Vulgus Britannicus :: :: University of Virginia Library

In Spiteful Times when Humane Folly,
Discourag'd all that's Good and Holy,
When Peace and Truth were out of Season,
And Zeal had got the start of Reason;
When Knaves by dint of Inspiration
Diffus'd their Nonsense thro' the Nation;

And when Ill-Nature and Grimace
Were outward Signs of Inward Grace,
When Atheists Preach'd, and Blockheads Writ,
And Scandal only pass'd for Wit;
When Fiery Words like Blazing-stars,
Portended Plagues and Civil Wars,
And Tavern Cavils shew too plain
The Malice and the Pride of Men;
When our Good Sov'reign Lords the People
Were Crown'd by a Republick Cripple,
And by false Logick prov'd to be
The Source of all Authority,
And that from them all Power Sprung
At first, as Pompions do from Dung,
And did on them devolve again,
As oft as they were pleas'd to Reign,
As if a King, the Lord's Anointed,
Was only by the Mob appointed,
And that they rais'd him to a Crown
For nothing but to pull him down;
So active Boys in windy Gales
Mount Paper Kites with Fiery Tails,

And Guide and Lower 'em by their Strings,
Just as Fanaticks would their Kings.

When Bad Designs had Pious Names,
And Holy Looks hid Tricks and Shams,
And those who seem'd the most Upright,
Turn'd all Religion into Spite,
Would frequently at Church Commune,
And rail against her when they'd done,
As if they only kiss'd the Chalice,
To Whet and Sanctifie their Malice.

When Feuds and Discords did encrease,
And Men lov'd War instead of Peace,
That all sides had their New Inventions,
To Feed and Propagate Contentions.

When Men thro' slavish Fear deny'd
Those Truths they should have Justify'd,
For Int'rest sake themselves deceiv'd
And stood by what they Disbeliev'd;

Affirming Points by dint of Tongue,
Which in their Hearts they knew were wrong;
And acquiesc'd with Solemn Lies,
Invented purely for Disguise,
That False Reports might prove a Blind
To what was wickedly design'd,
And gild the Pois'nous Bitter Pill,
Prepar'd not to Relieve but Kill,
So he that does a fraud intend
First treats the Bubble like a Friend,
That he may gain his Knavish End.
The Bawd puts on a Face devout,
To bring her Base Intrigues about,
And can talk Scripture to betray,
The Pious Maid that's Young and Gay;
The Fox will Bask, and Rowl and Stretch,
To bring his Prey within his Reach:
The Cruel Russian and the Traytor,
The Minute that they stab will flatter,
And Proud Fanaticks Fawn and Bend
When they the greatest Ills intend,

And Preach up Safty to the Throne,
Their Treacherous Hands are Pulling down.

When some were Ruin'd, some Enrich'd
And some 'twixt Pride and Zeal bewitch'd
Others infected with a Spice,
Of Atheism, Craft, and Avarice,
Some stupify'd with Wine and Folly,
Others with Spleen and Melancholly;
Some by the Sourness of their Natures,
Perverse and Headstrong Jarring Creatures;
Others by Education spoil'd,
Too Hot and Furious, or too mild,
That most were of some Fruits attainted,
Whether bedevil'd or befainted.

'Twas then the very Dregs or Arse
Of all the Jarring Universe,
Spew'd out of Alleys, Jayls and Garrets,
Grown sturdy with Neckbeef and Carrots;
Some liquor'd well with Foggy Ale,
Others with Glorious Mild and Stale;

Informers, Lab'rors, Brothel-Keepers,
Pimps, Panders, Thieves and Chimney-Sweepers,
And all the rest oth' Heath'nish Race
That do our Grand Processions grace;
More Mad, worse Savage Brutes at best,
Than the Wild Herd the Dev'l possest
And more portentous when they rise,
Than blazing Comets in the Skies,
Unletter'd, Rascally and Base,
A Kingdoms Danger and Disgrace,
The High-born Traitor's noisy Tools,
Govern'd by neither Laws or Rules,
Always by others Craft betray'd
To Ills behind the Curtain laid,
To Mischief by their Stars inclin'd,
Deaf to Advice, to Danger Blind,
Forward and Furious in Extreams,
Fearless of Life, or loss of Limbs,
And lavish of Destructive Pains,
To do Bad Work for Little Gains,
This Monstrous Rout so Loose and Idle,
A Paradox, a perfect Riddle,

To those for whom their Love's most warm,
They always do the Greatest Harm,
And often serve by their Commotions
The Side that feels their Persecutions;
And when they mean to use them Ill,
Do good to those they would despoile
Against their Knowledge and their Will.
Thus oft the Service they intend
Deserves the Curses of their Friend,
And their Revenge much Thanks from those
They Sack and Plunder as their Foes.

