University of Virginia Library

Let creeping Play'rs, whose pliant Fancies can
Sneak to the Devil, and call him Gentleman;
How long has Northern Air so Sovereign been
To purge the Plot, and sanctify a Sin?
'Tis well for England, if at last it find
The Traitor's Noxious Humours left behind,
Which long have been fomented by the Spoil
Of that old-fashion'd honest Fool Argyle,
Who lost a noble Fortune, on pretence
Of a fond thing the Whigs call Conscience.
His Fall, and Thynn's, if rightly understood,
Were only doom'd to flesh the Hounds in Blood.
The Way's chalkt out, tho Fear retard the Blow,
'Tis plain, that once a Rogue and ever so.
Treason's the Gangrene of a mounting Soul,
Which, if not soon cut off, infects the Whole.
Tho Heav'n in Anger sometimes may relieve,
Pardons still do not follow a Reprieve.
Not fell Charibdis, Godwins, and the Ore,
If Fate ordain't, shall keep a Prince from Shoar;
Since he that would by Brother's Blood be crown'd,
Shall (tho in Egg-shell Frigat) ne'er be drown'd.

Which stockt Seraglio's, and rich Grand Viziers,
Th'industrious Tory truck for Officers.
In sober sadness, Sirs, how goes the Price?
Are Sheriffs lately grown good Merchandize?
Sure, Brethren, we may fear the Cause is low,
When you for Cordials unto Turkey go:
When nothing else the desperate Game retrieves,
You'l chuse the City Circumcised Shrieves:
To whom, if you would take Advice from me,
Good Father Elliot should a Chaplain be.
Some Mufties too you might have wafted o're,
But that with B---ps we were stockt before,
High rampant, swearing B---ps, tite and true,
Brisk B---ps, who have their Seraglioes too;
Who'll bid, e'er Ghostly Codpiece find rebuke,
Two hundred pounds a Year above a Duke;
Who, if their Piety were open set,
Are verier Turks than Bishop Mahomet:
Who arm'd with Sword for Pen, and Male for Gown,
With cogent Blows knock reeling Error down.
Had you some Aids of Janizaries got,
Or some bold Troops from the Timariot,
These better would have merited Rewards,
Than all your Ruby-nos'd and Whoring Guards;
Who tho to fight they could not find a Heart,
Most nobly would discharge the plundring Part.
Then we shall get as Loyal Sheriffs, when
The Lousy Regiments are Livery-men.

Now you by Law may freely take a Purse,
For one upon the Bench will vouch it, Sirs.
Claw me, and I'll claw thee; what, he's his Brother!
And one Good-turn, ye know, deserves another:
For that old Fox most prudently decreed
To get a pow'rful Friend in time of need;
That when he Newgate Fate approaching sees,
He may perswade him to refund his Fees;
Or, if they cannot here securely trade,
Sneak back with him, and turn a Renegade.

Poor Tories! have you none but him in store,
Who's now been thum'b so oft he'll hold no more?
Can you provide no better Partner than
An Unbeliever for a Mussulman?
Those are but mungrel Turks (to tell you true)
Who love not Christian better than a Jew;
And, if they will not take a Friend's Advice,
Shall ne'er come into Mahomet's Paradise.

Degenerate London! Slave to Mighty Pelf!
Degenerate London! Stranger to thy Self!
Are these thy Senators? thy Fathers sage?
Sure, if they are, they dote with Gold and Age.
There was, alas! there was a time when we
Esteem'd our Lives below our Liberty;
When, if our dying Country we could save,
We'ad sung on Tombs, & triumph'd on the Grave,
Joyfully fal'n on her beloved Face,
And perish'd in our Mother's dear Imbrace.
That nobler Ardour long ago is fled;
The Slaves are living, and the Heroes dead.
We peep into the Hall, and whoop, and then,
Fools as we went, like Fools come back agen:
For Shrieves, like Larks in falling Skies, we gape,
And dance Attendance on the Courtier's Ape,
Who (poor good-natur'd Soul) can neither have
Honesty for the Fool, nor Wit for Knave.
He's a strange piece of Linsy-Woolsy Ware,
Just such another thing as B---ps are.

