Mind.
In Friendship we unite for Int'rest sake,
And when that fails, the feeble Chain we break;
Advantage ties the profitable Knot,
For nothing binds where nothing's to be got:
Our Friend we sooth, we flatter and caress,
And in kind Words our utmost Love express,
Whilst he appears, as we ourselves desire,
Blest with full Pockets, cloath'd in spruce Attire;
But if once Poor, by fatal Chance, he's grown,
Thredbare his Garments, and his Money flown,
We dread the Mortal knocking at our Door,
And shun the Wretch we so esteem'd before.
So the Kept-Mistress, when her Spark grows Poor,
The Contract breaks, and vows she'll sin no more;
Thus from the ruin'd Fool withdraws her Charms,
To win new Cullies to her Lustful Arms.
Money! what Evils can on Earth be done,
But what by thee are finish'd or begun?
No Villany superlatively great,
Can be without thy cursed Aid compleat:
Transcending Ills much Management require,
No Traytor can with wish'd Success conspire,
Without such needy Slaves that play the Rogue for Hire.
Money, that Rebel, perfects the Design,
For Kings are ne'er undone but by their Coin.
'Twas Money tempted Judas to betray;
'Tis the false Guide that leads us all astray,
It makes the Priest grow negligent and proud,
Who damns for Evil what he holds for Good.
It bears in ev'ry Prince's Court such sway,
No Poor can worship Mammon more than they:
Minions for Gold will falsify their Trust,
And L***ds turn Panders to their Sov'reign's Lust;
Vertue surrender at the first attack,
Prevailing Gold soon flings her on her Back,
Tempts Youth and Beauty to exert her Charms,
And hug the Lustful Donor in her Arms;
No Age or Sex its Conqu'ring Pow'r withstands,
It guides the Lawyer's Tongue and Soldier's Hands,
And those that govern Kingdoms sov'reign Gold commands.

A DIALOGUE In Time of Peace, between BRITANNIA and PRUDENCE.

Britannia.
How calm my Empire, how serene my Breast
Myself in safety, and my People blest!
My Coast well guarded, and my Neighbours aw'd,
Belov'd at home, admir'd and fear'd abroad!
O! happy Nation, rich and fertile Land,
What Pow'r can thy united Force withstand?
What neighb'ring Kingdom durst thy Bounds invade
Provoke thy Arms, or rival thee in Trade?

Prudence.
'Tis true, Great Madam, you command a Crown
That fears no Foreign Force or Prince's Frown:
Yet 'tis not wise in those that Rule a State,
To think themselves too safe, tho' ne'er so Great
Such Thoughts disarm you both of Care and Pow'r,
And leave the proudest Empires insecure.

Britannia.
Prudence with Royal Patience should be heard,
But now, methinks, you speak as if you fear'd.
'Tis true, this Maxim ought to be carest,
Provide against the worst, and hope the best;
But sure in Peace we may for Ease retire,
And slight that Care more dang'rous Times require.

Prudence.
Troubles unseen, and Dangers tho' unknown,
Are always hov'ring round a Monarch's Throne,
Which if not strictly watch'd may be surpris'd,
And in one Moment's time be sacrific'd.

Britannia.
No Foreign Arms can Britains welfare touch,
But must give warning of their near approach;
Our Floating Bulwarks guard around our Coast,
By them the Empire of the Seas I boast.
And who at Home would be so madly rude,
T'offend a Queen whose Vertues mean their Good.

Prudence.
Vertues, alas, are but a slender Guard,
Which meet with small Esteem, and less Reward.
Conduct and Pow'r should never sleep in ease;
'Tis Strength and Policy in War or Peace,
That are the wisest Monarch's best defence,
'Gainst foreign Force or homebred Insolence.
These only can secure the Royal Place,
Whilst Pride and Envy reign in humane Race.

Britannia.
The Cautions that you give are safe and good,
But more restraining than methinks they shou'd;
For such strict watchfulness as you prefer,
Makes sov'reign Pow'r too servile by its Care.
From Ills abroad our Shipping are our Guard,
And Ills at home are needless to be fear'd:
For old Experience does our Isle convince,
The Subjects Safety's to obey their Prince.
If they transgress to interupt our Ease,
They call down Vengeance on their Families:
Expose themselves in a Rebellious Cause,
To Heaven's Wrath, as well as humane Laws;
And surely open, when they disagree,
A thousand Doors to their own Misery.