When Liberty they loudly cry
Some hidden Danger's always nigh,
And when they're suffer'd most to use it,
They're in the fairest way to lose it.
Justice if e'er th' attempt to shew it,
By Means Unjust they always do it;
Disguise their Ills in Agitation,
With loud Huzza's of Reformation;
And when their Violence runs most high
Mod'ration is their only Cry:

So Rebels do for Peace declare,
When bent to raise a Civil-War,
And cry God save the Church and Crown,
Whilst rushing on to pull 'em down.

When all Sides had their Raving Fits,
And in their Turns grew Bedlamites;
Whilst Foaming Authors of Renown,
Spread New-Infection up and down;
And poison'd Others by their Writings,
As Mad-dogs by their Frothy Bitings,
'Twas then, I say, the Magazine
Of Pow'r who long had silent been;
Mov'd by their Blazing Zeal arose
And happen'd thro' Mistake, God knows,
To deem their Pious Friends their Foes,
Who long had dignify'd the Croud
With Pow'r Supream to make them Proud;
Appeal'd to these their S--- Brutes,
As the best Judge of all Disputes;
And that the Wise Imperial Throng,
Like Papal Chair, could do no Wrong,

But were, as Nob declares in spite,
By dint of Number always Right.

These Mighty Lords, the Gracious Rabble
Who Reign'd long since as Kings of Babel;
Where Jarring Tongues such Discord bred,
That one scarce knew what t'other said,
And angry Heav'n was pleas'd to pour
Confusion round that Lofty Tow'r,
Having of late imbib'd such Notions,
As warranted their vile Commotions;
They thought without Offence they might
Assemble to assert their Right,
And in an awful Manner shew 'em
Their Pow'r who gave it first unto 'em;
So he that when he makes a Feast,
For Friends, inebriates his Guest,
And gives them with an Ill Design
Too great a Plenty of his Wine;
If they Run Mad, and Spew and Spoil
His Parlour, and his Goods defile;

He that first made their Brains so dizzy,
Should bear their Rudeness and be easy.

So he that will entrust a Sword,
With him that's Frantick and Untow'rd,
And then prvoke him, ought to feel,
The Sharpness of the pointed Steel.

These Tuchinites, our Mighty Lords,
According to that Sage's Words,
Arm'd with a Magazine of Power,
Assign'd them by the fam'd Reviewer;
Aspiring in their Noble Thought,
Above the Laws as they'd been taught,
Presum'd to make a Street Convention
To prosecute some new Intention;
The bolder Hero's first began,
Near an Old Ditch, their wise Divan;
Where leaning o'er the Rails they stood,
Consulting Ancle-deep in Mud;
Where Dung-boats sail'd in Dirty Streams,
Beneath their Noses, from the Thames,

Which kindly mix'd with Common-shoars,
As nasty as the Neighb'ring Wh***s.

Here Leathern Approns, Tatter'd Frocks,
With Faces black as Chimny-stocks,
And Raggamuffins who would cut,
For a small Booty Purse or Throat;
Were from their Lousy Huts crept out,
To joyn the bold Lanarian Rout;
Whose Greasy Rags and Brimless Hats,
Were half devour'd by Hungry Rats;
Yet what Remains of Hat they'd left,
Were useful, tho' of Brims bereft;
Adorn'd their Noddles in their Freaks,
At Night were made their Candlesticks.

When this wild Frape, to Mischief free;
The Sons of Blood and Cruelty;
Well arm'd with Oaken Stick and Club,
The Scepters of the Sovereign Mob,
In Loud Huzzas proclaim'd their Coming,
On Stalls and Bulks with Truncheons Druming;

St. Bridget's Lesser Mob advanc'd to meet 'em,
And did with equal Clamour greet 'em;
Much Joyful Madness was exprest,
As if they now were highly blest,
To see their furious Noisy Throng,
So wild, so num'rous and so strong.

When thus according to their Mind,
They all were in one Body Joyn'd;
And equally possest with Devils,
Were ready for the worst of Evils;
Their Helborn Leaders then thought fit,
To call a Council in the Street;
That they might Form some new Example,
More startling than to burn a Temple;
And hammer some Dark Project out,
Worthy of such a daring Rout;
For all Joynt Bodies whether wise,
And Just as Senates who despise,
A Sorded Act, and scorn to break
The Rules they give, or Laws they make,

Or whether Headstrong Wicked Elves,
All aim at what's most like themselves;
For Men of High or Lower Station,
In spite of Wise Ratiocination;
Like less intelligible Creatures,
Pursue the Dictates of their Natures.