When he on lofty Ten-toes did advance,
And thro the Streets on foot-back proudly prance,
Circled around by all the ragged Rout,
Who loud Huzza's, and, Bless your Lordship, shout;
Absent from J---s, H---x, and all
That in his Ears for ever buz and bawl;
Then he his Loyal Carcase did undress,
And unto Ghostly Mother thus confess:

The Work is done, I ought to swear 'em too;
But, O! I shall be chidden if I do.
Some-body terrifies me twice and once,
And frights me with Raw-head and Bloody-bones.
But if I'm good, he calls me Love and Joy,
And tells me, There's my dainty Golden Boy!
Gives me a Pipe and Cart to truckle in,
And strokes my Head, and chucks me under Chin:
And also promis'd the next time he comes,
To bring his Pocket full of Sugar-Plumbs.
Nay, once in Verity he past his Word,
To make my Honourable Knaveship, Lord;
Spight of my Teeth, he made me Truant play,
And to White-Hall kidnap'd my Lord away;
There such paw Words so terribly he sed,
As with strange Proclamations fill'd my Head;
I'll imitate great Lucifer, and be
A Tyrant far more absolute than he,
Who never could a Common-Council call,
Nor domineer like me in Heaven's Guild-Hall;
Nor yet in the Crown-Office put the Stars,
Nor Angels prosecute for Rioters.
Well, if at last I find the House too hot,
And Master J---ry needs must go to pot,
Worst come to th'worst, it only shall be said,
I wisely hang'd my self, to save my Head.

Thus said, on gilded Couches sinking down,
Sleep seiz'd his Corps, and laid his empty Crown.
Thro all the tedious Hours of baleful Night,
Guilt gnaws his Soul with many a gastly Spright.
Disloyal Morpheus did at first present
The horrid Spectre of a Parliament;
Five hundred Heads adorn its mighty Chest,
Millions of Noble Hearts inform the Breast;
Millions of Hands defend the Sacred Throne,
Bravely resolv'd to make its Grave their own:
Poor He at their Tribunal quivering stood,
Guilt lockt his Veins, and Fear congeal'd his Blood;
But what was done or said by him, or these,
I cannot tell you till their Masters please.

The next that gave his Memory a rub,
Were Two produc'd in City Sweating-Tub,
Who that they might appear for North and Box,
Were us'd like rotten Courtiers with a P*x;
Within his Bannio they were forc'd to stay,
Till choak'd with heat, their Souls did melt away;
Bequeathing him the Peoples weighty Hate,
Sure Omen of a far severer Fate.

The next that discompos'd his Lordship's Naps,
Was a whole show'r of dreadful Shoulder-Claps;
Action they still a top of Action pack,
Almost enough to break a Camel's Back;
Hundreds of thousand Pounds! St. J---s defend us,
Or these unconscionable Whigs will end us:
So great a noise these Counter-Devils did keep,
As fright his doughty Lordship out of sleep:
For a Court-Journey he again provides,
Saddles his Cane, and then gets up and rides,
To the Cabal he hastily does go,
Still crying Westminster and Lambeth, hoa.
What there he did, Fanaticks must not tell:
But if you'd know, pray ask Sir Lionel.

Room for the Chap-faln Mouth, or else 'twill swear,
By all the Aps from Saint Cadwallader,
Prute's hur creat Cranfather, if hur enquire,
And Adam's Cranfather was Prutus Sire.
Famous ap Shenkin was hur elder Prother,
Some Caledonian Sycorax hur Mother,
Or some she-Deel more damn'd than all the rest,
At their black Feast hur lustful Sire comprest;
Thence this incarnate Cacodæmon rose,
Whose very Face his Parents Image shows:
His Shape was all inhuman, and uncouth,
But yet he's chiefly Devil about the Mouth.
With care they nurs'd the Brat, for fear it shou'd
Grow tame, and so degen'rate into good;
With City Charters him they wrapt about,
And Acts of Parliament for Swadling-Clout.
As he grew up, he won a Noble Fame,
Well worthy of the Brood from whence he came;
Cherishing Spite, and hugging Discord fell,
He was the best-beloved Brat of Hell.
Oft with Success this Mighty Blast did bawl,
Where loudest Lungs and longest Swords win all;
And still his clenched Arguments did end
With that home thrust, He is not Cæsar's Friend.
Sometimes, that jaded Ears he might release,
Good Man! he has been fee'd to hold his Peace.
Hear him, but never see him, and you'd swear
He was the Cryer, not the Counsellor.
He roars, as if he only chanc't to find
Justice was now grown deaf as well as blind.
This demy Fiend, this Hurricane of Man,
Must shatter London's Glory (if he can?)
This Engineer must with his forked Crown
For Battering Ram, beat all her Bulwarks down.
And him our prudent Prætor wisely chose
To splutter Law, and the dinn'd Rabble pose;
They have a thousand Tongues, yet he can roar
Far louder, tho they had a thousand more.
Unto long-winded Cook he scorns to go,
But pleads, His Majesty will have it so.
Counsel alone, for such a Client fit,
As fam'd for Honesty as he for Wit.

