Poems on Affairs of State

[Volume I.] From the time of Oliver Cromwell to the Abdication of K. James the Second.

The Second Part. Written during the Reign of K. James the II. against Popery and Slavery, and his Arbitrary Proceedings.

II.

Vol. II. From The Reign of K. James the First, To this Present Year 1703.

III.

VOL. III. From the Year 1640. to the Year 1704.

IV.

VOL. IV. From 1620. to this present Year 1707.

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I. [Volume I.] From the time of Oliver Cromwell to the Abdication of K. James the Second.

1. [The First Part.]

A Panegyrick on O. Cromwell, and his Victories.

By E. Waller, Esq;.

While with a strong, and yet a gentle Hand,
You bridle Faction, and our Hearts Command;
Protect us from our selves, and from the Foe;
Make us Unite, and make us Conquer too.
Let partial Spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd that they cannot Reign
And own no Liberty, but where they may,
Without controul upon their fellows Prey.
Above the Waves as Neptune shew'd his Face,
To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race.
So has your Highness (rais'd above the rest,)
Storms of Ambition tossing us Repest.
Your drooping Country, torn with Civil hate,
Restor'd by you, is made a glorious State:
The Seat of Empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scot, to fetch their Doom.

The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet
With bending Sails, each Vessel of our Fleet.
Your Pow'r resounds as far as Wind can Blow,
Or swelling Sails upon the Globe may go.
Heaven that has plac'd this Island to give Law,
To ballance Europe, and her State to awe:
In this Conjunction does our Britain Smile,
The greatest Leader to the greatest Isle.
Whether this Portion of the World were rent
By the whide Ocean from the Continent;
Or thus created, it was sure design'd,
To be the Sacred Refuge of Mankind.
Hither the Opprest shall henceforth resort,
Justice to crave, and succour of your Court,
And shew, your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the World's Protector shall be known.
Fame, swifter than your winged Navy flies
Through every Land that near the Ocean lies;
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadful News
To all that Piracy and Rapine use:
With such a Chief the meanest Nation blest,
Might hope to lift her Head above the rest.
What may be thought impossible to do
For us, embraced by the Sea and you?
Lords of the World's great Wast, the Ocean, we
Whole Forests send to Reign upon the Sea:
And every Coast may trouble and relieve,
But none can visit us without your leave.
Angels and we know this Prerogative,
That none can at our happy Seat arrive;
While we Descend at pleasure to invade
The bad with Vengeance, or the good to Aid;
Our little World, the Image of the great,
Like that amidst the boundless Ocean set,
Of her own growth has all that Nature craves,
And all that's Rare, as Tribute from the Waves.

As Egypt does not on the Clouds rely:
But to the Nile owes more than to the Sky;
So what our Heaven, or what our Earth denies,
Our ever constant Friend, the Sea supplies.
The Taste of hot Arabia's Spice we know,
Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.
Without the Worm in Persian Silks we shine,
And without Planting, Drink of every Vine.
To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither Swims.
Ours is the Harvest, where the Indians Mow;
We Plough the Deep, and Reap what others Sow;
Things of the noblest kind our own Soil breeds;
Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds;
Rome, though her Eagle through the World had flown,
Could never make this Island all her own.
Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too;
France-Conquering Henry flourisht, and now You.
For whom we staid, as did the Grecian State,
Till Alexander came to urge their Fate.
When for more Worlds that Macedonian cry'd,
He wist not Thetis in her Lap did hide
Another yet, a World reserv'd for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.
He safely might Old Troops to Battel lead
Against the unwarlike Persian, or the Mede,
Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless Field
More Spoil than Honour to the Victor yield.
A Race unconquer'd by their Clime—made bold,
The Calydonians arm'd with want and cold,
Have by a Fate indulgent to your Fame,
Been from all Ages kept for you to tame:
Whom the old Roman Wall so ill confin'd,
With a new Chain of Garisons you bind.
Here Foreign Gold no more shall make them come,
Our English Iron holds them fast at home.

They that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer Region than their Hills of Snow,
May blame the Sun, but must extol your Grace,
Which in our Senate hath allow'd them place.
Prefer'd by Conquest, happily o'rethrown;
Falling they rise, to be with us made one.
So kind Dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd Foes free Citizens of Rome.
Like favour find the Irish, with like Fate
Advanc'd to be a Portion of our State,
While by your Valour, and your courteous Mind,
Nations divided by the Sea, are joyn'd.
Holland to gain your Friendship, is content
To be our Out-guard on your Continent.
She from her fellow Provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her Foe.
In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse
Preventing Posts, the terror of the News,
Our Neighbour-Provinces trembl'd at their roar,
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.
Your never-failing Sword made War to cease,
And now you heal us with the Arts of Peace;
Our Minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Unite Affections, and restrain our Rage.
Less pleasures take brave minds in Battel won,
Than in restoring such as are undone.
Tygers have courage, and the rugged Bear,
But Man alone can whom he conquers spare:
To pardon willing, and to punish loath,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.
Lifting up all that prostrate lye you grieve,
You cannot make the dead again to live.
When Fate or Error had our Age misled,
And o're these Nations such Confusion spread,
The only Cure which could from Heaven come down
Was so much Power and Clemency in one;

One whose Extraction is from an Ancient Line,
Gives hope again that well-born Men may shine:
The meanest in your Nature, mild and good,
The noble rest secur'd in your Blood.
Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in Peace
A Mind proportion'd to such things as these:
How such a Ruling Spirit could restrain,
And practice first o're your own self to Reign.
Your private Life did a just Pattern give,
How Fathers, Husbands, Pious Sons should live.
Born to Command, your Princely Vertues slept
Like humble David, whilst the Flock he kept;
But when your troubled Country call'd you forth,
Your flaming Courage, and your matchless Worth
Dazling the Eyes of all that did pretend
To sow Contention—gave a prosperous end,
Still as you rise, the States exalted too,
Finds no Distemper while it's chang'd by you:
Chang'd like the World's great Scene, when without noise
The rising Sun Night's vulgar Lights destroys.
Had you some Ages past this Race of Glory
Run, with amazement we should read your Story.
But living Vertue all Atchievements past,
Meets Envy still to grapple with at last.
This Cæsar found, and that ungrateful Age
With losing him, fell back to Blood and Rage.
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their Yoak,
But cut the Bond of Union at that stroke.
That Sun once set, a thousand meaner Stars
Gave a dim light to Violence and Wars.
To such a Tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty Arm prevent the fall.
If Rome's great Senate could not wield the Sword,
Which of the conquer'd World had made them Lord,
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To Rule victorious Armies, but by you?

You that had taught them to subdue their Foes,
Could Order teach, and all their Hearts compose.
To every Duty could their Minds engage,
Provoke their Courage, and commend their Rage.
So when a Lion shakes his dreadful Main,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his Youth, approach the haughty Beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.
As the vext World, to find repose at last,
It self into Augusta's Arms did cast.
So England now, does, with like Toyl opprest,
Her weary Head upon your Bosom rest.
Then let the Muses with such Notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace:
Your Battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the Image of our Mars in Fight;
Tell of Towns storm'd, of Armies over-run,
And mighty Kingdoms by your Conduct won:
How, while you Thunder'd, Clouds of Dust did choak
Contending Troops, and Seas lay hid in Smoak.
Illustrious Arts high raptures do infuse,
And every Conqueror creates a Muse.
Here in low strains your milder Deeds we Sing;
But there, my Lord, we'll Bays and Olives bring
To Crown your Head, while you in Triumph ride
O're vanquish'd Nations, and the Sea beside:
While all your Neighbour-Princes unto You,
Like Joseph's Sheaves, pay Reverence, and Bow.

Three POEMS on the Death of the late Protector, Oliver Cromwell.

Written by Mr. John Dryden, Mr. Sprat of Oxford, and Mr. Edm. Waller

Heroick Stanza's, on the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell:

Written after his Funeral, by Mr. Dryden.

I

And now 'tis time; for their officious hast,
Who would before have born him to the Sky,
Like eager Romans, e're all Rites were past,
Did let too soon the sacred Eagle fly.

II

Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of publick Voice;
Since Heaven, what Praise we offer to his Name,
Hath render'd too Authentick by its choice.

III

Though in his praise no Arts can liberal be,
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown;
Add not to his Immortal Memory,
But do an Act of Friendship to their own.

IV

Yet 'tis our Duty, and our int'rest too,
Such Monuments as we can build, to raise,
Lest all the World prevent what we should do,
And claim a Title in him by their Praise.

V

How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a Fame so truely Circular?

For in a round, what order can be shew'd,
Where all the parts so equal perfect are?

VI

His Grandure he deriv'd from Heaven alone,
For he was great e're Fortune made him so,
And Wars like Mists that rise against the Sun,
Made him but greater seem, nor greater grow.

VII

No borrow'd Bays his Temples did adorn,
But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring;
Nor was his Vertue poison'd soon as born.
With the too early thoughts of being King.

VIII

Fortune (that easie Mistriss to the young,
But to her ancient Servants coy and hard)
Him, at that age, her Favourites rank'd among,
When she her best lov'd Pompey did discard.

IX

He private, mark'd the Faults of others sway,
And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;
Not like rash Monarchs, who their youth betray,
By Acts their Age too late would wish undone.

X

And yet Dominion was not his design,
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven,
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join;
Rewards that less to him, than us were given.

XI

Our former Chief like Sticklers of the War,
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor,
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

XII

War, our Consumption, was their gainful Trade;
He inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain;

He fought to hinder fighting, and assay'd
To stanch the blood by breathing of the Vein.

XIII

Swift and resistless through the Land he past,
Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue,
And made to Battels such Heroick haste,
As if on Wings of Victory he flew.

XIV

He Fought secure of Fortune as of Fame,
Still by new Maps the Island might be shewn,
Of Conquests which he strew'd were e're he came,
Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.

XV

His Palms, though under weights they did not stand,
Still thriv'd, no Winter could his Lawrels fade:
Heaven in his Portraict shew'd a Workman's hand,
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.

XVI

Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,
Which War had banish'd, and did now restore:
Bolognia's Walls thus mounted in the Air,
To seat themselves more surely than before.

XVII

Her safety rescued Ireland, to him owes,
And treacherous Scotland to no int'rest true.
Yet bless'd that Fate which did his Arms dispose
Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.

XVIII

Nor was he like those Stars which only shine,
When to pale Mariners, they Storms portend;
He had his calmer influence, and his Mien
Did Love and Majesty together blend.

XIX

Tis true his Countenance did imprint an awe.
And naturally all Souls to his did bow,

As wands of Divination downward draw,
And point to beds where Sov'raign Gold doth grow.

XX

When past all offerings to Pheretrian Jove,
He Mars depos'd, and Arms to Gowns made yield;
Successful Councels did him soon approve,
As fit for close Intrigues, as open Field.

XXI

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a Peace,
Our once bold Rival in the British Main,
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease,
And buy our Friendship with her Idol, Gain.

XXII

Fame of th'asserted Sea through Europe blown,
Made France and Spain ambitious of his Love;
Each knew that side must conquer, he Would own;
And for him fiercely, as for Empire strove.

XXIII

No sooner was the French-man's Cause imbrac'd,
Than the light Monsieur, the grave Don outweigh'd;
His Fortune turn'd the Scale where it was cast,
Though Indian Mines where in the other laid.

XXIV

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his Right;
For though that some mean Artist's Skill were shewn
In mingling Colours, or in placing Light;
Yet still the fair Designment was his own:

XXV

For from all Tempers he could Service draw;
The worth of each with its allay he knew;
And as the Confident of Nature saw
How she Complections did divide and brew.

XXIV

Or he their single Vertues did survey,
By intuition in his own large Breast,

Where all the rich Idea's of them lay,
That were the Rule and Measure to the rest.

XXVII

When such Heroick Vertue, Heaven set out,
The Stars, like Commons, sullenly obey;
Because it drains them when it comes about,
And therefore is a Tax they seldom pay.

XXVIII

From this high Spring our Foreign Conquests flow,
Which yet more glorious Triumphs do portend;
Since their Commencement to his Arms they owe,
If Springs as high as Fountains may Ascend.

XXIX

He made us Free-Men of the Continent,
Whom Nature did like Captives treat before;
To Nobler preys the English Lion sent,
And taught him first in Belgian Walks to Roar.

XXX

That old unquestion'd Pirate of the Land,
Proud Rome, with dread the Fate of Dunkirk heard;
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand,
Although an Alexander were her Guard.

XXXI

By his Command, we boldly cross'd the Line,
And bravely fought where Southern Stars arise,
We trac'd the far-fetch'd Gold unto the Mine,
And that which brib'd our Fathers made our Prize.

XXXII

Such was our Prince, yet own'd a Soul above
The highest Acts it could produce or shew:
Thus poor Mechanick Arts in publick move,
Whilst the deep Secrets beyond Practice go.

XXXIII

Nor died he when his ebbing Fame went less,
But when fresh Laurels courted him to live;

He seem'd but to prevent some new Success,
As if above what Triumphs Earth can give.

XXXIV

His latest Victories still thickest came,
As near the Center, Motion doth increase;
Till he press'd down by his own weighty Name,
Did like the Vestal, under spoils decease.

XXXV

But first the Ocean as a Tribute sent.
That Giant Prince of all her wat'ry Herd;
And th'Isle, when her protecting Genius went,
Upon his Obsequies loud sighs conferr'd.

XXXVI

No civil Broils have since his Death arose,
But Faction now by habit does obey;
And Wars have that respect for his Repose,
As Winds for Halcyons, when they breed at Sea.

XXXVII

His Ashes in a peaceful Urn shall rest,
His Name a great Example stands to shew,
How strangely high Endeavours may be blest,
Where Piety and Valour jointly go.

To the happy Memory of the late Usurper. Oliver Cromwell.

By Mr. Sprat of Oxon Pindarick Odes.

I.

'Tis true, grate Name, thou art secure
From the forgetfulness and Rage
Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age;
Thou canst the Force and Teeth of Time endure:
Thy Fame like Men, the Elder it doth grow,
Will of its self turn whither too,
Without what needless Art can do;
Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy Hearse,
Tho it were never heard or sung in Verse.
Without our help, thy Memory is safe;
They only want an Epitaph,
That does remain alone
Alive in an Inscription,
Remembred only on the Brass, or Marble stone.
'Tis all in vain what we can do:
All our Roses and Perfumes
Will but officious folly shew,
And pious Nothings, to such mighty Tombs.
All our Incense, Gums, and Balm,
Are but unnecessary duties here:
The Poets may their Spices spare,
Their costly numbers and their tuneful Feet:
That need not be imbalm'd, which of it self is Sweet.

II.

We know to Praise thee is a dangerous proof
Of our Obedience and our Love:
For when the Sun and Fire meet,

Th'ones extinguish'd quite;
And yet the other never is more bright:
So that they write of thee, and join
Their feeble names with thine,
Their weaker sparks with thy Illustrious light,
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;
And yet no Fame to thee from hence he brought,
We know, bless'd Spirit, thy mighty name
Wants no addition of anothers beam;
It's for our Pens to high, and full of Theme:
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.
Thy Fame's Eternal Lamp will live,
And in thy Sacred Urn survive,
Without the food of Oyl, which we can give.
'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our Songs,
Duty Commands our Tongues.
Though thou want not our praises, we
Are not excus'd for what we owe to thee;
For so Men from Religion are not freed.
but from the Altars Clouds must rise,
Though Heaven it self doth nothing need,
And though the Gods don't want an earthly Sacrifice.

III.

Great Life of wonders, whose each year
Full of new Miracles did appear!
Whose every Month might be
Alone a Chronicle, or a History!
Others great Actions are
But thinly scatter'd here and there;
At best, but all one single Star;
But thine the Milky-way,
All one continued light, of undistinguish'd Day;
They throng'd so close, that naught else could be seen,
Scarce any common Sky did come between:
What shall I say or where begin?
Thou may'st in double shapes be shown,

Or in thy Arms, or in thy Gown;
Like Jove sometimes with Warlike Thunder, and
Sometimes with peaceful Scepter in his Hand;
Or in the Field, or on the Throne.
In what thy Head or what thy Arm hath done,
All that thou dist was so refin'd,
So full of substance, and so strongly join'd,
So pure, so weighty Gold,
That the least Grain of it
If fully spread and beat,
Would many Leaves and mighty Volums hold.

IV.

Before thy Name was publish'd, and whilst yet
Thou only to thy self wer't great,
Whilst yet thy happy bud
Was not quite seen, or understood,
It then sure signs of future greatness shew'd:
Then thy Domestick worth
Did tell the World what it would be,
When it should fit occasion see,
When a full Spring should call it forth:
As Bodies in the Dark and Night,
Have the same Colours, the same red and white,
As in the open Day and Light,
The Sun doth only shew
That they are bright, not make them so:
So whilst but private Walls did know
What we to such a mighty Mind should owe,
Then the same Vertues did appear,
Though in a less and more contracted Sphere,
As full, though not as large as since they were:
And like great Rivers, Fountains, though
At first so deep thou didst not go;
Though then thine was not so inlarg'd a Flood;
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear as good.

V.

'Tis true, thou wast not born unto a Crown,
Thy Scepter's not thy Fathers, but thy own.
Thy purple was not made at once in haste,
And after many other Colours past.
It took the deepest Princely Dye at last.
Thou didst begin with lesser Cares,
And private thoughts took up thy private Years:
Those Hands, which were ordain'd by Fates,
To change the World, and alter States,
Practis'd at first that vast Design
On meaner things with equal Mind.
That Soul, which should so many Scepters sway,
To whom so many Kingdoms should obey,
Learned first to rule in a Domestick way:
So Government it self, began
From Family, and single Man,
Was by the small Relation, first,
Of Husband, and of Father Nurs'd,
And from those less beginnings past,
To spread it self o'er all the World at last.

VI.

But when thy Country, (then almost enthrall'd)
Thy Vertue, and thy Courage call'd;
When England did thy Arms intreat,
And't had been Sin in thee not to be Great:
When every Stream, and every Flood,
Was a true Vein of Earth, and run with Blood;
When unus'd Arms, and unknown War
Fill'd every Place, and every Ear;
When the great Storms, and dismal Night
Did all the Land affright;
'Twas time for thee, to bring forth all our Light.
Thou left'st thy more delightful Peace,
Thy private Life, and better case;

Then down thy Steel and Armour took,
Wishing that it still hung upon the Hook:
When Death had got a large Commission out,
Throwing her Arrows, and her Sting about;
Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose)
Wast lifted up, not for thy self, but us.

VII.

'Thy Country wounded was, and sick before
Thy Wars and Arms did her restore:
Thou knew'st where the Disease did lie,
And like the Cure of Sympathy,
Thy strong, and certain Remedy:
Unto the Weapon didst apply;
'Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so
Away the Scabbard throw,
As if thy Country shou'd
Be the Inheritance of Mars and Blood:
But that when the great work was spun,
War in it self should be undone;
That Peace might Land again upon the shore,
Richer and better than before:
The Husbandmen no Steel should know,
None but the useful iron of the Plow;
That Bays might creep on every Spear:
And though our Sky was overspread
With a destructive red;
'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full Light appear.

VIII.

When Ajax died, the Purple Blood
That from his gaping Wound had flow'd,
Turn'd into Letters every Leaf
Had on it wrote his Epitaph:
So from that Crimson Flood,
which thou, by fate of times, wert led
Unwillingly to shed,
Letters, and Learning rose, and renewed:

Thou fought'st not out of Envy, Hope, or Hate,
But to refine the Church and State;
And like the Romans, what e'er thou
In the Field of Mars didst mow,
Was, that a holy Island hence might grow.
Thy Wars, as Rivers raised by a Shower,
With welcome Clouds do pour:
Though they at first may seem,
To carry all away with an inraged Stream;
Yet did not happen that they might destroy,
Or the better parts annoy:
But all the Filth and Mud to Scour,
And leave behind another slime,
To give a Birth to a more happy Power.

IX.

In Fields unconquer'd, and so well
Thou did'st in Battels and in Arms excel;
That steelly Arms themselves, might be
Worn out in War as soon as thee.
Success, so close upon thy Troops did wait,
As if thou first had'st Conquer'd Fate;
As if uncertain Victory
Had been first overcome by thee;
As if her Wings were clipp'd, and could not flee,
Whilst thou did'st only serve,
Before thou had'st what first thou did'st deserve.
Others by thee did great things do,
Triumph'd'st thy self, and madest them triumph too;
Though they above thee did appear,
As yet in a more large and higher Sphere:
Thou, the great Sun gav'st Light to every Star.
Thy self an Army wert alone,
And mighty Troops contain'd'st in one:
Thy only Sword did guard the Land,
Like that which flaming in the Angel's Hand,
From Men Gods Garden did defend:

But yet thy Sword did more than his,
Not only Guarded, but did make this Land a Paradice.

X.

Thou fought'st not to be high or great,
Not for a Scepter or a Crown,
Or Ermyn, Purple, or the Throne;
But as the Vestal Heat,
Thy Fire was kindled from above alone;
Religion putting on thy Shield,
Brought thee Victorious to the Field.
Thy Arms like those, which ancient Heroes wore,
Were given by the God thou did'st adore;
And all the Words thy Armies had,
Were on an heavenly Anvil made;
Not Int'rest, or any weak desire
Of Rule, or Empire did thy mind inspire;
Thy Valour like the holy Fire,
Which did before the Persian Armies go,
Liv'd in the Camp, and yet was Sacred too:
Thy mighty Sword anticipates,
What was reserv'd for Heaven and those bless'd Seats,
And makes the Church Triumphant here below.

XI.

Though Fortune did hang on thy Sword,
And did obey thy mighty Word;
Though Fortune for thy side and thee,
Forgot her lov'd Unconstancy;
Amidst thy Arms and Trophies thou
Wert valiant and gentle too,
Wounded'st thy self, when thou did'st kill thy Foe;
Like Steel, when it much Work has past,
That which was rough does shine at last:
Thy Arms by being oftner us'd did smoother grow
Nor did thy Battels make thee proud or high,
Thy Conquest rais'd the State, not thee:
Thou overcam'st thy self in every Victory:

As when the Sun, in a directer Line,
Upon a polish'd golden Shield doth shine,
The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light:
So when the Heavens smil'd on thee in Fight,
When thy propitious God had lent
Success, and Victory to thy Tent;
To Heav'n again the Victory was sent.

XII.

England till thou did'st come,
Confin'd her Valour home;
Then our own Rocks did stand
Bounds to our Fame as well as Land,
And were to us as well,
As to our Enemies unpassable.
We were asham'd at what we read,
And blush'd at what our Fathers did,
Because we came so far behind the Dead.
The British Lion hung his main, and droop'd,
To Slavery and Burthen stoop'd,
With a degenerate Sleep and Fear
Lay in his Den, and languish'd there;
At whose least Voice before,
A trembling eccho ran through every Shore,
And shook the World at every Roar:
Thou his subdued Courage didst restore,
Sharpen his Claws, and in his Eyes
Mad'st the same dreadful Lightning rise;
Mad'st him again affright the Neighbouring Floods,
His mighty Thunder sounds through all the Woods:
Thou hast our Military Fame redeem'd,
Which was lost, or clouded seem'd:
Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow
On us, at once an Iron Age, and happy too.

XIII.

Till thou command'st, that Azure Chain of Waves,
Which Nature round about us sent,

Made us to every Pirate Slaves,
Was rather Burthen than an Ornament;
Those Fields of Sea that wash'd our Shores,
Were plow'd, and reap'd by other Hand than ours:
To us, the liquid Mass,
Which doth about us run,
As it is to the Sun,
Only a Bed to sleep on was:
And not, as now a powerful Throne,
To shake and sway the World thereon.
Our Princes in their Hand a Globe did shew,
But not a perfect one,
Compos'd of Earth, and Water too.
But thy Commands the Floods obey'd,
Thou all the Wilderness of Water sway'd;
Thou did'st but only wed the Sea,
Not make her equal, but a Slave to thee.
Neptune himself did bear thy Yoke,
Stoop'd, and trembled at thy stroke.
He that ruled all the Main,
Acknowledg'd thee his Soveraign:
And now the Conquer'd Sea doth pay
More Tribute to thy Thames, than that unto the Sea.

XIV.

'Till now our Valour did our selves more hurt;
Our Wounds to other Nations were a sport;
And as the Earth, our Land produc'd
Iron and Steel, which should to tear our selves be us'd
Our strength within it self did break
Like thundring Canons crack,
And kill'd those that were near,
While the Enemies secur'd and untouch'd were.
But now our Trumpets thou hast made to sound
Against our Enemies Walls in Foreign Ground;
And yet no eccho back to us returning found.
England is now the happy peaceful Isle,

And all the World the while,
Is exercising Arms and Wars
With Foreign, or intestine Jars.
The Torch extinguish'd here, we lend to others Oil,
We give to all, yet know our selves no Fear;
We reach the Flame of Ruine, and of Death,
Where e're we please, our Swords to unsheath,
Whilst we in calm, and temperate Regions breath:
Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurl'd
Through every Corner of the World;
Whose Flame through all the Air doth go,
And yet the Sun himself, the while no Fire doth know.

XV.

Besides the Glories of thy Peace,
Are not in Number, nor in value less.
Thy Hand did cure, and close the Scars
Of our bloody Civil Wars;
Not only lanc'd, but heal'd the Wound,
Made us again as healthy, and as sound,
When now the Ship was well nigh Lost,
After the Storm upon the Coast,
By 'its Mariners endanger'd most:
When they their Ropes and Helms had left,
When the Planks asunder cleft,
And Flouds came roaring in with mighty sound,
Thou a safe Land, and harbour for us found,
And saved'st those that would themselves have drown'd:
A Work which none but Heven and thee could do,
Thou made'st us happy whe'r we would or no;
Thy Judgment, Mercy, Temperance so great,
As if those Vertues only in thy Mind had seat:
Thy Piety not only in the Field, but Peace,
When Heaven seemed to be wanted least:
Thy Temples not like Janus open were,
Open in time of War,
When thou hadst greater cause of fear,

Religion and the awe of Heaven possest
All places and all times alike thy Breast.

XVI.

Nor didst thou only for thy age provide,
But for the years to come beside;
Our after-times, and late Posterity,
Shall pay unto thy Fame as much as we;
They two are made by thee.
When Fate did call thee to a higher Throne,
And when thy Mortal Work was done;
When Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone,
Thou him to bear thy burthen chose,
Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss;
Nor hadst thou him design'd,
Had he not been
Not only to thy Blood, but Vertue kin;
Not only Heir unto thy Throne, but Mind,
'Tis he shall perfect all thy Cures,
And with as fine a thread weave out thy Loom:
So one did bring the chosen People from
Their Slavery and Fears,
Led them through their pathless Road,
Guided himself by God.
He brought them to the Borders; but a second Hand
Did settle, and secure them in the promised Land.

Upon the late Storm, and Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same,

By Mr. Waller.

We must resign; Heav'n his great Soul does claim
In Storms as loud, as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last breath shakes our Isle,
And Trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile.

