The Poetical Entertainer Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward] |
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 | The Poetical Entertainer |  |
1
Numb. V.
3
Upon a Tory Lady who happen'd to open her Floodgates at the Tragedy of Cato.
An Epigram.
Whilst maudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's Fate,Still with dry Eyes the Tory Celia fate:
But tho' her Pride forbad her Eyes to flow,
The gushing Waters found a vent below.
Tho' secret, yet with copious Streams she mourns,
Like twenty River-gods with all their Urns.
Let others screw a Hypocritick Face,
She shows her Grief in a sincerer place!
Here Nature reigns, and Passion void of Art,
For this Road leads directly to the Heart.
4
The following Epitaph, tho' old, was never before Printed.
Epitaphium Jo. Drydeni, Q. P. L. Thus render'd into English.
5
Cast a moist Eye on Dryden's sacred Urn;
Bestow a Tear, Apollo bids you weep!
The British Virgil does in silence sleep.
Vict'ry herself forlorn, with drooping Wings,
Protects his Shrine, her Poet's Praises sings,
Whose bold Salonick and Pantherean Verse
Embalm his Fame and consecrate his Hearse.
Batavian Wreaths he scorn'd should girt his Brow:
Look down! there Palms and lasting Laurels grow.
Engrav'd upon a Salver made of all sorts of base Coin, according to the following Particulars.
In Coin I pass'd for some Years since,Eight Pounds, One Shilling, Seven Pence,
Made up of Silver, Brass, and Spelter,
All mix'd together Helter Skelter:
6
Forty-six Half-Crowns spoil'd by paring;
Thirty-three Shillings finely rounded;
Four Ninepences almost confounded;
Six Testers very neatly snip'd;
Two Groats that could not well be clip'd;
Four Fourpenoehalfpenies, two broken,
The others bent like Country Token;
One Threepence; Silver Penies two.
From these I chang'd my Form anew.
When I at first was melted down,
I Ounces weigh'd full Twenty-one,
And then each Ounce the Value bore
Of Three and Ninepence and no more;
But oft'ner melted, I at last
Improv'd my Goodness, tho' with waste,
That I but Eighteen Ounces weigh,
And Four and Two-pence is my Say.
7
Upon rooting up the Royal Oak in St. James's Park,
rais'd from an Acorn, set by the Hand of King Charles II. who brought the same from his old hiding-place at Boscobel.
An Epigram.
Whilst Zarah from the Royal GroundRoots up the Royal Oak,
The Sapling, groaning at the Wound,
Thus to the Syren spoke,
Ah! may the Omen kindly fail,
For poor Britannia's Good!
Or else not only me you'll fell,
But her that owns the Wood.
H. C.
9
The seasonable Caution.
On the foregoing Subject.
Epigram II.
Be cautious, Madam, how you thus provokeThis sturdy Plant, the second Royal Oak;
For should you fell it, or remove it hence,
When dead, it may revenge the proud Offence,
And build a Scaffold in another place,
That may e'erlong prove fatal to Your G---;
Nay, furnish out a useful Gallows too
Sufficient for your Friends, tho' not for you:
Then let it stand a Monument of Fame,
To that forgiving Prince who set the same;
For should it fall by you, the World will pray
The Fate may be your own another Day.
10
The Murmurs of the Oak.
Epigram III.
Why dost thou root me up! ingrateful Hand!My Father sav'd a King, who sav'd the Land:
That King to whom thy Mother ow'd her Fame,
When Whoring was no Crime, to Bawd no Shame.
But since the Malice of her Spawn, Your G---,
Presumes to rend me from my native Place,
Where by the Royal Hand I first was set,
And, from an Acorn, thriv'd to be thus Great,
May I be hew'd (now rooted up by thee)
Into some lofty famous Triple-Tree,
Where none may swing but such as have betray'd
Those gen'rous Pow'rs by whom themselves were made:
Then may I hope to gain as much Renown,
By trussing up my Foes, that cut me down,
As my tall Parent, when he bravely stood
The Monarch's safeguard in the trembling Wood;
11
And restless Faction aims at Sov'reign Pow'r,
I know not which would prove the best good Thing
To hang up Traytors, or preserve a King.
A Prayer to Apollo.