Well, quoth Sir G. the Whigs may think me rude,
Or brand me guilty of Ingratitude;
At my Preferment they (poor Fools) may grudg,
And think me fit for Hangman, more than Judg;
But tho they fret, and bite their Nails, and bawl,
I'll slight them, and go kiss dear Nelly Wall.
Dalila is to Court return'd, and I,
Blest with her Influence, all the World defy;
I'm made, whilst Sampson wantons in her Lap:
Such Favorites are Wh**s, so charming is a Clap.

But hold! what makes the gaping Many run?
Is France defeated? or, is Rome undone?
Is Portsmouth Nun, or Kate a Mother grown?
Will conscientious Comyn swear for none?
Have Poets quite forgot to smooth, and glose,
And lead admiring Cullies by the Nose?
Have we a War with Monsieur, Peace with Spain,
Or, have we got a Parliament again?
All in good time, when Heav'n & Charles shall please.
But 'tis a Wonder greater far than these:
Were not our Shreeves the greatest Sots alive,
To question my Lord Mayor's Prerogative,
Who is (if all that Tories say be true)
The wisest Lord that ever London knew?
And aided by some musty Laws, dispute
With him that is, or would be, Absolute.
Tho that's (if due to one) to One alone,
Unless the Hustings could commence a Throne.
Rave whilst they will, he'l make the City stay;
Because 'tis Great and Lordly to Delay.
Our Pleasure is, that you no longer sit,
But go, and meet again when We think fit.
When Will and Pleasure could not ought prevail,
Away he trots to tell the woful Tale.
On Marrow-bones he sadly begs for pity;
Pray, Sir! I can't be quiet for the City.
They hunch, and punch, and hit me many a Pat,
And throw one down, and dirt one's Bever-Hat.
Th'uncomplaisant Phanaticks neither care
For sage Sir J**n, nor L. nor M**r, nor M*a*r.
Wo to the naughty Boy that's such a noddy,
T'abuse him who says nothing to no body.
The Shreeves must come, and in one live-long hour,
Præsto, they'r conjur'd into' enchanted Tower:
But four small Devils did hoist 'em on their backs;
Behold the Policy of Hallifax:
Who makes the Protestants Devotion thus,
From Hell, and Hull, and Him, deliver us.
That Sham won't take, Sir; for what e'er you do,
We know our Strength, but know our Duty too.
At these fine little Tricks of State we laugh;
For such old Birds are seldom caught with Chaff.
Yet tho whole droves of Locusts you provide,
With ten and twenty Regiments beside;
Tho they shou'd batter down our Towers & Walls
(As once before) with Teuxbury Mustard Balls;
We've Noble Hearts dare leap into a Flame,
With a bold Traitor's Blood to quench the same,
With parting Breath curse all the Friends to Rome,
And in some Temple's Ruins find a Tomb.

Nor you Familiars shall forgotten be,
Altho unworthy of my Verse and Me;
You who that Honourable Fool command,
And finely manage him by slight of hand.
Billy look to't, e'er Parliament come on
Let you and Neighbour Jemmy get you gon.
Rouse up ye Tories of the Factious Age,
Implicit Clappers to the Bawdy Stage:
Du---b's an Ass to think these mighty Men
Would take such store of pains for Nine or Ten;
When your dear Patrons to Preferment rise,
Moloch must have a larger Sacrifice;
Hundreds of Hecatombs shall grace his Shrine,
Whilst you huzza in Blood instead of Wine;
Whilst from their holes the Waspish Whigs you burn,
And every Sign-post to a Gibbet burn.
Degenerate Albion! Ah! is this thy Son?
This thy degenerate Off-spring, Albion!
Canst thou without a Cloud of Blushes see
The Follies of thy spurious Progeny?
Is not the Man a Hero, bold and brave,
That damns his Race, & dooms his Grandchild Slave?
Does not our Loyal Lord deserve to pass,
For what he is indeed, a Loyal Ass?
Are not our dearest Friends, the plodding Whigs,
Old Dogs at Politicks and State-Intrigues,
Who split again upon the self-same Shelves,
And sweat to twist a Rope to hang themselves?
One would have thought the Port wherewith he goes,
And Chain and all, enough to fright his Foes!
'Tis true, he scorns to fear, or take Affront,
But looks as big as Bully Rodomont.
For who the Valour and the Force can tell,
That waits upon the Name of Colonel?
But yet to curb Fanaticks Discontent,
Guards must be drawn up ready to present;
Yet tho he's so courageous, he's so wise,
That none but Friends know where his Valour lies.
Poor Soul-less thing! alike contemn'd and curst,
By some Court-sneaking Devil inform'd at first,
Under what sickly Planet wer't thou born,
Doom'd at thy Birth thy Nation's Plague and Scorn?
Did sullen Saturn rule the sooty Sky,
Or frowning Mars his Car run rumbling by?
No Manlike Power would then vouchsafe to sway,
Some Woman-God usurp'd th'unlucky Day;
Unconstant Luna's Force did then prevail
In close Conjunction with the Dragon's Tail.
Poor Soul-less thing! thee cross-grain'd Nature gave,
To make the Land a Scourge, the Court a Slave;
Thy Country's Bane, the States-man's Wooden-Tool,
More Fool than Knave, and yet more Knave than Fool.
Like farting Pythia, thou art nothing else
But a mere Trunk to Satan's Oracles:
Still mayst thou live, but live in fear and pain,
And live to see a Parliament again.