About his Palace their broad roots are tost
Into the Air: So Romulus was lost.
New Rome in such a Tempest mist their King,
And from obeying fell to Worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay Dead,
With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread;
The Poplar too, whose Bough he wont to wear
On his Victorious Head, lay prostrate there:
Those his last Fury from the Mountain rent;
Our dying Hero, from the Continent,
Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards rest,
As his last Legacy to Britain left;
The Ocean which so long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaster Mind;
Our bounds inlargement, was his latest Toil,
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle:
Under the Tropick is our Language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
From Civil broils, he did us disingage,
Found nobler Objects for our Martial Rage;
And with wise Conduct to his Country shew'd,
Their ancient way of Conquering abroad:
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To him, that gave us Peace and Empire too:
Princes that fear'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;
Nature her self, took notice of his Death,
And sighing swell'd the Sea with such a-breath,
That to remotest Shores her Billows rowl'd,
Th'approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.

Directions to a Painter.

By Sir John Denham. 1667.

Nay Painter, if thou dar'st design that Fight,
Which Waller only Courage had to write;
If thy bold Hands can without shaking draw,
What ev'n th'Actors trembled at when they saw,
Enough to make thy colours change like theirs,
And all thy Pencils bristle like their Hairs.

First in fit distance of the prospect main,
Paint Allen tilting at the Coast of Spain;
Heroick Act! and never heard till now!
Stemming of Herc'les Pillars with the Prow!
And how he left his Ship the Hills to waft,
And with new Sea-marks Cales and Dover graft.

Next let the flaming London come in view,
Like Nero's Rome, burnt to re-build it new;
What lesser Sacrifice than this was meet
To offer for the safety of the Fleet?
Blow one Ship up, another thence will grow:
See what free Cities and wise Courts can do!
So some old Merchant, to insure his Name,
Marries afresh, and Courtiers share the Dame:
So whatsoe'er is broke, the Servants pay't,
And Glasses are more durable than Plate.
No May'r till now, so rich a Pageant feign'd,
Nor one Barge all the Companies contain'd.

Then Painter, draw Cerulean Coventry,
Keeper, or rather Chancellour o'th' Sea;
And more exactly to express his hue
Use nothing but Ultra-Marinish Blue.
To pay his Fees, the Silver Trumpet spends,
And Boat-swains whistle, for his place depends,
Pilots in vain repeat their Compass o'er

Until of him they learn that one point more.
The constant Magnet to the Pole doth hold,
Steel to the Magnet, Coventry to Gold.
Muscovy sells us Pitch, and Hemp, and Tar;
Iron and Copper, Sweden; Munster, War;
Ashly, Prize; Warwick, Customs; Cart'ret, Pay;
But Coventry doth sell the Fleet away.

Now let our Navy stretch its Canvas Wings,
Swoln like his purse, with tackling like his strings,
By slow degrees of the increasing gale,
First under Sail, and after under Sale:
Then in kind visit unto Opdam's Gout,
Hedge the Dutch in, only to let them out.
So Huntsmen fair unto the Hares give Law,
First find them, and then civilly withdraw.
That the blind Archer when they take the Seas,
The Hambrough Convoy may betray with ease.
So that the Fish may more securely bite,
The Angler baits the River over Night.

But Painter, now prepare t'enrich thy piece,
Pencil of Ermins, Oyl of Ambergreece,
See where the Dutchess with Triumphant trail
Of numerous Coaches, Harwich does assail!
So the Land-Crabs, at Natures kindly call,
Down to ingender to the Sea do Crawl.
See then the Admiral with Navy whole,
To Harwich through the Ocean carry Coal:
So Swallows buried in the Sea at Spring,
Return to Land with Summer in their Wing.

One thrifty Ferry-boat of Mother Pearl,
Suffic'd of old, the Citherean Girl;
Yet Navies are but Fopperies when here,
A small Sea-Mask, and built to Court your Dear:
Three Goddesses in one, Pallas for Art,
Venus for sport, but Juno in your Heart.
O Dutchess! if thy Nuptial Pomp was mean,

'Tis paid with Interest in thy Naval Scene.
Never did Roman Mark within the Nile,
So Feast the fair Ægyptian Crocodile;
Nor the Venetian Duke with such a State
The Adriatick Marry, at that rate.

Now Painter, spare thy weaker Art; forbear
To draw her parting Passions and each Tear:
For Love, alas! hath but a short Delight;
The Sea, the Dutch, the King, all call'd to Fight.
She therefore the Dukes Person recommends
To Brunker, Pen, and Coventry, her Friends;
To Pen much, Brunker more, most Coventry;
For they she knew were all more fraid then he:
Of flying Fishes one had sav'd the Fin,
And hop'd by this he through the Air might Spin;
The other thought he might avoid the Knell,
By the invention of the Diving Bell;
The third had try'd it, and affirm'd a Cable
Coyled round about him, was impenetrable.
But these the Duke rejected, only chose
To keep far off; let others interpose.
Rupert, that knew no fear, but Health did want,
Kept State suspended in a Chair volant;
All save his Head shut in that wooden case,
He shew'd but like a broken Weather-glass;
But arm'd with the whole Lyon Cap-a-Chin,
Did represent the Hercules within.
Dear shall the Dutch his twinging anguish know,
And see what Valour whet with pain can do.
Curst in the mean time be that treach'rous Jael,
That through his Princely Temples drove the Nail.
Rupert resolv'd to fight it like a Lyon;
And Sand---ch hop'd to fight it like Arion;
He to prolong his Life in the dispute,
And charm the Holland Pirates, tun'd his Lute,
Till some judicious Dolphin might approach,

And land him safe and sound as any Roach.

Now Painter, reassume thy Pencils care,
Thou hadst but skirmish'd yet, now fight prepare;
And draw the Battle terrible to shew,
As the last Judgment was of Angelo.

First let our Navy scour through Silver Froth,
The Oceans burthen, and the Kingdoms both;
Whose very bulk may represent its Birth,
From Hide and Paston, burthens of the Earth;
Hide whose Transcendent panch so swells of late,
That he the Rupture seems of Law and State;
Paston whose Belly bears more Millions,
Than Indian Carrocks, and contains more Tuns.
Let shoals of Porpoises on every side
Wonder in Swimming by our Oaks out-vy'd;
And the Sea-fowl all gaze, t'behold a thing
So vast, more swift and strong then they of Wing.
But yet presaging George they keep in sight,
And follow for the Reliques of a Fight.
Then let the Dutch with well-dissembled fear,
Or bold despair, more than we wish, draw near:
At which our Gallants, to the Sea but tender,
And more to fight their easie Stomachs render,
With Breasts so panting, that at every stroke
You might have felt their Hearts beat through the Oak:
While one concerned in the Interval
Of straining Choler, thus did vent his Gall.

Noah be damn'd! and all his Race accurst,
Who in Sea brine did pickle Timber first!
What though he Planted Vines, he Pines cut down,
He taught us how to Drink and how to Drown:
He first built Ships, and in his Wooden Wall,
Saving but eight, e're since endanger'd all.
And thou Dutch Necromantick Fryar, be damn'd,
And in thine own first-Mortar-piece be ram'd!

Who first invented Cannon in thy Cell,
Nitre from Earth, and Brimstone fetcht from Hell.
But damn'd and treble damn'd be Clarendine,
Our seventh Edward, with all his House and Line!
Who to divert the danger of the War
With Bristol, hounds us on the Hollander:
Fool coated Gown-man! sells, to fight with Hance,
Dunkirk; dismantling Scotland, quarrels France:
And hopes he now hath bus'ness shap'd, and Power
T'out last our Lives or his, and scape the Tower;
And that he yet may see, er'e he go down,
His dear Clarinda circled in a Crown.

By this time both the Fleets in reach dispute,
And each the other Mortally salute:
Draw pensive Neptune biting of his Thumbs,
To think himself a Slave whoe're o'recomes.
The frighted Nymphs retreating to their Rocks,
Beating their Blue Breasts, tearing their Green locks.
Paint Eccho slain, only th'alternate Sound
From the repeating Cannon doth rebound.
Opdam Sails placed on his Naval Throne,
Assuming Courage greater than his own;
Makes to the Duke and threatens him from far,
To Nail him to his Boards like a Petar;
But in the vain attempt, took fire too soon,
And flies up in his Ship to catch the Moon.
Monsieurs like Rockets mount aloft, and crack
In thousand sparks, then dancingly fall back.
Yet e're this happen'd, destiny allow'd
Him his Revenge, to make his death more proud;
A fatal Bullet from his side did range,
And batter'd Lawson: Oh too dear Exchange!
He led our Fleet that Day too short a space,
But lost his Knee; since dy'd in Glory's Race:
Lawson! whose Valour beyond fate did go,
And still fights Opdam in the Lake below.

The Duke himself, tho' Pen did not forget,
Yet was not out of dangers Random set.
Falmouth was there, I know not what to Act;
Some say t'was to grow Duke too by contract:
An untaught Bullet in its wanton Scope,
Dashes him all to pieces, and his Hope.
Such was his rise, such was his fall, unprais'd;
A chance shot sooner took him than Chance rais'd:
His shatter'd Head the fearless Duke disdains,
And gave the last first proof that he had Brains.
Barilet had heard it soon, and thought not good
To venture more of Royal Harding's Blood:
To be Immortal he was not of Age,
An did e'en now the Indian Prize presage;
And judg'd it safe and decent, cost what cost,
To lose the Day, since his dear Brother's lost.
With his whole Squadron straight away he bore,
And like good Boy, promis'd to fight no more.
The Dutch Auranea careless, at us Sail'd;
And promis'd to do what Opdam fail'd:
Smith to the Duke doth intercept her way,
And cleaves t'her closer than a Remora:
The Captain wonder'd, and withal disdain'd,
So strongly by a thing so small, detain'd;
And in a raging brav'ry to him runs,
They stab their Ships with one anothers Guns:
They fight so near, it seems to be on Ground,
And ev'n the Bullets meeting, Bullets Wound.
The Noise, the Smoak, the Fire, the Sweat, the Blood,
Is not to be exprest, nor understood.
Each Captain from his Quarter-deck, Commands,
They wave their bright Swords glittering in their hands.
All Luxury of War, all Man can do
In a Sea-fight, did pass between them two:
But one must conquer, whosoever fight;
Smith takes the Gyant, and is made a Knight.

Marlbrough that knew, and durst do more than all,
Falls undistinguisht by an Iron-Ball:
Dear Lord! but born under a Star ingrate!
No Soul more clear, nor no more gloomy fate!
Who would set up Wars Trade that means to thrive?
Death picks the Valiant out, Cowards survive:
VVhat the Brave merit, th'Impudent do vaunt;
And none's rewarded but the Sycophant:
Hence all his Life he against Fortune fenc'd,
Or not well known, or not well recompenc'd:
But envy not this praise t'his memory,
None more prepar'd was, or less fit to Dye:
Rupert did others and himself excel:
Holms, Tydiman, Minns; bravely Sanson fell.
VVhat others did, let none omitted, blame,
I shall record, whoe'er brings in his Name:
But unless after stories disagree,
Nine onely came to fight, the rest to see.
Now all conspire unto the Dutchmens loss;
The wind, the fire, we, they themselves do cross.
VVhen a sweet sleep began the Duke to drown,
And with soft Diadems his Temples crown:
And first he orders all the rest to watch,
And They the Foe, whilst He a Nap doth catch:
But lo, Brunkar by a secret instinct,
Slept not, nor needed; he all day had winkt.
The Duke in bed, he then first draws his steel,
VVhose vertue makes the misled Compass wheel.
So ere He wak'd, both Fleets were innocent:
And Brunkar Member is of Parliament.

And now, dear Painter, after pains, like those,
'Twere time that I and thou too do repose.
But all our Navy 'scap'd so sound of Limb,
That a short space serv'd to refresh and trim;
And a tame Fleet of theirs doth Convoy want,
Laden with both the Indies, and Levant:

Paint but this one Scene more, the VVorld's our own,
And Halcyon Sand***ch doth command alone:
To Bergen we with confidence made haste,
And th'secret spoils by hope already taste;
Though Clifford in the Character appear
Of Supra-Cargo to our Fleet, and their
Wearing a Signet ready to clap on,
And seize all for his Master Arl***gton,

Ruyter whose little Squadron skim'd the Seas,
And wasted our remotest Colonies,
With Ships all foul, return'd upon our way;
Sand***ch would not disperse, nor yet delay;
And therefore like Commander grave and wise,
To scape his sight and fight, shut both his Eyes;
And for more state and sureness, Cutten true,
The left Eye closeth, the right Mountague;
And even Clifford proffer'd in his zeal,
To make all safe, t'apply to both his Seal.
Ulysses so, till Syrens he had past,
Would by his Mates be pinion'd to the Mast.

Now can our Navy view the wished Port,
But there (to see the Fortune!) was a Fort:
Sand***ch would not be beaten, nor yet beat;
Fools only fight, the Prudent use to treat.
His Cousin Moun***gue by Court-disaster,
Dwindled into the wooden Horse's Master:
To speak of Peace seem'd amongst all most proper,
Had Talbot then treated of nought but Copper:
Or what are Forts, when void of Ammunition?
With friends or foes what would we more condition?
Yet we three days, till the Dutch furnish'd all,
Men, Powder, Money, Cannon,—treat with Wall!
Then Tydiman, finding the Danes would not,
Sent in six Captains bravely to be shot.
And Moun***gue, though drest like any Bride,
And aboard him, too, yet was reach'd and dy'd:

Sad was the chance, and yet a deeper care
Wrinkled his Membranes under Forehead fair.
The Dutch Armado yet had th'impudence
To put to Sea, to waft their Merchants thence;
For as if all their Ships of Wallnut were,
The more we beat them, still the more they bear:
But a good Pilot, and a favouring Wind,
Brings Sand***ch back, and once again did blind.

Now gentle Painter, e're we leap on shore,
With thy last strokes ruffle a Tempest o'er;
As if in our reproach, the Wind and Seas
Would undertake the Dutch, while we take ease:
The Seas the spoils within our Hatches throw,
The Winds both Fleets into our Mouths do blow:
Strew all their Ships along the Shore by ours,
As eas'ly to be gather'd up as Flow'rs:
But Sand***ch fears for Merchants to mistake
A Man of War, and among Flowr's a Snake.
Two Indian ships pregnant with Eastern Pearl,
And Diamonds, sate th'Officers and Earl:
Then warning of our Fleet, he it divides
Into the Ports, and so to Oxford rides.
Mean while the Dutch uniting, to our shames,
Ride all insulting o'er the Downes and Thames!

Now treating Sand***ch seems the fittest choice
For Spain, there to condole, and to rejoyce:
He meets the French; but to avoid all harms,
Ships to the Groyn: Embassies bear no Arms:
There let him languish a long Quarantain,
And ne'er to England come, till he be clean.

Thus having fought, we know not why as yet;
We've done we know not what, nor what we get:
If to espouse the Ocean, all this pains
Princes unite, and do forbid the Bains:
If to discharge Phanaticks, this makes more;
For all Phanaticks are, when they are poor:

Or if the House of Commons to repay,
Their Prize-Commissions are transferr'd away:
But for triumphant Check-stones if, and shell
For Dutchess Closet, 't hath succeeded well.
If to make Parliaments as odious pass,
Or to reserve a standing force, alas!
Or if, as just, ORANGE to re-instate,
Instead of that, he is regenerate:
And with four Millions vainly giv'n as spent,
And with five Millions more of detriment,
Our sum amounts yet onely to have won
A bastard Orange for Pimp Arl****ton.

Now may Historians argue con and pro:
Denham says thus; though always Waller so:
And he good Man, in his long sheet and staff,
This pennance did for Cromwels Epitaph:
And his next Theam must be o'th Dukes Mistress,
Advice to draw Madam l' Edificatress.

Henceforth, O Gemini! two Dukes Command,
Castor and Pollux, Aumarle and Cumberland.
Since in one ship, it had been fit they'd went
In Petty's Double-Kneel'd Experiment.

To the KING.

By Sir JOHN DENHAM.

Imperial Prince! King of the Seas and Isles!
Dear Object of our Joy, and Heaven's smiles!
What bootes it that thy Light doth gild our days,
And we lie basking in thy milder Rays,
While swarms of Insects, from thy warmth begun?
Our Land devour, and intercept our Sun?
Thou, like Joves Minos rul'st a greater Creet;
And for its hundred Cities, Count'st thy Fleet.

Why wilt thou that state-Dædalus allow,
Who builds the Butt, a Lab'rinth and a Cow?
If thou art Minos, be a Judge severe,
And in's own Maze confine the Engineer.
O may our Sun, since he too nigh presumes,
Melt the soft Wax wherewith he imps his plumes
And may he falling leave his hated Name
Unto these Seas his War hath set on flame!
From that Enchanter having clear'd thine Eyes,
Thy native sight will pierce within the Skies,
And view those Kingdoms calm with Joy and Light,
Where's Universal Triumph, but no Fight.
Since both from Heav'n thy Race and Pow'r descend,
Rule by its pattern there to reascend
Let Justice onely awe, and Battel cease:
Kings are but Cards in War; they're Gods in Peace.

Directions to a Painter.

By Sir John Denham.

Sand***ch in Spain now, and the Duke in love.
Let's with new Gen'rals a New Painter prove:
Lylly's a Dutchman, danger's in his Art,
His Pencils may Intelligence impart.
Thou Gibson, that amongst thy Navy small
Of Muscle-shells commandest Admiral,
Thy self so slender, that thou shew'st no more
Than Barnacle new hatch'd of them before:
Come mix thy Water-colours, and express,
Drawing in little, what we yet do less.

First paint me George and Rupert ratling far
Both in one Box, like the two Dice of War?
And let the terror of their linked Name,
Fly through the Air, like Chain-shot, tearing Fame:

Jove in one Cloud did scarcely ever wrap
Lightning so fierce, but never such a clap.
United Gen'rals sure are th'onely spell,
Wherewith United Provinces to quell:
Alas, even they, though shell'd in treble Oak,
Will prove an Addle Egge, with double Yolk.
And therefore next uncouple either Hound,
And loo them at two Hares e're one be found:
Rupert to Beaufort; halloo! ah, there Rupert
Like the phantastick hunting of St. Hubert,
When he with Airy Hounds, and Horn of Air,
Pursues by Fountain bleau the witchy Hare.
Deep providence of State! that could so soon
Fight Beaufort here, e're he had quit Thouloon.
So have I seen, e're Human Quarrels rise,
Fore-boding Meteors combate in the Skies.
But let the Prince to fight with Rumour go,
The Gen'rals meet a more substantial Foe:
Ruyter he spies, and full of youthful heat,
Though half their number, thinks the odds too great:
The Fowler watching so his watry spot,
And more the Fowl, hopes for the better shot.
Though such a Limb was from his Navy torn,
He found no weakness yet, like Sampson shorn;
But swoln with sence of former Glory won,
Thought Monk must be by Albemarle out done:
Little he knew with the same Arm and Sword,
How far the Gentleman out-cuts the Lord.
Ruyter, inferiour unto none for Heart,
Superiour now in number and in Art;
Ask'd if he thought, as once our Rebel-Nation,
To conquer Theirs too, with a Declaration?
And threatens, though he now so proudly Sail,
He shall tread back his Iter Boreale:
This said, he the short Period, e're it ends,
With Iron-words from Brazen-Mouths extends:

Monk yet prevents him, e're the Navies meet,
And charges in himself alone a Fleet;
And with so quick and frequent motion Wound
His murthering sides about, the Ship seem'd round;
And the Exchanges of his Circling Tire,
Like whirling Hoops, shew'd of triumphant Fire.
Single he doth at their whole Navy aim,
And shoots them through a Porcupine of Flame.
In noise so regular his Cannons met,
You'd think that Thunder was to Musick set:
Ah! had the rest but kept a time as true
What Age could such a Martial Consort shew!
The listning Air unto the distant Shore,
Through secret Pipes conveys the tuned Roar;
Till as the Eccho's, vanishing, abate,
Men feel a dead sound like the pulse of State.
If Fate expire, let Monk her place supply,
His Guns determine who shall live or dye.
But Victory doth always hate a Rant;
Valour's her Brave, but Skill is her Gallant:
Ruyter no less with vertuous Envy burns,
And prodigies for Miracles returns:
Yet he observ'd how still his Iron Balls
Recoyl'd in vain against our Oaken Walls.
How the hard Pellets fell away as dead,
By our inchanted Timber fillipped.
Leave then, said he, th'invulnerable Keel,
We'll find they're feeble, like Achilles Heel:
He quickly taught, pours in continual Clouds
Of chain'd Dilemma's through our sinew'd Shrouds.
Forrests of Masts fall with their rude embrace,
Our stiff Sails masht, and netted into Lace;
Till our whole Navy lay their wanton Mark,
Nor any Ship could Sail but as the Ark,
Shot in the Wing, so at the Powder's call,
The disappointed Bird doth flutt'ring fall.

Yet Monk disabl'd, still such courage shews,
That none into his mortal gripe dare close:
So an old Bustard, maim'd yet loth to yeild,
Duels the Fowler in New-Market Field.
But since he found it was in vain to fight,
He imps his Plumes the best he can to flight:
This, Painter, were a noble Task to tell,
What indignation his great Breast did swell!

Not vertuous Man unworthily abus'd,
Not constant Lover without cause refus'd,
Not Honest Merchant broke, nor skilful Player
Hist off the Stage, nor Sinners in despair;
Not Parents mockt, not Favourites disgrac'd,
Not Rump by Monk, or Oliver displac'd,
Not Kings depos'd, nor Prelates ere they die,
Feel half the Rage of Gen'rals when they Fly.

Ah rather than transmit th'story to Fame,
Draw Curtains, Gentle artist, o'er the shame:
Cashier the mem'ry of Dutell, rais'd up
To tast, instead of Death, his Highness Cup;
And if the thing were true, yet paint it not,
How Bartlet, as he long deserv'd, was shot;
Though others, that survey'd the Corps so clear,
Said he was only petrify'd for fear:
If so, th'hard Statue Mummy'd without Gum,
Might the Dutch Balm have spar'd, & English Tomb.
Yet if thou wilt paint MINNS turn'd all to Soul,
And the great HARMAN charkt almost to Coal;
And JORDAIN old worthy thy Pencil's pain,
Who all the while held up the Ducal Train:
But in a dark Cloud cover Askew, when
He quit the Prince to embarque in Lovestein;
And Wounded Ships, which we Immortal boast,
Now first led Captive to an hostile Coast.

But most with story of his Hand and Thumb,
Conceal (as Honour would) his Grace's Bum,
When the rude Bullet a large Collop tore
Out of that Buttock never turn'd before:
Fortune (it seems) would give him by that Lash,
Gentle correction for his fight so Rash.
But should the Rump perceive't, they'd say that Mars
Had now reveng'd them upon Aumarle's Arse.
The long disaster better o'er to vail,
Paint only Jonas three days in the Whale;
For no less time did conqu'ring Ruyter chaw
Our flying Gen'ral in his Spungy Jaw.
Then draw the Youthful Perseus all in haste,
From a Sea-Beast to free the Virgin chaste;
But neither Riding Pegasus for speed,
Nor with the Gorgon Sheilded at his need:
So Rupert the Sea Dragon did invade,
But to save George himself and not the Maid;
And though arriving late, he quickly mist
Ev'n Sails to fly, unable to resist.
Not Greenland Seamen that survive the fright
Of the Cold Chaos, and half eternal Night,
So gladly the returning Sun adore,
Or run to spy the next Years Fleet from Shore,
Hoping yet once within the Oyly side
Of the fat Whale, again their Spears to hide,
As our glad Fleet, with universal shout,
Salute the Prince, and wish the second bout.
Nor Winds, long Pris'ners in Earths hollow Vault,
The fallow Seas so eagerly assault;
As fiery Rupert, with revengeful Joy,
Doth on the Dutch his hungry Courage cloy;
But soon unrigg'd, lay like an useless Board;
(As Wounded in the Wrist, Men drop their Sword.)
When a propitious Cloud between us stept,
And in our Aid did Ruyter intercept.

Old Homer yet did never introduce,
To save his Heroes, Mists of better use.
Worship the Sun, who dwell where he doth rise;
This Mist doth more deserve our Sacrifice.

Now joyful Fires, and the exaulted Bell,
And Court-Gazetts, our empty Triumphs tell!
Alas! the time draws near, when overturn'd,
The lying Bells shall through the Tongues be burn'd;
Paper shall want to print that Lye of State,
And our false Fires, true Fires shall expiate.

Stay Painter here a while, and I will stay;
Nor vex the future Times with my survey:
Seest not the Monky Dutchess all undrest?
Paint thou but her, and she will Paint the rest.

This sad Tale found her in her outward Room,
Nailing up Hangings not of Persian Loom:
Like chaste Penelope that ne'er did rome,
But made all fine against her GEORGE came home.
Upon a Ladder, in her Coats much shorter,
She stood, with Groom and Coach-man for Supporter;
And careless what they saw, or what they thought,
With Honi Pense full honestly she wrought:
One Tenter drove, to lose no time nor place,
At once the Ladder thy remove, and Grace.
Whilst thus they her translate from North to East,
In posture just of a four footed Beast;
She heard the news: But alter'd yet no more,
Than that which was behind, she turn'd before;
Nor would come down, but with an Handkercher,
With Pocket foul did to her Neck prefer:
She shed no Tears, for she was too Viraginous,
But only snuffling her Trunk Cartilaginous,
From scaling Ladder she began a Story,
Worthy to be had in Memento Mori;
Arraigning past, and present, and futuri,
With a Prophetick, if not Friendly Fury:

Her Hair began to creep, her Belly sound,
Her Eyes to sparkle, and her Udder bound;
Half Witch, half Prophet; thus the Alb***arle,
Like Presbyterian Sybil, 'gan to Snarl:

Traytors both to my Lord, and to the King!
Nay now it is beyond all Suffering!
One valiant Man by Land, and he must be
Commanded out to stop their leaks at Sea:
Yet send him Rupert, as an helper meet;
First the Commands dividing, then the Fleet:
One may if they be beat, or both be hit,
Or if they overcome, yet Honours split:
But reck'ning GEORGE already knock'd i'th' head,
They cut him out like Beef, e're he be dead:
Each for a Quarter hopes; the first doth skip,
But shall fall short though, at the Gen'ral Ship:
Next they for Master of the Horse agree;
A third the Cock-pit begs; not any Me:
But they shall know, Ay! marry shall they do,
That who the Cock-pit hath, shall have Me too.
I told George first, as Calamy told me,
If the King brought these o're, how it would be:
Men that there pick his Pocket to his Face,
And sell Intelligence to buy a place.
That their Religion's pawn'd for Cloths, nor care,
'Tis run so long now, to redeem't, nor dare.
O what egregious Loyalty to cheat!
O what Fidelity it was to Eat!
Whilst Langdales, Hoptons, Glenhams starv'd abroad,
And here true Roy'lists sink beneath their load.
Men that did there affront, defame, betray
The King, and so do here; now who but they!
What! say I Men! Nay, rather Monsters; Men
Only in Bed, nor to my Knowledge then.
See how they home return'd in Revel Rout,
With the small manners that they first went out:

Not better grown, nor wiser all the while,
Renew the causes of their first Exile:
As if, to shew the Fool what 'tis I mean,
I chose a foul Smock, when I might have clean.