O grant, Apollo, that I ne'er may come,
Where dull repeating Blockheads fill the Room;
Whose poor pedantick Talent chiefly lies,
In puzling Fools, and carping at the Wise:
Doom not my Ears to hear a Dolt rehearse
The scraps of some old Tragick Poet's Verse,
Who, like an unfledg'd Hero on the Stage,
Huffs, puffs, and rants as if o'ercome with Rage,
And, by false Cadency and dreadful Sound,
Tortures the Words and does the Sense confound!
Nor suffer me, thou God of Rhime, to meet
That Fool of Fools, a proud conceited Wit,
Who with some Learning stock'd, but ill bestow'd,
Does all Men's Labours but his own explode,
Yet steals from e'ery Author that he reads,
And with their Scraps his hungry Genius feeds,
To please some Party who commend the Tool,
And cry him up, tho' insolent and dull,
Till, like the Whigs fam'd Advocate, he gains
Much popular Applause by others Brains.
So the Quack Doctor in a Country-Town,
Thrives not by Cunning he can call his own,
But the arch Sayings of his agent Clown.
Where dull repeating Blockheads fill the Room;
Whose poor pedantick Talent chiefly lies,
In puzling Fools, and carping at the Wise:
Doom not my Ears to hear a Dolt rehearse
The scraps of some old Tragick Poet's Verse,
Who, like an unfledg'd Hero on the Stage,
Huffs, puffs, and rants as if o'ercome with Rage,
And, by false Cadency and dreadful Sound,
Tortures the Words and does the Sense confound!
Nor suffer me, thou God of Rhime, to meet
That Fool of Fools, a proud conceited Wit,
12
Does all Men's Labours but his own explode,
Yet steals from e'ery Author that he reads,
And with their Scraps his hungry Genius feeds,
To please some Party who commend the Tool,
And cry him up, tho' insolent and dull,
Till, like the Whigs fam'd Advocate, he gains
Much popular Applause by others Brains.
So the Quack Doctor in a Country-Town,
Thrives not by Cunning he can call his own,
But the arch Sayings of his agent Clown.
O let me not in Coffee-House be teas'd,
With partial News from foreign Letters squeez'd,
Curtail'd and couch'd to please a factious Race,
Who, like their Tools, are infamous and base,
Both hating Truth as noxious to their Ends,
Encourage Lyes, on which their Cause depends,
And scandalize their Rivals, to oblige their Friends!
With partial News from foreign Letters squeez'd,
Curtail'd and couch'd to please a factious Race,
Who, like their Tools, are infamous and base,
Both hating Truth as noxious to their Ends,
Encourage Lyes, on which their Cause depends,
And scandalize their Rivals, to oblige their Friends!
13
Let not my Ears be baited with the Praise
Of S***** D***** who struggles for the Bays,
Yet at large Int'rest, and sometimes a Treat,
When native Dulness reigns, in spight of Wit,
Borrows fresh Succour of each abler Friend,
And wins the Town's Applause by what they lend.
So Madam Baugtail with a Face of Brass,
Rig'd by some Bawd, does for a Beauty pass;
Talks of high Birth, and flutters thro' the Town,
In borrow'd Plumes, each Cully thinks her own;
Wins, by her Dress, a new admiring Crew,
Till she believes herself the Lord knows who;
But stripp'd of Friends, her Beauty quickly dies,
And she who made such Conquests with her Eyes,
Turns common Strum for want of fresh Supplies.
Thus fares our Author, who is seldom bright,
But when his trusty Friends vouchsafe to write,
And when they fail, his Laurels bid good Night.
Of S***** D***** who struggles for the Bays,
Yet at large Int'rest, and sometimes a Treat,
When native Dulness reigns, in spight of Wit,
Borrows fresh Succour of each abler Friend,
And wins the Town's Applause by what they lend.
So Madam Baugtail with a Face of Brass,
Rig'd by some Bawd, does for a Beauty pass;
Talks of high Birth, and flutters thro' the Town,
In borrow'd Plumes, each Cully thinks her own;
Wins, by her Dress, a new admiring Crew,
Till she believes herself the Lord knows who;
But stripp'd of Friends, her Beauty quickly dies,
And she who made such Conquests with her Eyes,
Turns common Strum for want of fresh Supplies.
Thus fares our Author, who is seldom bright,
But when his trusty Friends vouchsafe to write,
And when they fail, his Laurels bid good Night.
14
All Sublunary Things are subject to Mutation.
A Poem.
Great were our Hero's Actions, Great the HouseRais'd to his Fame, but neither finish'd are;
The Pile, a Mountain seems; the Man, a Mouse;
And yet the Monster does in both appear.