Prudence.
But Crowds with dazl'd Eyes behold your State
And squint with double Envy at the Great;
To their weak Sight things crooked oft appear,
Your brightness and their distance makes them err.
Strait Objects often seem to them awry,
As Sticks in Water set deceive the Eye;
Therefore, tho' ne'er so Vertuous, Good, and Just,
In th'execution of your sov'reign Trust,
Yet Stratagem must still preserve Esteem,
If you'd with Ease sustain the Diadem:
No Love or Danger should your Breast divide,
But certain Rules must be your safest Guide.
Some things must never be expos'd to Light,
But thro' such Glasses that deceive the Sight,
Such that by Art will make the Object grow,
And magnify those Trifles that you show.
Others too monstrous for the Subjects Eyes,
Must be reduc'd to a proportion'd size,
And so appear, that what before would fright,
May now be view'd with candour and delight.
Some things in dark obscurity must sleep,
And never from behind the Curtain peep;
Or ever be beheld, except by those
Whose Int'rest 'tis to keep the Secret close.

Britannia.
Th'Advice you give me I must needs approve,
But who can conquer Prejudice or Love.
'Tis hard that Princes, who their Subjects sway,
Should be confin'd to narr'wer Rules than they,
Who, without dread, their Appetites pursue,
And where they place their Love their Favours shew
Let loose their Envy, or express their Hate,
And when reproach'd, aloud recriminate;
Enjoy those Freedoms which a Scepter make
Ignoble for a Sov'reign Prince to take.

Prudence.
Wise Princes no Perfections should admire,
But what the weight of Government require;
No other Graces, worth your notice, find
In Fav'rites, but the Vertues of the Mind.
Chuse not a Statesman for his lovely Shape,
But Wisdom, tho' as ugly as an Ape.
Advance no Man for his engaging Mein,
Except, tho' gay without, he's sage within.
Learn to distinguish first, then stop your Ears,
'Gainst treacherous Sycophants and Flatterers:
Let no aspiring Party's subtil Wiles,
Remove true Merit from your gracious Smiles;
For Princes that with such Intrigues comply,
Force all the Wheels of Government awry.
Cherish no Factious Leaders in your Court,
For, Nettle-like, if stroak'd, they'll do you hurt,
And by ill Projects hatch'd behind the Skreen,
Shipwreck the Throne on Shelves to you unseen.
Let no Affection or Resentment make
Your steady Heart the Rules of Justice break.
Raise those in whom true Merit does appear,
And punish Ills in spight of Love or Fear.

The Libertine's Choice:

OR, The Mistaken Happiness of the Fool in Fashion.