And tho' we only walk erect,
Look upwards and are Heav'ns Elect;
And boast our standing on no more
Than two Legs, yet when arm'd with Pow'r,
We prove worse Brutes than those with Four.

After some Whispers pass'd about,
Among the Captains of the Rout,
And those of lower Rank had chose,
Indentur'd Cit in Antick Cloths,
To be their Gen'ral for the Day,
Commission'd by a loud Huzza;
Whose Rakish Impudence prefer'd,
The Hopeful Youth to lead the Herd;

That e'ery Pace the Rake might be
The nearer to the fatal Tree,
Or some more violent Destiny.

Thus those that sit in Peace above,
And pour their Vengeance and their Love,
As they see Just, on Human Race,
Crown some with Wealth, give others Grace;
Do oft Decree the Man of Spite,
To perish in his own Delight;
So he that's guided by his Lust,
Dies by the Vice he loves the most.

When thus the bold Infernal Crow,
Had fix'd the Ills they mean'd to do;
And chose a true Unthinking Leader,
Whose Hot-brain'd Fury knew no Tedder;
Tow'rds Good St. Dunstan then they stood,
And turn'd their Arse on Old King Lud,
Now like the Gad'ret Herd of Swine,
They Ran to forward their Design,

As if they were alike possest,
And could not for the Devil Rest.

Had Hell's Poor Pris'ners snap'd their Chains,
To fly from their Incessant Pains;
And frighting Cerb'rus from the Gate,
Resum'd on Earth their Mortal State;
The 'nfernal Mansions scarce could Spew,
Among us, such another Crew.

Tatter'd and Torn they all appear'd,
And look'd as if no God they fear'd;
But Mad as Bedlamites in Straw,
Despis'd both Heav'n, and Humane Law;
With loud Huzzas they Rent the Skies,
And fill'd the Neighb'ring Streets with Noise;
Put Pious Dames besides their Wits,
And frighted Children into Fits;
Made the Saints tremble at their Cries,
To think at such a time as this;
That after so much Reformation,
Such Brutes should still infest the Nation;

But let us take what Pains we Can,
And use the utmost Art of Man:
Nettles will still grow up to spite us,
I'th' fruitful Gardens of the Righteous;
And the same Fertile Land that Bears
Good Corn, will cherish Weeds and Tares.

CANTO II. A. Continuation of the foregoing Subject.

When the Rude Vulgi thus were met,
And e'ery Moment grew more Great;
Gath'ring fresh Succour to their Throng,
Like Snowballs when they're rowl'd along;
Among which never thinking Croud,
'Twas held a Vertue to be loud;
Whilst here a Shove, and there a Blow,
For Common Jests, pass'd to and fro;
So when the Horned Herd to feed,
Are turn'd into the Fertile Mead;
They Gallup, cock their Tails and Roar,
And growing wild each other Goar.

Now, at the Rabble's great Command,
Each Coach was forc'd to make a stand;
And many tho' of lofty Station,
Submit to their Examination;
And with the Patience of a Job,
Obey their S--- L--- the Mob;
Who now grown mad 'twixt Nob and Tipple;
Declar'd themselves to be the People,
Who had by Natures Law a Right,
To do whate'er themselves thought fit;
So Rebels, when successful grown,
Will Brave and Dare the very Throne;
And rigidly exert their Pow'r,
O'er those that govern'd them before.

As the Rude Rabble now encreas'd,
In various Raggs and Tatters Dress'd;
And tow'rds the Rooks Old College drew,
More Wild and Insolent they grew;
No Gang of Sailors stept on Shoar,
To see some strapping Wappen Whore,

Could in their Frantick Actions better
Express the Freaks of Savage Nature;
Than did the loud tremendous Brood,
Whose Bell'wings seldom bode much Good
Each frighted Dog their Fury felt,
With being either Dock'd or Gelt;
And stubborn Posts were made to Reel,
By Bangs and Knocks they could not feel.
So Men provok'd to Indignation,
By others who despise their Passion:
Discharge their Fury when they're Vex'd,
On Stocks or Stones or what comes next.

When thus the bold Infernal Swarm,
Were boiling-hot for any Harm;
'Twas then a certain Soul Physician,
Just fall'n into a bad Condition,
By vent'ring thro' his Over Zeal,
To probe a Wound he could not Heal;
Was therefore question'd if his Balsam,
Were Stale and Naught, or Good and Wholsome,

Which he'd apply'd so piping Hot,
To Brethren that approv'd it not.