First they for fear disband the Army tame,
And leave good George a Gen'ral's empty Name:
Then Bishops must revive, and all unfix
With discontents, to content Twenty Six:
The Lords House drains the Houses of the Lord,
For Bishops Voices silencing the Word:
O Barthol'mew! Saint of their Kalendar!
What's worse, th'Ejection or the Massacre?
Then Culpepper, Glouster, and the Princess dy'd;
Nothing can live that interrupts an H*de.
O more than humane GLOSTER! Fate did shew
Thee but to Earth, and back again withdrew.
Then the Fat Scrivener doth begin to think
'Twas time to mix the Royal Blood with Ink.
Barkley that swore as oft as he had Toes,
Doth kneeling now her Chastity depose;
Just as the first French Card'nal could restore
Maiden-head to his Widdow, Niece, and Whore.
For Portion, if she could prove light, when weigh'd,
Four Millions shall within three years be paid;
To raise it, we must have a Naval War,
As if 'twere nothing but Tara-Tan-Tar:
Abroad all Princes disobliging first,
At home all Parties but the very worst.
To tell of Ireland, Scotland, Dunkirk, 's sad;
Or the King's Marr'age: but he thinks I'm mad:
And sweeter Creature never saw the Sun,
If we the King wish Monk, or Queen a Nun.
But a Dutch War shall all these Rumours still,
Bleed out these Humours, and our Purses fill;
Yet after four days Fight, they clearly saw
'Twas too much danger for a Sun-in-Law:

Hire him to leave, for six score Thousand pound:
So with the King's Drums Men for sleep compound.
But modest Sand***ch thought it might agree
With the State-Prudence, to do less than He;
And to excuse their timerousness and sloth,
They found how George might now be less than both.

First Smith must for Leghorn, with force enough
To venture back again, but not go through:
Beaufort is there, and to their dazling Eyes
The distance more the Object magnifies;
Yet this thy gain, that Smith his time should lose,
And for my Duke too, cannot interpose.
But fearing that our Navy, George to break,
Might yet not be sufficiently weak;
The Secretary, that had never yet
Intelligence, but from his own Gazette,
Discovers a great secret, fit to sell,
And pays himself for't, e're he would it tell;
Beaufort is in the Channel; Hixy here!
Doxy Thoulon! Beaufort is ev'ry where.
Herewith assembling the supreme Divan,
Where enters none but Devil, NED, and NAN;
And upon this pretence they straight design'd
The Fleet to sep'rate, and the World to blind:
Monk to the Dutch, and Rupert (here the Wench
Could not but smile) is destin'd to the French.
To write the Order, Bristol Clerk is chose;
One slit in's Pen, the other in his Nose;
For he first brought the News, it is his place;
He'll see the Fleet divided like his Face,
And through the cranny in his grisly part,
To the Dutch Chink Intelligence impart.
The Plot succeeds: The Dutch in haste prepar'd,
And poor Peel Garlick George's Arse they shar'd;
And then presuming of his certain wrack,
To help him late, they send for Rupert back.

Officious Will seem'd fittest, as afraid
Lest George should look too far into his trade.
At the first draught they pause with Statesmens care,
They write it full, then copy it as fair;
And then compare them, when at last it's sign'd,
Will soon his Purse-strings, but no Seal could find.
At night he sends it by the common Post,
To save the King of an Express the cost.
Lord, what adoe to pack one Letter hence!
Some Patents pass with less circumference.

Well George, in spite of them thou safe dost ride,
Lessen'd I hope in nought but thy backside;
For as to Reputation, this Retreat
Of thine exceeds their Victories so great:
Nor shalt thou stir from thence, by my consent,
Till thou hast made the Dutch and Them repent.
'Tis true, I want so long the Nuptial Gift,
But as I oft have done, I'll make a Shift;
Nor will I with vain pomp accost the Shore,
To try thy Valour at the Buoy i'th' Nore,
Fall to thy work there, George, as I do here;
Cherish the Valiant up, Cowards cashier:
See that the Men have Pay, and Beef, and Beer,
Find out the Cheats of the four Millioneer.
Out of the very Beer, they sell the Malt;
Powder of Powder, from powder'd Beef the Salt.
Put thy hand to the Tub, instead of Oxe,
They Victual with French Pork that hath the Pox.
Never such Cotqueans by small Arts to wring,
Ne'er such ill Huswives in the managing!
Pursers at Sea know fewer Cheats than they,
Marriners on Shore less madly spend their Pay.
See that thou hast new Sails thy self, and spoil
All their Sea-market, and their Cable-coyl.
Look that Good Chaplains on each Ship do wait,
Nor the Sea-Diocess be impropriate:

Look to the sick and wounded Pris'ners; all
Is prize; they rob even the Hospital,
Recover back the Prizes too; in vain
We fight, if all be taken that is ta'en,

Now by our Coast the Dutchmen, like a Flight
Of feeding Ducks, ev'ning and morning light;
How our Land-Hectors tremble, void of sense,
As if they came straight to transport them hence:
Some Sheep are stol'n; the Kingdom's all array'd,
And ev'n Presbyters now called out for aid.
They wish ev'n George divided to command,
One half of Him at Sea, th'other on Land.

What's that I see! Ah 'tis my George agen!
It seems they in sev'n weeks have Rigg'd him then.
The curious Heav'ns with Lightning him surrounds,
To view him, and his Name in Thunder sounds.
But with the same swift goes, Their Navy's near:
So e're we hunt, the Keeper shoots the Deer.
Stay Heav'n a while, and thou shalt see him sail,
And George too, he can thunder, lighten, hail.
Happy the time that I e'er wedded George.
The Sword of England, and the Holland Scourge.
Avaunt Rotterdam-Dog, Ruyter avaunt,
Thou Water-Rat, thou Sharke, thou Cormorant.
I'll teach thee to shoot Scissers: I'le repair
Each Rope thou losest George, out of this Hair.
'Tis strong and course enough; I'll hem this shift,
E're thou shalt lack a Sail, and lie a drift:
Bring home the old ones; I again will Sew,
And darn them up, to be as good as new.

What, twice disabled! Never such a thing!
Now Soveraign help him that brought in the King.
Guard thy Posteriors, George, e're all be gone,
Though Jury-Masts, thou'st Jury-Buttocks none.
Courage! How bravely (whet with this disgrace)
He turns, and Bullets spits in Ruyter's face!

They fly, they fly their Fleet doth now divide,
But they discard their Trump: our Trump is Hide.
Where are you now, De Ruyter, with your Bears?
See where your Merchants burn about your Ears.
Fire out the Wasps, George from the hollow Trees,
Cramm'd with the Honey of our English Bees.
Ah now they're paid for Guinney: e're they steer
To the Gold Coast, they find it hotter here.
Turn all your Ships to Stoves e're you set forth,
To warm your Traffick in the frozen North.
Ah Sandwich! had thy conduct been the same,
Bergen had seen a less but richer Flame;
Nor Ruyter liv'd new Battel to repeat,
And oftner beaten be, than we can beat.
Scarce had George leisure, after all his pain,
To tie his Breeches; Ruyter's out again:
Thrice in one Year! Why sure this Man is wood:
Beat him like Stock-fish, or he'll ne're be good.
I see them both again prepare to try;
The first shot through each other with the Eye.
Then—But the Ruling Providence that must
With humane Projects play, as Wind with Dust,
Raises a storm. So Constables a fray
Knock down; and send them both well cuff'd away.
Plant now New England Firs in English Oak,
Build your Ships Ribs proof to the Cannon-stroke:
To get the Fleet to Sea, exhaust the Land;
Let longing Princes pine for the Command:
Strong March-panes! Wafer lights! so thin a puff
Of angry Air can ruin all that Huff:
So Champions having shar'd the Lists and Sun,
The Judge throws down's Award, and they have done.
For shame come home George, 'tis for thee too much
To fight at once with Heaven and the Dutch.

Woe's me! what see I next! alas! the fate
I see of England, and its utmost date.
Those Flames of theirs at which we fondly smile,
Kindle like Torches our Sepulchral Pile.
War, Fire, and Plague against us all conspire;
We the War, God the Plague, who rais'd the Fire?
See how Men all like Ghosts, while London burns,
Wander, and each over his Ashes mourns!
Curs'd be the Man that first begat this War;
In an ill hour, under a Blazing Star.
For Others sport two Nations fight a Prize;
Between them both, Religion wounded dies.
So of first Troy, the angry Gods unpaid,
Raz'd the Foundations which themselves had laid.

Welcome, though late, dear George: here hadst thou bin,
We'd scap'd: (let Rupert bring the Navy in.)
Thou still must help them out, when in the mire;
Gen'ral at Land, at Plague, at Sea, at Fire.
Now thou art gone, see Beaufort dares approach,
And our Fleets Angling, as to catch a Roach.
Gibson farewel, till next we put to Sea:
Truth is, thou'st drawn her in Effigie.

To the KING.

By Sir JOHN DENHAM.

Great Prince! and so much Greater as more VVise;
Sweet as our Life, and dearer than our Eyes,
VVhat Servants will conceal, and Councels spare
To tell, the Painter and the Poet dare.
And the assistance of an Heavenly Muse
And Pencil represent the Crimes abstruse.
Here needs no Fleet, no Sword, no Forreign Foe;
Only let Vice be damn'd, and Justice flow.

Shake but, like Jove, thy Locks divine, and frown,
Thy Scepter will suffice to guard thy Crown.
Hark to Cassandra's Song, e're fate destroy
By thine lowd Navy's wooden Horse, thy Troy.
As our Apollo, from the Tumults wave,
And Gentle Calms, though but in Oars, will save,
So Philomel her sad Embroidery strung,
And vocal Silks tun'd with her Needles Tongue.
The Pictures dumb in Colours loud reveal'd
The Tragedies at Court so long conceal'd;
But when restor'd to voice inclos'd with wings
To Woods and Groves what once the Painter sings.

Direstions to a Painter.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By Sir John Denham.

Draw England ruin'd by what was giv'n before,
Then draw the Commons slow in giving more:
Too late grown wiser, they their treasure see
Consum'd by fraud, or lost by treachery;
And vainly now would some account receive
Of those vast Sums which they so idly gave,
And trusted to the management of such
As Dunkirk, sold, to make War with the Dutch;
Dunkirk, design'd once to a Nobler Use,
Than to erect a petty Lawyers House.
But what account could they from those expect,
Who to grow rich themselves, the State neglect;
Men who in England have no other Lot,
Than what they by betraying it have got;
Who can pretend to nothing but Disgrace,
Where either Birth or Merit find a place.
Plague, Fire and War, have been the Nations Curse,
But to have these our Rulers, is a worse:

Yet draw these Causers of the Kingdoms Woe,
Still urging dangers from our growing Foe,
Asking new Aid for War with the same face,
As if, when giv'n, they meant not to make Peace.
Mean while they cheat the Publick with such haste,
They will have nothing that may ease it, past.
The Law 'gainst Irish Cattel they condemn,
As shewing distrust o'th' King; that is, of them.
Yet they must now swallow this bitter Pill,
Or Money want, which were the greater ill.
And then the King to Westminster is brought,
Imperfectly to speak the Chanc'lors thought;
In which, as if no Age could parallel
A Prince and Council that had rul'd so well,
He tells the Parliament He cannot brook
What ere in them like Jealousie doth look:
Adds, That no Grievances the Nation load,
While we're undone at home, despis'd abroad.
Thus past the Irish, with the Money-Bill,
The first not half so good, as th'other ill.
With these new Millions might we not expect
Our Foes to vanquish, or our selves protect;
If not to beat them off usurped Seas,
At least to force an honourable Peace:
But though the angry fate, or folly rather,
Of our perverted State, allow us neither;
Could we hope less than to defend our Shores,
Than guard our Harbours, Forts, our Ships and Stores?
We hop'd in vain: Of these, remaining are,
Not what we sav'd, but what the Dutch did spare.
Such was our Rulers generous stratagem;
A policy worthy of none but them.

After two Millions more laid on the Nation,
The Parliament grows ripe for Prorogation:
They rise, and now a Treaty is confest,
'Gainst which before these State-Cheats did protest:

A Treaty which too well makes it appear,
Theirs, not the Kingdom's Int'rest, is their care.

Statesmen of old, thought Arms the way to Peace;
Ours scorn such thread-bare Policies as these:
All that was given for the State's defence,
They think too little for their own expence:
Or if from that they any thing can spare,
It is to buy Peace, not maintain a War:
For which great work Embassadors must go
With bare submissions to our arming foe:
Thus leaving a defenceless State behind,
Vast Fleets preparing by the Belgians find;
Against whose fury what can us defend?
Whilst our great Polititians here depend
Upon the Dutch good Nature: For when Peace
(Say they) is making, Acts of War must cease.
Thus were we by the name of Truce betray'd,
Though by the Dutch nothing like it was made.

Here, Painter, let thine Art describe a Story
Shaming our warlike Islands ancient Glory:
A Scene wich never on our Seas appear'd,
Since our first ships where on the Ocean steer'd;
Make the Dutch Fleet, while we supinely sleep,
Without Opposers, Masters of the Deep:
Make them securely the Thames mouth invade,
At once depriving us of that and Trade:
Draw Thunder from their floating Castles, sent
Against our Forts, weak as our Government:
Draw Woollige, Deptford, London, and the Tower,
Meanly abandon'd, to a foreign Power.
Yet turn their first attempt another way,
And let their Cannons upon Sheerness play;
Which soon destroy'd, their lofty Vessels ride
Big with the hope of the approaching Tide:
Make them more help from our Remisness find,
Than from the Tide, or from the Eastern wind.

Their Canvas swelling with a prosp'rous gale,
Swift as our fears make them to Chattam sail:
Through our weak Chain their Fireships break their way,
And our Great Ships (unman'd) become their prey:
Then draw the fruit of our ill-manag'd cost,
At once our Honour and our Safety lost:
Bury those Bulwarks of our Isle in smoak,
While their thick flames the neighb'ring Country choak,
The Charles escapes the raging Element,
To be with trumph into Holland sent;
Where the glad People to the shore resort,
To see their Terror now become their Sport.
But Painter, fill not up thy Piece before
Thou paint'st Confusion on our troubled shore:
Instruct then thy bold Pencil to relate
The saddest Marks of an Ill govern'd State.
Draw th'injur'd Seamen deaf to all command,
While some with Horror and Amazement stand:
Others will know no other Enemy but they
Who have unjustly robb'd them of their Pay:
Boldly refusing to oppose a Fire;
To kindle which, our Errors did Conspire:
Some (though but few) perswaded to obey,
Useless for want of Ammunition stay:
The Forts design'd to guard our Ships of War,
Void both of Powder and of Bullets are:
And what past Reigns in Peace did ne're omit,
The present (whilst invaded) doth forget.

Surpassing Chattam, make Whitehall appear,
If not in danger, yet at least in fear.
Make our dejection (if thou canst) seem more
Than our Pride, Sloth, and Ign'rance did before:
The King, of danger now shews far more fear,
Than he did ever to prevent it, care;
Yet to the City doth himself convey,
Bravely to shew he was not run away:

Whilst the Black Prince, and our Fifth Harry's Wars,
Are only acted on our Theaters:

Our States-Men finding no expedient,
(If fear of danger) but a Parliament,
Twice would a void, by clapping up a Peace;
The Cure's to them as bad as the Disease:
But Painter, end not, till it does appear
Which most, the Dutch or Parliament they fear.

As Nero once, with Harp in Hand, survey'd
His flaming Rome; and as that burnt, he plaid:
So our great Prince, when the Dutch Fleet arriv'd,
Saw his Ships burne; and as they burnt, he---

Directions to a Painter.

by Sir John Denham.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Painter, Where was't thy former Work did cease?
Oh, 'twas at Parliament, and the brave Peace
Now for a Cornucopia: Peace, all know
Brings Plenty with it; wish it be not Woe.
Draw Coats of Pageantry, and Proclamations
Of Peace, concluded with one, two, three Nations.
Canst thou not on the Change make Merchants grin
Like outward smiles, whiles vexing thoughts within?
Thou art no Artist, if thou canst not feign,
And counterfeit the counterfeit disdain.

Draw a brave Standard, rufling at a rate
Much other than it did for Chathams fate.
The Tow'r-Guns too, thund'ring their Joys, that they
Have scap'd, the danger of b'ing ta'en away:
These, as now mann'd, for triumph are, not fight;
As painted fire for show, not heat or light.

Amongst the Roar of these, and the mad shout
Of a poor nothing understanding Rout,

That think the On-and-Off-Peace now is true,
Thou might'st draw Mourners for Black Bartholmew:
Mourners in Sion! Oh 'tis not to be
Discover'd! draw a Curtain curteously
To hide them. Now proceed to draw at night
A Bonfire here and there; but none too bright,
Nor lasting: for 'twas Brushwood, as they say,
Which they that hop'd for Coals now flung away.

But stay, I had forgot my Mother: Draw
The Church of England 'mongst the Opera,
To play their part too; or the Dutch will say
In War and Peace they've born the Bells away.
At this end then, two or three Steeples ringing,
At th'other end, draw Quires, Te Deum singing;
Between them leave a space for Tears: Remember
That 'tis not long to th'Second of September.

Now if thou skill'st prospective Landskip, draw
At distance, what perhaps thine Eyes ne'er saw;
Polyroon, Spicy Islands, Kits, or Guinney;
Syrrenam, Nova Scotia, or Virginia:
No, no; I mean not these; pray hold your laughter;
These things are far off, not worth looking after:
Give not a hint of these: Draw Highland, Lowland,
Mountains and Flats: Draw Scotland first, then Holland.
See, canst thou ken the Scots Frowns? Then draw those
That something had to get, but naught to lose.
Canst thou through Fogs discern the Dutchmen drink?
But Skippers, lately Capers, stamp to think
Their catching craft is over: some have ta'en,
To eke their War, a Warrant from the Dane.
But passing these, their Statesmen view a while,
In ev'ry graver Countenance a Smile:
Copy the piece there done, wherein you'll see
One laughing out, I told you how 'twould be!

Draw next a pompous Interchange of Seals;
But curs'd be he that Articles reveals

Before he knows them: Now for this take light
From him that did describe Sir Edward's fight:
You may perhaps the truth on't doubt; What tho?
You'll have it then Cum Privilegio.
Then draw our Lords Commissioners advance,
Not homewards, but for Flanders, or for France;
There to Parlier a while, until they see
How things in Parliament resented be.

So much for Peace. Now for a Parliament:
A petty Sessions draw: With what content,
Guess by their Countenance who came up post,
And quickly saw they had their Labour lost:
Like the small Merchants when they Bargains sell;
Come hither Jack: What say? Come kiss: Farewel:
But 'twas abortive, born before it's Day;
No wonder then it dy'd so soon away.
Yet breath'd it once, and that with such a force,
It blasted Thirty Thousand Foot and Horse.
As once Prometheus Man did sneez so hard,
As routed all that new rais'd standing Guard
Of Teeth, to keep the Tongue in order: So
Down fall our new Gallants without a Foe.
But if this little one could do so much,
What will the next? Give a Prophetick touch.
If thou know how; if not, leave a great space,
For great things to be pourtray'd in their place.

Now draw the shadow of a Parliament,
As if to scare the upper World 'twere sent:
Cross your selves, Gentlemen, for shades will fright,
Especially if't be an English Sprite:
Vermilion this mans guilt, cerule his fears;
Sink th'others Eyes deep in his Head with cares:
Another thought some on Accounts to see
How his Disbursements with Receipts agree.
Peep into Coaches, see Perriwigs neglected,
Cross'd Arms and Legs of such as are suspected,

Or do suspect what's coming, and foresee
Themselves must share in this Polutrophy.

Painter, hast travell'd? Dist thou e'er see Rome?
That fam'd piece there, Angelo's Day of doom?
Horror and Anguish of Descenders there,
May teach thee how to paint Descenders here.
Canst thou describe the empty shifts are made,
Like that which Dealers call, Forcing of Trade?
Some shift their Crimes, some Places; and among
The rest, some will their Countries too, ere long.
Draw in a corner, Gamesters, shuffling, cutting,
Their little crafts, no wit, together putting:
How to pack Knaves 'mongst Kings and Queens, to make
A saving Game, whilst Heads are at the stake.
But cross their Cards, until it be confest,
Of all the play, fair dealing is the best.
Draw a Veil of Displeasure, one to Hide,
And some prepared to strike a blow on's side.
Let him that built high, now creep low to shelter,
When Potentates must tumble Helter Skelter.
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone, as it was fit;
Such Marks as these could not chuse but be hit.
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone; Bartholomew-day,
Of all the days i'th' year, they're ta'en away.
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone; but to another,
Mitre; I wish not so, though to my Brother:
I care not for translation to a See,
Unless they would translate to Italy.

Now draw a Sail playing before the Wind,
From the North-West; that which it leaves behind,
Curses or out-cries, mind them not, tell when
They do appear Realities, and then
Spare not to Paint them in their Colours, though
Crimes of a Viceroy: Deputies have so
Been serv'd e're now: But if the Man prove true.
Let him with Pharohs Butler have his due,

Make the same Wind blow strong against the Shore
Of France, to hinder some from coming o're.
And rather draw the Golden Vessel burning,
Even there, than hither with her Fraight returning.
'Tis true, the noble Treasurer is gone:
Wise, Faithful, Loyal; some say th'only one:
Yet I will hope we've Pilots left behind
Can steer our Vessel without Southern Wind.

Women have grosly snar'd the wisest Prince
That ever was before, or hath been since:
And Granham Athaliah in that Nation,
Was a great hinderer of Reformation.
Paint in a new Peice painted Jezabel;
Giv't to adorn the Dining Room of Hell.
Hang by her others of the Gang; for more
Deserve a place with Rosamond, Jane Shore, &c,

Stay Painter; now look here's below a space,
I'th' bottom of all this, what shall we place?
Shall it be Pope, or Turk, or Prince, or Nun?
Let the resolve write Nescio. So have done.

Expose thy Peace now to the World to see:
Perhaps they'l say of It, of Thee, of Me,
Poems and Paints can speak sometimes bold Truths,
Poets and Painters are Licentious Youths.

Quæ sequuntur, in limine Thalami Regii, à nescio quo nebulone scripta, reperibantur.

Bella fugis, Bellas sequeris, Belloque repugnas
Et Bèllatori, sunt tibi Bella Thori
Imbelles Imbellis amas, Audaxque videris
Mars ad opus Veneris, Martis ad Arma Venus.

The last Instructions to a Painter, About the Dutch Wars 1667.

By A. Marvell, Esq;

After two sittings now our Lady-State
T'end her Picture doth the third time wait;
But e're thou fall'st to work, first Painter see,
If't be'nt too slight grown, or too hard for thee.
Canst thou paint without Colours, then 'tis right?
For so we too without a Fleet can fight.
Or canst thou daub a Sign-post, and that ill?
'Twill suit our great Debauch, and little Skill.
Or hast thou markt how Antique Masters Limn,
The Aly roof with Snuff of Candledimme,
Sketching in shady Smoak, prodigious tools?
'Twill serve this race of Drunkards, Pimps and Fools,
But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes,
As th'Indian draw our luxury in Plumes.
Or if to score out our Compendious fame,
With Hook then thro your Microscope take aim.
Where like the new Comptroller all Men laugh,
To see a tall Louse brandish a white Staff.
Else shalt thou oft thy guiltless Pencil curse,
Stamp on thy Palate, nor perhaps the worse.
The Painter so long having vext his Cloth,
Of his Hounds mouth to feign the raging Froth,
His desperate Pencil at the work did dart;
His anger reacht that rage which past his Art.
Chance finisht that, which Art could but begin,
And he sat Smiling how his Dog did grin.
So may'st thou perfect by a lucky Blow,
What all thy softest touches cannot do.

Paint then St Albans full of Soop and Gold,
The new Courts pattern, Stallion of the old.
Him neither Wit nor Courage did exalt,
But Fortune chose him for her pleasure's Salt.
Paint him with Dray-mans Shoulders, Butchers meine,

Member'd like Mule, with Elephantine Chin.
Well, he the Title of St. Albans bore;
For never Bacon studied Nature more:
But age allaying now that Youthful heat,
Fits him in France to play at Cards and cheat.

Draw now Commission, lest the Court should lye,
And disavowing Treaty ask supply;
He needs no Seal, but to St. James's lease,
Whose Breeches were the Instruments of Peace.
Who if the French dispute his power, from thence
Can strait produce them a Plenipotence.
Nor fears he the Most Christian should trapan
Two Saints at once, St German, St. Alban;
But thought the Golden age was now restor'd,
When Men and Women took each others word.

Paint then again her Highness to the Life,
Philosopher beyond Newcastles Wife:
She naked can Archimedes self put down
For an experiment upon the Crown.
She perfected that Engine oft essay'd,
How after Child-birth to renew a Maid;
And found how Royal Heirs might be matur'd
In fewer months than Mothers once endur'd.
Hence Crowder made the rare Inventress free
Of's Highnesses Royal Society.
(Happiest of Women if she were but able
To make her glassen Duke once malleable.)
Paint her with Oyster lip, and Breath of fame,
Wide Mouth, that Sparagus may well proclaim;
With Chancellors Belly, and so large a Rump,
There (not behind the Coach) her Pages jump:
Express her Studying now if China Clay
Can without breaking venom'd Juice convey.
Or how a mortal Poison she may draw
Out of the Cordial Meal of the Cacoe.
Witness ye Stars of Night, and thou the pale
Moon, that o'ercome with the sick Steam didst fail.

Ye neighbouring Elms that your green Leaves did shed,
And Fauns that from the Womb abortive fled.
Not unprovok'd she tries forbidden Arts,
But in her soft Breast Loves hid Cancer smarts,
While she revolves at once Sydney's disgrace,
And her self scorn'd, for emulous Denhams Face,
And nightly hears the hated Guards away
Galloping with the Duke to other Prey.

Paint Castlemain in colours that will hold
Her, not her Picture, for she now grows old.
She thro' her Lackey's, Drawers, as he ran,
Discern'd Loves cause, and a new flame began.
Her wonted joys thenceforth, and Court she shuns,
And still within her mind the Footman runs.
His brazen Calves, his brawny Thighs (the Face
She slights) his Feet shap't for a smoother race.

Poring within her Glass she re-adjusts
Her locks, and oft try'd Beauty now distrusts;
Fears lest he scorn'd a Woman once assay'd,
And now first wisht she e're had been a Maid.
Great Love! how dost thou Triumph, and how reign,
That to a Groom could'st humble her disdain!
Stript to her Skin, see how she stooping stands,
Nor scorns to rub him down with those fair Hands,
And washing (lest the scent her crime disclose)
His sweaty Hoofs, tickles him 'twixt the Toes.
But envious Fame too soon began to note
More Gold in's Fob, more Lace upon his Coat;
And he unwary, and of Tongue too fleet,
No longer could conceal his Fortune sweet.
Justly the Rogue was whipt in Porters Den,
And Jermin streight has leave to come again.
Ah Painter! now could Alexander live,
And this Campaspe thee Apelles give.

Draw next a pair of Tablets opening, then
The House of Commons clattering like the Men.

Describe the Court and Country both set right
On opposite points, the Black against the White.
Those having lost the Nation at Tick-Tack,
These now adventuring how to win it back.
The Dice betwixt them must the fate divide,
(As Chance does still in multitudes decide)
But here the Court doth its advantage know,
For the cheat Turner for them both must throw;
As some from Boxes, he so from the Chair
Can strike the Dye, and still with them go share.
Here Painter rest a little, and survey
With what small Arts the Publick Game they play:
For so too, Rubens with affairs of State
His labouring Pencil oft would recreate.