Let Holy Guides prevail on tim'rous Fools,
T'abridge their Pleasure, and conform to Rule
Impos'd on Youth, by Hoary Heads long since,
When dwindl'd into Age and Impotence;
Hating their Vig'rous Progeny should taste
Those lushious Joys their own weak Loins were past
Who in their Strength did Nature's Will obey,
And ne'er grew Temp'rate till their Hairs grew grey
Then with a Pious Rage, and Anxious Mind,
Viewing their Youthful Pleasures far behind:
Griev'd and Perplex'd would all those Joys despise,
To which their Gouty Dotage could not rise:
So when the Hare does her loud Foes defeat,
The Huntsman damns the Bitch for sorry Meat;
Angry to see his Hopes and Pleasures crost,
Contemns the Game he valu'd 'till 'twas lost.
Grave, Toothless Grandsires, tell me but the Cause
Why you Prescribe to Youth such Rigid Laws?
Why you thus fright us with Infernal Pains,
To chill Loves gentle Fire that warms our Veins?
When you, like us, once found the pleasing heat
As nat'ral as your Appetites to Eat,
Pursu'd those Blessings which you held most dear,
And could not shun what you'd have us forbear.
Look back, when you were Juvenile and Strong,
Remember what you were, when Brisk and Young:
How did you then regard the Sage Advice,
Giv'n by the Old, who call themselves the Wise?
Could your fond Parents fright you from the Arms
Of the Fair Sex, and their alluring Charms?
Could all the sober Counsels they could give,
Make you without your Friend and Bottle live?
Could the grave Guide, with his authentick Tale,
Of Flames and Furies on your. Youth prevail?
Could all his Mild Reproofs, or Holy Threats,
Repel the warm Desires that Love begets?
No, the Rebellious Fever prov'd too hot
To be subdu'd; but that's, alas, forgot.
Old Men are subtile, and their Judgments strong,
They won't remember what they were when Young
But as in us their youthful Lives are seen,
So, by ourselves we know what they have been.
Why then so Envious, to debar our Taste
Of Pleasures, which your wrinkled Brows are past
Such as your wiser selves could not forbear,
When Gay and Vig'rous as your Sons now are?
What tho' the Gout your crazy Limbs torment,
Or if the Stone perplex you, be content,
Why should our Joys encrease your Punishment?
'Tis Devil like to, with an Envious Eye,
Behold past Blessings, which you can't enjoy;
And give us, by false Tales, an ill Conceit
Of Pleasures which yourselves once found so sweet
Such Usage seems as if you aim'd to gain
That Power o'er Youth as Satan did o'er Man,
And by the subtile force of your Advice,
Move us to lose our present Paradise,
Thro' hopes of future Joys beyond the Skies.
Th'Infernal Tempter cunningly began,
With Stratagems like these to ruin Man:
To this effect the treach'rous Serpent said,
Take, Eat this Fruit; do but as I perswade,
And from that happy Moment you shall prove
Wise and Immortal as the Gods above:
But when the cunning Fiend had made them Eat,
They found the lushious Promise but a Cheat.
Thus did the Devil their Happiness molest,
Because himself was curs'd and Man was blest.
Who knows but Age, when doom'd to Pain and Care,
To joyful Youth may the like Envy bear:
Hating, beneath their own Decay, to see
The Young so blest, from all Afflictions free,
And their own frozen Limbs, by Age declin'd,
To Crutches, Beds, and Elbow-Chairs confin'd;
Just so the Barren Woman does with hate,
Behold the Fruitful in a Pregnant state.
With what assurance can we then obey
The Rules your Aged Heads before us lay,
Who strive t'incline us by your Sage Advice,
To quit known Pleasures for uncertain Bliss?
If we those Blessings, you report, pursue,
We lose the present Joys within our view,
When those you promise mayn't perhaps accrue.
For Human Soul can no clear Prospect have
Of Torments, or of Joys beyond the Grave.
Suppose we had, and future Worlds could see,
Our Doom to us would still uncertain be,
Tho' Hell be fill'd with Discord, Heav'n with Peace,
The Gods Reward poor Mortals as they please:
For Man, tho' ever so devoutly given,
Can plead no Merit to the Gifts of Heaven,
But must, as Bounty undeserv'd, receive
Those Blessings which the Gods think fit to give.
What if Celinda's Graces I admire,
And her soft Charms should set my Breast on Fire;
Why should not we, if the kind Dame agrees,
Our loving selves, instead of others, please?
In doing which, we mutually approve
The Works of Heav'n in the Delights of Love:
Love! which sublimes the Blessings we pursue,
And makes the Gods well-pleas'd with what we do.
Let the Old Cinick (from the World retir'd)
Rail, in his Age, at what his Youth admir'd:
To's Hut confin'd, drink Water and Repent,
Feed on Raw Roots, and boast of his Content;
Hug his own Follies, and those Joys despise,
Which not his Virtues, but his Age denies;
Snarl at our Pleasures, and our Pomp abuse,
Which he wants Wealth t'uphold, or Strength to use.
Thus, like Town-Bullies, his Ill-nature shew,
Who damn those Beauties which they can't subdue;
Our wiser Guides may tell us, if they please,
True Happiness consists in Whims like these;
And that the Old Morose Athenian Grub,
Who snarling liv'd in's Penitential Tub,
Possess'd more Comforts, and enjoy'd more Ease,
Than Princes in their gaudy Palaces.
Such frantick Doctrine may sometimes perswade,
Beggars and Slaves, when melancholy Mad,
That Wealth is Dirt, and Honour but a Toy,
And none, except the Poor, true Peace enjoy;
Who but a Fool can think Felicity
Consists in stinking Rags and Poverty?
And that a scanty Meal is better far,
Than all the costly Dainties we prepare?
That nothing truly can afford Content,
But cold Retitement and a Self-restraint.
If Peace, and her Companion Virtue, dwells
In Caves, and Tubs, and subteranean Cells;
And starving Cinicks in their lonely Huts,
Who pride themselves in punishing their Guts,
Can happy be, who Happiness despise,
Then to be Mad, is surely to be Wise.
O Great Lucretius! thou shalt be my Guide,
Like thee I'll live, and by thy Rules abide:
Measure my Pleasures by my Appetites,
And unconfin'd pursue the World's Delights;
For Liberty makes every Action sweet,
And relishes our Joys, as Salt our Meat:
Without, we no true Happiness could boast,
The Taste of every Blessing would be lost;
The sweetest Bliss would but a Slav'ry prove,
And we should then but hate what now we love:
My Native Freedom therefore I'll employ,
Chuse what I like, and what I like enjoy.
Suppose bright Beauty should invade my Breast,
And with her pleasing Darts disturb my Rest,
