University of Virginia Library

I who from drinking ne'er could spare an hour,
But what I gave to some obedient Whore,
Who hate all Satire, whether sharp or dull,
From Dryden to the Governour of Hull;
Provok'd at length to a Poetick Rage,
Resolve to share in railing at the Age.
I cannot Poet turn with worse Success,
Than thousand Fools who now infest the Press;
Whose sensless Works proclaim'd in ev'ry Street,
Like saucy Beggars, worry all they meet.
At ev'ry Shop, while Shakespear's lofty Stile
Neglected lies, to Mice and Worms a Spoil;
Gilt on the Back, just smoaking from the Press,
Th'Apprentice shews you Durfey's Hudibras,
Crown's Mask, bound up with Settle's choicest Labours,
And promises some new Essay of Babor's
If you go off, as who the Devil would stay,
He cries, Sir, Mr. Otway's last new Play,
With th'Epilogue, which for the Duke he writ,
So lik'd at Court by all the Men of Wit:
I heard an Ensign of the Guards declare,
That with him Shadwell was not to compare;
He lik'd that Scene of Nicky Nacky more,
Than all that Shadwell ever writ before.
Was't not enough, that at his tedious Play
I lavish'd half a Crown, and half a Day;
But must I find, patch'd up at ev'ry Wall,
Such Stuff that none can bear, who starves not at Whitehall?
As Rascals changing Rags for Scarlet-Coats,
Cudgel'd before set up to cut Whigs Throats;
So ev'ry Blockhead, that can please the Court,
Plucks up a Spirit, and turns Poet for't.
They know not that a sensless fawning Praise
Does both their Heroes and themselves disgrace;
Praising York's Loyalty's like praising his Face:
Charles only his base Treason cou'd forgive,
And York alone so good a Brother leave.
An Infamy so mean no Age has known,
To seek from Rebels hands a Brother's Crown.
From his confiding Friends he falsly ran,
And was a full-grown Knave e'er yet a Man.
The Quiet which on England he has brought,
Appears in his still carrying on the Plot:
Of which his Weakness the Foundation laid,
And Obstinacy since has perfect made.
In Scotland we a well drawn Model see
Of what he purposes we once shall be.
By Coleman's Speech at Tyburn too we find,
He has a Heart that ne'er forgets his Friend.
Coningsmark did not use a baser way,
His wretched hireling Ruffians to betray;
This Diff'rence only is betwixt them known,
This murders for a Wife, that for a Throne.
His Lady's a good Woman, God defend her!
By why are we so fond of her Hans en Kelder?
The Slave that thought he or his Seed should reign,
As surely wish'd the King untimely slain.
The one with Pox has long corrupted been,
The other visited with his Father's Sin.
Poor harmless Babe! that lab'ring in the Womb,
To hated Light all o'er diseas'd wilt come:
A wretched innocent Pledg to all the Nation,
That Parents Crimes afflict their Generation.
But while I thus on others Faults run on,
I make the same which those I blame have done;
Omit the Praises of our Gracious King,
Which ev'ry Pen should trace, and ev'ry Tongue should sing,
Ev'n God himself grew jealous of his Pow'r,
And curs'd all those who Creatures durst adore.
By God allow'd, by his People freely given,
Our Charles's Empire is like that of Heaven.
Those Praises do Idolatry declare,
That make a Subject with a Monarch share.
Let such as live by't then his Brother praise,
A nobler Theme my loyal Stile shall raise.
Let Dryden's Pen indulgent David blame,
And brand his Friends with hated Rebels Name:
He that could once call Charles a saunt'ring Cully,
By Portsmouth sold, and jilted by Bitch Nelly;
He that could once the Prince of Rebels praise,
With the same Hand the Tories Cause may raise.
A slavish Muse no Int'rest can advance,
He writes as Parsons preach for Sustenance.
A pamper'd Hero for the Duke's Applause,
A cudgel'd Martyr to the whiggish Cause.
A Cur that fawns on him that gave him Bread,
And growls and snarls at all the World beside.
Ungrateful, mercenary, fearful, mean,
The best of Rhymers, and the worst of Men.
While Charles reigns here, no Cloud can shade our Isle;
Those who slight James's Frown, adore thy Smile.
The threatning Storms that with thy Brother come,
Dissolve like Clouds before thy pow'rful Sun.
Spight of their Enemies, and of thy own,
Thy Peoples duteous Love will e'er be shown.
Happy thy Reign and Nestor's be thy Years,
Vain Popish Hopes, and vain be all our Fears.
