University of Virginia Library

Thus I in Temple-Cloysters walking,
O're heard a Man t' himself a talking:
But if for Lye you this will Chalk;
At least I thought he thus would talk;
For by a Discontented Phiz,
One sometimes reads a Thought which lies,
Full Fifteen Fathom under Water:
If this is false, thank Erra Pater
For in his Book, the Fourteenth Chapter,
About an Astrological Rapture,
He says,—But why do I thus strive
To tell you what you wont believe?
But I my self being somewhat curious,
Did follow this Old Huncks Penurious,
Through Streets, Lanes, Alleys and By-ways,
More than are found in Stow's Surveys,
Traversing almost as much Ground,
As on New-Market Heath is found,
Leading me such a dainty jaunt,
As if one on an Errand sent,
Missing his way, which did not hap well,
Should go by Lambeth to White-Chappel;
How'ere at last, in Lane of Fetter,
Than which, there is not many better,
In Magpye-court, or Yard, or Alley,
For which 'twas, Faith, I cannot tell ye,
He stopt at Door, which stood at jar,
And whisp'ring softly in the Ear,
Of one whose looks declar'd Suspicion,
Receiv'd into the House Admission:
I seeing this, with Confidence,
Whate're might be the consequence,
Went boldly up, and gave the Sign,
(The Word I mean) and so got in;
But by their jealous Looks and Eyes,
I plainly read their strange Surprize,
To see one to their Meeting come,
Whom they believ'd was none of Them;
They Star'd—and I forgot to Blush,
But boldly to the midst I rush,
And sate me down upon a Hassock,
Expecting Clergy-man in Cassock,
That Holy Smith who blows the Coals
Of Discontent, and Saves their Souls,
By telling them that no Salvation
Can be to Men of Abdication,
And that a Hell is still appointed
For those resist the Lord's Anointed.
But he, it seems, was not come yet,
But staid behind to take a Whet
Of White Wine, in a brimming Taster,
In Mem'ry of his Absent Master,
Which might his Spirits better quicken;
But now the Plot begins to Thicken,
Folks to the Place in Clusters Trolling,
(As Snow-balls gather by their Rolling,
So fast, altho the Room was Large,
'T was cram'd as full as Gravesend Barge,
'Tho different Sexes, different Ages,
(For some were Youths and some were Sages)
Made up this private Congregation,
Yet Envy, Discontent and Passion,
In Face of every one appear'd,
Both of smooth Chin and grisly Beard,
As plain as is the Light in Phœbus,
When he Looks down on Mortal Rebus.
Nor could the grinning smile conceal
The Passions, which in Breast they feel,
As if these People took delight,
Only to wait on God for Spite;
Soft buzzing Whispers fill the Room,
And into close Committees, some
Retire, to give their Thoughts a Vent,
And Drevil forth their Discontent,
Which Poyson, as the one spits forth,
The other Licks it up, in Troth.
A Man perceiving of a Dry Nod,
Came to a little Private Synod,
Or Junto, which was just behind me,
To prate they fall, and did not mind me;
But not in words so soft and Butter'd,
But I could hear each word they Vtter'd;
Quoth one, I wonder what a Devil
Should make the Parliament so civil,
Such Taxes on the Land to Draw,
We must make Bricks, yet have no Straw;
If they go on, 'tis plain and clear,
The French, which we so idly fear,
As soon will make Descent on Finland,
As e're Attempt to Land in England.
Within three years we shall become
The Poorest State in Christendom;
All Nations will on us be Pissing,
And we become the Scorn and Hissing,
Of all the Kingdoms which are known,
'Twixt us and Land of Prester John.
Besides, the Mony which is Rais'd
Pays not the English, God be Prais'd;
No, poor contented Villains, they
Must venture on, yet have no Pay,
Except a little small Subsistance,
A very trifling small Assistance,
Just to keep Life and Soul together,
Against the force of Wind and Weather,
Whilst Brandenburgers, Danes and Dutchmen,
Sweeds, Germans, and all other such Men,
Are duly paid off to a Penny,
And long Arrears they have not any.
You speak the very truth on't Neighbour,
Replies his Friend (with Thought in Labour
To be Deliver'd of some Matter,
Which sore opprest his Pia Mater)
If our forefathers were complaining,
That Rome was still their Purses Draining;
By Peter's Pence, and such Taxation,
How just are now the Cries o'th' Nation?
Four Shillings first in every Pound,
Did fine Estates most largely wound,
(Estates as well as Bodies needing,
For their Healths sake a timely Bleeding)
The Double Excise, which all men reckon'd,
To hold but one year, lasts a Second,
And it may still for ought that we know,
Till Day of Judgment so continue;
But that which was the topping sole Act
Of the last Sessions, was the Poll Act,
Where each man must, or nill, or willing,
For's Head, pay quarterly a Shilling,
When most Mens Brains in Head which rest, Sir,
Are hardly worth a single Tester;
But 'tis much better sure in one sense
To Pay for Head, than Pay for Conscience,
For Faith I should be very loth
To Pay Two pounds or take an Oath.
The Oaths!—As soon I'de swallow Ratsbane,
Or any other Poyson that's Bane,
(Rejoyns a third) O 'bomination,
What swallow down my own Damnation;
A Butter'd Hedg-hog I could better
Digest, than of the Oaths a Letter.
But pray what News have y' in the City?
Sure matters there go very pretty,
And Guineas into Guild-hall go,
As if our Land were Mexico,
Or as each Merchant there a Dweller,
Had found a Golden Mine in's Celler:
Well, if their Faith for things above,
Like that for things below, does prove,
'Tis Ten to One, and Two to Eleven,
They all of them will meet in Heaven.
They say the King and all his Allies,
(Speaks a fourth Man amongst these fellows)
Intend, as folk's report most true is,
To pull down Pride of Mighty Lewis,
And William for a Wager carries
His Arms into the Heart of Paris,
And of the strange Opinion some are,
That all this must be done this Summer:
Well, they may please their idle Fancies,
With such like Tales and State Romances;
But I believe they'l find more Odds,
Than Giants did that Fought with Gods;
Alas, their mighty Preparations,
Made of the Scum of several Nations,
Are not to France so Formidable,
As are to Us a City Rabble;
You'll find their Mighty Hopes Defeated,
And They most miserably Cheated.
Hold, let's forbear our idle Tales,
Hes come,—Who is't?—Why Mr. Sh***
A precious Man.—Hist, silence there,
At which all instantly forbear,
And looking at the Ministers,—God bless you, Sir.
His Surplice on, and then prepare
To Joyn with him in Common-Prayer,
Nor Psalms nor Prayers does he omit any,
Till coming to that place i'th' Littany,
Wherein oblig'd by Name to Pray,
For those who bear the Sovereign Sway;
He did in's Prayers no Name put in,
But those of Gracious King and Queen;
Which Prayer, no sooner did it reach the
Ears of them all,—but—We beseech thee,
Echoed more loud by Persons there,
Than the Responce to any Prayer,
Which in the Liturgy we read,
From the Lord's Prayer to Nicene Creed.
The Service done, I then expected
T'ave heard a singing Psalm directed;
But having got the Pious Qualms,
Their Souls were not in tune for Psalms,
For how can ever Captives bring
Their Minds into a Frame to Sing?
Tho it is plain that Fetters none
They had, but what themselves put on;
But if they would have tun'd their throats,
To Sternholds or to Hopkins Notes,
It would, according as 'tis reckond,
Have been to Psalm call'd Seventy Second,