So that I Sigh all Day, and Wish all Night
For her, my only Object of Delight,
What! must I Marry? No, I'll not be cloy'd,
The Bait I'll nibble, but the Hook avoid;
For cold Restraint makes every thing seem worse,
And often turns our Blessings to a Curse.
I love my Bed, when I my Rest would take,
Must it be therefore corded to my Back?
If I delight my Gelding to bestride,
Must I be always to the Saddle ty'd?
What tho' I chiefly love one sort of Meat,
'Tis Punishment to have nothing else to eat?
The charming Sex I 'knowledge I adore,
And value Beauty much, but Freedom more;
If the kind Nymph will yield to my Desires,
And with her Favours quench Loves pleasing Fires,
I'll not with Oaths and Vows her Faith deceive,
But prove as Kind as Nature gives me leave;
Be constant too as long as e'er I can,
But will not promise to be more than Man:
And when I'm tir'd, that she the Truth may know,
I'll frankly, without Flatt'ry, tell her so.
Thus would I deal with Love's rebellious Flame,
When cloy'd with one, I'd still pursue fresh Game,
And not enslave myself, or yet deceive the Dame.
When one Delight by use insipid grew,
I'd change the stale Enjoyment for a new;
From Am'rous Sports to th'Bottle I'd repair,
To fill those Veins I'd empti'd with the Fair;
Drink till my Thoughts were gone and Brains were full
For to be Sober, is but to be Dull,
Songsters and Wits I'd for Companions chuse,
One for their Musick, t'other for their Muse,
That some kind Voice might readily supply
Our graver Intervals with Harmony:
Thus would we chase Old Father Time all Night,
Shorten our Days to lengthen our Delight:
Drink Healths, sing Catches, talk of past Intrigues,
And strengthen Bottle-Friendship with new Leagues;
Swallow down Bumpers to each Left-hand Friend,
And Vow a thousand things we ne'er intend.
When thus well Freighted with the chearful Juice,
We'd sally forth and give ourselves a loose,
Break Brothel Windows, scowre the crazy Watch,
And with fresh Mischiefs crown the Nights Debauch;
But soon as bright Aurora should draw nigh,
And with her Blushes gild the Eastern Sky,
Drowsy and Drunk we'd stagger to our Beds,
And in Sots Heav'n compose our aching Heads;
There drown in Sleep the Mem'ry of our Sins,
And rise refresh'd as Drury-Lane begins:
For new Diversions to the Play-House fly,
Seek out new Faces, and their Humours try,
Flatter the Coy, and ridicule the Free,
Tattle with Punks, and ogle Quality;
Who in their upper Region awful sit,
And cull their brawny Stallions from the Pit:
Sometimes I'd be attentive to the Stage,
The Poet's Princes shou'd my Eyes engage;
If she perform'd her part with Excellence,
And trod the Stage with Graceful Impudence,
I'd Clap the Dowdy till my Arms were sore,
As she, perhaps, had many a Spark before;
With Pleasure hear the o'ergrown Poppet Whine,
And prostrate mourn o'er some dead Lovers Shrine;
Laugh in my Sleeve to know the cunning Jade
Kneels down a Whore, yet rises for a Maid.
Next Scene, perhaps, some Hero might appear,
That liv'd long since the Lord knows when or where,
Who in a Raving Fit of Jealous Love,
Should curse his angry Stars, and threaten Jove,
That the Fair Sex might with concern behold,
How Henpeck'd Monarchs Rav'd and Lov'd of Old;
And learn from thence to over Kings prevail,
And make the Head subservient to the Tail.
Thus on each Scene would I my Judgment spend,
Clap, should they please, and hiss, should they offend;
Rail at the Poet, tho' his Lines are full,
Damn him when Witty, praise him when he's Dull,
Laugh when I hear the Barnet Mimick raise
His croaking Voice in fam'd Ben Johnson's Plays,
And with mistaken Fools that crowd the Pit,
Approve his Apish Whims above true Wit,
And, like the rest, seem highly pleas'd to see
A Noble Play quite spoil'd with Foolery;
And French Jack-Puddings, in a thankless Age,
Disguise Immortal Shakespere on the Stage.
Thus do Fop-Libertines disdain to eat,
Without some Foreign Sauce, true English Meat;
And, thro' a vain Dislike, condemn the Food
That wants some new Kick-shaw to make it good;
For Men of Fashion like those Dainties best,
Mix'd rather to confound than please the Tast.
When for three Hours I'd thus with Pleasure view'd
The strutting Mimicks, and their list'ning Crowd,
Till a dull Epilogue, perhaps new writ,
By some young upstart Rhimer in the Pit,
Should gain a Clap, to dignify his Verse,
Fit only to adorn a Smithfield Farce,
Then to some Brothel would I steer my Course,
Where Beauty needs no Flattery or Force:
But where a Golden Bribe will purchase Bliss,
And open all the Gates of Paradise.
Gold whose prevailing touch we daily see,
Will charm the Soul of the most charming she,
Who when the pow'rful Indian God's in view,
Will sacrifice her All to Gold and you.
Thus would I conquer whom I most admir'd,
Triumph o'er Beauty till my Loins were tir'd;
Wallow in Love, and by exerting much,
Work out the Dregs of the last Night's Debauch,
Refresh my Limbs by a kind pleasing Sweat,
Better than with a Bagnio's painful Heat.
Thus should my Chloe double kindness shew,
And be both Doxy and my Doct'ress too,
Supple my Joints at once, and cool my Flame,
And when I'd gratify'd th'obliging Dame,
I'd leave her to the next lewd Rake that came.
Thus, during Pray'rs, the painful Hour I'd spend,
And small Attention to the Sermon lend,
But e'er 'twas well begun, still wish it an End.
With Patience would I hear the Preacher throw
His Satyr on the sinful Crowd below,
Observe his Knack, when prettily he Talk'd,
How well he Hem'd, how gracefully he Haulk'd;
How mannerly he did his Nostrils blow,
And how he lug'd the Cushion to and fro;
How earnestly sometimes his Words came out,
And how he thrash'd the Pope and Dev'l about.
When the the last Sand of the long Hour had run,
And told old Spintext when 'twas time to've done,
I'd rise among the rest, and gaze around,
Till I some fam'd Intriguing Lady found,
Invited by her Eyes, and some kind Smile,
As she walk'd out, I'd meet her in the Isle;
With Am'rous Whispers I'd her Ears approach,
Squeeze her soft Hand, conduct her to her Coach,
And lay the Groundwork of a new Debauch.
Then to some Rakish Friends my Course I'd steer
Strangers to Faith, and Enemies to Fear;
There Ridicule with them the Canting Priest,
And make Religion but our common Jest;
Raise up dead Hobs to justify our Cause,
And overthrow Divine, by Nature's Laws;
Burlesque the Scriptures, and asperse the Creed,
Aw'd by no musty Rules, Love, Drink, and Feed,
This is the happy Life we modish Rakes would lead.

A PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. Pinkeman.

[Suppos'd to be Press'd, and haul'd in before the Curtain, by a couple of Press-Constables.]

AN EPILOGUE Spoken by Mr. Pinkeman, upon the Back of an Elephant.

Since France with Fool'ries has debauch'd our Nation,
And Foreign Gimcracks only are in fashion,
I oft have study'd till my Brains grew dizzy,
To find out something that I thought wou'd please ye;
At last resolv'd to make a Trip to Guinea,
To buy this nimble Pad to entertain ye,
And if you're not pleas'd now, the Devil's in you.
No but behold his Comely Looks and Graces,
'Tis a strange Tit, he neither Trots nor Paces.
Observe his lovely Shapes from Head to Foot,
His sturdy Rump, his Oliverian Snout,
So plump the Buttocks of the brawny Slouch,
That no European Beast can boast of such,
Except some Monster found among the D***h.
His Guts, I dare engage, would hold more Forces,
Stow'd close, than half a dozen Trojan Horses.
Yet, notwithstanding his Batavian Bulk,
In Battle he disdains to run or skulk;
But has, upon my Word, that Courage in him,
He'll fight like any English Fool, I've seen him.
Gee Dobbin, how the Lazy Lubbard stirs, [Spurs him

I find the stubborn Jade disdains my Spurs.
Does he prepare for Speed, and Cock his Tail up,
'Egad I'd give a Groat to see him Gallup;
[Whips him
But, Spaniard-like, I find his Sullen Pride,
Will not be forc'd beyond his nat'ral Stride;
But when provok'd to move against his Will,
Ass-like, he stands, in spight of beating, still.
[Cherups to him.