His Blenheim Laurels wither on his Brow,
Whilst Blenheim Weeds at Woodstock thrive apace;
Which will hereafter shew, as well as now,
Both the Foundations of their Greatness base.
'Tis true, had Faction prosper'd, as she hop'd,
The wondrous Babel might e'erlong have made
King John a Palace, but his Pride was stop'd,
When Anna would no longer be betray'd.
In him the change of sublunary Things,
To caution humane Race, are justly seen,
For he that was to conquer many Kings,
Is now the scorn of an offended Queen.
15
Or trespass on the Favours of a Crown;
For if he does, it is no more than just,
The Pow'r that set him up should pull him down.
A silly Wife the worst of Evils.
An Ode.
Of all the plagues of humane Life,A foolish Woman is the worst;
For tho' she's honest, if your Wife,
You'll surely find your self accurs'd.
The Reason's plain, because a Fool,
Tho' chast, will act as if a Wh***re,
And aim imperiously to rule,
Altho' she knows no use of Pow'r:
When she who is by nature blest
With Sense and Manners, tho' a Jilt,
Will make you easy in your Breast,
And from Suspicion skreen her Guilt.
16
A cautious Wife my Fate may be;
Who, if she stains her marriage Bed,
Will free my Thoughts from Jealousie.
The odious Comparison.
An Epigram.
A whig, a Nettle, and a Toad,Are much alike, by all that's Good:
The Nettle stings, the Whig he bites,
The swelling Toad his Venom spits:
But crush 'em all, your Strength exert,
And neither then can do you hurt.
17
The deceitfulness of human Friendship:
OR, Providence the best Friend to the Unfortunate.
An Ode.
The wretched Mortal who hath Sense
To put his Trust in Providence,
May hope to be reliev'd;
But he who foolishly depends
On old Acquaintance, call'd, his Friends,
Will surely be deceiv'd.
To put his Trust in Providence,
May hope to be reliev'd;
But he who foolishly depends
On old Acquaintance, call'd, his Friends,
Will surely be deceiv'd.
For mutual Int'rest is the tye,
That makes vain Man on Man rely;
And he that once is low,
If he attempts to rise, will find,
'Tis in the Nature of Mankind,
To always keep him so.
That makes vain Man on Man rely;
And he that once is low,
If he attempts to rise, will find,
'Tis in the Nature of Mankind,
To always keep him so.
18
Men love to see another toss'd,
By Fate, from Pillar unto Post,
Till mis'rably undone;
That when reduc'd to starving Shame,
They may aloud his Conduct blame,
And magnify their own.
By Fate, from Pillar unto Post,
Till mis'rably undone;
That when reduc'd to starving Shame,
They may aloud his Conduct blame,
And magnify their own.
I thought, long since, (cries every Base
Censorious Slut, and Purse-proud Ass)
What all his huffing Pride
Would come to, for his Neighbours say,
He rather chose to Spend than Pay,
Or else he was bely'd.
Censorious Slut, and Purse-proud Ass)
What all his huffing Pride
Would come to, for his Neighbours say,
He rather chose to Spend than Pay,
Or else he was bely'd.
Such Calumnies as these, and worse,
The sordid World will cast, in course,
Upon the Wretch decay'd;
And, tho' he's honest, if he starves,
They'll all agree, that he deserves
To want his daily Bread.
The sordid World will cast, in course,
Upon the Wretch decay'd;
And, tho' he's honest, if he starves,
They'll all agree, that he deserves
To want his daily Bread.
19
But Crowds of Flatt'rers, if you're Rich,
Will wait like Lacquies at your Breech,
All hoping for a Boon:
But if you once mistake your way,
And backward fall into Decay,
You'll find your Levy flown.
Will wait like Lacquies at your Breech,
All hoping for a Boon:
But if you once mistake your way,
And backward fall into Decay,
You'll find your Levy flown.
Nay, even those you have preferr'd,
And kept, perhaps, at Bed and Board,
Will to the World pretend,
(Instead of owning Favours done,
Which helpt, perhaps, your Ruin on)
That each have been your Friend.
And kept, perhaps, at Bed and Board,
Will to the World pretend,
(Instead of owning Favours done,
Which helpt, perhaps, your Ruin on)
That each have been your Friend.