It hap'ning that these weighty Matters,
Between the Doctor and his Betters;
By this time having spread among,
Th' Original of Pow'r the Throng:
To whom the Two Wise Observators,
Those grumbling Twins of Regulators;
And all the Saints of Modern date,
So often have appeal'd of late,
And made thereby, the Frantick Croud,
So Pert, so insolent and Proud;
That our new S--- L--- the Rabble,
Thought they'd a Native Right to Squabble
At all times, on behalf of those,
Their Zeal inclin'd them to espouse,
Believing they had Pow'r sufficient
Giv'n 'em long since by the Omniscient;
To rightly Judge without the Laws,
The Person, or his doubtful Cause:

And therefore might, when set upon't,
Their Lawful Governorus Confront.
These empty Notions and Conceits,
Quite turn'd the wav'ring Rabble's Wits;
And made the slaving useful Creatures,
Grow Proud and Saucy to their Betters;
So Mastiffs kept within our Yards,
Prove safe and serviceable Guards;
But if we suffer them to mount
The Pails, on e'ery light Account;
They'll grow too Headstrong by Degrees,
And Tare and Worry whom they please.

The Rabble, rather Brutes than Men,
Curs'd ab Origine from Cain;
B'ing thus assembl'd in the Street,
For any Sport or Mischief fit;
Whether by some obscure Direction,
Or guided by their own Affection;
The Giddy, Wild, Unthinking Herd,
Resolv'd to be the Doctor's Guard;

And headlong to his Levi Run,
Well arm'd with Club instead of Gun,
And there attended his approach;
T'Huzza him loudly to his Coach.

The Doctor much amaz'd to see,
The Rabble of their Love so free,
Well knowing such unwelcome Kindness,
Caus'd by intemp'rate Zeal or Blindness;
Or by some buisy Faction ment,
To Irritate the Government;
Gave to the Mob a sharp Reproof,
And wisely thought that Thanks enough;
For the Rude Hollows of a Rout,
He had much rather been without;
So forward Fools will Friendship offer,
To Persons that despise their Proffer
Thro' Prudence, not Ingratitude,
Because forc'd Kindnesses are rude.

However all the Rough Perswasions,
The soft Entreaties and Orations;

The Sober Arguments and Prayers,
That Man could use to Wilful Bears;
Could not prevail upon the Rout,
To stop their Course, and face about;
For Captain Tom of this Fam'd City,
Joyn'd with his Mob are High and Mighty;
Too Wise, too Headstrong, and too Bold,
To be Advis'd, or yet Controul'd;
And like stern Tyrants will Postpone,
All others Measures, to their own.
So Girls that lay their Baits to catch
Some Youth that's not a Proper Match;
If Friends will not their Choice approve,
The more they're Check'd the more they Love.

Thus did the Priest in Triumph Ride,
With Legions shouting by his side;
Punish'd with the untimely Cry,
In spite of Low Church, High Church High;
Which startling Noise, like Winters Thunder,
Fill'd many List'ning Ears with Wonder;

So unexpectedly to find,
The S--- People thus unkind;
Who had so long been sooth'd and flatter'd,
H---ly'd, Review'd, and Observator'd,
And tempted by a Thousand Arts,
To stamp Mod'ration in their Hearts;
Yet that at last upon a Pinch,
They from their Good old Friends should flinch
Who us'd to treat them with whole Barrels
Of Ale, to back them in their Quarrels;
Encourage them long since to Swarm;
Round such that meant the Nation Harm;
And spur'd them on to stand by those,
Who durst to be their Monarch's Foes;
And that they now should hang an Arse,
Or vary from their wonted Course;
Forget Their Favours and Caresses,
Who, by Extreams, and warm Excesses;
Had brought their B---s to a C---s;
Such black Ingratitude must vex,
The G---y and their C---e perplex;

Provoke the mildest S--- to Swell,
And fret and fume like Bottle Ale.

But those who do alas depend,
Upon the Mob to stand their Friend;
And found Dominion not in Grace,
But in the wav'ring Populace;
Must find sometimes the giddy Swarm,
Instead of Good, will do 'em Harm,
And like the Snake exert their Pow'r,
On those that cherish'd them before;
So Rusty Guns if charg'd too high,
Recoil when fir'd, and backward fly,
On those who oft have kill'd their Game,
And sported freely with the same.

There's no Dependance on a Rude,
Destracted giddy Multitude;
Who to each Party's Mutual Sorrow,
Are high to Day, and low to Morrow;
And by an old Tumultuous sort
Of Justice, which they make their Sport.