The close Cabal markt how the Navy eats,
And thought all lost that goes not to the Cheats.
So therefore secretly for Peace decrees,
Yet as for War the Parliament would squeeze;
And fix to the revenue such a summe
Should Goodrick silence, and strike Paston Dumb:
Should pay land Armies, should dissolve the vain
Commons, and ever such a Court maintain,
Hides avarice, Bennets luxury should suffice:
And what can these defray but the Excise?
Excise a Monster, worse than e're before,
Frighted the Midwife, and the Mother tore:
A thousand Hands she has, and thousand Eyes,
Breaks into Shops, and into Cellars pries.
With hundred rows of Teeth the Shark exceeds,
And on all Trades like Casawar she feeds;
Chops of the piece wheres' e're she close the Jaw,
Else swallows all down her indented Maw.
She stalks all day in Streets conceal'd from sight,
And flyes like Batts with Leathern Wings by Night;
She wastes the Country, and on Cities preys:
Her of a Female Harpy in Dog-Days

Black Birch, of all the Earth-born Race most hot,
And most rapacious like himself, begot;
And of his Brat enamour'd, as 't increast,
Bugger'd in Incest with the Mungrel Beast.

Say Muse, for nothing can escape thy sight,
(And, Painter wanting other, draw this fight)
Who in an English Senate fierce debate
Could raise so long for this new Whore of State.

Of early Wittalls first the Troop marcht in;
For diligence renown'd, and Discipline.
In loyal haste they left young Wives in bed,
And Denham these with one consent did head.

Of the old Courtiers next a Squadron came,
That sold their Master, led by Ashburnham.

To them succeeds a despicable Rout,
But knew the word, and well could face about;
Expectants pale with hopes of Spoil allur'd,
Thô yet but Pioneers, and led by Steward.
Then damming Cowards rang'd the vocal plain:
Wood these command, Knight of the Horn, and Cane;
Still his hook-shoulder seems the blow to dread
And under's arm-pit he defends his head.
The posture strange men laught at, of his pole,
Hid with his Elbow like the Spice he stole:
Headless St. Dennis so his head does bear,
And both of them alike French Martyrs were.

Court Officers, as us'd, the next place took,
And follow'd F***x, but with disdainful look:
His birth, his youth, his brokage all dispraise
In vain: For always he commands that pays.

Then the procurers under Progers fil'd,
Gentlest of men, and his Lieutenant mild;
Bronkard Love's Squire, thrô all the Field array'd,
No Troop was better clad, nor so well pay'd.

Then marcht the Troop of Clarendon all full,
Haters of Fowl, to Teal preferring Bull:

Gross bodies, grosser Minds, and grosser Cheats,
And bloated Wren conducts them to their Seats.

Charleton advances next (whose Wife does awe
The Mitred Troop) and with his looks gives Law
He marches with Beaver cockt of Bishops Brimm,
And hid much fraud under an aspect grimme.

Next the Lawyers mercenary Band appear,
F***ch in the front, and Thurland in the rear.

The Troop of Priviledge, a Rabble bare
Of Debtors deep, fell to Trelawny's care;
Their Fortunes errour they supply'd in Rage,
Nor any further would than these ingage.

Then marcht the Troop whose valiant Acts before
(Their publick Acts) oblig'd them to do more.
For Chimnies sake they all Sir Pool obey'd,
Or in his absence him that first it laid.

Then come the thrifty Troop of Privateers
Whose horses each with other interferes,
Before them Higgons rides with brow compact,
Mourning his Countess anxious for his Act.

Sir Frederick and Sir Solomon draw lots
For the Command of Politicks and Scots;
Thence fell to words, but quarrels to adjourn,
Their friends agreed they should command by turn.

Carteret the rich did the Accountants guide
And in ill English all the world defy'd.

The Papist (but of those the House had none
Else) Talbot offer'd to have led them on.

Bold Duncomb next of the projectors chief,
And old Fitz Harding of the Eaters Beef.

Late and disorder'd out the Drunkards drew,
Scarce them their Leaders, they their Leaders knew.
Before them enter'd equal in command
Apsley and Brotherick marching hand in hand.

Last then but one Powel that could not ride
Led the French Standard weltring in his stride;

He, to excuse his slowness, truth confest,
That 'twas so long before he could be drest.

The Lords Sons last all these did reinforce,
Cornbury before them manag'd Hobby-Horse.

Never before, nor since an Host so steel'd
Troopt on to Muster in the Tuttle field.
Not the first Cock-horse that with Cork was shod
To rescue Albemarle from the Sea-Cod:
Nor the late Feather-men whom Tomkins fierce
Shall with one breath like Thistle-down disperse.
All, the two Coventries their Generals chose,
For one had much, the other naught to lose.
Nor better choice all accidents could hit,
While Hector Harry steers by Will the Wit.
They both accept the charge with merry glee,
To fight a Battle from all Gun-shot free.

Pleas'd with their Numbers, yet in Valour wise,
They feign a Parley, better to surprize;
They that e're long shall the rude Dutch upbraid,
Who in a time of Treaty durst Invade.

Thick was the Morning, and the House was thin,
The Speaker early, when they all fell in.
Propitious Heavens! had not you them crost,
Excise had got the day, and all been lost:
For t'other side all in loose Quarters lay
Without Intelligence, Command, or Pay.
A scatter'd body which the Foe ne're tri'd,
But often did among themselves divide.
And some ran o're each Night, while others sleep,
And undescry'd return'd 'fore Morning peep.
But Strangeways that all Night still walk the round,
For Vigilance and Courage both renown'd;
First spy'd the Enemy, and gave the Allarm,
Fighting it single till the rest might Arm:
Such Roman Cocles stood before the Foe,
The falling Bridge behind, the Streams below.

Each ran as Chance him guides to several post,
And all to pattern his Example, boast;
Their former Trophies they recal to mind,
And to new edge their angry courage grind.

First enter'd forward Temple, Conqueror
Of Irish Cattle, and Solicitor;

Then daring S****r, that with Spear and Shield
Had stretcht the Monster Patent on the field.
Keen Whorwood next in aid of Damsel frail,
That pierc'd the Gyant Mordant through his Mayl:
And surly Williams the Accountants Bane,
And Lovelace young of Chimny-men the Cane.
Old Waller, Trumpet General, swore he'd write
This combat truer than the Naval fight.
Of birth, state, wit, strength, courage, Howr'd presumes,
And in his breast wears many Montezumes.
These with some more with single valour stay
The adverse Troops, and hold them all at Bay.
Each thinks his person represents the whole,
And with that thought does multiply his soul;
Believes himself an Army; theirs, one man;
As easily conquer'd, and believing, can
With heart of Bees so full. and head of Mites,
That each, though Duelling, a battle fights.
Such once Orlando famous in Romance,
Broacht whole Brigades like Larks upon his lance.

But strength at last still under number bows,
And the faint sweat trickl'd down Temples brows;
Even Iron Strangewayes chafing yet gave back,
Spent with fateigue, to breathe a while Toback—
When marching in, a seasonable recruit
Of Citizens, and Merchants, held dispute,
And charging all their Pikes, a sullen band
Of Presbyterian Switzers made a stand.

Nor could all these the field have long maintain'd,
But for th'unknown resérve that still remain'd;

A gross of English Gentry nobly born,
Of clear Estates, and to no Faction sworn,
Dear Lovers of their King, and Death to meet
For Countreys cause, that glorious thing and sweet,
To speak not forward, but in action brave,
In giving generous, but in Council grave:
Candidly credulous for once; nay twice:
But sure the Devil can't cheat them thrice.
The Van and Battle, thô retiring, falls
Without disorder in their Intervals;
Then closing all in equal front, fall on,
Led by great Garr'way, and great L***on.
Lee equal to obey, or to command
Adjutant General was still at hand.
The Marshal Standard Sands displaying shows
St. Dunstan in it tweaking Satan's Nose.
See, sudden chance of War to paint, or write,
Is longer work, and harder than to fight:
At the first charge the Enemy give out,
And the Excise receives a total rout.

Broken in courage, yet the men the same,
Resolve henceforth upon their other game;
Where force had fail'd, with Stratagem to play,
And what haste lost, recover by delay.
St. Alban's strait is sent to, to forbear,
Lest the sure Peace (forsooth) too soon appear.
The Seamens clamours to three ends they use,
To cheat their pay, seign want, and th'House accuse.
Each day they bring the tale, and that too true,
How strong the Dutch their Equipage renew.
Mean time thrô all the Yards their Orders run,
To lay the Ships up, cease the Keels begun.
The Timber rots, the useless Axe does rust;
Th'unpractis'd Saw lies buryed in its dust;
The busie Hammer sleeps, the Ropes untwine,
The Stores and Wages all are mine and thine.

Along the Coasts and Harbours they take care
That Money lacks, nor Forts be in repair.
Long thus they could against the House conspire,
Load them with envy, and with sitting tire:
And the lov'd King, and never yet deny'd,
Is brought to beg in publick, and to chide:
But when this fail'd, and Months enough were spent,
They with the first days proffer seem content;
And to Land-Tax from the Excise turn round,
Bought off with Eighteen hundred thousand pound.
Thus like fair Thieves, the Commons Purse they share,
But all the Members lives consulting spare.

Blither than Hare that hath escap'd the Hounds,
The House prorogu'd, the Chancellour rebounds.
Not so decripet Æson hasht and stew'd
With Magick Herbs rose from the Pot renew'd;
And with fresh age felt his glad Limbs unite,
His Gout (yet still he curst) had left him quite.
What Frosts to Fruits, what Arsnick to the Rat,
What to fair Denham mortal Chocolat;
What an account to Carteret, that and more
A Parliament is to the Chancellour.
So the sad Tree shrinks from the morning's Eye,
But blooms all Night, and shoots its Branches high.
So at the Suns recess, again returns
The Comet dread, and Earth and Heaven burns.

Now Mordant may within his Castle Tower
Imprison Parents, and the Child deflower.

The Irish Herd is now let loose, and comes
By Millions over, not by Hecatombs:
And now, now the Canary Patent may
Be broach't again for the great Holy-day.
See how he reigns in his new Palace culminant
And sits in state Divine like Jove the Fulminant.
First Buckingham that durst 'gainst him rebel,
Blasted with Lightning, struck with Thunder fell.

Next the twelve Commons are Condemn'd to Groan,
And roll in vain at Sisiphus's Stone.
But still he car'd, whilst in Revenge he brav'd
That Peace secur'd, and Mony might be sav'd,
Gain and Revenge, Revenge and Gain are sweet,
United most, then when by turns they meet.
France had St. Albans promis'd (so they Sing)
St. Albans promis'd him, and he the King.
The Count forthwith is ordered all to close,
To Play for Flanders, and the stake to lose.
While chain'd together, two Embassadours
Like Slaves shall beg for Peace at Hollands Doors.
This done, among his Cyclops he retires
To forge new Thunder, and inspect their Fires.
The Court as once of War, now fond of Peace,
All to new sports their wanton fears release.
From Greenwich (where Intelligence they hold)
Comes news of Pastime Martial and old.
A punishment invented first to awe
Masculine Wives transgressing Natures Law;
Where when the brawny female disobeys
And beats the Husband, till for Peace he prays,
No concern'd Jury dammage for him finds,
Nor partial Justice her behaviour binds;
But the just Street does the next house invade,
Mounting the Neighbour couple on lean Jade;
The Distaff knocks, the Grains from Kettle fly,
And Boys and Girles in Troops run hooting by.
Prudent Antiquity! that knew by shame,
Better than Law, Domestick Brawls to tame;
And taught Youth by spectacle Innocent,
So thou and I dear Painter represent
In quick Effigie; others faults, and feign,
By making them ridic'lous, to restrain:
With homely sight they chose thus to relax
The joys of State for the new Peace and Tax.
So Holland with us had the Mastery try'd,

And our next Neighbours, France and Flanders ride.

But a fresh News the great designment nips
Off, at the Isle of Candy, Dutch and Ships.
Bab May, and Arlington did wisely scoff,
And thought all safe, if they were so far off;
Modern Geographers! 'Twas there they thought
Where Venice twenty years the Turks had fought,
(While the first year our Navy is but shewn,
The next divided, and the third we've none.)
They by the Name mistook it for that Isle
Where Pilgrim Palmer travell'd in Exile,
With the Bulls horn to measure his own Head,
And on Phasiphae's Tomb to drop a bead.
But Morrice Learn'd demonstrates by the Post,
This Isle of Candy was on Essex Coast.

Fresh Messengers still the sad news assure,
More timerous now we are than first secure.
False terrours our believing fears devise,
And the French Army one from Calais spies.
Bennet and May, and those of shorter reach,
Change all for Guineas and a Crown for each;
But wiser Men, and Men foreseen in chance
In Holland theirs had Lodg'd before, and France.
White-Hall's unsafe, the Court all meditates
To fly to Windsor and mure up the Gates.
Each doth the other blame, and all distrust,
(But Mordant new oblig'd would sure be just.)
Not such a fatal stupefaction reign'd
At Londons Flames, nor to the Court complain'd.
The Bloodworth Chanc'lor gives, (then does recall)
Orders, amaz'd, at last gives none at all.

St. Albans writ too, that he may bewail
To Monr. Lewis and tell Coward tale,
How that the Hollanders do make a noise,
Threaten to beat us, and are naughty Boys.
Now Doleman's disobedient, and they still
Uncivil, his unkindness would us kill.

Tell him our Ships unrigg'd, our Forts unman'd,
Oru Money's spent, else 'twere at his command;
Summon him therefore of his word, and prove
To move him out of pity, if not love;
Pray him to make D' Wit and Ruyter cease,
And whip the Dutch, unless they'lhold their peace.
But Lewis was of memory but dull,
And to St. Albans too undutiful:
Nor word, nor near Relation did revere,
But askt him bluntly for his Character.
The gravell'd Count did with this Answer faint,
(His Character was that which thou didst paint)
And so inforc'd like Enemy or Spie,
Trusses his Baggage, and the Camp does flie:
Yet Lewis writes, and lest our heart should break,
Condoles us morally out of Seneque.

Two Letters next unto Breda are sent,
In Cypher one to Harry excellent:
The first entrusts (our Verse that Name abhors)
Plenipotentiary Embassadors;
To prove by Scripture, Treaty does imply
Cessation, as the Look Adultery;
And that by Law of Arms, in Martial strife,
Who yields his Sword, has title to his Life.
Presbyter Hollis the first point should clear,
The second Coventry the Cavalier:
But would they not be argu'd back from Sea,
Then to return home strait infectâ re.
But Harry's order'd if they won't recall
Their Fleet, to threaten—we will give them all.
The Dutch are then in Proclamation shent,
For sin against the eleventh Commandement.
Hides flippant style there pleasantly curvets,
Still his sharp wit on States and Princes whets:
So Spain could not escape his laughters spleen,
None but himself must choose the King a Queen.

But when he came the odious clause to pen,
That summons up the Parliament agen,
His Writing-master many times he bann'd,
And wisht himself the Gout to seize his hand;
Never old Lecher more repugnance felt,
Consenting for his Rupture to be gelt.
But still in hope he solac't e're they come
To work the Peace, aud so to send them home;
Or in their hasty call, to find a flaw,
Their Acts to vitiate, and them over-aw:
But more rely'd upon this Dutch pretence,
To raise a two-edg'd Army for's defence.

First then he marcht our whole Militia's force,
(As if alas we Ships, or Dutch had Horse,)
Then from the usual common place he blames
These, and in standing Armies praise declaims:
And the wise Court that alway lov'd it dear,
Now thinks all but too little for their fear.
Hide stamps, and strait upon the ground the swarms
Of currant Myrmidons appear in Arms;
And for their pay he writes as from the King,
With that curs'd quill pluckt from a Vultures wing,
Of the whole Nation now to ask a Loan;
(The Eighteen hundred thousand pounds are gone,)
This done, he pens a Proclamation stout
In rescue of the Bankers Banquerout.
His Minion-Imps that in his secret part
Lye nuzzling at the Sacramental Wart;
Horse-leeches sucking at the Hæm'rhoid Vein,
He sucks the King, they him, he them a gain.
The Kingdoms Farm he lets to them bids least;
(Greater the Bribe) and cheats at Interest.
Here men induc'd by safety, gain, and ease,
Their Money lodge, confiscate when he please:
These can at need, at instant with a Scrip
(This lik't him best) his Cash beyond Sea whip;

When Dutch invade, and Parliament prepare;
How can he Engines so convenient spare?
Let no man touch them, or demand his own,
'Pain of displeasure of great Clarendon.

The State affairs thus marshall'd, for the rest,
Monk in his shirt against the Dutch is prest.
Often (dear Painter) have I sate and mus'd
Why he should still b' on all adventures us'd:
Do they for nothing ill like Ashen-wood,
Or think him like Herb-John for nothing good?
Whether his Valour they so much admire,
Or that for cowardise they all retire.
As, Heaven in Storms they call, in gusts of State
On Monk and Parliament, yet both do hate.
All causes sure concur, but most they think
Under Herculean labours he may sink.
Soon then the Independent Troops would close,
And Hides last project of his place dispose:

Ruyter the while that had our Ocean curb'd,
Sail'd now amongst our Rivers undisturb'd;
Survey'd their Crystal-streams, and banks so green,
And beauties e're this never naked seen:
Through the vain Sedge the bashful Nymphs he ey'd,
Bosoms, and all which from themselves they hide.
The Sun much brighter, and the Sky more clear
He finds, the air and all things sweeter here:
The sudden change, and such a tempting sight
Swells his old veins with fresh blood, fresh delight.
Like am'rous Victors, he begins to shave,
And his new face looks in the English wave.
His sporting Navy all about him swim,
And witness their complacence in their trim.
Their streaming silks play through the weather fair,
And with inveigling colours court the air.
While the Red Flags breath on their top-masts high
Terrour and War, but want an Enemy.

Among the Shrouds the Sea-men sit and sing,
And wanton boys on every rope do cling:
Old Neptune Springs the Tydes, and Waters lent,
(The Gods themselves do help the provident)
And where the deep Keel on the shallow cleaves,
With Trident's Leaver and great Shoulder heaves.
Æolus their Sails inspires with Eastern wind,
Puffs them along, and breathes upon them kind.
With pearly Shell, the Tritons all the while
Sound the Sea-march, and guide to Sheppy Isle.

So have I seen in Aprils bud arise,
A Fleet of clouds sailing along the skies.
The liquid Region with their Squadrons fill'd,
Their airy sterns the Sun behind does guild,
And gentle gales them steer, and Heaven drives,
When all on sudden their calm bosom rives
With Thunder and Lightning from each armed cloud,
Shepherds themselves in vain in Bushes shroud.
So up the Stream the Belgick Navy glides,
And at Sheerness unloads its stormy sides.

Sprag there, though practis'd in the Sea command,
With panting heart lay like a Fish on Land,
And quickly judg'd the Fort was not tenable;
Which if a house, yet were not tenantable.
No man can sit there safe, the Canon pours
Through the walls untight, and Bullets showers.
The neighbourhood ill, and an unwholsom seat,
So at the first salute resolves retreat;
And swore, that he would never more dwell there,
Until the City put it in repair.
So he in front, his Garrison in rear,
Marcht streight to Chatham to increase the fear:

There our sick Ships unrigg'd in Summer lay,
Like moulting fowl, a weak and easie Prey:
For whose strong bulk Earth scarce could timber find,
The Ocean water, or the Heavens wind.

Those Oaken Gyants of the ancient race,
That rul'd all Seas and did our Channel Grace.
The conscious Stag, thô once the Forrest's dread,
Fys to the Wood and hides his armless head:
Ruyter forthwith a Squadron does untack,
They sail securely through the Rivers track.
An English Pilot too (Oh shame! Oh sin!)
Cheated of's pay, was he that shew'd them in.

Our wretched Ships within their fate attend,
And all our hopes now on frail Chain depend:
(Engine so slight to guard us from the Sea,
It fitter seem'd to captivate a Flea.)
A Skipper rude shocks it without respect,
Filling his Sayls more force to recollect.
Th'English from shore the Iron deaf invoke
For its ast aid, Hold Chain, or we are broke!
But with her sayling weight the Holand Keel,
Snapping the brittle links, does thorough reel,
And to the rest the opened passage shew:

Monk from the bank that dismal sight does view.
Our feather'd Gallants which came down that day
To be Spectators safe of the New Play,
Leave him alone when first they hear the Gun,
(Cornb'ry the fleetest) and to London run.

Our Seamen, whom no dangers shape could fright,
Unpaid, refuse to mount our Ships for spight:
Or to their fellows swim on board the Dutch,
Who shew the tempting Metal in their clutch.
Oft had he sent, of Duncomb and of Legg
Cannon and Powder, but in vain, to beg.
And Upnor Castle's ill deserted Wall,
Now needful does for Ammunition call.
He finds, wheres'ere he succour might expect,
Confusion, Folly, Treach'ry, Fear, Neglect.

But when the Royal Charles (what rage! what grief!)
He saw seiz'd, and could give her no relief;

That Sacred Keel that had, as he, restor'd
It's exil'd Sov'raign on its happy board,
And thence the British Admiral became,
Crown'd for that merit with his Masters Name:
That Pleasure-boat of War, in whose dear side
Secure, so oft he had this Foe defy'd,
Now a cheap Spoyl, and the mean Victors slave,
Taught the Dutch colours from its top to wave;
Of former glories the reproachful thought
With present shame compar'd, his mind distraught.

Such from Euphrates bank a Tigress fell
After her Robbers for her Whelps does yell;
But sees enrag'd the River flow between,
Frustrate Revenge, and Love by loss more keen;
At her own breast her useless claws does arm,
She tears her self, 'cause him she cannot harm.

The Guards plac'd for the Chain's and Fleet's defence,
Long since were fled on many a feign'd pretence.
Daniel had there adventur'd, man of might,
Sweet Painter, draw his Picture while I write.

Paint him of Person tall, and big of Bone,
Large Limbs like Oxe, not to be kill'd but shewn;
Scarce can burnt Iv'ry feign a hair so black,
Or face so red, thine Oker and thy Lack;
Mix a vain terrour in his Martial look,
And all those lines by which men are mistook;
But when by shame constrain'd to go on Board,
He heard how the wild Cannon nearer roar'd,
And saw himself confin'd like Sheep in Pen,
Daniel then thought he was in Lions Den:
But when the frightful Fire-Ships he saw,
Pregnant with Sulphur nearer to him draw,
Captain, Lieutenant, Ensign, all make hast,
E're in the fiery Furnace they be cast;
Three Children tall unsing'd, away they row,
Like Shadrack, Mesheck and Abednego.

Each doleful Day still with fresh loss returns,
The Loyal London now a third time burns.
And the true Royal Oak and Royal James,
Ally'd in Fate, encrease with theirs her flames.
Of all our Navy none should now survive,
But that the Ships themselves were taught to dive;
And the kind River in its Creek them hides,
Fraughting their pierced Keels with Ouzy sides;
Up to the Bridge contagious terror struck,
The Tow'r it self with the near danger shook,
And were not Ruyter's Maw with ravage cloy'd,
Ev'n Londons ashes had been then destroy'd.
Officious fear however to prevent,
Our loss does so much more our loss augment.
The Dutch had robb'd those Jewels of the Crown,
Our Merchant men, lest they should burn, we drown;
So when the Fire did not enough devour,
The Houses were demolisht near the Tow'r.
Those Ships that yearly from their teeming hole
Unloaded here the Birth of either Pole,
Fir from the North, and Silver from the West,
From the South Perfumes, Spices form the East;
From Gambo Gold, and from the Ganges Jems,
Take a short Voyage underneath the Thames:
Once a deep River, now with Timber floor'd,
And shrunk, less navigable, to a Ford.

Now nothing more at Chathams left to burn,
The Holland Squadron leisurely return,
And spight of Ruperts and of Albermarles,
To Ruyters Triumph led the Captive Charles.
The pleasing sight he often does prolong,
Her Mast erect, tough Cordage, Timber strong,
Her moving shape, all these he doth survey,
And all admires, but most his easie Prey.
The Seamen search her all within, without,
Viewing her strength they yet their conquest doubt;

Then with rude shouts secure, the Air they vex,
With gamesom joy insulting on her Decks;
Such the fear'd Hebrew Captive, blinded, shorn,
Was led about in sport, the publick scorn.

Black day accurst! on thee let no man hale
Out of the Port, or dare to hoyse a Sail,
Or row a Boat in thy unlucky hour,
Thee, the years Monster, let thy Dam devour;
And constant time to keep his course yet right,
Fill up thy space with a redoubled Night.
When aged Thames was bound with Fetters base,
And Medway chaste ravisht before his face,
And their dear Offspring murder'd in their sight,
Thou and thy fellows heldst the odious light.
Sad chance since first that happy Pair was wed,
When all the Rivers grac'd their Nuptial bed,
And father Neptune promis'd to resign
His Empire old to their Immortall line;
Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue,
Themselves dishonour'd, and the gods untrue;
And to each other helpless couple mourn,
As the sad Tortoise for the Sea do's groan:
But most they for their darling Charles complain,
And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain.
To see that fatal Pledge of Sea command,
Now in the Ravisher de Ruyters hand,
The Thames roar'd, swooning Medway turn'd her tyde,
And were they mortal, both for grief had dy'd.

The Court in Farthing yet it self do's please,
(And female Steward there rules the four Seas,)
But Fate does still accumulate our Woes,
And Richmond her commands as Ruyter those.

After this loss, to relish Discontent,
Some one must be accus'd by punlishment;
All our miscarriages on Pett must fall,
His Name alone seems fit to answer all.

Whose Counsel first did this mad War beget?
Who all Commands fold through the Navy? Pett.
Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat?
Who treated out the Time at Bergen? Pett.
Who the Dutch Fleet with Storms disabled met?
And rifling Prizes them neglected? Pett.
Who with false News prevented the Gazette,
The Fleet divided, writ for Rupert? Pett.
Who all our Sea-men cheated of their debt,
And all our Prizes who did swallow? Pett.
Who did advise no Navy out to set?
And who the Forts left unprepared? Pett.
Who to supply with Powder did forget
Languard, Sheerness, Gravesend and Upnor? Pett!
Who all our Ships expos'd in Chattam Nett?
Who should it be, but the Fanatick Pett?
Pett, the Sea-architect in making Ships,
Was the first Cause of all these Naval slips.
Had he not built, none of these faults had been;
If no Creation, there had been no sin.
But his great Crime, one Boat away he sent,
That lost our Fleet, and did our flight prevent.

Then that reward might in its turn take place,
And march with Punishment in equal pace,
Southampton dead, much of the Treasure's care
And place in Council fell to Duncombs share.
All men admir'd, he to that pitch could fly,
Powder ne're blew man up so soon, so high:
But sure his late good husbandry in Peeter,
Shew'd him to manage the Exchequer meeter;
And who the Forts would not vouchsafe a Corn,
To lavish the Kings Money more would scorn.
Who hath no Chimneys, to give all, is best,
And ablest Speaker, who of Law hath least.
Who less Estate for Treasurer most fit,
And for a Chanc'lour he that has least wit.