May some brave Youth spring from thy Princly Blood,
Like thee forgiving, prudent, great and good;
Succeed thee late to this thy glorious Crown,
And tumble all presumptive Hopers down.
While England from her threaten'd Ills got free,
In serving him, may still give thanks to thee.

But to go on with my satirick Tale;
(Who thinks on him will soon forget to rail)
What Age like ours did e'er with Vice abound?
A Protestant Officer may as soon be found,
A Cuckold jealous, or a Countess sound,
As one whose Honesty 'gainst all things proof,
No Fear can shake, nor no Preferment move.
Lost Reputations shall forget to meet,
To club for nasty Verse in Jermin-street:
And, ceasing Envy, th'Innocent and Fair,
Shall hate the stiff-neck'd Priest, and love the Pray'r.
Fools shall be wanting to disperse their Rhymes,
And Shopkeepers no more complain of Times.
The Scots and Irish homeward shall resort,
And swarm no more about the English Court;
The one industrious, t'other rich shall prove,
Both shall grow honest, both shall English love,
E'er I give o'er to lash the fulsome Slaves,
To laugh at Coxcombs, and to rail at Knaves:
Who are the Men who most Mankind disgrace,
They in my Verse shall have the leading Place.
The Knave of State, will all the sneaking Throng,
Of under Rascals which to Court belong.
Or should I of the hot-brain'd Clergy treat,
Whose very Trade is naturally a Cheat;
All over Lux'ry they at Vice declaim,
Chide at ill Lives, and at good Livings aim.
A Male converted still suspected proves;
A Lady Convert, 'tis the B--- loves.
On Down they sleep, and upon Carpets tread,
Their Ancestors, the Apostles, wanted Bread.
Each lustful D--- free licence has to whore,
But the grave wary B--- may do more.
At home they lie with Pride, Spleen, Plenty stor'd,
And hire some poor dull Rogue to serve the Lord.
Where'er thou call'st, loud Scandal, will I fly,
From the proud Statesman to the sniveling Spy;
From Hallifax, whose Crimes now furnish Fame,
Down to Fleet Shepherd's false and abject Name.
The first, that he all Villains might exceed,
His Honour sold for what he did not need.
An Atheist once; now Popery has profess'd,
Finding that suit with his good Morals best.
He'as sold his Country, and his King abus'd,
Join'd with scorn'd Chits, he'as Innocence accus'd,
And is at last ev'n by those Chits refus'd.
From Crime to Crime, he by degrees runs on,
Not safe from one till he has a greater done.
But he so false, and so contemn'd does grow,
His Fellow-Rogues trust him no longer now;
Yet use him still, and have found out a fit
Employment for my Lord's prodigious Wit.
For join'd with Roger, he with like Applause
Does write dull railing Libels for the Cause.
But he so often lyes to every Fool,
That on that Theme his Son could scarce be dull.
Seymour in every Quality does surpass,
Which may a sensless sawcy Turncoat grace.
By's breeding he for Cottrel's Place is fit,
And may the Bantam courtly Envoy meet,
And for his Learning may on Woolsack sit.
For Eloquence he may grave Finch succeed,
And for his Courage Tory Forces lead.
These with his Knav'ry, Pride, and Country's Hate,
Accomplish him for Minister of State.
As Schoolboys heat their Gigs to make 'em calve,
And from their old one a small Offspring have:
So our diminutive Statesman Falkland looks,
As if from Seymour fall'n at Arran's Strokes.
Mony, we know, him to Preferment brought;
He ought to hide how he the Mony got.
Let Albemarle no more Desert pretend,
That from the worthy Monk he does descend.
His Title's all that by his Birth he gains,
While his base Life the noble Fountain stains,
The General's is lost, the Sempstress' Blood remains.
The Father England's Freedom did regain,
The Son conspires t'enslave it once again.
Him a true Soldier of the Age we see,
He has nor Courage, Sense, nor Honesty.
A needless Foil to th'Hero he succeeds,
That dares not justify the Guards he leads.
Lord! how the Tories will the City rout,
While he the Horse, and Grafton leads the Foot.
In their Sires steps the H---s have better grown,
Wh'entail'd it on his Line to cheat the Crown.
Their Father was the Founder of that Ill,
Which his two Sons are lab'ring to fulfil,
Their Lordships stink of the old Lawyer still.
The first to J---s his prostrate Daughter wed,
Then brought a barren Imp to C--- his Bed.
To equal him his pious Sons, at strife,
One cheats the Husband, t'other robs the Wife.
The first for Mu---ve's famous Cuckold known,
Does the King's Bastards starve to keep his own.