A Musical Entertainment.

Scene a Wood, at the further end a Cave.
Enter English Genius in Armour, with a Sword drawn in one hand, and a Shield in the other, representing the Warlike Disposition of the People.
Genius.

[Enter Magus from the Mouth of his Cave, habited like a Hermite, in his Hand a Magician's Wand.]
Genius.

Magus.

Genius.

Magus.

Genius.

Magus.

Genius.
Your Caution I'll observe, exert your Art,
The Minutes fly apace, my Time's but short.

Magus
[flourishes his Wand towards the entrance of the Cave and sings.]

[Enter Cassandra from the Mouth of the Cave, attended by the Sybils.]
Cassandra
sings.

Magus
sings.

Cassandra
sings.

Chorus by the Sybils.

Cassandra
again by herself.

Chorus by the Sybils.

Magus
sings.

[The Spirits vanish.
Genius.
Magus may I depend on what I've heard,
By those Prophetick Ghosts harmoniously declar'd.

Magus.

Genius.
Farewel, old Magus, thank you for your Art,
Th'approaching Minute calls me to depart.

[Flies away.
[Magus
alone.]
How blest am I, from all Contentions freed,
I nothing have to lose, yet nothing need.
Nature's wild Products are my daily Food,
Which sweet Contentment makes divinely good.
The Crystal Stream my mod'rate Drowth supplies,
And lets no headstrong Passion tyrannize,
Sweet Contemplation elevates my Soul,
And bears me on her Wings from Pole to Pole;
Shews me those Wonders, does such Wisdom teach,
Which Crowds can never learn, or Princes reach;
For Subjects gaze with Envy at the Crown,
Whilst those that wear it, with Contempt look down.
Nor can each make their Happiness compleat,
Where Envy and Contempt thus clashing meet;
Therefore how sweet does my Retirement prove,
Free from all Malice or extreams of Love,
From Pomp and Grandeur, which is all but Dream,
And the worse Plagues of Popular Esteem,
That curse of Princes, that deceitful Noise,
That cheats their Ears, and interupts their Joys.
O! who that knows the Pleasures of a Life,
Exempt from Treach'ry and secure from Strife,
Would not disdain a pompous lofty State,
Attended with such Clamour and Debate;
Forsake the dainty Fare on which they Dine,
Their artful Sauces, and their far-fetch'd Wine,
To feed, like Anch'rites, with a peaceful Mind,
On Nuts and Acrons scatter'd by the Wind?
Farewel, say I, to all those vain Delights
That raise, but ne'er suffice our Appetites.
I'll study to Command those Pow'rs below,
Which do, for worldly Minds, too powerful grow.
Th'infernal Fiends that lead Mankind astray,
And governs others Wills, shall mine obey:
By Magick's force I'll keep my Nature free,
From th'influence of Demonian Subtilty;
Live here retir'd within this lonely Wood,
Study to conquer Ill and cherish Good;
Admire those shining Lamps that hang above,
Consult those Orbs that in such order move,
Learn Wisdom from each Wonder in my view,
And with a quiet Breast each Day pursue
That humble Path that to Contentment leads,
For Greatness is not worth the Care it breeds.

The Religious Turncoat:

OR, The Trimming Parson.

Upon the Alteration of the COIN.

The Vanity of Upstarts:

OR, An Honest Enquiry into Ignoble Greatness. An ODE.

T**** B******'s LAST LETTER TO HIS Witty Friends & Companions.