But the true Cause was that in's Brother May,
Th'Exchequer might the privy Purse obey.
And now draws near the Parliaments return,
Hide and the Court again begin to mourn;
Frequent in Council, earnest in debate,
All Arts they try how to prolong its date.
Grave Primate Shelden (much in Preaching there)
Blames the last Session, and this more do's fear;
With Boynton or with Middleton 'twere sweet,
But with a Parliament abhors to meet,
And thinks 'twill ne're be well within this Nation,
'Till it be govern'd by a Convocation.

But in the Thames mouth still de Ruyter lay'd,
The Peace not sure, new Army must be pay'd;
Hide saith he hourly waits for a Dispatch,
Harry came Post just as he shew'd his Watch;
All to agree the Articles were clear,
The Holland Fleet and Parliament so near:
Yet Harry must jobb back and all mature,
Binding e're th'Houses meet the Treaty sure;
And 'twixt necessity and spight, till then
Let them come up so to go down agen.
Up ambles Country Justice on his Pad,
And Vest bespeaks to be more seemly clad;
Plain Gentlemen are in Stage-Coach o'rethrown,
And Deputy Lieutenants in their own;
The portly Burghess through the weather hot
Do's for his Corporation sweat and trot;
And all with Sun and Choller come adust,
And threaten Hide to raise a greater dust.

But fresh, as from the Mint, the Courtiers fine
Salute them, smiling at their vain design;
And Turner gay up to his Perch doth march,
With Face new bleacht, smoothed and stiff with Starch
Tells them he at White-hall had took a turn,
And for three dayes thence moves them to adjourn.

Not so, quoth Tomkins. and straight drew his Tongue,
Trusty as Steel that always ready hung,
And so proceeding in his motion warm,
Th'Army soon rais'd he doth as soon disarm.
True Trojan! whilst this Town can Girls afford,
And long as Cyder lasts in Hereford,
The Girls shall always kiss thee though grown old,
And in eternal Healths thy Name be troul'd.

Mean while the certain News of Peace arrives
At Court, so reprieves their Guilty Lives.

Hyde order Turner that he should come late,
Least some new Tomkins spring a fresh debate:
The King that day rais'd early from his rest,
Expects as at a Play till Turner's drest;
At last together Eaton came and he,
No Dial more could with the Sun agree:
The Speaker summon'd to the Lords repairs,
Nor gave the Commons leave to say their Pray'rs,
But like his Pris'ners to the Bar them led,
Where mute, they stand to hear their Sentence read;
Trembling with Joy, and fear Hide, them Prorogues,
And had almost mistook, and call'd them Rogues.

Dear Painter, draw this Speaker to the Foot,
Where Pencil cannot, there my Pen shall do't.
That may his Body, this his Mind explain;
Paint him in golden Gown, with Maces train,
Bright Hair, fair Face, obscure, and dull of Head,
Like Knife with Iv'ry haft, and edge of Lead:
At Pray'rs his eyes turn up the pious white,
But all the while his private Bill's in sight:
In Chair he smoaking sits like Master-Cook,
And a Poll-bill do's like his Apron look.
Well was he skill'd to season any Question,
And make a Sawce fit for White-halls digestion:
Whence every day the Palate more to tickle,
Court-Mushroms ready are sent in to pickle.

When Grievance's urg'd he swells like squatted Toad,
Frisks like a Frog to croak a Taxes load;
His Patient, Piss he could hold longer, than
An Urinal, and sit like any Hen:
At Table jolly as a Country Host,
And soaks his Sack with Norfolk like a Toast;
At Night than Chanticlere more brisk and hot,
And Serjeants Wife serves him for Pertelott.

Paint last the King and a dead shade of Night,
Only disperst by a weak Tapers light:
And those bright Gleams that dart along and glare
From his clear Eyes (yet these too dart with care;)
There as in the calm horror all alone,
He wakes and muses of th'uneasie Throne:
Raise up a sudden shape with Virgins Face,
Though ill agree her posture, hour or place;
Naked as born, and her round Arms behind,
With her own Tresses interwove and twin'd:
Her Mouth lockt up, a blind before her Eyes,
Yet from beneath her Veil her blushes rise,
And silent tears her secret Anguish speak,
Her Heart throbs, and with very shame would break,
The Object strange in him no terror mov'd,
He wondred first, then pityed, then he lov'd;
And with kind hand do's the coy Vision press,
Whose Beauty greater seem'd by her distress;
But soon shrunk back chill'd with a touch so cold,
And th'airy Picture vanisht from his hold;
In his deep thoughts the wonder did increase,
And he divin'd 'twas England or the Peace.

Express him startling, next with list'ning ear,
As one that some unusual Noise doth hear;
With Cannons, Trumpets, Drums his door surround,
But let some other Painter draw the Sound;
Thrice he did rise, thrice the vain Tumult fled,
But again Thunders when he lyes in Bed.

His mind secure do's the vain stroke repeat,
And finds the Drums Lewis's March did beat.

Shake then the Room and all his Curtains tear,
And with blew streaks infect the Taper clear,
While the pale Ghosts his Eye doth fixt admire,
Of Grandsire Harry and of Charles his Syre;
Harry sits down and in his Open-side
The grisly Wound reveals of which he dy'd;
And Ghostly Charles turning his Coller low,
The purple thred about his Neck doth shew:
Then whisp'ring to his Son in words unheard,
Through the lockt Door, both of them disappear'd;
The wondrous Night the pensive King revolves,
And rising straight on Hides disgrace resolves.

At his first step he Castlemain does find,
Bennet and Coventry as 'twere design'd;
And they not knowing, the same thing propose
Which his hid Mind did in his depths inclose:
Through their feign'd Speech their secret Hearts he knew,
To her own Husband Castlemain untrue;
False to his Master Bristol, Arlington.
And Coventry falser than any one,
Who to the Brother, Brother would betray;
Nor therefore trusts himself to such as they.
His Fathers Ghost too whisper'd him one Note,
That who does cut his Purse will cut his Throat:
But in wise Anger he their Crimes forbears,
As Thieves repriev'd for Executioner:
While Hide provok't his foaming Tusk do's whet
To prove them Traytors, and himself the Pett.

Painter, Adieu, how well our Arts agree,
Poetick Picture, Painted Poetry!

But this great work is for our Monarch fit,
And henceforth Charles only to Charles shall sit.
His Master-hand the Ancients hall out-do,
Himself the Poet and the Painter too.

To the KING.

So his bold Tube Man to the Sun apply'd,
And spots unknown in the bright Star descry'd,
Shew'd they obscure him, while too near, they please
And seem his Courtiers, are but his Disease.
Through Optick Trunk the Planet seem'd to hear,
And hurles them off e're since in his career.

And you, (Great Sir) that with him Empire share,
Seen of our World, as he the Charles is there;
Blame not the Muse that brought those Spots to sight,
Which in your Splendor hid, corrode your Light:
(Kings in the Country oft have gone astray,
Nor of a Peasant scorn'd to learn the way,)
Would she the unattended Throne reduce,
Banishing Love, Trust, Ornament and Use?
Better it were to live in Cloysters lock,
Or in fair Fields to rule the easie Flock;
She blames them only who the Court restrain,
And where all England serves, themselves would Reign.

Bold and accurst are they that all this while
Have strove to Isle this Monarch from this Isle;
And to improve themselves by false pretence,
About the common Prince have rais'd a Fence;
The Kingdom from the Crown distinct would see,
And peel the Bark to burn at last the Tree.
But Ceres Corn, and Flora is the Spring,
Bachcus is Wine, the Country is the King.

Not so do's Rust insinuating wear,
Nor Powder so the vaulted Bastion tear;
Nor Earthquakes so an hollow Isle o'rewhelm,
As scratching Courtiers undermine a Realm.
And through the Palaces Foundations bore,
Burrowing themselves to hoord their Guilty store:

The smallest Vermin make the greatest wast,
And a poor Warren once a City rac't.

But they whom born to Virtue and to Wealth,
Nor Guilt to Flatt'ry binds, nor want to Stealth;
Whose generous Conscience, and whose Courage high,
Do's with clear Councils their large Souls supply;
That serve the King with their Estates and Care
And as in Love on Parliament can stare;
Where few the number, choice is there less hard;
Give us this Court, and rule without a Guard.

By A. M.

The Loyal Scot.

By Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt on his Ship at Chatham.

Of the old Heroes, when the Warlike shades
Saw Douglas marching on the Elysian Glades,
They all consulting, gather'd in a Ring,
Which of their Poets should his Welcome Sing;
And as a favourable Penance chose
Cleveland, on whom they would that task impose.
He understood; but willingly addrest
His ready Muse to Court that noble Guest.
Much had he cur'd the tumour of his Vein,
He judg'd more clearly now, and saw more plain;
For those soft Airs had temper'd every Thought,
And of wise Lethe he had drunk a Draught.
Abruptly he began, disguising Art,
As of his Satyr this had been a part.

Not so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely Chin
The early Down but newly did begin;
And modest Beauty yet his Sex did veil,
While envious Virgins hope he is a Male:
His yellow Locks curle back themselves to seek,
Nor other Courtship knew but to his Cheek:
Oft as he in chill Esk or Seyn by Night,
Hardned and cool'd, his Limbs so soft, so white;
Among the Reeds to be espy'd by him
The Nymphs would rustle, he would forwards swim;
They sigh'd and said, Fond Boy why so untame,
That fly'st Loves fires, reserv'd for other flame.
First on his Ship he fac't that horrid day,
And wondered much at those that run away:
No other fear himself could comprehend,
Than least Heav'n fall e're thither he ascend;
But entertains the while his Time too short,
With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport;
Or waves his Sword, and could he them conjure
Within its Circle, knows himself secure.
The fatal Bark him boards with grappling fire.
And safely through its Port the Dutch retire:
That precious Life he yet disdains to save,
Or with known Art to try the gentle wave;
Much him the Honour of his Ancient race
Inspir'd, nor would he his own deeds deface;
And secret Joy in his calm Soul does rise,
That Monk looks on to see how Douglas dyes.
Like a glad Lover the fierce flames he meets,
And tryes his first Embraces in their sheets:
His shape exact which the bright flame infold
Like the Suns Statue stands of burnisht Gold;
Round the transparent Fire about him glowes,
As the clear Amber on the Bees do's close;
And as on Angels heads their glories shine,
His burning Locks adorn his Face divine.

But when in his immortal mind he felt
His alt'ring form and soder'd limbs to melt,
Down on the Deck he layd himself and dy'd,
With his dear Sword reposing by his side;
And on the flaming Plank so rests his head,
As one that warm'd himself, and went to bed.
His Ship burns down, and with his Reliques sinks,
And the sad stream beneath his Ashes drinks.
Fortunate Boy, if either Pencils fame,
Or if my Verse can propagate thy Name,
When Æta and Alcides are forgot,
Our English Youth shall sing the valiant Scot.

Skip Saddles Pegasus, thou needst not brag,
Sometimes the Galloway proves the better Nag.
Shall not a Death so generous, when told
Unite our distance, fill our breaches old?
Such in the Roman Forum, Curtius brave
Galloping down, clos'd up the gaping Cave.
No more discourse of Scotch and English Race,
Nor chaunt the fabulous Hunt of Chevy-chace.
Mixt in Corinthian Mettal at thy flame
Our Nations melting, thy Colossus frame;
Prick down the Point, whoever has the Art,
Where Nature Scotland does from England part.
Anatomists may sooner fix the Cells
Where Life resides, and Understanding dwells:
But this we know, thô that exceeds our skill,
That whosoever separates them, does ill.
Will you the Tweed that sullen Bounder call
Of Soyl, of Wit, of Manners, and of all?
Why draw you not as well the thrifty Line
From Thames, from Humber, or at least the Tine?
So may we the State Corpulence redress,
And little England, when we please, make less.

What Ethic River is this wondrous Tweed,
Whose one bank Virtue, t'other Vice does breed?

Or what new Perpendicular does rise
Up from her Streams, continu'd to the Skies,
That between us the common Air should bar,
And split the Influence of every Star?
But who considers right will find indeed,
'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.
Nothing but Clergy could us two seclude,
No Scotch was ever like a Bishops feud.
All Litanies in this have wanted Faith,
There's no Deliver us! from a Bishops wrath.
Never shall Calvin pardon'd be for Sales,
Never for Burnet's sake, the Lauderdales,
For Becket's sake Kent alwayes shall have Tails;
Who Sermons e're can pacifie and Prayers?
Or to the Joint-stools reconcile the Chairs?
Thô Kingdoms joyn, yet Church will Kirk oppose,
The Mitre still divides, the Crown does close;
As in Rogation-week they whip us round,
To keep in mind the Scotch and English bound:
What the Ocean binds, is by the Bishops rent,
Then Sees make Islands, in our Continent.
Nature in vain us in one Land compiles,
If the Cathedral still shall have its Isles.
Nothing, not Bogs, not Sands, not Seas, not Alps,
Separate the World, so as the Bishops Scalps.
Stretch for the Line, their Circingle alone
'Twill make a more unhabitable Zone:
The friendly Load-stone has not more combin'd,
Than Bishops crampt the commerce of Mankind.
Had it not been for such a Biass strong,
Two Nations had ne're miss'd the mark so long.
The World in all doth but two Nations bear,
The Good, the Bad, and these mixt every where:
Under each Pole place either of these two,
The Bad will basely, Good will bravely do.

And few indeed can parallel our Climes
For Worth Heroick, or Heroick Crimes.
The tryal would however be too nice,
Which stronger were, a Scotch or English Vice;
Or whether the fame Virtue would reflect
From Scotch or English heart the same effect:
Nation is all but Name, a Shiboleth,
Where a mistaken Accent causes death.
In Paradise Names only Nature show'd,
At Babel Names from Pride and Discord flow'd;
And ever since men with a female Spight
First call each other Names, and then they fight.
Scotland, and England, cause of just uproar,
Do Man and Wife signifie, Rogue and Whore.
Say but a Scot, and straight we fall to sides,
That Syllable like a Picts Wall divides.
Rational mens Words Pledges are of peace,
Perverted, serve Dissention to increase.
For shame extirpate from each Loyal breast,
That Senceless Rancour against Interest.
One King, one Faith, one Language, and one Isle,
English and Scotch, 'tis all but Cross and Pile.
Charles our Great Soul this only understands,
He our affections both, and wills commands.
And where twin Sympathies cannot atone,
Knows the last Secret how to make us one.

Just so the prudent Husbandman that sees,
The idle tumult of his Factious Bees,
The Morning Dews, and Flowers neglected grown,
The Hive a Comb case, every Bee a Drone,
Powders them o're, till none discerns his Foes,
And all themselves in Meal and Friendship lose;
The Infect Kingdom straight begins to thrive,
And all work Honey for the common Hive.

Pardon young Heroe, this so long Transport,
Thy Death more Noble did the same extort.

My former Satyr for this Verse forget,
My fault against my Recantation set.
I single did against a Nation write,
Against a Nation thou didst single fight.
My differing Crime does more thy Virtue raise,
And such my rashness best thy Valour praise.

Here Douglas smiling, said, He did intend
After such frankness shewn, to be his Friend;
Forewarn'd him therefore, lest in time he were
Metempsycos'd to some Scotch Presbyter.

By A. M

Britannia and Raleigh.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By A. Marvell Esq.

Brit.
Ah Raleigh, when thou didst thy Breath resign
To trembling James, would I had quitted mine,
Cubs did'st thou call them? Hadst thou seen this Brood
Of Earls, Dukes, and Princes of the Blood;
No more of Scottish Race thou wouldst complain,
These would be Blessings in this spurious Reign.
Awake, arise from thy long blest Repose,
Once more with me partake of Mortal Woes.

Ra.
What mighty Pow'r hath forced me from my rest?
Oh mighty Queen, why so untimely drest?

Brit.
Favour'd by Night, conceal'd in this Disguise,
Whilst the Lewd Court in drunken Slumber lies,
I stole away, and never will return,
Till England knows who did her City burn;
Till Cavaliers shall Favourites be deem'd,
And Loyal Sufferers by the Court esteem'd;

Till Liegh and Galloway shall Bribes reject;
Thus O---n's Golden Cheat I shall detect:
Till Atheist Lauderdale shall leave this Land,
And Commons Votes shall Cut-Nose Guards disband;
Till Kate a happy Mother shall become,
Till Charles loves Parliaments, and James hates Rome.

Ral.
What fatal Crimes make you for ever fly
Your once lov'd Court and Martyrs Progeny?

Brit.

A Colony of French possess the Court;
Pimps, Priests, Buffoons in Privy Chamber sport;
Such slimy Monsters ne'r approacht a Throne
Since Pharaoh's Days, nor so defil'd a Crown.
In sacred Ear Tyrannick Arts they croak,
Pervert his Mind, and good Intention choak;
Tell him of Golden Indies, Fairy Lands,
Leviathan, and absolute Commands.
Thus Fairy-like the King they steal away,
And in his room a Changling Lewis lay.
How oft have I him to himself restor'd,
In's left the Scale, in's right hand plac'd the Sword?
Taught him their use, what dangers would ensue,
To them who strive to separate these two?
The bloody Scotish Chronicle read o're,
Shew'd him how many Kings in purple gore
Were hurll'd to Hell by cruel Tyrant Lore.

The other day fam'd Spencer I did bring,
In lofty Notes Tudor's blest Race to sing;
How Spain's proud Powers her Virgin Arms controul'd,
And Gold'n Days in peaceful Order roul'd;
How like ripe Fruit she dropt from off her Throne,
Full of grey Hairs, good Deeds, and great Renown.
As the Jessean Hero did appease
Sauls stormy Rage, and stopt his black Disease;
So the learn'd Bard, with Artful Song supprest
The swelling Passion of his canker'd Breast,

And in his Heart kind Influences shed
Of Countrys Love by Truth and Justice bred:
Then, to perform the Cure so well begun,
To him I shew'd this glorious setting Sun.
How by her Peoples Looks pursu'd from far,
So mounted on a bright Celestial Car,
Out-shining Virgo, or the Julian Star.
Whilst in Truths Mirrour this good Scene he spy'd,
Enter'd a Dame, bedeckt with spotted Pride,
Fair Flower-de-Luce within an Azure Field,
Her left Hand bears the Ancient Gallick Shield,
By her usurp'd; her Right a bloody Sword,
Inscrib'd Leviathan, our Soveraign Lord;
Her towry Front a fiery Meteor bears,
And Exhalation bred of Blood and Tears;
Around her Jove's lewd rav'nous Curs complain,
Pale Death, Lust, Tortures, fill her pompous Train:
She from the easie King Truth's Mirrour took,
And on the Ground in spiteful Fall it broke;
Then frowning, thus, with proud Disdain, she spoke:

Are thred-bare Virtues Ornaments for Kings?
Such poor Pedantick Toys teach Underlings!
Do Monarchs rise by Virtue, or by Sword?
Who e're grew great by keeping of his Word?
Virtue's a faint Green-sickness to brave Souls,
Dastards their Hearts, their active Heat controuls:
The Rival God, Monarchs of th'other World,
This mortal Poyson amongst Princes hurl'd;
Fearing the mighty Projects of the great,
Shall drive them from their proud Cœlestial Seat,
If not o're aw'd: This new-found, holy Cheat,
Those pious Frauds too slight, t'insnare the brave,
Are proper Arts the long-ear'd Rout t'inslave.
Bribe hungry Priests to deifie your Might,
To teach your Will's, your only Rule to Right,
And found Damnation to all that dare deny't.

Thus Heaven designs 'gainst Heaven you shall turn,
And make them feel those powers they once did scorn.
When all the Gobling Interest of Mankind,
By Hirelings sold to you, shall be resign'd;
And by Impostures God and Man betray'd
The Church and State you safely may invade:
So boundless Lewis in full Glory shines,
Whil'st your starv'd power in Legal Fetters pines.
Shake off those Baby Bands from your strong Arms,
Henceforth be deaf to that old Witches Charms;
Tast the delicious Sweets of Sovereign power,
'Tis Royal Game whole Kingdoms to deflower.
Three spotless Virgins to your Bed I'll bring,
A Sacrifice to you their God and King:
As these grow stale we'll harrass Humankind,
Rack Nature till new pleasures you shall find,
Strong as your Reign, and beauteous as your Mind.
When she had spoke a confus'd Murmur rose,
Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal Foes;
Some English too, O shame! disguis'd I spy'd,
Led all by the wise Son-in-Law of Hide;
With Fury drunk, like Bachanals they Roar,
Down with that common Magna Charta Whore:
With joynt Consent on helpless Me they flew,
And from my Charles to a base Goal me drew;
My Reverend Age expos'd to Scorn and Shame,
To Prigs, Bawds, Whores, was made the publick Game.
Frequent Addresses to my Charles I send,
And my sad State did to his Care commend;
But his fair Soul transform'd by that French Dame,
Had lost a sense of Honour, Justice, Fame.
Like a tame Spinster in's Seraigl he sits,
Beseig'd by Whores, Buffoons, and Bastards Chits;
Lull'd in Security, rowling in Lust,
Resigns his Crown to Angel Carwells Trust.

Her Creature O--- the Revenue steals,
False F***h, Knave Ang---esy, misguide the Seals;
Mack-James the Irish Biggots does adore;
His French and Teague commands on sea and shore:
The Scotch Scalado of our Court two Isles,
False L---le with Ordure all defiles.
Thus the States Night-mar'd by this Hellish rout,
And no one left these Furies to cast out:
Ah Vindex come, and purge the poison'd State;
Descend, Descend, e're the Cure's desperate.

Ral.
Once more great Queen thy Darling strive to save,
Snatch him again from scandal and the Grave;
Present to's Thoughts his long scorn'd Parliament,
The Basis of his Throne and Government:
In his deaf, Ears sound his dead Fathers Name;
Perhaps that Spell may's Erring Soul reclaim:
Who knows what good Effects from thence may spring?
'Tis God-like Good to save a falling King.

Brit.

Rawleigh, no more; for long in vain I've try'd,
The S---t, from the Tyrant to divide;
As easily learn'd Virtuoso's may
With the Dogs Blood his gentle Kind Convey
Into the Wolf, and make him Guardian turn;
To the bleating Flock, by him so lately torn:
If this Imperial Juice once taint his Blood,
'Tis by no potent Antidote withstood.
Tyrants, like Leprous Kings, for publick weal,
Should be immur'd, lest the Contagion steal
Over the whole. Th'Elect of the Jessean Line,
To this firm Law their Scepter did resign,
And shall this base Tyrannick Brood evade
Eternal Laws, by God for Mankind made.

To the serene Venetian State I'll go,
From her sage Mouth fam'd Principles to know;
With her, the prudence of the Ancients read,
To teach my People in their steps to tread:

By their great Pattern such a State I'le frame,
Shall eternize a glorious lasting Name.
Till then, my Raleigh teach our noble Youth,
To love Sobriety and holy Truth:
Watch and preside over their tender Age,
Lest Court, Corruption should their Soul engage:
Teach them how Arts and Arms in thy young Days
Employ'd our Youth, not Taverns, Stews and Plays:
Tell them the generous Scorn their rise does owe
To Flattery, Pimping and a Gawdy Shew;
Teach them to scorn the Carwells, Portsms, Nells,
The Clevelands, O---, Berties, Lau---ails,
Poppea, Tegoline and Arteria's Name,
Who yield to these in Lewdness, Lust and Fame.
Make 'em admire the Talbots, Sidneys, Veres,
Drake, Cav'ndish, Blake, Men void of slavish Fears,
True Sons of Glory, Pillars of the State,
On whose fam'd Deeds all Tongues and Writers wait;
When with fierce Ardour their bright Souls do burn,
Back to my dearest Country I'll return.
Tarquin's just Judge and Cæsar's equal Peers,
With them I'll bring, to dry my Peoples Tears.
Publicola with healing Hands shall pour
Balm in their Wounds, and shall their Life restore:
Greek Arts and Roman Arms in her conjoyn'd,
Shall England raise, relieve opprest Mankind.
As Jove's great Son th'infested Globe did free
From noxious Monsters, hell born Tyranny;
So shall my England in a Holy War,
In Triumph lead chain'd Tryrants from a far;
Her true Crusado shall at last pull down
The Turkish Crescent and the Persian Sun.
Freed by thy Labours, Fortunate Blest Isle,
The Earth shall rest, the Heaven shall on thee smile;
And this kind Secret for Reward shall give,
No Poyson'd Tyrants on thy Earth shall live.

Advice to a Painter,

by A. Marvell Esqr;

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Spread a large Canvass, Painter, to contain
The great Assembly, and the num'rous Train;
Where all about him shall in Triumph sit
Abhoring Wisdom and despising Wit,
Hating all Justice and resolv'd to Fight,
To rob their Native Country of their Right;
First draw His Highness prostrate to the South,
Adoring Rome, this Label in his Mouth.

Most Holy Father, being joyn'd in League
With Father Patrick, D---, and with Teague,
Thrown at your Sacred Feet, I humbly bow,
I and the wife Associates of my Vow;
A Vow, nor Fire nor Sword shall ever end,
Till all this Nation to your Foot-stool bend:
Thus arm'd with Zeal and Blessings from your Hands,
I'll raise my Papists, and my Irish Bands;
And by a Noble well-contrived Plot,
Manag'd by wife Fitzgerrald and by Scot,
Prove to the World, I'll make Old England know,
That common Sence is my Eternal Foe.
I ne're can fight in a more glorious Cause,
Than to destroy their Liberty and Laws,
Their House of Commons, and their House of Lords,
Their Parchment Precedents and dull Records;
Shall these e're dare to contradict my Will,
And think a Prince oth' Blood can e're do Ill?
It is our Birth-right to have Power to kill.
Shall they e're dare to think they shall decide
The Way to Heaven, and who shall be my Guide?
Shall they pretend to say, That Bread is Bread,
If we affirm it is a God in deed;
Or that there's no Purgatory for the Dead?

That Extream Unction is but common Oyl,
And not Infallible the Roman Soil?
I'll have these Villains in our Notions rest,
And I do say it, therefore it's the best.

Next Painter, draw his Mordant by his side,
Conveying his Religion and his Bride;
He who long since abjur'd the Royal Line,
Does now in Popery with his Master joyn:
Then draw the Princess with her golden Locks,
Hastning to be envenom'd with the P---
And in her youthful Veins receive a Wound,
Which sent N. H. before her, under Ground;
The Wound of which the tainted Ch---t fades,
Laid up in Store for a new Set of Maids.
Poor Princess, born under a sullen Star,
To find such Welcome when you came so far!
Better some jealous Neighbour of your own
Had call'd you to a Sound, tho' petty Throne!
Where, 'twixt a wholesome Husband and a Page,
You might have linger'd out a lazy Age,
Than on dull Hopes of being here a Q---
E're twenty dye, and rot before fifteen.

Now Painter shew us in the Blackest Dye,
The Counsellors of all this Villany:
Clifford, who first appear'd in humble guise,
Was always thought too Gentle, Meek and Wife:
But when he came to act upon the Stage,
He prov'd the mad Cethegus of our Age;
He and his Duke had both too great a Mind,
To be by Justice or by Law confin'd;
Their boyling Heads can hear no other Sounds
Than Fleets and Armies, Battails, Blood and Wounds;
And to destroy our Liberty they hope,
By Irish Fools, and an old doting Pope.