Ever since Adam first Rebel'd,
Ingratitude has been intail'd
On all his vicious Race;
No Man can boast a God-like Mind,
From that Infernal Dross refin'd;
By Nature all are Base.
Ingratitude has been intail'd
On all his vicious Race;
No Man can boast a God-like Mind,
From that Infernal Dross refin'd;
By Nature all are Base.
20
The only real Diff'rence is,
There are Degrees in Villanies;
But still the very best
Of Men, if he'd but look at home,
Would be convinc'd, he is by some
Sly little Devil possest.
There are Degrees in Villanies;
But still the very best
Of Men, if he'd but look at home,
Would be convinc'd, he is by some
Sly little Devil possest.
Only the bigger Knave than he,
Like greater Monsters in the Sea,
Will prey on him that's less;
And those more honest than himself,
He'll over-reach, for sake of Pelf,
And thus his Wrongs redress.
Like greater Monsters in the Sea,
Will prey on him that's less;
And those more honest than himself,
He'll over-reach, for sake of Pelf,
And thus his Wrongs redress.
From Tyrants down to petty Knaves,
All have their Bubbles, Fools and Slaves;
'Tis by Experience found:
For one Degree another rides,
And that, the next Degree bestrides,
And thus the World goes round.
All have their Bubbles, Fools and Slaves;
'Tis by Experience found:
For one Degree another rides,
And that, the next Degree bestrides,
And thus the World goes round.
21
The Mournival of Knaves.
An Epigram.
Four arrant Knaves, in one deceitful Pack,Together hang, and hold each other's Back.
How! Hang together, did I chance to say!
O that we could but see that happy Day!
'Tis true they'r cancell'd, and no more Court-Cards,
But still some think they want their Just Rewards.
Proud Hewson, Pam, no more shall save his Looe,
Or Knave of Hearts Theatrick Punks subdue:
The Knave of Spaids shall do no further hurt,
Or with a Tongue invenom'd shame the Court:
Nor shall the Knave of Diamonds, now h'as lost
The Game, win Beauty at the Publick cost;
But since they've all betray'd their want of Brains,
Instead of Knaves, shall pass for Single Tens.
22
A Bottle-Definition of that Fall'n Angel, call'd, a WHIG.
What is a Whig? a cunning R**gue,That once was in, now out of vogue:
A Rebel to the Church and Throne,
Of Lucifer the very Spawn:
A Tyrant, who is ne'er at rest
In Power, or when he's Disposess'd:
A Knave, who foolishly has lost,
What so much Blood and Treasure cost:
A Lying, Bouncing Desperado,
A Bomb, a Stink-pot, a Granado;
That's ready Prim'd, and Charg'd, to Break,
And Mischief do for Mischief's sake:
A Comet, whose portending Phiz
Appears more dreadful than it is,
But now propitious Stars repel
Those Ills it fasly did fortel,
23
And, since the Parliament proves right,
Will turn to Smoke, which shone of late
So bright and flaming in the State.
The Modish Quack:
OR Doctor Merryman's Panacea against all Melancholy Distempers.
[I]
Come all ye Ladies, who have lostYour Lovers, by your Folly;
And Maids, in your Affections cross'd,
Depress'd with Melancholy;
Unmarry'd Dames, with Bellies Great,
Fatigu'd to find a Father;
And Dowdies forc'd, in spight of Fate,
To keep your Legs together;
Ye Sighing old Fools,
And ye Cuckoldly Tools,
24
Whilst your Wives are hugg'd close,
By young Spindle-shank'd Beaus,
In your Absence, behind the Curtain.
Chorus.
Be as sad and as mad as you please,Your Spirits, tho' cloudy, I'll clear up,
And infallibly give you all Ease,
With my Pills and a Glass of my Chear up.
II
Come all ye modern Saints, that wearReligion in your Faces,
And you that shew your sad Despair,
In dull austere Grimaces.
You Breaking Merchants, who repine,
For want of Coin and Credit,
And grieve that Trade should so decline,
When you so greatly need it:
25
Who subsist by your Tails,
And ye diving Night-walkers and Bunters,
Who are stroling to Day,
Very Frolick and Gay,
And to Morrow, in Workhouse or Counters.
Chorus.
