Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
 |
Upon a Miller's Son, Sometimes a Peticannon, but turn'd out for disaffectedness to Episcopacy.
|
 | Poems |  |
Upon a Miller's Son, Sometimes a Peticannon, but turn'd out for disaffectedness to Episcopacy.
Long have I labour'd betwixt wrath and scorn
And not in pity, but contempt forborn.
I should e're this, have smit him hip and thigh,
But that my honour and disdain cry'd fie.
Yet lest my temper he as soft should blame,
And say I wou'd, but cou'd not right my fame.
I'le carbonade him with my Catstooth Pen,
And kick his collops into form agen;
I'le give the Brute a mark to know him by,
More legible than Cleveland's Hue and Cry.
And not in pity, but contempt forborn.
61
But that my honour and disdain cry'd fie.
Yet lest my temper he as soft should blame,
And say I wou'd, but cou'd not right my fame.
I'le carbonade him with my Catstooth Pen,
And kick his collops into form agen;
I'le give the Brute a mark to know him by,
More legible than Cleveland's Hue and Cry.
Imprimis, He's a Revelation Beast,
A Linsie-woolsie, Brownish, Pyebald Priest.
He's round and royal; what you please, a man,
That's both a Jew, and a Samaritan.
He is a kind of a Nine Acred fop,
A May-Pole with a Weather-Cock a top.
His stature might a Ship for a Mast fit,
And yet this Gyant is a dwarf in wit.
Of one that sprung from such a wellwrought Mill,
Never was upper Room furnisht so ill.
He loves his Body better than his Soul,
Nor wou'd he come at Church, but to take Toll.
He's a dilemma betwixt heart and tongue,
As his Religion in the Hopper hung.
He comes as one had of the loaves a sense,
And serves St. Peter for St. Peter's Pence.
When pay-day comes the Surplice has no harm in't,
When pay-day's past, a Babilonish Garment.
Truly, whines he, the Anthems would be sweeter,
Were they but tagg'd with Mr. Sternhold's Meeter;
Yet as for Company, he bears a part,
But he has only Hopkins in his heart.
And when an Anthem in the Quire they name,
He warbles to another of the same:
A second part, which he can sweetly do,
And play to't on the living Organ too.
A Linsie-woolsie, Brownish, Pyebald Priest.
He's round and royal; what you please, a man,
That's both a Jew, and a Samaritan.
He is a kind of a Nine Acred fop,
A May-Pole with a Weather-Cock a top.
His stature might a Ship for a Mast fit,
And yet this Gyant is a dwarf in wit.
Of one that sprung from such a wellwrought Mill,
Never was upper Room furnisht so ill.
He loves his Body better than his Soul,
Nor wou'd he come at Church, but to take Toll.
He's a dilemma betwixt heart and tongue,
As his Religion in the Hopper hung.
He comes as one had of the loaves a sense,
And serves St. Peter for St. Peter's Pence.
When pay-day comes the Surplice has no harm in't,
When pay-day's past, a Babilonish Garment.
Truly, whines he, the Anthems would be sweeter,
Were they but tagg'd with Mr. Sternhold's Meeter;
62
But he has only Hopkins in his heart.
And when an Anthem in the Quire they name,
He warbles to another of the same:
A second part, which he can sweetly do,
And play to't on the living Organ too.
Observe the Buzzard at the Eagles tayl,
He furls his Surplice like a Wind mill Sail:
And wryths himself into as many shapes,
As Proteus, or a Collony of Apes.
As if that decency and order were,
Fitter for Peter's Lunsford far, than here.
Where he does loll, and wear more Cushions forth,
Than all the Sermons e're he preacht were worth.
Brundel, and Brason, and a Christ-Church Cannon,
Are Cures too trivial to imploy this Man on.
But he has Strumpshall, Austins, Peters too,
More than this Tobit, and his Dog can do.
To travel to 'um. Yet you'l often see,
This Man invey against Pluralitie.
These his six Livings are, but he does say,
Had he but seven, H'ad one for the Lord's Day:
And yet he has, (as he does things contrive)
So many Livings that he cannot live.
So he himself, so he his Cures has serv'd:
He's like his Congregation, almost starv'd.
He furls his Surplice like a Wind mill Sail:
And wryths himself into as many shapes,
As Proteus, or a Collony of Apes.
As if that decency and order were,
Fitter for Peter's Lunsford far, than here.
Where he does loll, and wear more Cushions forth,
Than all the Sermons e're he preacht were worth.
Brundel, and Brason, and a Christ-Church Cannon,
Are Cures too trivial to imploy this Man on.
But he has Strumpshall, Austins, Peters too,
More than this Tobit, and his Dog can do.
To travel to 'um. Yet you'l often see,
This Man invey against Pluralitie.
These his six Livings are, but he does say,
Had he but seven, H'ad one for the Lord's Day:
And yet he has, (as he does things contrive)
So many Livings that he cannot live.
So he himself, so he his Cures has serv'd:
He's like his Congregation, almost starv'd.
But now he quacks, a Doctor of great skill,
To Cure their bodies, though their souls he kill;
Thus kill or Cure, he thrives; if the Corps fall,
He then gets Mony for the burial.
But this indeed does seem a natural smack,
The Miller that begat him was a Quack.
He does himself 'twixt this and t'other side,
Like Beckles Steeple, from the Church divide.
What is he? He is neither wise, nor fool,
A Tertium Neutrum: Or an upstart Mule.
He is, and guess by what is said before;
A Cannon of a Presbyterian boar.
A Cannon said I? he alas! is none,
He is a Blunderbuss, an Elder-Gun.
He's ever loving, and he's ever loathing,
He is so many things indeed, he's Nothing.
To Cure their bodies, though their souls he kill;
63
He then gets Mony for the burial.
But this indeed does seem a natural smack,
The Miller that begat him was a Quack.
He does himself 'twixt this and t'other side,
Like Beckles Steeple, from the Church divide.
What is he? He is neither wise, nor fool,
A Tertium Neutrum: Or an upstart Mule.
He is, and guess by what is said before;
A Cannon of a Presbyterian boar.
A Cannon said I? he alas! is none,
He is a Blunderbuss, an Elder-Gun.
He's ever loving, and he's ever loathing,
He is so many things indeed, he's Nothing.
| Poems | |