Turn Foes to whom they have been Friends,
To make the suff'ring side amends;
That those who laugh'd aloud at first,
At last may chance to come by th' worst;
And those have vice versa next,
A turn to Laugh who first were vext;
Thus 'tis the mode in these our days,
To spit our Venom diff'rent ways;
And so by opposite Extreams,
Persuant to our Envious Whims;
Express, according to the Fashion,
Our Spite, by way of Moderation.

So the sweet Babe of Early Wit,
To please Mamma does Daddy beat,
Then lest the Dad the Brat should blame,
It stroaks Pappa, and beats the Man;
Thus are the Infant Rabble taught,
To vex this Party Humour that;
And learn from Father and from Mother,
To please all sides, one after t'other.

When these, the Dregs of Humane Race,
By Nature stubborn Fierce and Base,
Had forc'd themselves without Reward,
Or Thanks, to be the Doctor's Guard;
Attended on him all the Day,
And brought him back with loud Huzza;
Expressing their immod'rate Joys,
In Josles, Scuffles, Shouts and Cries,
And Resolutions to defend,
The Rev'rend Champion to the End;
Who was much troubl'd and surpiz'd,
But could not help what he despiz'd.

So brave Men oft are forc'd to bear,
Those Flatt'ries they abhor to hear;
And humour noisy Crouds they hate,
To back the Policy of State.

E'er Light was spent the Boist'rous Flock,
Convey'd the Pensive Shepherd back;

In such wild Pomp that was unknown,
To those who wear the Sacred Gown;
That no Heroick Royal Victor,
Usurper, Gen'ral or Protector;
Could e'er be plagu'd in their Processions,
With louder Shouts and Acclamations;
As if the loose unchristian Race,
Who'd long been destitute of Grace;
Were now reform'd, and would declare,
To all the Town what Church they were;
In hopes their sanctify'd Pretences,
Would Varnish o'er their Vile Offences;
Or that it might the better Skreen,
Some Mist'ry that was hid therein;
So Jilts wed those they ne'er affected,
Purely t'intrigue the less suspected;
And that the Spouse may bear the Blame,
Of what's transacted by his Dame.

As soon as the Promiscuous Rout,
Had giv'n the Priest a Parting Shout;

And lodg'd their Fav'rite, they withdrew,
Some new Adventure to Persue;
Leaving the Thoughtful Guide to Ponder;
On those Afflictions he was under;
When of that noisy Clamour eas'd,
With which he had so long been teas'd;
So when a Prince has done great Feats,
And rides in Triumph thro' the Streets;
Tho' Farthing Candles please his Sight,
And the loud Mob his Ears delight;
He's glad, when all the Pomp is past,
To find he's got safe Home at last.

CANTO III. On the Mob's pulling down Doctor B---'s Meeting-house.

Th' Infernal Brood being now abroad,
Not Eas'ly to be tam'd or aw'd;
But like the Dev'l in a Passion,
Rais'd by unskilful Conjuration;
Must if they once have got their Head,
B' imploy'd before they can be laid;
Accordingly with Zeal as hot,
As Broth in boiling Porridge-Pot;
When the Fat leaps into the Fire,
And makes the Liquor boil the higher;
After some little Consultation,
Which way or how to vent their Passion;
Whether on him who'd crown'd the Rabble,
To make the Sov'reign Pow'r a Bauble;

And labour'd like a Tom-a-doodle,
To place the Rump above the Noddle,
Or whether they should steer their Course;
And exercise their Evil Force
On him that used much Malediction,
Against a Brother in Affliction;
And like a True-Blew Moderator;
Would Hang him first, and Try him a'ter;
But one, a leader of the Brutes,
To put an end to all Disputes;
Held forth a little to the rest;
And thus in short his Mind exprest.

Should we, like Giddy Fools, Despite
The Priest that does assert our Right;
And gives us Title to Confront
Our Kings, and call them to Account.
To our own Friends we should be rude,
And treat them with Ingratitude;
No, should we prove so rashly blind,
They'd dash it in our Dish you'd find,

And say, as Pow'der in a Flame,
Blew up the Monk that mix'd the same;
So we have made the Priest our Sport,
That gave us Pow'r to do the hurt.