Be as sad, &c.III
Come all of High or Low Degree,That would be brisk and merry,
Tho' ne'er so sad, be rul'd by me,
I've Physick that will Chear ye:
My Golden Pills, so highly fam'd,
Throughout our British Nation,
So greatly priz'd, so richly nam'd,
For pow'rful Operation:
26
You'll not fail of a Cure;
Be you never so dull they'll divert ye;
Tho' as pale in your Looks,
As a Punk in a Flux,
They will carry off all that can hurt ye.
Chorus.
Be as sad, &c.IV
Let Whig or Tory come to me,I'll cure 'em of the Simples;
And toaping Barren Ladies, free
From Vapours or from Pimples:
The wry-neck'd Zealot I can bring,
As strait as any Arrow,
And cause the humming Drone to sing,
And cherup like a Sparrow:
27
For the Saint or his Bride,
Far exceeding the old Diapente,
That will raise a cross Witch
To an amorous Pitch,
And recover Old Age to be Twenty.
Chorus.
Be as sad, &c.V
Contending Parties I can bind,In friendship Everlasting;
And make a scolding Whore prove kind,
And honest, without Basting.
Nay, all Distempers in the State,
Or Madness in the Nation,
I cure with Ease, in spight of Fate,
Without the least Taxation;
28
As adhere to the Dutch,
Or to those of the Chevalier's Party;
If they'll take my Advice,
They shall all, in a trice,
To the National Int'rest be hearty.
Chorus.
Be as sad, &c.Woman given to Change:
OR, The wonderful Difference between a Maid and a Wife.
I
When I was Young, and dear Belinda Fair,Each charming glance of her engaging Eyes,
So warm'd my Veins, that 'twas my hourly Care,
To Court the Nymph, that I might win the Prize:
29
That both alike seem'd eager of the Joy.
II
But when, with moving Sighs, and humble Vows,I had obtain'd the Nymph to my Embrace,
Her Tongue confirm'd her a vexatious Blowze;
And chang'd her Looks into a Fury's Face;
Now all her Maiden Smiles were turn'd to Frowns,
No Peace without new Peticoats and Gowns.
III
The Heav'n I hop'd for, thus I sought in vain,Enjoyment prov'd but a deceitful Toy,
To which the Nymph allures the silly Swain,
By only study'd Looks, and seeming Coy;
But when she' as noos'd him in the Nuptial State,
He's Woman's Bubble, which he finds too late.
30
A SATYR
By one Lady upon another.
This leisure Hour, Great Mother P****is thine,
That in my Verse thy wondrous Fame may shine;
Tho', shou'd each spiteful Muse attend my call,
Or had I Dorset's Wit, or Dryden's Gall,
Still shou'd I want what's needful, to pursue
The Vice you practice, and the Ills you do:
So hard it is to Paint a Monster true.
Thou worst of all thy Undeserving Kind,
By Nature's Malice, for our Curse design'd;
Shame of thy Race, and Torment of our Sex,
Whom thou delight'st to Wrong, and seek'st to Vex:
Vain as the Empty Sorceress, that dwells
In some dark Alley, where she Fortunes tells;
With the same Wiles that such Impostors use,
Thou dost the list'ning cred'lous Fop abuse;
Witness thy kind Predictions, which relate
To that fam'd Bard, by borrow'd Wit made Great;
Wherein, like Moorfields Wizard, you foresee,
By Pow'rs which reign'd at his Nativity,
That as he now appears a Blazing Star,
An Enemy to Peace, a Friend to War,
So e're old Time one Annual Course had run,
He surely shou'd become a Shining Sun;
When, spight of all thy Arts, the World must see,
He's grown, of late, as scandalous as thee;
And, being deaf to Reason's friendly Voice,
Is wretched by his own Ill-natur'd Choice.
Which shews thy Calculations of the Man,
Are full as false, as he himself is vain:
Therefore, wise Madam, pray no more pretend,
By Moorfields Banter, to deceive your Friend:
The thriving Trade of Secret Love pursue,
And quit not your old Calling for a new;
But make that Stair-case where you now remain,
As famous as your House in Chanc'ry-Lane;
Which useful, lustful, much frequented Box,
Stood Neighbour to the Whipping-Post and Stocks.
But as the Man, who Places his Abode
Most near the Church, is farthest still from God,
So you from Punishment liv'd most secure,
When Justice stood Erect before your Door;
Therefore return to th'Place from whence you came,
The Beaus will follow soon to cool their Flame;
What Lust or Int'rest carried you to them?