Next Talbot must by his great Master stand,
Laden with Folly, Flesh, and Ill-got Land;

He's of a size indeed to fill a Porch,
But ne're can make a Pillar of the Church;
His Sword is all his Argument, not his Book,
All tho' no Scholar, he can act the Cook;
And will cut Throats again, if he be paid;
In th'Irish Shambles he first learn'd the Trade.

Then Painter shew thy Skill, and in fit place
Let's see the Nuncio Arundel's sweet Face;
Let the Beholders by thy Art espy
His Sense and Soul, as squinting as his Eye.

Let B---sis autumnal Face be seen,
Rich with the Spoils of a poor Algerine;
Who trusting in him, was by him betray'd;
And so shall we when his Advice's obey'd:
The Heroe once got Honour by the Sword,
He got his Wealth by breaking of his Word;
And now his Daughter he hath got with Child,
And Pimps to have his Family defil'd,

Next Painter draw the Rabble of the Plot.
German, Fitz Gerrald, Loftus, Porter, Scot:
These are fit Heads indeed, to turn a State,
And change the Order of a Nations Fate;
Ten thousand such as these shall ne'r controul
The smallest Atome of an English Soul.

Old England on its strong Foundation stands,
Defying all their Heads and all their Hands;
Its steady Basis never could be shook,
When Wiser Men her Ruin undertook:
And can her Guardian Angel let her stoop
At last, to Mad-men, Fools, and to the Pope?
No Painter, no; close up this Piece and see
This Crowd of Traytors, hang'd in Effigie.

To the King.

Great Charles, who full of Mercy, wouldst command
In Peace and Pleasure this his Native Land;
At last take pity of thy tottering Throne,
Shook by the Faults of others, not thine own.
Let not thy Life and Crown together end,
Destroy'd by a false Brother and a Friend.
Observe the danger that appears so near,
That all your Subjects do each minute fear:
One drop of Poison, or a Popish-Knife,
Ends all the Joy of England with thy Life.
Brothers, 'tis true, by Nature, should be kind;
But a too zealous and ambitious Mind,
Brib'd with a Crown on Earth, and one above,
Harbours no Friendship, Tenderness, or Love:
See in all Ages what Examples are
Of Monarchs murther'd by their impatient Heir.
Hard Fate of Princes, who will ne're believe,
Till the Stroke's struck which they can ne're retrieve.

Nostradamus's Prophecy.

by A. Marvell. Esq;.

For Faults and Follies London's Doom shall fix,
And She must sink in Flames in Sixty six;
Fire-Balls shall fly, but few shall see the Train,
As far as from White-hall to Pudding-Lane;
To burn the City, which again shall rise,
Beyond all hopes, aspiring to the Skies,
Where Vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more
(Though its Walls stand) shall bring the City low'r:
When Legislators shall their Trust betray,

Saving their own, shall give the rest away;
And those false men by th'easie People sent,
Give Taxes to the King by Parliament:
When bare-fac'd Villains shall not blush to cheat,
And Chequer-Doors shall shut up Lumbard street:
When Players come to act the part of Queens,
Within the Curtains, and behind the Scenes:
When Sodomy shall be prime Min'sters Sport,
And Whoring shall be the least Crime at Court:
When Boys shall take their Sisters for their Mate,
And practice Incests between Seven and Eight:
When no man knows in whom to put his trust,
And e'en to rob the Chequer shall be just:
When Declarations, Lies, and every Oath
Shall be in use at Court, but Faith and Troth,
When two good Kings shall be at Brentford Town,
And when in London there shall be not one;
When the seat's given to a talking Fool,
Whom wise men laugh at, and whom Women rule;
A Min'ster able only in his Tongue,
To make harsh, empty speeches two hours long:
When an old Scotch Covenant shall be
The Champion for th'English Hierarchy:
When Bishops shall lay all Religion by,
And strive by Law t'establish Tyranny:
When a lean Treasurer shall in one year
Make himself fat, his King and People bare:
When th'English Prince shall English men despise,
And think French only loyal, Irish Wise:
When Wooden Shoon shall be the English wear,
And Magna Charta shall no more appear;
Then th'English shall a greater Tyrant know,
Than either Greek or Latin Story shew;
Their Wives to's Lust expos'd, their Wealth to's Spoil,
With Groans to fill his Treasury they toil;

100

But like the Bellides, must sigh in vain;
For that still fill'd, flows out as fast again:
Then they with envious Eyes shall Belgium see,
And wish in vain Venetian Liberty.

The Frogs too late grown weary of their Pain,
Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.

Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost.

It happen'd in the Twy-light of the Day,
As England's Monarch in his Closet lay,
And Chiffinch step'd to fetch the Female Prey;
The bloody shape of Godfrey did appear,
And in sad Vocal sounds these things declare:
“Behold, Great Sir, I from the Shades am sent,
“To shew these Wounds that did your Fall prevent.
“My panting Ghost, as Envoy, comes to call,
“And warn you, lest, like me, y' untimely fall;
“Who against Law your Subjects Lives pursue,
“By the same rute may dare to Murther you.
“I, for Religion, Laws, and Liberties,
“Am mangled thus, and made a Sacrifice.

“Think what befel Great Egypt's hardned King,
“Who scorn'd the Prophet's oft admonishing.
“Shake off your brandy slumbers; for my Words
“More Truth than all your close Cabal affords:
“A Court you have with Luxury o'er-grown,
“And all the Vices e're in Nature known;
“Where Pimps and Panders in their Coaches ride,
“And in Lampoons and Songs your Lust deride.
“Old Bawds and slighted Whores, there tell with shame,
“The dull Romance of your Lascivious Flame.

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“Players and Scaramouches are your Joy;
“Priests and French Apes do all your Land annoy:
“Still so profuse, you are insolvent grown,
“A mighty Bankrupt on a Golden Throne.
“Your nauseous Palate the worst Food doth crave;
“No wholsom Viands can an entrance have:
“Each Night you lodge in that French Syren's Arms,
“She strait betrays you with her wanton Charms;
“Works on your Heart, softned with Love and Wine,
“And then betrays you to some Philistine.
“Imperial Lust does o're your Scepter sway;
“And though a Soveraign, makes you to obey.
“She that from Lisbon came with such Renown,
“And to inrich you with the Africk Town.
“In nature mild, and gentle as a Dove;
“Yet for Religion can a Serpent prove:
“Priest-rid with Zeal, she Plots and did design
“To cut your thred of Life, as well as mine:
“Yet Thoughts so stupid have your Soul possest,
“As if Inchanted by some Magick Priest:
“There's no example urge you to relent,
“You Pardon Guilty, punish Innocent.
“Next he who 'gainst the Senate's Vote did Wed,
“Took defil'd H. and Este to his Bed.
“Fiend in his Face, Apostate in his Name,
“Contriv'd to Wars to your eternal shame.
“He ancient Laws and Liberties defies;
“On standing Guards and new rais'd Force relies:
“The Teagues he Courts, and doth the French admire,
“And fain he would be mounted one Step higher.
“All this by you must needs be plainly seen,
“And yet he awes you with his daring Spleen.
“Th'unhappy Kingdom suffered much of Old,
“When Spencer and loose Gaveston controull'd;
“Yet they by just Decrees were timely sent,
“To suffer a perpetual Banishment.

102

“But your bold States-men nothing can restrain,
“Their most enormous Courses you maintain.
“They like those Head-strong Horses of the Sun,
“Guided by the unskilful Phaeton:
“Your tott'ring Charriot bears through uncouth ways.
“Till the next World's inflamed with your Rays.
“Witness that Man, who had for divers years
“Pay'd the Brib'd Commons, Pensions and Arrears;
“Though your Exchequer was at his Command,
“Durst not before his just Accusers stand:
“His Crimes and Treasons of so black a hue,
“None dare to prove his Advocate but you.
“Who e're within your Palace Walls remain,
“Abhor your actions, serve you but for Gain.

“The Assyrians (as Histories relate)
“Had once a King grown so Effeminate;
“All State-affairs seem'd Irksome in his sight,
“In Spinning Wheels he placed his whole delight.
“With his lew'd Strumpet Crew he did retire,
“Condemned, and Loath'd, he set himself on Fire;
“And only in this Act the World did own,
“The greatest Man hood of his Life was shewn.
“Rome ne're to such a glorious State had grown,
“Had not luxurious Tarquin there been known;
“A single Rape was deem'd such a disgrace,
“They extirpate his odious Name and Race;
“Though he from Tuskian Kings did succour crave,
“Yet they with Arms pursued him to the Grave:
“Ingenious People always have withstood,
“What stains their Honour or the publick good:
“Trust not in Prelates false Divinity,
“Who wrong their Prince, and shame their Deity,
“Making their God so partial in their Cause,
“Exempting Kings alone from humane Laws.
“These lying Oracles they did infuse
“Of old, and did your Martyr'd Sire abuse.

103

“Their strong delusions did him so enthral,
“No Cautions would anticipate his Fall.
“Repent in time, and banish from your sight
“The Pimp, the Whore, Buffoon, Church-parasite;
“Let Innocence deck your remaining days,
“That After-ages may unfold your Praise.
“So may Historians in new Methods write,
“And draw a Curtain 'twixt your black and white.
“The Ghost spake thus, groan'd thrice, and said no more;
“Stright in came Chaffinch, Hand and Hand, with Whore;
“The King tho' much concern'd 'twixt Joy and Fear,
“Starts from the Couch, and bid the Dame draw near.

An Historical Poem by A Marvell Esq;.

Of a Tall Stature, and of Sable Hue;
Much like the Son of Kish, that Lofty Jew:
Twelve years compleat he suffered in Exile,
And kept his F---thers Asses all the while.
At length by wonderful Impulse of Fate,
The People call him Home to help the State;
And what is more, they send him Money too,
And Cloath him All, from Head to Foot, a new.
Nor did he such small Favours then disdain,
But in his Thirtieth year began his Reign:
In a slasht Doublet then he came ashore,
And dubb'd poor P---mer's Wife his Royal Wh---
Bishops and Deans, Peers, Pimps, and Knights he made,
Things highly fitting for a Monarch's trade;
With Women, Wine, and Viands of Delight,
His Jolly Vassals feast him Day and Night:
But the Best Times have ever some allay,
His younger Brother dy'd by Treachery.

104

Bold James survives, no dangers make him flinch,
He Marries Seignior Fal---h's pregnant Wench:
The Pious Mother Queen hearing her Son
Was thus Enamour'd on a Buttered Bun;
And that the Fleet was gone in Pomp and State
To fetch, for Charles, the Flow'ry Lisbon Kate,
She Chaunts Te Deum, and so comes away,
To wish her hopefull Issue timely Joy;
Her most Uxurious Mate she rull'd of old;
Why not with easie youngsters make as Bold?
From the French Court she haughty Topicks brings,
Deludes their Plyant Nature with vain things;
Her mischief-breeding Breast did so prevaile,
The new got Flemish 'Town was set to sail;
For these and Germains Sins she Founds a Church,
So slips away, and leaves us in the Lurch.
Now the Court-Sins did every place defile,
And Plagues, and War, fell heavy on the Isle.
Pride nourisht Folly, Folly a Delight
With the Batavian Common-wealth to fight:
But the Dutch Fleet fled suddenly with Fear,
Death and the Duke so dreadful did appear.
The dreadful Victor took his soft Repose,
Scorning pursuit of such Mecannick Foes.

But now Y---k's Genitals grew over-hot,
With D***ham and Carneige's infected Plot;
Which, with Religion, so inflam'd his Ire,
He left the City when 'twas got on Fire:
So Philip's Son, inflamed with a Miss,
Burnt down the Palace of Persepolis.
Foild thus by Venus, he Bellona wooe's,
And with the Dutch a second War renews.
But here his French bred Prowess prov'd in vain,
De Ruyter claps him in Sole Bay again.

This Isle was well reform'd, and gain'd Renown,
Whilst the brave Tudor's wore th'Imperial Crown:

105

But since the Royall Race of St***s came,
It has recoyl'd to Popery, and Shame.
Misguided Monarchs, rarely Wise or Just;
Tainted with Pride, and with impetuous Lust.

Should we the Black Heath Project here relate,
Or count the various Blemishes of State,
My Muse would on the Reader's Patience grate.

The poor Priapus King led by the Nose
Looks as a thing set up to scare the Crows;
Yet in the Mimicks of the Spinstrian sport,
Out does Tiberius, and his Goatish Court.
In Love's Delights none did him e'er excel,
Not Tereus with his Sister Philomel.
As they at Athens, we at Dover meet,
And gentlier far the Orleans Dutchess treat.
What sad Event attended on the same,
We'll leave to the Report of Common Fame.

The Senate, which should head-strong Princes stay,
Let loose the Reins, and give the Realm away;
With lavish hands they constant Tributes give,
And Annual Stipends for their Guilt receive;
Corrupt with Gold, they Wives and Daughters bring
To the Black Idol for an Offering.
All but Religious Cheats might justly swear,
He true Vice-gerent to old Molock were.

Priests were the first Deluders of Mankind,
Who with vain Faith made all their Reason blind;
Not Lucifer himself more proud than they,
And yet preswade the World they must obey;
'Gainst Avarice and Luxury complain,
And practice all the Vices they arraign.
Riches and Honour thy from Lay-men reap,
And with dull Crambo feed the silly Sheep.
As Killigrew Buffoons his Master, they
Droll on their God, but a much duller way;

106

With Hocus Pocus, and their Heavenly slight
They gain on tender Consciences at Night.
Who ever has an over-zealous Wife,
Becomes the Priests Amphitrio, during life.
Who would such Men Heavens Messengers believe,
Who from the Sacred Pulpit dare deceive.
Baal's wretched Curates Legerdemain'd it so,
And never durst their Tricks above-board shew,

When our first Parents Paradise did grace,
The Serpent was the Prelate of the place;
Fond Eve did for this subtil Tempter's sake,
From the Forbidden Tree the Pippin take.
His God and Lord this Preacher did betray,
To have the weaker Vessel made his Prey.
Since Death and Sin did humane Nature blot,
The chiefest Blessings Adam's Chaplain got.

Thrice wretched they, who Nature's Laws detest,
And trace the ways fantastick of a Priest;
Till native Reasons basely forc'd to yield,
And Hosts of upstart Errors gains the Field.
My Muse presum'd a little to disgress,
And touch her holy Function with my Verse.
Now to the State again she tends direct,
And does on Giant L***dale reflect.
This haughty Monster, with his ugly Claws,
First temper'd Poyson to destroy our Laws;
Declares the Councils, Edicts are beyond
The most Authentick Statutes of the Land:
Sets up in Scotland A-la-mode de France;
Taxes, Excise, and Armies does advance.
This Saracen his Country's Freedom broke,
To bring upon our Necks the heavier Yoke:
This is the Savage Pimp, without dispute,
First brought his Mother for a Prostitute.
Of all the Miscreants that e're went to Hell,
This Villain-Rampant beares away the Bell.

107

Now must my Muse deplore the Nation's Fate,
Like a true Lover, for her dying Mate.

The Royal Evil so malignant grows,
Nothing the dire Contagion can oppose.
In our Weal-publick scarce one thing succeeds,
For one Man's weakness a whole Nation bleeds,
Ill-luck starts up, and thrives like evil weeds.
Let Cromwell's Ghost smile with contempt to see
Old England strugling under Slavery.

His Meager Highness now has got a stride,
Does on Britannia, as on Churchil ride.

White-liver'd D--- for his swift Jack-call.
To hunt down's Prey, and hopes to Master all.

Clifford and Hide before had lost the Day;
One hang'd himself, and the other ran away;
'Twas want of Wit and Courage made them fail,
But O***ne and the D***ke must needs prevail.
The D***ke now vaunts with Popish Mermydons,
Our Fleets, our Ports, our Cities, and our Towns,
Are Man'd by him, or by his Holiness,
Bold Irish Ruffians to his Court Address:
This is the Collony to plant his Knaves,
From hence he picks and culls his Murthering Braves.
Here for an Ensign, or Lieutenant's place,
They'll kill a Judge or Justice of the Peace.
At his Command Mac will do any thing;
He'll burn a City: or destroy a King.
From Tiber came th'Advice-Boat monthly home,
And brought new Lessons to the Duke from Rome.
Here with curs'd Precepts, and with Councils dire,
The godly Cheat-King (would be) did inspire;
Heaven had him Chieftain of Great Britain made;
Tells him the Holy Church demands his Aid,
Bad him be bold, all Dangers to defy,
His Brother, sneaking Heretick, should dye:
A Priest should do it, from whose sacred stroke

108

All England straight should fall beneath his Yoke.
God did Renounce him, and his Cause disown,
And in his stead had plac'd him on his Throne.
From Saul the Land of Promise thus was rent,
And Jess's Son plac'd in the Goverment:
The Holy Scripture vindicates his Cause,
And Monarchs are above all humane Laws.

Thus said the Scarlet Whore to her Gallant,
Who streight design'd his Brother to supplant:
Fiends of Ambition here his Soul possest,
And Thirst of Empire Calentur'd his Breast.

Hence Ruine and Destruction had ensu'd,
And all the People bin in Blood imbru'd,
Had not Almighty Providence drawn near,
And stopt his Malice in its full career.

Be wise you Sons of Men, tempt God no more,
To give you Kings in's wrath to vex you sore:
If a King's Brother can such Mischiefs bring,
Then how much greater Mischiefs such a King?

109

Hodges Vision, from the Monument.

Decem. 1675, By A. Marvell Esq;

A Country Clown call'd Hodge, went up to view
The Pyramid; pray mark what did ensue.

When Hodge had numbered up how many score
The Airy Pyramid contain'd, he swore,
No Mortal Wight e're Climb'd so high before:
To the best vantage plac'd he views around
The Imperial Town, with lofty Turrets Crown'd;
That wealthy Store-house of the bounteous Flood,
Whose Peaceful Tides o'reflow our Land with good:
Confused forms flit by his wondring Eyes,
And his rapt Souls o'rewhelm'd with Extasies:
Some God it seems had enter'd his plain Breast,
And with's abode the rustick Mansion blest;
Almighty change he feels in every part,
Light shines in's Eyes, and Wisdom rules his Heart:
So when her Pious Son, fair Venus shew'd
His flaming Troy, with Slaughter'd Dardans strew'd;
She Purg'd his Opticks, fill'd with mortal Night,
And Troy's sad Doom he read, by Heaven's light,
Such light Divine broke on the Clouded Eyes
Of humble Hodge.
Regions remote, Courts, Councils, Pollicies,
The circling wills of Tyrants treacheries:
He Views, Discerns, Uncyphers, Penetrates,
From Charles's Dukes, to Europes armed States;
First he beholds Proud Rome and France Combin'd,
By double Vassallage to enslave Man-kind;

110

That wou'd the Soul, this wou'd the Body sway,
Their Bulls and Edicts, none must dis-obey.
For these with War sad Europe they inflame,
Rome says for God, and France declares for Fame:
See Sons of Satan know Religions force,
Is Gentleness, Fame bought with Blood a Curse,
He whom all still'd Delight of human kind,
Justice and Mercy, Truth with Honour joyn'd:
His kindly Rays cherish the teeming Earth,
And struggling Virtue blest with prosperous Birth;
Like Chaos you the tott'ring Globe Invade,
Religion cheat, and War ye make a Trade.
Next the lewd Palace of the Plotting King,
To's Eyes new Scenes of Frantick Folly bring;
Behold (says he) the Fountain of our Woe,
From whence our Vices and our Ruin flow:
Here Parents their own Of-spring prostitute,
By such vile Arts t'obtain some viler Suit;
Here blooming Youth adore Priapus's shrine,
And Priests pronounce him Sacred and Divine.
The Gotish God behold in his Alcove,
(The secret Scene of Damn'd incestuous Love.)
Melting in Lust, and Drunk like Lot, he lies
Betwixt two bright Daughter Divinities:
Oh! that like Saturn he had eat his Brood,
And had been thus stain'd with their impious Blood,
He had in that less ill, more Man-hood shew'd.
Cease, cease, (O C---) thus to pollute our Isle,
Return, return to thy long wish'd Exile;
There with thy Court defile thy Neighbour States,
And with thy Crimes precipitate their fates.
See where the Duke in damn'd Divan does sit,
To's vast designs wracking his Pigmy Wit,
Whilst a choice Senate of the Ignatian Crew,
The waies to Murder, Treason, Conquest shew;

111

Dissenters they oppress with Laws severe,
That whilst to Wound those Innocents, we fear,
Their cursed Sect we may be forc'd to spare.
Twice the Reform'd must fight a Bloody Prize,
That Rome and France may on their ruin rise:
Old Bonner, single Hereticks did burn,
These Reform'd Cities into Ashes turn,
And every year new Fires make us Mourn:
Ireland stands ready for his Cruel Reign,
Well fatned once, she gapes for Blood again,
For Blood of English Martyrs basely Slain.
Our Valiant Youth abroad must learn the Trade
Of unjust War, their Country to Invade,
Whilst others here do Guard us to prepare
Our Gaulded Necks, his Iron Yoke to bear.
Lo how the Wight already is betray'd,
And Bashaw Holmes, does the poor Isle invade:
T'ensure the Plot, France must her Legions lend
Rome to restore, and to Enthrone Romes Friend:
'Tis in return, James does our Fleet betray;
(That Fleet whose Thunder made the World obey;)
Ships once our safety, and our glorious might,
Are doom'd with Worms and rottenness to fight;
Whilest France rides Soveraign o're the British Main,
Our Merchants robb'd, and our brave Seamen ta'ne:
Thus this rash Phaeton with fury hurl'd,
And rapid rage consumes our British World;
Blast him, Oh Heavens! in his mad Career,
And let this Isle no more his Frency fear.
C--- J---, 'tis he that all good Men abhor,
False to thy self, but to thy Friend much more;
To him who did thy promis' Pardon hope,

Coleman.

Whilst with pretended Joy he kiss'd the Rope:
O'rewhelm'd with Guilt, and gasping out a Lye,
Deceiv'd and unprepar'd, thou lets him Dye,
Whith equal Gratitude and Charity

112

In spight of Jermin, and of Black-mouth'd Fame;
This St***s trick Legitimates thy Name.
With one consent we all her Death desire,
Who durst her Husbands and her Kings Conspire;
And now just Heavens prepar'd to set us free,
Heaven and our hopes, are both oppos'd by thee:
Thus fondly thou do'st Hides old Treason own,
Thus makes thy new suspected Treason known.

Bless me What's that at Westminster I see?
That peice of Legislative Pageantry?
To our dear James, has Rome her Conclave lent?
Or has Charles bought the Paris Parliament:
None else wou'd promote James with so much Zeal;
Who by Proviso hopes the Crown to Steal:
See how in humble guise the Slaves advance,
To tell a tale of Army, and of France;
Whilst proud Prerogative in's scornful Guise
Their fear, Love, Duty, danger does despise;
There in a brib'd Committee they contrive,
To give our Birth-right's to Prerogative:
Give, did I say? They sell, and sell so dear,
That half each Tax D--- distributes there
D---, 'tis fit the price so great shou'd be,
They sell Religion, sell their Liberty;
These Vipers have their Mothers Entrals torn,
And wou'd by force a second time be born;
They haunt the place to which you once were sent,
This Ghost of a departed Parliament.

Octob. the 15th 76.

Gibbets and Halters Country Men prepare,
Let none, let none, their Renegadoes spare:
When that day comes we'll part the Sheep and Goats,
The spruce brib'd Monsieurs from the true Grey Coats,
New Parliaments like Manna, all tasts please,
But kept too long our Food, turns our Disease;
From that loath'd sight, Hodge turn'd his weeping Eyes

113

And London thus Alarms with Loyal cries.
Tho' common danger does approach so nigh,
This Stupid Town sleeps in security:
Out of your Golden Dream awake, awake,
Your all, your all, tho' you see 't not's at stake,
More dreadful Fires approach your falling Town,
Then those which burnt your stately Structures down.
Such fatal Fires, as once in Smith-field shone.
If then ye stay till Edward's Orders give,

Major

No mortal Arme your safety can retrieve;
See how with Golden baits the crafty Gaul
Has brib'd our Geese to yield the Capital;
And will ye tamely see your selves betray'd;
Will none stand up in our dear Country's aid?

Self-preservation, Natures first great Law,
All the Creation, except Man, does awe,
'Twas in him fix'd, till lying Priests defac'd
His Heav'n born Mind, and Natures Tablets raz'd.
Tell me (ye forging Crew) what Law reveal'd
By God, to Kings the Jus Divinum seal'd?
If to do good, ye Jus Divinum call,
It is the grand Prerogative of all:
If to do Ill unpunished be their Right,
Such Power's not granted that great King of night;
Man's life moves on the Poles of hope and fear,
Reward and pain all Orders do revear.
But if your dear Lord Sov'raigne you would spare,
Admonish him in his Blood-thirsty Heir:
So when the Royal Lyon does offend,
The beaten Currs example makes him mend:
This said poor Hodge, then in a broken tone,
Cry'd out, Oh Charles! thy Life, thy Life, thy Crown;
Ambitious James, and Bloody Priests Conspire,
Plots, Papists, Murders, Massacres, and Fire;
Poor Protestants! With that his Eyes did rowl;
His Body fell, out fled his frighted Soul.

114

A Dialogue Between two Horses.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

by A. Marvell, Esq; 1674.

The Introduction.

We read in profane and sacred Records
Of Beasts, that have utter'd Articulate Words;
When Magpies and Parrots cry, Walk, Knaves, walk,
It is a clear Proof that Birds too may talk.
And Statues without either Wind-pipes or Lungs
Have spoken as plainly as Men do with Tongues:
Livy tells a strange Story, can hardly be fellowed,
That a sacrific'd Ox when his Guts were out, bellow'd.
Phalaris had a Bull, which as grave Authors tell you,
Would roar like a Devil with a Man in his Belly.
Friar Bacon had a Head that spake, made of Brass;
And Balaam the Prophet was reprov'd by his Ass.
At Delphos and Rome, Stocks and Stones, now and then, Sirs,
Have to Questions return'd Articulate Answers.
All Popish Believers think something Divine,
When Images speak, possesseth the Shrine:
But they that Faith Catholick ne'er understood,
When Shrines give Answer, a Knaves on the Rood.
Those Idols ne'er spoke, but are Miracles done
By the Devil, a Priest, a Friar or a Nun.
If the Roman Church, good Christians, oblige ye
To believe Man and Beast have spoke in Effigie.
Why should we not credit the publick Discourses
In a Dialogue between two Inanimate Horses?
The Horses, I mean, of Wool Church and Charing,
Who told many Truths worth any Man's Hearing,

115

Since Viner and Osborne did buy, and provide 'em,
For the two Mighty Monarchs that now do bestride 'em.
The stately brass Stallion, and the white marble Steed,
One Night came together by all 'tis agreed:
When both Kings being weary of Sitting all Day,
Were stollen off Incognito each his own way.
And then the two Jades, after mutual Salutes,
Not only discours'd, but fell to Disputes.

The Dialogue.

VV.
Quoth the Marble Horse, it would make a Stone speak
To see a Lord Mayor and a Lumbard street break:
Thy Founder and mine to cheat one another,
When both Knaves agreed to be each others Brother.

C.
Here Charing broke forth, and thus he went on,
My Brass is provoked as much as thy Stone,
To see Church and State bow down to a Whore,
And the Kings chief Minister holding the Door.
The Mony of Widdows and Orphans imploy'd,
And the Bankers quire broke to maintain the Whores Pride.