These Arguments convinc'd the Rout,
And made the Scoundrels face about;
Who in a Fury Westward ran,
In quest of such another Man;
Who did thro' Providence escape,
The Rage of the Misjudging Frape;
So that with base unhallowed Hands,
Persuant to the Dev'ls Commands;
Or some curs'd Wretch as bad as he,
That led the vile Mobility;
To the great Shame of Humane Race,
They sack'd the Good Man's Holy Place;
And there, as Fame reports the Matter,
Among his Pews made wicked Slaughter;
Leaving the sacred Conventicle,
Polluted in a shameful pickle;

So Rebels flush'd in Civil Wars,
Who Gallows fear no more than Scars;
To vex the Prince that wears the Crown,
Pull Palaces and Churches down.

The Sacred Fold, b'ing thus defil'd,
And the Flocks, Pens and Hurdles spoil'd;
Wherein the Sheperd's Stiff'neck'd Rams,
And all his pritty Yews and Lambs,
Were by their Good old Nursing Father,
Call'd twice or thrice a Week together;
And Fodder'd e'ery other Day;
With Grace instead of Grass or Hay;
The Mob each laden with their Plunder,
As much as they could well stand under;
Carr'd off the Trophies they had Won
By the bold Hazards they had Run,
And like successful Soldiers flush'd
With Victory away they rush'd,
Into a Neighb'ring Field that there,
They might Refresh in op'ner Air.

And sacrifice their Wooden Spoils,
In hopes their Heath'nish flaming Piles,
Might make Atonement for their Ills;
So Canibals who hold it Good,
To prey on Humane Flesh and Blood,
When they've subdu'd some Wand'ring Wretch,
With Fleshy Chine, and Brawny Britch;
Pick here and there a Bit that's best,
Then offer to the Devil the Rest.

Some who defil'd the Holy Ground,
With sides of Pews their Noddles Crown'd;
Others with here and there a Door,
Whose Heads were only Blocks before;
'Tis therefore to be understood,
They only added Wood to Wood,
And that each Scoundrel had a Skul,
Hard as the Wainscot that he stole,
And e'ery Jot as thick and dull.

Some of the more Revengeful Mob,
Who took the Pulpit for a Tub;

The Sacred Hut in pieces pull'd,
Where Pious D---l oft had loll'd;
And with his Merry Tales diverted,
Despairing Saints half broken hearted;
Who did not Join his Congregation,
Alone for Christian Consolation;
But for the Affable Promotion,
Of Frantick Flirts beside the Cushion;
For tho' perhaps with Thund'ring Voice,
He'd Damn his Hearers twice or thrice,
Yet he'd ne'er fail to treat 'em after,
With a kind healing Mess of Laughter;
So Quacks or Nurses when they give us,
A bitter Potion to relieve us,
Pop something down that's sweet at last,
To carry off the nauseous Tast.

Thus did the Mob's unhallow'd Hands,
The Pulpit turn to Fiery Brands;
And, therefore, to the Flames of Course,
Condemn'd the Pews without Remorse;

As if the Sacred Goods had been,
Made Privy to that Carnal Sin;
Which caus'd the Lady of the House,
Who'd found her Man and Maid too close,
To turn the Lovers out of Door,
And burn the sinful Furniture.

Thus was the Meeting by the Rabble,
Left like Saint Paul's when made a Stable;
The Walls impair'd, the Windows shatter'd,
The Roof and all the Building batter'd;
That now it looks disrob'd of Pews,
And Pulpit, rather like a Stews
Deserted by the Kind and Fair,
Who kept it once in good Repair;
Than like a Meeting, whose Foundation
Stood firm on Rock of Toleration;
And that the Magazine of Pow'r,
Had thus presum'd to pull it lower;
Nor is its suddain Downfal strange,
Since all things upon Earth must Change;

The Strong, the Rich, the Good, the Great,
Must in their Turns submit to Fate,
And holy Places that have been,
Long since the nurseries of Sin;
Perhaps fam'd Dancing Schools before,
May happen to be so once more,
Why not, since sacred Walls by Rebels,
Turn'd heretofore to Barns and Stables;
Are now reform'd from their Abuses,
And so restor'd to Pious Uses.

The Graceless Croud thus carry'd off,
The Good Man's sacred Houshold-stuff;
Wasting his Cordials which they met with
In Vestry Cubboard, kept to whet with;
That e'er he climb'd the Holy Place,
To shed the Drippings of his Grace;
A Coague of some good Houswife's Water,
Might Chear his Spirits, Strengthen Nature,
And make the Guide hold forth the better;
So Pious Matrons when they're past
Intrigue, and grow Devoutly Chast,

Take Drams of Comfort e'ery Day,
As often as they P---ss or Pray;
For most Good Ladies have a Notion,
What warms their Spirits, helps Devotion;
From whence some Saints inclin'd to Fuddling,
Are most Religious when they're Maudling.