That in my Verse thy wondrous Fame may shine;
Tho', shou'd each spiteful Muse attend my call,
Or had I Dorset's Wit, or Dryden's Gall,
Still shou'd I want what's needful, to pursue
The Vice you practice, and the Ills you do:
So hard it is to Paint a Monster true.
Thou worst of all thy Undeserving Kind,
By Nature's Malice, for our Curse design'd;
Shame of thy Race, and Torment of our Sex,
Whom thou delight'st to Wrong, and seek'st to Vex:
Vain as the Empty Sorceress, that dwells
In some dark Alley, where she Fortunes tells;
With the same Wiles that such Impostors use,
Thou dost the list'ning cred'lous Fop abuse;
31
To that fam'd Bard, by borrow'd Wit made Great;
Wherein, like Moorfields Wizard, you foresee,
By Pow'rs which reign'd at his Nativity,
That as he now appears a Blazing Star,
An Enemy to Peace, a Friend to War,
So e're old Time one Annual Course had run,
He surely shou'd become a Shining Sun;
When, spight of all thy Arts, the World must see,
He's grown, of late, as scandalous as thee;
And, being deaf to Reason's friendly Voice,
Is wretched by his own Ill-natur'd Choice.
Which shews thy Calculations of the Man,
Are full as false, as he himself is vain:
Therefore, wise Madam, pray no more pretend,
By Moorfields Banter, to deceive your Friend:
The thriving Trade of Secret Love pursue,
And quit not your old Calling for a new;
But make that Stair-case where you now remain,
As famous as your House in Chanc'ry-Lane;
32
Stood Neighbour to the Whipping-Post and Stocks.
But as the Man, who Places his Abode
Most near the Church, is farthest still from God,
So you from Punishment liv'd most secure,
When Justice stood Erect before your Door;
Therefore return to th'Place from whence you came,
The Beaus will follow soon to cool their Flame;
What Lust or Int'rest carried you to them?
But thou wert always Fickle, False, and Base,
Fond of new Lovers, fearless of Disgrace;
Unfix'd in Principles, oppress'd with Fears,
No Good enjoys, and all that's Evil bears.
'Tis Lust, no Soul that animates thy Clay,
Tho' soft without, within thou'rt all Decay;
Burnt up by unextinguishable Fires,
And Means employ'd to cool thy hot Desires;
Ill fares the Wretch, who by thy fading Charms,
Is tempted to thy loose insatiate Arms,
For as the Syren, thou hast learn'd to Wooe,
And fancy'st e'ery Object that is new,
Thus liv'st to Love, and Lov'st but to Undo.
Fond of new Lovers, fearless of Disgrace;
Unfix'd in Principles, oppress'd with Fears,
No Good enjoys, and all that's Evil bears.
'Tis Lust, no Soul that animates thy Clay,
Tho' soft without, within thou'rt all Decay;
Burnt up by unextinguishable Fires,
And Means employ'd to cool thy hot Desires;
Ill fares the Wretch, who by thy fading Charms,
Is tempted to thy loose insatiate Arms,
33
And fancy'st e'ery Object that is new,
Thus liv'st to Love, and Lov'st but to Undo.
An Epitaph upon a Bawdy Batchelor, who lately Departed this Life.
Here Jack lies dead, but let no Mortal grieve,Since as he liv'd to Die, he dy'd to Live.
To Nuptial Joys, he was, alas, unknown,
Yet lov'd his Neighbour's Wife, as if his own.
Marriage he scoff'd, liv'd single till he dy'd,
Then rival'd Death, and made the Grave his Bride.
Hard Fate! for sure no Mortal ever chose
A more Voracious, or Insatiate 'Spouse!
Yet hug'd within her cold Embrace he lies,
O'ercome with Sleep, till Angels bid him Rise.
Thus, free from Cares, he lodges unoppress'd,
And, undisturb'd, in Silence takes his Rest.
A Peaceful Blessing few good Women give,
To those fond Fools that Marry whilst they live.
34
Upon GAMING.
An Epigram.
'Tis strange, the Man who has enough in store,Should hazard what's his own, in hopes of more,
Since, if he wins, he only does possess,
More than he really wanted, when he'ad less;
But if Ill Fortune his Desires should cross,
The starving Wretch, too late, may mourn his Loss.
Then be content, when ye sufficient have,
Who covets more is but a greedy Knave,
And, to imprison'd Bags, a Turnkey and a Slave.
Upon LOVE.
An Epigram.