W.
To see Dei Gratia writ on the Throne,
And the K---'s wicked Life say, God there is none.

C.
That he should be stil'd Defender of the Faith,
Who believes not a Word, what the Word of God saith,

W.
That the D--- should turn Papist, and that Church defie,
For which his own Father a Martyr did dye.

C.
Tho' he changed his Religion, I hope he's so civil
Not to think his own Father is gone to the Devil.

W.
That bondage and beggary should be in a Nation,
By a Curst House of Commons, and a blest Restoration:

C.
To see a white Staff make a Beggar a Lord,
And scarce a wisé Man at a long Council-board.

W.
That the Bank should be seized, yet the Cheq. so poor,
Lord have Mercy, and a Cross might be set on the door:

116

C.
That a Million and half should be the Revenue,
Yet the King of his Debts pay no Man a Penny.

W.
That a K--- should consume three Kingdom's Estates,
And yet all the Court be as poor as Church Rats.

C.
That of four Seas Dominion and of there guarding,
No token should appear, but a poor Copper farthing.

W.
Our Worm-eaten Ships to be laid up at Chatham,
(Not our Trade to secure,) but for Fools to come at 'em.

C.
And our few Ships abroad become Tripoli's scorn,
By pawning for Victuals their Guns at Leghorn.

VV.
That making us Slaves by Horse and Foot Guard,
For restoring the King shall be all our reward.

C.
The basest Ingratitude ever was heard,
But Tyrants ungrateful are always afraid.

W.
On Harry the Seventh's Head, he that placed the Crown,
Was after Rewarded by losing his own.

C.
That Parliament-men should rail at the Court,
And get good Preferments immediatly for't.
To see them that suffer both for Father and Son,
And helped to bring the latter to his Throne:
That with their Lives and Estates did Loyally serve,
And yet for all this, can nothing deserve;
The King looks not on 'em, Preferments deni'd 'em,
The Round heads insult, and the Courtiers deride them.
And none gets Preferments, but who will betray
Their Country to Ruin, 'tis that ope's the way
Of the bold talking Members.—

W.
—If the Bastards you add,
What a number of Rascally Lords have been made.

C.
That Traitors to their Country in a brib'd House of C.
Should give away Millions at every Summons.

W.
Yet some of those Givers, such beggarly Villains,
As not to be trusted for twice-fifty Shillings.

C.
No wonder that Beggars should still be for giving,
Who out of what's given, do get a good living.

117

W.
Four Knights and a Knave, who were Burg esses made,
For selling their Consciences were liberally paid.

C.
How base are the Souls of such low prized Sinners,
Who Vote with the Country for drink and for dinners,

W.
'Tis they that brought on us this Scandalous Yoke,
Of Excising our Cups, and Taxing our Smoak.

C.
But thanks to the Whores who made the K--- dogged,
For giving no more the R--- are Prorogued.

W.
That a King should endeavour to make a War cease,
Which augments and secures his own profit and peace.

C.
And Plenipotentiaries send into France,
With an addle headed Knight, & a Lord without Brains.

VV.
That the King should send for another French Whore,
When one already had made him so Poor.

C.
The Misses take place, and advanc'd to be Dutchess,
With Pomp great as Queens in there Coach and six Horses:
Their Bastards made Dukes, Earls, Viscounts & Lords,
And all the high Titles that Honour affords.

VV.
While these Brats and their Mothers, do live in such Plenty
The Nation's empoverisht, and the Chequor quite empty:
And tho' War was pretended when the Mony was lent,
More on Whores, then in Ships, or in War, hath been spent.

C.
Enough, dear Brother, although we speak Reason;
Yet truth many times being punish'd for Treason,
We ought to be wary, and bridle our Tongues,
Bold speaking hath done both Men and Beasts wrong:
When the Ass so boldly rebuked the Prophet,
Thou knowest what danger was like to come of it;
Though the Beast gave his Master ne'er an ill Word,
Instead of a Cudgel Balaam wish'd for a Sword.

VV.
Truth's as bold as a Lion, I am not afraid,
I'll prove every tittle of what I have said:

118

Our Riders are absent, who is't that can hear;
Lets be true to our selves, who then need we fear?
Where is thy K--- gone,

(Chair.)
to see Bishop Laud?

VV.
To Cuckold a Scrivener, mines in Masquerade?
On such Occasions he oft strays away,
And returns to remount about break of Day.
In very dark Nights sometimes you may find him
With a Harlot, got up on my Crupper behind him.

C.
Pause Brother a while, and calmly consider
What thou hast to say against my Royal Rider.

VV.
Thy Priest-ridden King turn'd desperate fighter
For the Surplice, Lawn sleeves, the Cross and the Miter
Till at last on the Scaffold he was left in the lurch
By Knaves, that cry'd up themselves for the Church.
Arch-Bishops and Bishops, Arch-Deacons and Deans;

C.
Thy King will ne'er fight unless't be for Queans.

VV.
He that dies for Ceremonies, dies like a Fool.

C.
The K--- on thy Back is a lamentable tool.

VV.
The Goat and the Lion, I equally hate,
And Freeman alike value Life and a Estate:
Though the Father and Son be different rods,
Between the two Scourges we find little odds;
Both Infamous stand in three Kingdoms Votes,
This for Picking our Pockets, that for cutting our Throats:

C.
More tolerable are the Lion Kings Slaughters
Then the Goat making Whores of our Wives and Daughters:
The Debauched and Cruel since they equally gall us,
I had rather bear Nero than Sardanapalus.

VV.
One of the two Tyrants must still be our Case,
Under all that shall Reign of the false S--- Race.

W.
De Wit and Cromwel had each a brave Soul,
I freely declare it, I am for old Nol;
Though his Government did a Tyrant resemble,
He made England great and his Enemies tremble,

119

C.
Thy Rider puts no Man to Death in his Wrath,
But is bury'd a live in Lust and in Sloth.

W.
What is thy Opinion of James Duke of York

C.
The same that the Frogs had of Jupiter's Stork.
With the Turk in his Head, and the Pope in his Heart,
Father Patrick's Disciples will make England smart.
If e'er he be King I know Britain's Doom,
We must all to a Stake, or be Converts to Rome.
Ah! Tudor, ah! Tudor, we have had Ste---s enough:
None ever reign'd like old Bess in the Ruff.
Her Walsingham could dark Counsels unriddle,
And our Sir J---ph write News books and fiddle,

W.
Truth, Brother, well said, but that's somewhat bitter,
His perfumed Predecessor was never more fitter:
Yet we have one Secretary honest and wise;
For that very Reason, he's never to rise.
But can'st thou devise when things will be mended?

C.
When the Reign of the Line of the S---ts, are ended.

Conclusion.

If Speeches from Animals in Rome's first Age,
Prodigious Events did surely presage,
That should come to pass, all Mankind may swear
That which two Inanimate Horses declare.
But I should have told you before the Jades parted,
Both gallop'd to VVhite hall, and there humbly farted;
Which Tyranny's downfal portended much more
Than all that the Beasts had spoken before.
If the Delphick Sybil's Oracular Speeches,
(As learned Men say) came out of their Breeches,
Why might not our Horses, since Words are but Wind,
Have the Spirit of Prophecy likewise behind?
Though Tyrants make Laws, which they strictly proclaim
To conceal their own Faults, and cover their own Shame;

120

Yet the Beasts in the Field, and the Stones in the Wall,
Will publish their Faults and prophesy their Fall;
When they take from the People the Freedom of Words,
They teach them the sooner to fall to their Swords.
Let the City drink Coffee, and quietly groan,
(They that conquer'd the Father won't be Slaves to the Son,
For Wine and strong Drink make Tumults encrease,
Chocolate, Tea, and Coffee, are Liquors of Peace;
No Quarrels or Oaths amongst those that drink them,
'Tis Bacchus, and the Brewer swear dam em and sink 'em.
Then C***s thy late Edict against Coffee recal,
There's ten times more Treason in Brandy and Ale.

On the Lord Mayor and Court of Alderman, presenting the late King and Duke of York each with a Copy of their Freedoms,

Anno Dom. 1674.

By A. Marvell. Esq;.

I

The Londoners Gent to the King do present
In a Box the City Maggot;
'Tis a thing full of weight, that requires the Might,
Of whole Guild Hall Team to drag it.

II

Whilst their Church's unbuilt, and their Houses undwelt,
And their Orphans want Bread to feed 'em;
Themselves they've bereft of the little Wealth they had left,
To make an Offering of their Freedom.

III

O'ye Addle-brain'd Cits! who henceforth in their Wits
Would intrust their Youth to your heading;
When in Diamonds and Gold you have him thus enroll'd,
You know both his Friends and his Breeding?

121

IV

Beyond Sea he began, where such a Riot he ran,
That every one there did leave him;
And now he's come o'er ten times worse than before,
When none but such Fools would receive him.

V

He ne'er knew, not he, how to serve or be free,
Though he has past through so many Adventures;
But e'er since he was bound, (that is he was crown'd)
He has every Day broke his Indentures.

VI

He spends all his Days in running to Plays,
When he should in the Shop be poring:
And he wasts all his Nights in his constant Delights,
Of Revelling, Drinking and Whoring.

VII

Thro out Lumbard street each Man he did meet,
He would run on the Score and borrow,
When they'd ask'd for their own, he was broke and gone,
And his Creditors left to Sorrow.

VIII

Though oft bound to the Peace, yet he never would cease,
To vex his poor Neighbours with Quarrels,
And when he was beat, he still made his Retreat,
To his Cleavelands, his Nels, and his Carwels.

IX

Nay, his Company lewd, were twice grown so rude,
That had not Fear taught him Sobriety,
And the House been well barr'd with Guard upon Guard,
They'd robb'd us of all our Propriety.

X

Such a Plot was laid, had not' Ashley betray'd,
As had cancell'd all former Disasters;
And your Wives had been Strumpers to his Highnesses Trumpets,
And Foot Boys had all been your Masters.

122

XI

So many are the Debts, and the Bastards he gets,
Which must all be defray'd by London,
That notwithstanding the Care of Sir Thomas Player,
The Chamber must needs be undone.

XII

His Word nor his Oath cannot bind him to Troth,
And he values not Credit or History;
And though he has serv'd through two Prentiships now,
He knows not his Trade nor his Mystery.

XIII

Then London rejoyce in thy fortunate Choice,
To have made him free of thy Spices;
And do not mistrust he may once grow more just,
When he's worn of his Follies and Vices.

XIV

And what little thing is that which you bring
To the Duke, the Kingdom's Darling;
Ye hug it and draw like Ants at a Straw,
Tho' too small for the Gristle of Starling.

XV

Is it a Box of Pills to cure the Duke's Ills?
(He is too far gone to begin it)
Or that your fine Show in Processioning go,
With the Pix and the Host within it.

XVI

The very first Head of the Oath you him read,
Shews you all how fit he's to Govern,
When in Heart (you all knew) he ne'er was nor will be true
To his Country or to his Soveraign.

XVII

And who could swear, that he would forbear
To cull out the good of an Alien,

123

Who still doth advance the Government of France,
With a VVife and Religion Italian?

XVIII

And now, Worshipfull Sirs, go fold up your Furrs,
And Vyner turn again, turn again;
I see who e'ers freed you for Slaves are decreed
Until you burn again, burn again.

On Blood's Stealing the Crown.

By A. Marvell, Esq;.

When daring Blood, his Rent to have regain'd
Upon the English Diadem distrain'd:
He chose the Cassock, Sursingle and Gown,
The fittest Mask for one that robs the Crown;
But his lay pitty underneath prevail'd,
And whilst he sav'd the Keepers Life he fail'd.
With the Priests Vestment had he but put on.
The Prelates Cruelty, the Crown had gone.

A. Marvell.

124

Farther Instructions to a Painter,

1670.

By A. Marvell Esq;.

Painter, once more thy Pencil re assume,
And darw me in one Scene London and Rome:
Here holy Charles, there good Aurelius sat,
Weeping to see their Sons Degenerate:
His Romans taking up the Teemers Trade,
The Britains Jigging it in Masquerade;
Whilst the brave Youths tired with the Toil of State,
Their wearied Minds, and Limbs to recreat;
Do to their more belov'd Delights repair,
One to his ---, the other to his Player.

Then change the Scene, and let the next present
A Landskip of our Motley Parliament;
And place hard by the Barr, on the Left-hand,
Circean Clifford with his Charming Wand:
Our Pig-ey'd [OMITTED] on his [OMITTED] Fashion,
Set by the worst Attorney of our Nation:
This great Triumirate that can divide
The spoils of England, and along that side
Place Falstafs Regiment of thred bear Coats,
All looking this way, how to give their Votes,
And of his dear Reward let none Dispair.
For Mony comes when Sey---r leaves the Chair:
Change once again, and let the next afford
The Figure of a Motley Council Board.
At Arlingtons, and round about it sat,
Our mighty Masters in a warm debate:
Full Bowls, and lustly Wine repeat,
To make them t'other Council board forget:
That while the King of France with powerful Arms,
Gives all his fearful Neighbours strange Allarms;
Wee in our glorious Bachanalls dispose
The humbled Fate of a Plebean Nose.
Which to effect, when thus it was Decreed;

125

Draw me a Champion mounted on a Steed,
And after him a brave Briggade of Horse,
Arm'd at all Points, ready to reinforce,
His, this assault upon a single Man.
'Tis this must make Obryon great in Story,
And add more beams to Sandys former Glory.

Draw our Olympia, next in Council set,
With Cupid, S---r, and the tool of State.
Two of the first recanters of the House,
That Aim at Mountains, and bring forth a Mouse;
Who make it by there mean retreat appear,
Five Members need not be demanded here:
These must assist her in her Countermines,
To overthrow the Darby House Designs.
Whilst positive Walks, like Woodcock in the Park,
Contriving Projects with a Brewers Clark;
Thus all Employ themselves, and without Pity,
Leave Temple singly to be beat i'th' City.

A. Marvell.

Oceana. & Britannia.

By. A. Marvell Esq;

Non ego sum vates, sed prisci Conscius ævi.

Oceana.
Whither, O whither wander I forlorn?
Fatal to Friends, and to my Foes a scorn.
My pregnant Womb is labouring to bring forth
Thy Off spring Archon, Heir to thy just worth.
Archon, O Archon, hear my groaning Cries;
Lucina, help, asswage my Miseries.

126

Saturnian spight pursues me thro' the Earth,
No corner's left to hide my long wisht Birth.
Great Queen of the Isles, yield me a safe retreat
From the crown'd Gods, that would my Infants eat.
To me O Delos on my Child-Bed smile,
My happy Seed shall fix thy floating Isle.
I feel fierce pangs assault my Teeming Womb,
Lucina, O Britannia, Mother, come.

Britan.
What doleful shrieks pierce my affrighted Ear
Shall I ne'r rest for this lewd Ravisher?
Rapes, Burnings, Murthers are his Royal Sport,
These Modish Monsters haunt his perjur'd Court.
No tumbling Player so oft e're chang'd his shape,
As this Goat, Fox, Wolf, timerous French Ape.
True Protestants in Roman Habits drest,
With Scrogs he baits that Ravenous Butchers Beast.
Tresilian J**s, that fair-fac'd Crocodile,
Tearing their Hearts, at once doth weep and smile,
Neronian Flames at London do him please,
At Oxford Plots to Act Agathocles.
His Plot's reveal'd, his Mirth is at an end,
And's fatal hour shall know no Foe nor Friend.
Last Martyr's day I saw a Cherub stand
A cross my Seas, one Foot upon the Land,
The' other on the enthralled Gallick Shore,
Aloud Proclaim their Time shall be no more.
This mighty Power Heav'ns equal Ballance sway'd,
And in one Scale Crowns, Crosiers, Scepters laid,
I'th' other a sweet smiling Babe did lye,
Circled with Glories, deck'd with Majesty.
With steddy Hand he pois'd the Golden pair,
The gilded Gew-gaws mounted in the Air,
The ponderous Babe descending in its Scale,
Leapt on my Shore—
Nature triumph'd, Joy eccho'd throw the Earth,
The Heav'ns bow'd down to see the blessed Birth.

127

What's that I hear? A new born Babes soft Cries,
And joyful Mother's tender Lullabies!
'Tis so, behold my Daughter's past all harms,
Cradeling an Infant in her fruitful Arms.
The very same th'Angelique Vision shew'd
In mein, in Majesty how like a God.
What a firm Health does on her Visage dwell?
Her sparkling Eyes Immortal Youth fore-tel.
Rome, Sparta, Venice, never could bring forth
So strong, so temperate, such lasting worth.
Marpesia from the North with speed advance,
Thy Sisters Birth brings thy Deliverance.
Fergusian Founders this just Babe exceeds
I'th' Arts of Peace and mighty Martial deeds.
Ye Panopeians kneel unto your equal Queen,
Safe from the Foreign Sword, and Barbarous Skeen.
Transports of Joy divert my yearning Heart
From my dear Child, my Soul, my better part.
Hev'n show'r her choicest Blessings on thy womb,
Our present help, our stay in time to come.
Thou best of Daughters, Mothers, Matrons say,
What forc'd thy Birth, and got this glorious Day?

Ocea.
Scap'd the slow Jaws o'th' grinding Pensioners,
I fell i'th' Traps of Rome's dire Murtherers;
Twice rescu'd by my Loyal Senate's Power.
Twice I expected my Babe's happy Hour.
Malignant force twice check'd their Pious aid,
And to my Foes as oft my State betray'd.
Great, full of pain, in a dark Winters Night,
Threatned, pursu'd, I escap'd by sudden flight.
Pale fear gave speed to my weak'trembling Feet,
And far I fled e're Day our World could greet.
That dear-lov'd Light which the whole Globe doth chear,
Spur'd on my flight, and added to my fear,
Whilst black Conspiracy, that Child of Night,
In Royal Purple clad, out-dares the Light.

128

By Day her self the Faith's Defender stiles,
By Night dig Pits, and spreads her Papal Toils
By Day he to the Pompous Chappel goes,
By Night with York adores Rome's Idol-shews:
Witness ye Stars and silent Powers of Night,
Her Treacheries forc'd my Innocent flight.
With the broad Day my danger too drew near,
Of help, of Council void, how shall I steer?
I'th' Pulpit damn'd, Strumpet at Court proclaim'd,
Where should I hide, where should I rest defam'd?
Tortur'd in thought, I rais'd my weeping Eyes,
And sobbing Voice to th'all helping Skies;
As by Heav'n sent a Reverend Sire appears,
Charming my Grief, and stopping my flood of Tears.
His busie circling Orbs (two restless Spies)
Glanc'd to and fro, out-ranging Argos Eyes.
Like fleeting Time, on's Front one lock did grow,
From his glib Tongue torrents of words did flow
Propose, Resolve, Agrarian Forty one,
Lycurgus, Brutus, Solon, Harington.
He said, he knew me in my Swadling bands,
Had often danc'd me in his careful Hands.
He knew Lord Archon too, then wept and swore,
Enshrin'd in me, his Fame he did adore.
His Name I ask'd, he said, Politico,
Descended from the Divine Nicholo.
My state he knew, my danger seem'd to dread,
And to my safety vow'd, Hand, Heart, Head.
Grateful Returns I up to Heaven send,
That in Distress had sent me such a Friend.
I ask'd him where I was? Pointing, he shew'd
Oxford's Old Towers, once the Learned Arts aboad.
(Once great in Fame, now a Piratick Port,
Where Romish Priests and Elvish Monks resort)
He added near a new-built College stood,
Endow'd by Plato for the Publick good.

129

Thither allur'd by Learned Honest Men,
Plato vouchsaf'd once more to live again.
Securely there I might my self repose,
From my fierce Griefs and my more cruel Foes.
Tyr'd with long flights, e'en hunted down with fear,
The welcome News my drooping Soul did chear.
His pleasing words shortned the time and way,
And me beguil'd at Plato's House to stay.
When we came in, be told me (after rest,)
He'd shew me Plato and's Venetian Guest,
I scarce reply'd, with weariness opprest.
To my desir'd Apartment I repair'd,
Invoking Sleep and Heaven's Almighty Guard.
My waking Cares and stabbing frights recede,
And nodding Sleep dropt on my drowsie Head.
At last the Summons of a busie Bell,
And glimmering Lights did Sleeps kind Mists dispel.
From Bed I stole, and creeping by the Wall,
Thro' a small Chink I spy'd a Spacious Hall.
Tapers as thick as Stars did shed their Light
Around the place, and made a Day of Night.
The curious Art of some great Master's hand,
Adorn'd the Room—Hide, Clifford, D--- stand
In one large piece, next them the two Dutch Wars,
In bloody Colours paint our fatal Jars.
Here London Flames in Clouds of smoke aspire,
Done to the life, I'd almost cry'd out Fire.
But living Figures did my Eyes divert
From those, and many more of wondrous Art.
There entred in three Mercenary Bands.
(The different Captains had distinct Commands)
The Begger's desperate Troop did first appear,
L---ton led, proud S---re had the Rear.
The disguis'd Papists under Garroway,
Talbot Lieutenant (none had better pay)

130

Next greedy Lee led Party-colour'd Slaves,
Deaf Fools i'th' right, i'th' wrong sagacious Knaves.
Brought up by M---, then a Nobler Train,
(In Malice mighty, impotent in Brain)
The Pope's Solicitor brought into th'Hall,
Not guilty Lay much guilty Spiritual.
I also spy'd behind a private Skreen,
Colebert and Portsmouth, York and Mazarine.
Immediately in close Cabal they joyn,
And all applaud the Glorious Design.
'Gainst me and my lov'd Senates Free born Breath,
Dire threats I hear'd, the Hall did Eccho Death.
A Curtain drawn, another Scene appear'd,
A tinckling Bell, a mumbling Priest I heard.
At Elevation every Knee ador'd
The Baker's Craft, Infallible's vain Lord.
When Cataline with Vipers did conspire,
To Murther Rome and bury it in Fire,
A Sacramental Bowl of Humane Goar,
Each Villain took, and as he drank he swore.
The Cup deny'd, to make their Plot compleat,
These Catalines their conjur'd Gods did eat.
Whilst to their Breaden Whimseys they did kneel,
I crept away, and to the door did steal.
As I got out, by Providence I flew,
To this close Wood, too late they did pursue.
That dreadful night, my Child-Bed Throws brought on,
My Crys mov'd yours and Heavens Compassion.

Britania.
Oh happy day! A Jubilee Proclaim,
Daughter adore the unutterable name.
With grateful Heart breath out thy self in Prayer.
In the mean time thy Babe shall be my care.
There is a man my Island's Hope and Grace,
The chief Delight and Joy of humane Race.
Expos'd himself to War, in tender Age,
To free his Country from the Gallick Rage,

131

VVith all the Graces blest his riper Years,
And full blown Vertue wak'd the Tyrant's fears.
By's Sire rejected, but by Heaven call'd,
To break my Yoke, and rescue the Enthral'd.
This this is he who with a stretch'd out Hand,
And matchless might shall free my groaning Land.
On Earth's proud Basilisks he'll justly fall,
Like Moses Rod, and Prey upon them all.
He'll guide my People through the Raging Seas,
To Holy Wars and certain Victories.
His spotless Fame, and his Immense Desert,
Shall plead Loves cause, and storm this Virgins Heart.
She like Ægeria shall his Breast inspire,
With Justice, Wisdom, and Celestial Fire.
Like Numa be her Dictates shall obey,
And by her Oracles the World shall sway.

On his Excellent Friend Mr. Anth. Marvell,

1677.

While lazy Prelates lean'd their Mitred Heads
On downy Pillows, lull'd with Wealth and Pride,
(Pretending Prophesie, yet naught foresee.)
Marvell, this Islands watchful Centinel
stood in the gap, and bravely kept his Post,
When Courtiers too in Wine and Riot slept:
'Twas he th'approach of Rome did first explore,
And the grim Monster, Arbitrary Power.
The ugliest Giant ever trod the Earth,
Who like Goliah marcht before the Host:
Truth, Wit and Eloquence, his Constant Friends,
With swift dispatch he to the Main-Guard sends,
Th'Alarm strait their Courage did Excite,
Which check'd the Haughty Foes bold Enterprize,

132

And left them halting between Hope and Fear;
He like the Sacred Hebrew Leader stood.
The Peoples surest Guide, and Prophet too.
Athens may boast of Virtuous Socrates.
The Chief among the Greeks for Moral good.
Rome of her Orator, whose fam'd Harangues,
Foyl'd the Debauch'd Antony's designs.
We him, and with deep Sorrows 'wail his loss;
But whether Fate or Art unturn'd his thread,
Remains in doubt, Fames lasting Register,
Shall leave his Name enroll'd as great as theirs,
Who in Phillippi for their Country fell.

An Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax.

By the Duke ofe Buckingham.

[I.]

Under this Stone does lye
One, born for Victory,
Fairfax the Valiant, and the only He,
Who e'r, for that alone a Conqueror wou'd be,
Both Sexes Virtues were in him combin'd:
He had the Fierceness of the Manliest Mind,
And eke the Meekness too of Woman kind.
He never knew what Envy was, or Hate:
His Soul was fill'd with Worth and Honesty;
And with another thing quite out, of date,
Call'd Modesty.

II.

He ne're seem'd Impudent, but in the Field; a Place
Where Impudence it self dares seldom shew her Face:
Had any stranger spy'd him in the Room
With some of those whom he had overcome,

133

And had not heard their Talk, but only seen,
Their gesture and their meen,
They wou'd have sworn he had the Vanquish'd been;
For as they brag'd, and dreadful wou'd appear,
While they their own ill lucks in War repeated,
His Modesty still made him blush, to hear
How often he had them Defeated.

III.

Through his whole Life, the Part he bore
Was wonderful, and Great,
And yet, it so appear'd in nothing more,
Than in his private last retreat:
For it's a stranger thing, to find
One Man of such a Glorious mind,
As can dismiss the Pow'r h' has got,
Than Millions of the Polls, and Braves,
Those despicable Fools and Knaves,
Who such a Pother make,
Through dulness and mistake,
In seeking after Pow'r, but get it not.

IV.

When all the Nation he had won,
And with expence of Blood had bought,
Store great enough he thought,
Of Fame and of Renown;
He then his Arms laid down,
With full as little Pride
As if he had been of his Enemies side,
Or one of them cou'd do that were undone:
He neither Wealth, nor Places sought;
For others, not himself, he Fought.
He was content to know,
For he had found it so,
That, when he pleas'd, to Conquer, he was able
And left the Spoil and plunder to the Rabble:

134

He might have been a King,
But that he understood
How much it is a meaner thing
To be unjustly Great, than honourably Good.

V.

This from the World, did admiration draw.
And from his Friends, both Love and Awe,
Remembring what in Fight he did before:
And his Foes lov'd him too,
As they were bound to do,
Because he was resolv'd to fight no more.
So bless'd of all, he Dy'd; but far more bless'd were we,
If we were sure to live, till we could see
A Man as great in VVar, in Peace, as just as he.

An Essay upon the Earl of Shaftsbury's Death.