Nor did the Rabble spare his Pipes,
Of Mortal Clay, those Brittle Types,
Which often serv'd the Good Old Man,
To Smoak and Moralize upon;
And cool him after two Hours sweating,
With over Pains, and over Prating;
Yet these Rapacious Interlopers,
Turn'd all the crusty Tubes to Stoppers,
And strew'd about the Wicked Weed,
Like Gard'ners when they sow their Seed,
As if they thought it was no Sin,
To ruin what they found therein,
Unless the Fruits of their Abuse,
Should be Carr'd Home to their own Use:

Who came not in such Publick Joy,
To Steal, but only to Destroy;
So Ladies who by seeming Force
Are Ravish'd, think they're ne'er the worse;
Lest they take Mony for their Pains,
And Sin for Mercenary Gains;
Or that they chance to be defil'd,
By getting either Pox or Child;

When each rejoycing Brute had brought
His Trophies to th' appointed Spot;
They cast their Burthens to the Ground,
And with Huzza's their Labour Crown'd,
Believing they had done a Deed,
No prosp'rous Army could exceed;
And that the daring impious Pains
They'd taken for so little Gains;
Deserv'd the thankful Approbation,
Of all Well-wishers to the Nation,
Except the Saints of Toleration.

So Pious Rebels who begun,
The glorious Work of Forty One;

Thank'd Heav'n for all their Hellish Murders,
And Joy'd amidst their vile Disorders,
That Zealous Fools might loudly Praise,
The Work of those Reforming Days;
And think their Wickedness was meant,
T'at length produce some good Event.

In mighty Order now they laid,
The Spoils their Wicked Hands had made;
Pews upon Pews with Art they Pil'd,
That what they'd Plunder'd and Defil'd,
Might first be purify'd by Fire,
And then in Smoak to Heav'n aspire;
As if they thought the Wicked Prize,
They'd stol'n, a pleasing Sacrifice;
So Hodmontots, because their Feasts,
Chiefly consist of Gutts of Beasts;
They think they merit Bliss not Blame;
In off'ring to their Gods the same.

When thus they'd pil'd their Plunder up,
And with the Pulpit crown'd the Top;

As if those Heathens who were nigh it,
Wish'd th' Owner there to Occupy it;
That he and's Meetings-house together,
Might both ascend the Lord knows whether;
And like the Monk to Heav'n aspire,
Against his Will in Smoak and Fire;
So Rebels in Religious times;
When Blood and Theft were thought no Crimes;
With others Lives and Goods made Sport,
Yet meant poor harmless Souls no hurt;
Sought only Profit and Applause,
By pushing on the Good Old Cause.

When thus the Holy Goods they'd spoil'd,
Were into one High Mountain pil'd;
And ready to receive the Fire,
By which th' were destin'd to expire:
A flaming Torch was handed to't,
By some bold Sacrilegious Brute;
Whose Malice no Distinction knew;
Between a Babbin and a Pew;

Or any Difference in his Maggot,
Betwixt a Pulpit and a Faggot;
But thought as long as both would burn,
That both alike might serve their turn;
And make a Bonfire for the Rout,
To Hollow, Sport, and Dance about;
So those who, hating all that's Papal,
Ransack'd the Spanish Popish Chappel;
Made no Distinction in their Malice,
'Twixt Common Silver and the Chalice;
But like a true Reforming Rabble,
Ev'n Plunder'd the Commanion Table.

CANTO IV. On the Mob's Revels round the Bon-fire.

The Sacred Pile b'ing now in Flames,
To th' Grief of many Pious Dames;
Who wept to see the Rabble use,
Their Consecrated Seats and Pews;
Like Crazy Chairs with broken Backs,
And Beadsteads full of Bags and Cracks;
Disabl'd by the sinful Follies,
Of Common Strumpets and their Bullies;
And from some Brothel torn away,
Upon an Easter Holyday;
At such a Merry time to please,
The Cropear'd London 'Prentices;
That they might learn when Young and Bold,
To Mob with better Grace when Old.

Have we, said they, on Powder-Treason,
When Bonfires are the most in Season,
Collected broken Tubs and Hōops,
To burn their Devils, and their Popes;
Supply'd their Wants with thin Old Groats,
To chear their Hearts and wet their Throats;
That they might Revel, Whoop and Hollow,
With more undaunted Zeal when Mellow;
Break Popish Windows where no light,
Appear'd to celebrate the Night;
Stop Coaches, and exact a Fee,
For crying, Down with Popery;
And Worry those that would not stand,
To hear and answer their Demand;
And have they now at last turn'd Tail,
On us that always wish'd 'em well;
And set them up so oft to be,
The Bulwark of our Libertie.