Why do we doat on charming Chloe's Face,And pine and languish for her soft Embrace?
Since, when she's granted what we're fond to take,
We slight her Favours, and the Nymph forsake.
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And still content with the Remains we find;
Else we are Fools to covet such a Prize,
Which, when obtain'd, we lessen and despise.
An Epigram written by a Quaker, to a trousom Impertinent, who us'd to tease him about his Religion.
If thou lov'st Peace, why then dost thou tormentThe Peace of us, that slumber in Content?
Thou sayst, we err, pray what is that to thee?
Thou'rt not to answer for my Friends or me.
If thou to Heav'n hast found a nearer cut,
Go thou that way, we're free to go about;
We grutch no Labour, thou may'st be in haste,
It is enough we find out Heav'n at last.
Let not thy Evil Tongue my Spirit move,
Take off the Creature, learn to live in Love,
And that's the way for both to meet above.
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Between the Genius of Billingsgate, and the Genius of Exchange-Alley.
A Dialogue.
Genius of Billingsgate.Be gone, thou tricking Genius, hence,
To Exchange-Alley fly with haste;
Where busy Knaves contend for Pence,
And laugh at Conscience as a Jest.
Genius of Exchange-Alley.
Be silent, thou provoking Hag,
I know thy Hatchet-Face of old,
Thou'rt Billingsgate's Eternal Plague,
That prompts the Thumbring'd Wives to scold.
Genius of Billingsgate.
What's that to thee? do thou be gone,
Among the crafty jobbing Crew,
Who oft sell Stock, when they have none,
And, with the Christian, blend the Jew.
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Tis true, but how can you upbraid
A Practice so approv'd of late;
Since Lies, ill Words, and Oaths are made,
Your common Mart at Billingsgate.
Genius of Billingsgate.
Foul Language hath been always claim'd,
By noisy Fishwives, as their Right;
They're proud to think their Tongues are fam'd,
And scold by Custom, not in Spight.
Genius of Exchange-Alley.
So Cunning in Perfection reigns,
In that fam'd Alley I frequent,
Where Brokers, Jobbers, Jews and Saints,
Each Day new tricking Arts invent.
Genius of Billingsgate.
Why then shou'd Scolding be a Vice?
Or false Reproach so odious be?
Since all Men have their useful Lies,
And e'ery Trade its Mystery.
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The Citizen extorts in Price:
In short, the Knave in all Degrees,
Reigns like the Devil in the Dice.
Genius of Exchange-Alley.
Why then am I in fault to teach
My Jobbers to be like the rest?
Since he that's hasty to be Rich,
Must deal with a deceitful Breast.
Then prithee, Sister, be my Friend,
For us to quarrel's but a Folly,
Do you the Fisher-Drabs attend,
And I the Knaves in Exchange-Alley.
Truth without Dissembling:
OR, A Merry Ballad on the Times.
Since Gold is the God of the Nation,Which every Side does adore,
There is no other Quarrel in Fashion,
But what's for the Purse and the Pow'r.
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Will never sit easily down,
But thinks he's too little rewarded,
Perhaps, for betraying the Crown.
Why blame we the D---e and the D---ss,
For aiming to make all their own,
Since M---hy halts upon C---s,
And the C---h is as lame as the T---e?
But now, God be thank'd, there's no Danger,
New Oliver Plots but in vain;
And, as well as his Petticoat-Ranger,
Is banish'd the Presence of Ann.
Or else a Usurping Protector,
Perhaps, might have govern'd the State,
But Britain, Good Heav'n direct her,
Tho' foolish, is wiser than that.
Yet, alas, should our present Translator,
Who such Mighty Wonders hath done,
Prove a Whig at the last, 'tis no matter
Whether govern'd by R--- or J---,
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Of every Party that Rules,
We shall ne'er have an end of our Troubles,
Till rid of our Knaves and our Fools.
Of which we have no Expectation,
Till some for their Insolence pay,
And the foolish degenerate Nation
Learns Wisdom enough to Obey.
If this does not speedily happen,
That the Whigs may be kept in some awe,
We at last must determine by Weapon,
What we now might decide by the Law.
And if so, some, in spight of their Cunning,
The Fate of their Rival may share,
And, for Safety, be glad to be running,
E'relong, into Gallican Air.
But if he be sound at the bottom,
His Projects all honestly laid,
Neither Faction, nor Hell that begot 'em,
Can injure a Hair of his Head.
FINIS.
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