Ah, too too happy London! didst thou know,
And bless the Arm Divine that made thee so;
Planted by Heav'n in a Luxuriant Soil,
The Paradise of all this fruitful Isle;
With Air-invading Turrets proudly crown'd,
With Thames's ouzy Arms begirt around,
With Silver Thames, who smooths his Aged Face
When hasting to his Darling's dear Embrace;
Bearing the Traffick of the home-spun West,
As a Love-token to adorn her Breast.
On his proud Neck he takes the irksome Chain,
And still rolls back to kiss her Shores again;
Indulgent Mothers so, long Tales will tell,
And give their parting Sons a long Farewel!
The gentle Naiads for her Sight prepare,
And in their Chrystal Mirrour curl their Hair;
Their purling Streams, and bubling Rills advance,
And round the Sedges deckt with Osiers dance.
Their Brooks and Ponds of skaly Subjects drain,
For Presents to enrich their Soveraign;
The stately Nereids with the swelling Tide,
Rich Freights from all the Universe provide,
Whate'er of Rarities the East can shew,
With all the glittering Intrails of Peru;
Cargoes of Myrrh and Frankincense they bring,
And Pearls and Diamonds for an Offering:
And when a Storm is rais'd, to make their Peace,
E'en their own Corals and their Amber grease:
Nor yet this Cabinet, tho bright, had been
Admir'd, but for the nobler Gems within;
Not all the Indies Charms enough can find
To please and satisfy a Vertuous Mind.
For Wealth without our Liberties would be
But painted Chains, and gilded Slavery;
To make her Happiness compleat and whole,
The Gods inspir'd her with a generous Soul;
Her Free-born Off-spring still was great and brave,
Too low for Rebel, but too high for Slave;
Who both of Right and Duty sense did feel,
And could Bow low, but rather burst than Kneel.
Amongst this purer Wheat some Tares did breed,
Some Cockle, and encroaching Darnel Seed;
A vip'rous Brood, who smiling Poison give
To those indulgent Friends who made 'em live;
Cut out for France, or some ignobler Place,
Where Tyrants Chains are counted no disgrace.
Nature found Stuff for Men, and wrought it right,
But Heaven denies to give a Human Sprite.
Some Sparks of Fire she like Prometheus stole,
And wanting better, gave a Chicken's Soul;
Or what did by late Transmigration pass
From some contented Slave, or golden Ass.
These (Bleeding London) all thy Bliss destroy,
These stab thy Hopes, and murder all thy Joy:
These not content with what themselves could do,
To please the Devil, would damn their Neighbours too.
But thou (great Charles!) whose glorious Wain dos rove
Round our Horizon, next to none but Jove,
With Royal Goodness hear their humble Suit,
Who fain would love thee, if thou'dst let 'em do't;
I beg no Favour, I expect no Bays,
Bare Truth gets Frowns, gilt Lyes have Coin and Praise;
Could I the Art of thy great Laureat win,
To wash a Moor, or blanch a blacker Sin,
Then might I nobly swear and whore in State,
And e'en bid fair for Wealth in spite of Fate;
But tho my thredbare Muse would fain be trying,
Yet all, like him, have not the Gift of Lying.

Oh, hear thy bleeding Subjects Groans & Sighs,
If not their Tongues, yet hear their flowing Eyes;
Pity their too well-grounded Griefs and Fears,
Mov'd by the silent Rhetorick of their Tears:
O let the charming Devil tempt on in vain,
Appear thy self, and break th'ignoble Chain;
Shake the Court Ear-wiggs from thy pester'd Throne,
Shake off thy little Kings, and reign alone:
So mayst thou see thy Flatterers fall, and see
Those that are Friends to Law are Friends to thee;
So mayst thou bring poor England glad Relief,
To right her Wrongs, and banish all her Grief:
Till crown'd with Suns and Beams of peaceful Day,
Attendent Angels thee to Bliss convey;
Thither tho late (late let it be) remove,
And change this Diadem for one more bright above.
May thy surviving Image ever be
(If possible) as much belov'd as Thee.
May After-ages his great Sons admire,
For England's Darlings and the World's Desire;
For sworn eternal Foes to France and Rome,
In a long, long Succession down to th'day of Doom.