O Shame on this Ungrateful Croud,
The Scandal of the Multitude;

Who never fail'd, we must allow,
To be our faithful Friends till now;
But always readily agreed,
To serve us at a time of Need.

Who'd think that in these Pious Days,
They should be so depriv'd of Grace;
Who always us'd to lend the Nation,
A willing Hand tow'rds Reformation;
And at all Seasons were so free,
To pull down Popish Tyranny.

But now they're sunk into a State,
That's Wicked, Base and Reprobate;
And are no longer to be trusted,
When Matters come to be Adjusted.

By this, alas, it is too Plain,
There is no Confidence in Man;
O Neighbours! Flesh and Blood we see,
Are Wanton, Frail, and Slippery;

And never truly as they shou'd,
Stand long to any Cause that's good;
But soon Draw-back, and fall at length,
For want of Constancy and Strength.

Alas, I'm almost spent, for why,
Much talk has made me wond'rous dray;
If you're not faint, I vow I am,
Here Neighbour, 'tis a Cordial Dram;
E'en let them take their own ill way,
The Wind will turn and so may they.

The sober Brethren too beheld,
With Shaking Heads the Shining Field;
And with full Hearts and flowing Eyes,
Bemoan'd the Burning Sacrifice;
One would cry out in Indignation,
What means this suddain Alteration;
Good L---d who would have though the Rabble;
Were so ingrateful and instable;
Have we for many Reigns together,
Tutor'd and Nurs'd 'em like a Father;

Made them the Curb of Sov'reign Pow'r,
Religion's strong defensive Tow'r;
Taught them by Clamour how to give
A Check to the Prerogitive;
To hunt down Pop'ry when we meant,
To fall upon another Scent;
That is, to Chase the Government:
And can they now O Brutes declare,
For what we know they never were;
And tune their Old Republisk Throats,
To such Prophane ill-boding Notes;
That threaten all we have projected,
With Disappointments unexpected;
So Good Intents in Holy Times,
Of old were often constru'd Crimes;
And by the People set at naught,
When to a hopeful Crisis brought.

Have we bestow'd such Annual Boons,
And Stipends on Apollo's Sons;
Our gifted Brethren of the Pen,
Those Pious, Learn'd and Honest Men;

Who spread their Morals up and down;
In e'ery Corner of the Town,
That those who would Instructions seek,
Might read their Duty e'ery Week;
And o'er their Coffee for a Penny,
Ferment their Zeal in Case they've any;
And grow as wise in State Affairs;
As City Aldermen and Mayors;
That e'ery Novice might be taught;
To tell his Brother Dunce what's what;
And thwart a Man of twice the Sense,
With Modish Noise and Impudence.

And has all this Expensive Pains,
The Cost of Mony and of Brains;
Fix'd no more Justice in the Rabble,
Than if our Prints on Coffee-house Table,
Had been no more than Bibble Babble.

O Brethren! 'tis a Burning Shame,
Our Holy Things should end in Flame;

And that the Seats of our Devotion,
Thro' our Old Friend's Mistaken Notion;
Should thus be Plunder'd and Confounded,
By such a Mob, which if well sounded,
Are not true Cavalier, but Roundhead.

For look ye, Brethren, pray consider,
Altho' they've stretch'd beyond their Tedder;
Perhaps, Poor Lambs, they might revolt
For Int'rest, then it was no Fault;
Because we cannot but allow,
That's a strange Plea, as things go now:
You know sometimes for Interest sake,
We take an Oath we mean to break;
Step a few Yards within the Door
O'th' Church, to gain a Customer;
Submit to th' Sacramental Tye,
When e'er we see good Reason why,
Yet never think we're Bound thereby.

For since the Wicked do agree,
'Tis best for their Security;
To fence their Intrest round about,
With Oaths, to keep the Righteous out;
It always ought to be our Care,
To make a Gap that we may share,
Th' Advantage they would fain ingross,
By keeeping all that's gainful close,
In case we had no Ways to Break,
Or Leap those Fences which they make.

Therefore, as Profit is a Plea,
For all Out-side Conformity;
And Men may Quarrel or Comply,
According as their Int'rests Lie.

On second Thoughts, we should excuse,
The People's playing Fast and Loose;

Provided in the end 'tis found
That Mony made them change their Ground;
For Int'rest cannot be withstood,
By those who're Conscious of their Good;
No more than Wantons can refuse,
Those Pleasures they delight to use.

The End of the Fourth CANTO.