Dear Friends and Companions,

Repenting Fools have oft confest,
That thriving Vintners make lean Guest;
As they grow Rich, there's nothing surer,
Than that you Toapers prove the poorer.
Therefore whene'er they're saucy grown,
Complain not, for the Fault's your own:
'Tis Nonsense at their Pride to grumble,
Since you yourselves may keep them humble;
Spend warily, and you will find
Yourselves more happy, them more kind.
He that goes sneakingly to borrow,
And tells his Wants with Care and Sorrow,
Is like to little better be,
For Friendship flies from Povertie.
Dear honest Will won't care to trust
Insolvent Jack, tho' ne'er so Just;
But answer thus his poor Complaint,
I vow I wou'd, but that I can't.
Therefore observe this blunt Direction,
Whene'er you try your Friend's Affection:
Z***d's, Jack, mine's empty, I must borrow,
Bl**d, lend's a Guinea till to Morrow.
Attack him but in this bold way,
He'll scarce know how to say you Nay.
If any will not be forewarn'd,
But run the Risk of being Horn'd,
Ne'er let him Wed because she's comley,
But chuse a rich one, tho' she's Homley;
Then if she proves Slut, Whore, or Scold,
Perverse, Rebellious, Ugly, Old,
Or any other Plague that's worse,
Her Coin will Counterpoise the Curse:
But if you Wed with Bagless Beauty,
In hopes she'll prove both kind and true t'ye,
And 'tis your Fortune to be Poor,
You're then a Cuckold to be sure;
For do but see what Charming Witches,
When low in Purse, by Men of Riches,
Are daily tempted to be Bi****hes.
And you may easily judge from thence,
Poor Beauty can't resist the Pence:
The Golden Dart will surely wound her,
And Knock her flat down as a Flounder:
The Youthful and the Fair for Gold,
Will Hug the Ugly and the Old;
Bed with Distemper'd Men of Title,
Whose frozen Limbs can do but little;
Use all their subtle Charming Arts
To please their Age and win their Hearts;
Stroke with warm Hand the Part affected,
To make what's pendant stand erected,
Do any thing to Coax the Toney,
For that prevailing Evil Money:
Therefore if Rich you chance to prove,
Your Gold will Purchase Female Love;
Then who to one would be confin'd,
That may command all Women-kind.
And if you're Poor, it's ten to one
But if you Wed, you're worse undone.
Therefore be whatsoe'er your Station,
Don't Marry but with wondrous Caution,
For who, methinks, except a Novice,
Would Wed a Wife, tho' fair as Goddess,
That may have almost any Bodies.
Where Learning, Wit, and Money meet,
It does a happy Man compleat.
But he that is of two possest,
And is not with the other blest,
Is often forc'd, in time of Need,
To truckle to an empty Head:
For it has long since been agreed on,
Wit's but a barren Soil to feed on:
Altho' it very oft produces
Both useful Flatteries and Abuses,
Such as may even touch the Senses
Of mighty Heroes, Kings, and Princes;
Yet what the Author chiefly gains,
To Crown his Meritorious Pains
In this fine Poem, that Translation,
Is little more than Commendation:
As if a Wit was thought a Creature
Of so refin'd a God-like Nature,
That needed no Terrestial Food
To fill his Veins with common Blood;
But could maintain his Guts in quiet
With vain Applause, that airy Diet.
But Wits can't find, for all their Cunning,
That Cooks will treat 'em for their Punning;
Or that a Vintner's so possest,
To swop a Bottle for a Jest:
Nay, the Town-Miss will prove more willing
To yield her Favours for a Shilling,
Than exercise her pleasing Trade
For the best Distich ever made.
Since Money most Men thus bewitches,
And every Blockhead aims at Riches,
Let me intreat you to be Wiser,
And listen to your good Adviser.
Descend not to so low a Pitch,
To flatter Fools because they're Rich;
Nor rattle forth Ten Thousand Lies,
To make a Blockhead think he's Wise.
But Sing of Mighty Kings and Heroes,
Of Cæsars, Pompeys, and of Neroes;
And Grace your Poems, and your Books,
With Eugenes, Malboroughs, and Rooks;
And when the loud-mouth'd Hawkers cry'em,
Gentle and Simple both will buy 'em:
Then ev'ry Bookseller would thrive,
And Authors make a Shift to Live.
You'd find it would be better far
Than Scoring here, and Spunging there;
Or vainly lavishing your Wit,
To please some Blockhead for a Treat.
Ne'er cast your Pearl before such Swine,
On Free-cost to Carouse or Dine:
Scatter no Flirts, when o'er your Glasses,
To please a Pack of Brainless Asses;
Nor for their Golden Ears adore'em;
So yours, in Sæcula Sæculorum.

From a Gentleman in London, to a Friend in the Countrey

SIR,

From a Reserv'd Gentleman in the Country, to an extravagant Kinsman in Town.

Dear Cousin,

Dear Youth, didst thou by sweet experience know
The peaceful Pleasures that from Vertue flow;
From her delightful Paths you'd never stray,
But trace her Foot-steps, and her Rules obey.
Vertue the Soul from Perturbation frees,
And makes Men bear the painful'st Fate with ease:
It cheers the Body, and delights the Mind,
And yields us all we can desire to find:
It palliates Grief, and softens all our Toils,
Makes Fortune's Frowns as welcome as her Smiles
By Vertue, Satan's Pow'r we overthrow;
It upwards leads, and blesses us below.
Vertue, the worst Misfortune soon removes,
And the best Friend in our Affliction proves;
Keeps us whilst Living in a prosp'rous way,
And bears us Witness at the last Great Day;
Whilst Vice begets 'twixt Soul and Body, strife,
And is the Bane of Peace, and Curse of Life.
From her foul muddy Springs, such Plagues arise,
That no Pandora's Box could equalize.
It maims our Bodies, and our Wealth decays,
And punishes our Minds ten Thousand ways.
It stifles Reason, Reputation stains,
And for short Pleasures, gives us tedious Pains.
It's Front looks charming, but the dreadful Rear
Makes Life a Burthen, and our Death severe.
In the next World, 'twill our accuser be,
And rob us of a blest Eternitie.
Who then would derogate from Vertue's Rule,
To be an amorous Beau or drunken Fool?

The young Libertine's Answer to his Uncle.

Worthy Sir,

London, farewell, and all thy vain Delights,
That burry on our Days, and drown our Nights.
Adieu, fair Miss, and all your tempting Airs,
With Freedom now can I disdain your Snares;
No study'd Smile, or kind inviting Look,
Shall please my Eye, or draw me to your Hook;
Nor shall the Charms of Beauty, join'd with Wine,
Rob me of Reason that is more Divine.
Truth I'll pursue, and rural Pleasures court;
Wrong not my self, or do my Neighbour Hurt;
Attone for all my youthful Follies past,
And live each Day as not to fear my last;
Tho' wicked once, the carping World shall see
A Youth, tho' wild, a happy Man may be,
And shake off vain Delights for true Felicity.

Merry Observations upon every Month, and every remarkable Day, throughout the whole Year.

JANUARY.

This Month keep near the Fire, or you'll find,
Your Noses Frost-nip'd with a sharp cold Wind.
And as for those who in Love's sports engage,
A warm Bed's better than beneath a Hedge.

FEBRUARY.

He who would, in this Month, be warm within,
And when abroad, from Wet defend his Skin,
His Morning's draught should be of Sack or Sherry,
And his Great Coat be made of Drab-de-berry.

MARCH.

This Month Physicians Fees come in apace,
And Patients flock in shoals to Doctor Case.
Old Sinners will their painful Shin-bones rub,
Until made easie by the Powd'ring-Tub.

APRIL.

The Stone-Horse and the Bull now rampant grow,
And Maids to silence turn their modest No.
Which shows, the Heart's consenting to the bliss,
And serves as well as if she'd answer'd Yes.

MAY.

This Month reigns beauteous Goddess of the Spring;
And to its Beauty does kind Nature bring,
Lovers in Fields will enter into Leagues,
And blooming Hedges hide their sweet Intrigues.

JUNE.

Maids will their Smocks turn up above their Knees,
In this warm Month, to persecute the Fleas:
Whilst some Arch Youth, thro' cranny peeps with wonder
To see the strange faw thing that's hid under.

JULY.

The thirsty Traveller this Month will fry,
And Northern Maids without their Smocks will lye.
The Country Lass on Hay-Mow hugs her Clown,
Whilst Lords kiss Ladies on their Beds of Down.

AUGUST.

Now Country Lubbers whet their Harvest Tools,
To drudge like Slaves, and to be paid like Fools.
For Farmers get their Riches by the Pains
Of those who do much Work for little Gains.

SEPTEMBER.

Cullies from Bath and Tunbridge now repair
To Town, much poorer Fools than e'er they were.
Whilst Sharpers bluster with the Sums they've won,
And look with Scorn on those they have undone.

OCTOBER.

Now Brush and Faggot fashionable grow,
None the true joys of Wine without can know.
But shun the Fire that lies in Tails of Wenches,
Quench'd only by Apothecaries Drenches.

NOVEMBER.

Fire and Good Liquor, 'tis by all agreed,
Defend us from the Cold; but when a Bed,
A Woman full of Beauty and Delight,
Is better far, to keep us warm all Night.

DECEMBER.

The Merry Christmas Season now draws near,
When all fare well, that can afford good Chear.
But he that has no Coin or Credit got,
May play at Cards with his own Wife for nought