Whenever Tyrants fall, the Air
And other Elements prepare
To Combat in a Civil-War,
Large Oaks up by the Roots are torn,
The Savage Train
Upon the Forest or the Plain
To a Procession through the Sky are born,
Sulphureous Fire displays
Its baneful Rays,
Then from the hollow Womb
Of some rent Cloud does come
The Blazing Meteor or destructive Stone;
Distant below the Grumbling Wind
Pent up in Earth' a vent would find;
But failing, roars
Like broken Waves upon the Rocky Shores.

135

The Earth with Motion rowls,
Those Buildings which did brave the Sky,
Now in an humble posture lye,
While here and there
A subtile Priest and Sooth-sayer
The Fatal Dirges howl.
Thus when the first twelve Cæsars fell,
A Jubilee was kept in Hell;
But when that Heav'n designs, the Brave
Shall quit a Life to fill a Grave,
The Sun turns pale and Courts a Cloud,
From Mortals sight his Grief to shroud,
Shakes from his Face a shower of Rain,
And faintly views the World again.
The Tombs of Ancient Heroes weep,
Hard Marble Tears lets fall:
The Genii, who possess the Deep,
And seem the Islands Fate to keep,
Lament the Funeral.
Silence denotes the greatest Woe,
So Calms precede a Storm,
Deep Waters smoothest are, we know,
And bear the evenest form.
So 'tis when Patriots cease to be,
And hast to Immortality;
Their Noble Souls blest Angels bear
To the Ethereal Palace there,
Mounting upon the ambient Air,
While wounded Atomes press the Ear
Of Mortals, who far distant are.
Hence sudden Grief does seize the Mind,
For good and brave agree;
Each being Moves unto his Kind
By Native Sympathy.

136

So 'twas when mighty Cooper dy'd
The Fabius of the Isle,
A sullen Look the Great o're-spread,
The Common People lookt as dead,
And Nature droopt the while.
Living; Religion, Liberty,
A mighty Fence he stood,
Peers Rights and Subjects Property
None stronglier did maintain than he,
For which Rome sought his Blood.
Deep Politician, English Peer,
That quash't the Power of Rome,
The change of State they brought so near,
In bringing Romish Worship here,
Was by thy Skill o're-thrown:
'Less Heav'n a Miracle design'd
Sure it could never be
One so Gyantick in his Mind,
That soar'd a-pitch 'bove humane kind,
So small a Corps should be.
Time was, the Court admir'd thy Shrine,
And did the Homage pay:
But wisely thou didst Countermine,
And having found the black Design,
Scorn'd the Ignoble way.
Having thus strongly stem'd the Tide,
And set thy Country free:
Thou, Cato like, an Exile prid'st,
'Mongst Enemies belov'd resid'st,
Whilst Good men Envy thee.
And as the Sacred Hebrew Seer
Canaan to view desir'd;
So Heav'n did shew this Noble Peer
The end of Popish Malice here,
Which done, his Soul Expir'd

137

A Satyr in Answer to a Friend.

1682.

'Tis strange that you, to whom I've long been known,
Should ask me why I always rail at th'Town:
As a good Hound when he runs near his Prey,
With double Eagerness is hard to Bay.
So when a Coxcomb doth offend my sight,
To ease my Spleen, I straight go home and write:
I love to bring Vice ill conceal'd to light.
And I have found that they that Satyr write,
Alone can season the useful with the sweet.
Should I write Songs, and to cool Shades confin'd,
Expire with Love, who hate all Women kind!
Then in my Closet, like some fighting Sparks,
Thinking on Phillis Love upon my works!
I grant I might with bolder Muse inspir'd,
Some Hero Sing worthy to be admir'd,
Our King hath Qualities might entertain,
With Noblest Subjects Waller's lofty Pen.
But then you'll own no Man is thought his Friend,
That doth not love the Pope and York commend.
He who his Evil Counsellors dislikes,
Say what he will, still like a Traytor speaks.
Now I Dissimulation cannot bear,
Truth and good Sence, my Lines alike must share.
I love to call each Creature by his Name,
H---a Knave, S---an Honest Man.
With equal scorn I alwaies did abhor,
The Effeminate Fops and bustling Men of War.
The careful Face of Ministers of State,
I alwaies judg'd to be a down-right Cheat.
The smilling Courtier, and the Counsellour Grave,
I alwaies thought two different Marks of Knave.
They that talk loud, and they that draw i'th' Pit,
These want of Courage shew, those want of Wit.

138

Thus all the World endeavours to appear,
What they'd be thought to be, not what they are.
If any then by most unhappy choice,
Seek for content in London's crowd and noise.
Must form his words and manners to the place,
If he'll see Ladies must like Villers dress.
In a soft tone without one word of Sence,
Must talk of Dancing and the Court of France.
Must praise alike the ugly and the fair,
Buckly's good Nature, Feltons shape and Hair,
Exalt my Lady Portsmouth's Birth and Wit,
And vow she's only for a Monarch fit.
Although the fawning Coxcombs all do know,
She's lain with Beaufort and the Count de Leau.
This method with some ends of Plays,
Basely apply'd, and drest in a French Phrase
To Ladies favour, can e'ne Hewit raise.

He that from Business would Preferment get,
Plung'd in the Toyls and Infamies of State,
All Sence of Honour from his Breast must drive,
And in a course of Villanies resolve to live.
Must cringe and flatter the King's Owls and Curs,
Nay worse, must be obsequious to his Whores.
Must alwaies seem to approve what they commend,
What they dislike, by him must be contemn'd.
And when at last by a thousand different Crimes,
The Monster to his wisht-for Greatness climbs,
He must in his continu'd greatness wait,
With Guilt and Fears, the Imprison'd D---y Fate
This Road has H---r and S---r gone,
And thus must answer for the Ills they've done.
Who then would live in so deprav'd a Town,
Where Pleasure is by Folly, Power alone
By Infamy obtain'd?------

Wise Heraclitus, all his life-time griev'd,
Democritus in endless Laughter Liv'd;
Yet to the first no fears of Plots were known,

139

Nor Parliaments remov'd to Popish Town,
Murthers not favour'd, Virtues not supprest,
Laws not derided, Commons not opprest.
Nor King, who Claudius like, expels his Son,
To make th'Imperious Nero Prince of Rome;
Nor yet to move the others merry vane,
Did Cuckolds (who each Boy i'th' street could name)
Most learned Proof in publick daily give,
That they themselves do their own shame contrive;
While their Lewd Wives scouring from place to place,
T'expose their secret Members, hide their Face.

But Lo! how would this Sage have burst his spleen,
Had he seen Whore and Fool with merry King,
And Ministers of State at Supper sit,
Mistaking Bawdy Ribaldry for wit;
Whilst C---s with tottering Crown and empty Purse,
(Derided by his Foes, to's Friends a Curse)
Abandon'd now by every Man of Wit,
Delights himself with any he can get.
Pimps, Fools, and Parisites, make up the Rout,
For want of Wedding Garments, none's left out.

But I shall weary both my self and you,
To tell you all the Follies that I know.
How a great Lord, in numbers soft, thought fit,
(Though void of Sense, to set up for a Wit.)
And how with wondrous Spirit, he and's Friend
An Epitaph to Cruel Cloris pen'd;
His Name (I think) I hardly need to tell,
For who should be, but the Lord Ar---l.
But should I here waste Paper to declare,
The senseless Tricks of every silly Peer,
I'd as good tell how many several ways,
The trusty Duke his Country still betrays.
How full the World is stuft with Knave and Fool,
How to be very Honest is counted dull.
How to speak plain, and greatness to despise,
Is thought a Madness, but Flattery is Wise,

140

Dissimulation excellent, to cheat a Friend
A very Trifle, provided still our end
Be but the Snare We call our Interest,
Then nothing is so bad, but that is best;
I'le therefore end this vain Satyrick rage,
And leave the Bishops to reform the Age.

A Character of the English.

In Allusion to Tacit. de Vit. Agric.

The Free-born English, Generous and Wise,
Hate Chains, but do not Government despise:
Rights of the Crown, Tribute and Taxes, they
When Lawfully Exacted, freely pay.
Force they abhor, and Wrong they scorn to bear,
More guided by their Judgment than their Fear;
Justice with them is never held severe.
Here Power by Tyranny was never got;
Laws may perhaps Ensnare them, Force cannot:
Rash Councils here, have still the same Effect;
The surest way to Reign is to protect.
Kings are least safe in their unbounded Will,
Joyn'd with the Wretch'd Power of doing ill.
Forsaken most when they're most Absolute;
Laws guard the Man, and only bind the Brute:
To Force that Guard, and with the worst to joyn,
Can never be a prudent Kings design;
What King would chuse to be a Cataline?
Break his own Laws, stake an unquestion'd Throne,
Conspire with Vassals to Usurp his own;
'Tis rather some base Favourites Vile pretence,
To Tyrannize at the wrong'd King's expence.

141

Let France grow Proud, beneath the Tyrants Lust,
While the Rackt People crawl and lick the Dust:
The mighty Genious of this Isle disdains
Ambitious Slavery and Golden Chains.
England to servile Yoke did ne'er bow,
What Conquerours ne'er presum'd, who dares do now.
Roman nor Norman ever could pretend
To have Enslav'd, but made this Isle their Friend.

Cullen with his Flock of Misses,

1679.

As Cullen drove his Sheep along,
By VVhitehall there was such a throng
Of Earls Coaches at the Gate,
The silly Swain was forc'd to wait.
Chance threw him on Sir Edward S---
The silly Knight that Rhimes to Mutton:
Cullen, (said he,) this is the Day,
For which poor England once did pray;
The day that sets our Monarch free,
From butter'd Buns and Slavery.
This hour from French Intreages, ('tis said,)
He'll clear his Council and his Bed.
Portsmouth he vouchsafes to know,
Was the cast Whore of Count de Loe.
She must return and sell her place,
Buyers (you see) flock in a pace;
Silence i'th' Court being once Proclaim'd,
In steps fair Ri---d once so fam'd:
She offers much but was refus'd,
And of miscarriages accus'd.
Nor would his Majesty accept her
At thirty, who at Fifteen left her:

142

She blusht, and Modestly withdrew:
Next M---ton appeared in View,
Who streight was told of M---ue.
Of Cates from Hide; of Cloaths from France,
Of Arm pits, Toes of Nauseance;
At which the Court set up a Laughter,
She never pleads but for her Daughter,
A Buxom lass fit for the place,
Were not her Father in disgrace:
Besides some strange incestuous stories
Of H---y and her long C---ies:
With these exceptions she's dismist,
And M---nd Fair enters the List:
Husband in Hand most descently,
And begs at any rate to Buy:
She offered Jewels of great price,
And dear Sir Samuels next Device.
Whether it be a Pump or Table.
Glass House or any other Bauble;
But she was told she had been try'd,
And for good Reason lay'd aside.

Next in steps pretty Lady G---y,
Offers her Lord should nothing say;
'Gainst the next Treasurer accused,
So her pretence was not refus'd:
R--- in rage bid her be gone,
And play her game out with her Son;
Or if she lik'd an aged Carcass
For L--- get a Noble Marquess.

Sh---ry offered for the place,
All she had gotten from his Grace;

D--- of B---

She knew his wants, and could comply
With all his wants of Leachery.
She was dismist with Scorn and told
Where a Tall P--- was to be Sold.

143

Then in came Dowdy M---ine,
That Foreign Antiquated Quean;
Who soon was told the King no more
Would deal with an Intrigueing Whore:
That she already had about her
Too good an Equipage de Foutre;
Her Grace at these rebukes lookt Blank,
And sneakt away to Villan F---k.

Fair L--- too her claim put in,
'Twas urg'd she was to much a Kin:
She modestly reply'd no more
A Kin than S---x was before:
Besides she had often haerd her Mother
Call her the Daughter of another:
She did not drivel and had sence,
To which all his had no pretence;
Yet for the present she's put off,
And told she was not VVhore enough.

L---s smil'd at that exception,
And doubted not of good Reception.
Put in her claim, Vowing she'd Steal
All that her Husband wore of Veal:
To Buy the place, all she could get,
By his long Suit with Mr. Pitt:
But from Goliah's size of Goth,
Down to the Pitch of little VVroth;
The Court was told she lay wiht all,
The roaring Roysters of Whitehall:
For which old R--- lest she'd grudge,
Gave her the making of a Judge:
She bow'd and straight went her way,
To Haunt the Court, Park, and Play,

In stept Stately Carry F---er,
streight the whole Court began to Praise her:

144

As fine as Chains and Point could make her,
She vow'd the King or Goal must take her.
R--- reply'd, he was Retrenching,
And Vow'd no more of costly Wenching:
That she was Proud and went too Gaudy,
Nor could she Swear, Drink or talk Bawdy,
Virtues requisite for that place
More than Youth, VVit, or a good Face.

C---and offered down a Million,
But she was soon told of Castillion;
At that name she fell a weeping
And swore she was undone with Keeping:
That C---, G---, had so drain'd her,
She could not live on the Remainder:
The Court said, there was no Record,
Of any to that place Restor'd,
Nor might the King at these Years venture,
VVho in his Prime could not content her.

Young Lady J---s stept up and urg'd,
She'd give the Deed her Father Forg'd:
But she was told her Family
VVas tainted with Presbytery:
She said her Mother with clean Heart
And Hand, had lately done her part,
In bringing M---ne to Bed,
Nor was't her fault the Babe was Dead:
For her R---y own'd his Passion,
But said, he staid for Declaration.
Ingaged, no matter of great weight,
To pass till after some debate
In his great Council so they Adjourn'd,
And Cullen with his Flocks return'd.
Swearing there was at every Fair
Blither Girls than any there.

143

Sir Tho. Armstrong's Ghost.

The groans, dear Armstrong, which the world employ,
Would please thy Ghost, to see transform'd to joy:
Had'st thou abroad found safety in thy flight,
Thy immortal honour had not shin'd so bright;
Thou still hadst been a worthy Patriot thought;
But now thy glory's to perfection brought.
In Exile and in Death to England true,
What more could Brutus or just Cato do?
What can the Villains spread to blast thy fame,
Unless thy former Loyalty they blame?
To be concern'd the Stuarts to restore,
Is a reproach that hardly can be bore.
The utmost Plague a Nation could befall,
Like the forbidden Fruit, it curst us all.
Yet thou in season a brave convert grew,
Abhorr'd their counsels and their int'rest too:
And death at last before their smiles preferr'd;
So holy Cranmer burnt the hand that err'd.
Let 'em now place thy Quarters in the Air,
'Twill please thy soul to think they flourish there:
Thou scorn'st to hope for freedom in the Grave;
And slombring lie, whilst England was a Slave:
Thy Carcass stands a Monument to all,
Till the whole Progeny a Victim fall;
And like their Father, tread that Stage, which some,
In a blasphemous strain, call Martyrdom;
For they in guilt transcendently excell,
All that e'er Poets or Historians tell
To act fresh Murders, and by Flames devour,
Is but the recreation of their power:
For they alone are for destruction chose,
Who either Rome or Tyranny oppose:

144

Tarquin and Nero were but Types of these,
In whom all crimes are in their last degrees.
Swelling like Nile in a prodigious Flood
Of execrable Villanies and Blood:
Yet how the age their Lives and Peace betray,
And those whom th'ought to sacrifice th'obey.
They lick up Poyson and to Tortures run,
And madly hug all Egypt's Plagues in one.
Degenerous Slaves! such Monsters to adore,
Was ever Sodom so carest before?
Quick vengeance put a period to their breath,
By their destruction ease the groaning earth:
For Mortals attempt the righteous work in vain;
Heaven it self does th'immediate glory claim,
For they're reserv'd by Thunder to be slain.

145

The Royal Game:

or, A Princely new Play found in a Dream, &c.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1672.

PROLOGUE.

Whoever looks about and minds things well,
And on Affairs abroad doth take a view,
May think the Story which I here do tell
Was never dream't it falleth out so true.
I do confess it's something hard to find
A crooked Path directly in the dark;
And while a Man's asleep you know he's blind,
And can't easily hit on a Mark.
Well, be it so, yet this you know is right,
What's seen i'th' Day is dream't again at Night.
A Dream I hope will no wise man offend,
Nor will it Treason be (I trow) to lend
A Copy of my Dream unto my Friend.
Caball beware your Shins,
For thus my Tale begins.

The Dream of the Caball:

A Prophetick Satyr.

Anno 1672.

As 'tother Night in Bed I thinking lay,
How I my Rent shou'd to my Landlord pay,
Since Corn, nor Wool, nor Beast would Money make;
Tumbling perplext, these Thoughts kept me awake.
What will become of this mad World, quoth I?
What's its Disease? what is its Remedy?
Where will it issue? whereto does it tend?
Some ease to Misery 'tis to know its end.
Till Servants Dreaming, as they us'd to doe,
Snor'd me asleep, I fell a Dreaming too.

146

Methought there met the Grand Caball of Seven,
(Odd numbers some men say do best please Heaven)
When sate they were, and Doors were all fast shut,
I secret was behind the Hangings put:
Both hear and see I could; but he that there
Had placed me, bad me have as great a care
Of stirring, as my life: and ere that out
From thence I came, resolv'd shou'd be my Doubt.
What would become of this mad World, unless
Present Designs were cross'd with ill success?
An awfull Silence there was held some space,
Till trembling, thus began one call'd his Grace.
Great Sir, your Government for first twelve years
Has spoil'd the Monarchy, and made our Fears

Buck.

So potent on us, that we must change quite
Th'old Foundations, and make new, wrong or right.
For too great mixture of Democracy
Within this Government allay'd must be;
And no allay like nulling Parliaments
O'th' Peoples Pride and Arrogance, the vents
Factious and Saucy, disputing Royal Pleasure,
Who your Commands by their own humors measure.
For King in Barnacles (and to th'Rack-Staves ty'd)
You must remain, if these you will abide.
So spake the Long blue-Ribbon: then a Second,
Though not so tall, yet quite as wise is reckon'd,

Orm.

Did thus begin: Great Sir, you are now on
A tender Point much to be thought upon,
And thought on only; for by Ancient Law,
'Twas Death to mention what my Lord foresaw;
His trembling shew'd it, wherefore I'm so bold
To advise it's standing, lest it shou'd be told
We did attempt to change it; for so much
Our Ancestors secur'd it, that to touch,
Like Sacred Mount, 'tis Death; and such a Trick,
I no-ways like my Tongue should break my Neck.

147

Thus said, he sate. Then Lord of Northern Tone,

Lauderd:

In Gall and Guile a second unto none,
Inraged rose, and Col'rick, thus began.
Dread Majesty, Male beam of Fame, a Son
Of th'hundred and tenth Monarch of the Nore;
De'l split the Weam of th'Loon that spoke afore,
Shame saw the Cragg of that ill-manner'd Lord,
That nent his King durst speak so faw a word;
And aw my Saul, right weell the first man meant,
De'l hoop his Luggs that loves a Parliament.
Twa Houses aw my Saul are too too mickle,
They'll gar the Leard shall near have more a prickle;
No Money get to gee the bonny Lass,
But full as good be Born without a—
Ten thousand Plagues light on his Cragg (that gang)
To make you be but third part of a King.
De'l take my Saul I'll near the matter mince,
I'd rather Subject be than sike a Prince.
To Hang, and Burn, and Slay, and Draw, and Kill,
And measure aw things by my awn gude will,
Is gay Dominion; a Checkmate I hate,
Of Men, or Laws, it looks so like a State.
This eager well-meant Zeal some Laughter stirr'd;
Till Nose half Plush, half Flesh, the Inkhorn Lord
Crav'd Audience thus. Grave Majesty Divine,

Arlingt.

(Pardon that Cambridge Title, I make mine)
We now are enter'd on the great'st Debate
That can concern your Throne and Royal State.
His Grace hath so spoke all, that we who next
Speak after, can but comment on his Text:
Only 'tis wonder at this sacred Board,
Shou'd sit 'mongst us a Magna Charta Lord,
A Peer of old Rebellious Barons breed,
Worst, and great'st Enemies to Royal Seed.
But to proceed; well was it urg'd by's Grace,
Such Liberty was given for twelve years space,

148

That are by past, there's no necessity
Of new Foundations, if safe you'll be.
What Travel, Charge and Art, before was set
This Parliament, we had, you can't forget;
Now force, cajole, and court, and bribe for fear
They wrong should run, e'er since they have been here
What diligence, what study, day and night
Was on us, and what care to keep them right?
Wherefore (if good) you can't make Parliament,
On whom such Costs, such Art, and Pains were spent,
And Moneys, all we had for them to do;
Since we miss that, 'tis best dismiss them too.
'Tis true, this House the best is you can call,
But in my Judgment, best is none at all:
Well mov'd, the whole Cabal cry'd, Parliaments
Are cloggs to Princes, and their brave intents.
One did object, 'twas against Majesty
To obey the Peoples pleasure. Another he
Their Inconvenience argues, and that neither
Close their Designs were, nor yet speedy either.
Whilst thus confused chatter'd the Cabal,
And many mov'd, none heard, but speak did all;
A little bobtail'd Lord, Urchin of State,

Chancell. Shafts.

A Praise-God-bare-bone Peer whom all men hate,
Amphibious Animal, half Fool, half Knave;
Begg'd silence, and this purblind Counsel gave:
Blest and best Monarch that e'er Scepter bore,
Renown'd for Vertue, but for Honour more;
That Lord spake last, has well and wisely shown,
That Parliaments, nor new, nor old, nor none
Can well be trusted longer; for the State
And Glory of the Crown hate all Checkmate.
That Monarchy may from its Childhood grow
To man's Estate; France has taught us how
Monarchy's Divine: Divinity it shows,
That he goes backward, that not forward goes.

149

Therefore go on, let other Kingdoms see
Your Will's your Law, that's absolute Monarchy;
A mixt hodge podge will now no longer do,
Cæsar or nothing, You are brought unto:
Strike then, Great Sir, 'fore these Debates take wind,
Remember that Occasion's bald behind
Our Game is sure in this, if wisely play'd,
And sacred Votes to th'Vulgar not betray'd;
But if the Rumor shou'd once get on wing,
That we consult to make you abs'lute King,
The Plebeians head, the Gentry, forsooth,
They strait would snort and have an aking Tooth;
Lest they, I say, should your great Secrets scent,
And you oppose in nulling Parliament.
I think it safer, and a greater skill
To obviate, than to or'ecome an Ill:
For those that head the Herd are full as rude,
When th'humor takes, as th'following Multitude;
Therefore be quick in your Resolves, and when
Resol'd you have, execute quicker then
Remember your great Father lost the Game
By slow Proceedings, may'nt you do the same?
An unexpected, unregarded blow
Wounds more than ten made by an open Foe.
Delays do Dangers breed; the Sword is yours,
By Law declar'd, what need of other Powers?
We may unpolitick be judg'd, or worse,
If we can't make the Sword command the Purse;
No Art, or Courtship can the rule so shape
Without a Force, it must be done by Rape:
And when 'tis done, to say you cannot help,
Will satisfie enough the gentle Whelp.
Phanaticks they'll to Providence impute
Their Thraldom, and immediately grow mute;
For they, poor pious Fools, think the Decree
Of Heaven falls on them, though from Hell it be;

150

And when their reason is abas'd to it,
They forthwith think't Religion to submit,
And vainly glorying in a passive Shame,
They'll put off Man to wear the Christian Name:
Wherefore to lull 'em, do their Hopes fulfill
With Liberty, they're halter'd at your Will;
Give them but Conventicle-room, and they
Will let you steal the Englishman away,
And heedless be, till you your Nets have spread,
And pull'd down Conventicles on their head.
Militia therefore and Parliaments cashier,
A formidable standing Army rear,
They'll mount you up, and up you soon will be,
They'll fear who ne'er did love your Monarchy:
And if they fear, no matter for their hate;
To rule by Law becomes a sneaking State.
Lay by all Fear, care not what People say,
Regard to them will your Designs betray:
When bite they can't, what hurt can barking do?
And, Sir, in time we'll spoil their barking too,
Make Coffee-Clubs, talk of more humble things
Than State Affairs, and Interest of Kings.
Thus spake the Rigling Peer, when one more grave,
That had much less of Fool, but more of Knave,
Began: Great Sir, it gives no small content,

Cliff.

To hear such Zeal (for you) 'gainst Parliament;
Wherefore, though I an Enemy no less
To Parliaments than you your selves profess;
Yet I must also enter my protest
'Gainst these rude rumbling Counsels indigest.
And, Great Sir, tell you, 'tis an harder thing
Than they suggest, to make you abs'lute King;
Old Buildings to pull down, believe it true,
More danger in it hath, than building New.
And what shall prop your Superstructure till
Another you have built that suits your Will?

151

An Army shall, say they (content) but stay,
From whence shall this new Army have its pay?
For easie gentle Government a while
Must first appear this Kingdom to beguile
The Peoples minds, and make them cry up you,
For rasing Old, and making better New.
For Taxes with new Government, all will blame,
And put the Kingdom soon into a flame:
For Tyranny has no such lovely look
To catch Men with, unless you hide the Hook;
And no Bait hides it more than present Ease;
Ease but their Taxes, then do what you please.
Wherefore, all wild debates laid by, from whence
Shall Money rise to bear this vast expence?
For our first thoughts thus well resolved, we
In other things much sooner shall agree;
Join then with Mother Church, whose bosom stands
Ope to receive us, stretching forth her Hands;
Close but this breach and she will let you see
Her Purse as open as her Arms shall be.
For sacred Sir, (by guess I do not speak)
Of poor she'll make you rich, and strong of weak.
At home, abroad, no Money, no, nor Men,
She'll let you lack, turn but to her again.
The Scot could here no longer hold, but cry'd,

Laud.

De'l take the Pape, and all that's on his side;
The Whore of Rome, that mickle Man of Sin,
Plague take the Mother, Bearns, and aw the Kin.
What racks my Saul! must we the holy Rood
Place in God's Kirk again? troth 'tis not gude,
I defy the Loon, the De'l and aw his works,
The Pape shall lig no mare in God's gude Kirk.
The Scot with Laughter check'd, they all agreed,
The Lord spoke last shou'd in his Speech proceed,

Cliff.

Which thus he did; Great Sir, You know 'tis Season
Salts all the motions that we make with reason;

152

And now a season is afforded us,
The best e'er came and most propitious.
Besides the Summ the Cath'licks will advance,
You know the Offers we are made from France;
And to have Money and no Parliament,
Must fully answer your design'd intent.
And thus without tumultuous noise, or huff
Of Parliaments, you may have Money enough;
Which, if neglected now, there's none knows when
Like Opportunities may be had again,
For all to extirpate, now combined be,
Both civil and religious Liberty.
Thus Money you'll have to exalt the Crown,
Without stooping Majesty to Country Clown.
The triple League, I know, will be objected,
As if that ought by us to be respected;
But who to Hereticks, or Rebel pay'th
The Truth ingag'd to by solemn Faith,
Debaucheth Vertue, by those very things,
The Church profaneth and debaseth Kings,
As you your self have admirably shown
By burning solemn Cov'nant, though your own;
Faith, Justice, Truth, Plebeian Vertues be,
Look well in them, but not in Majesty.
For publick Faith is but a publick Thief,
The greatest Cheat in Nature's vain Belief.
The second Lord though check'd, yet did not fear,
Impatient grew and could no longer bear,
But rose in heat, and that a little rude
The Lord's voice interrupts, and for Audience su'd:
Great Majesty, authentick Authors say,
When hand was lifted up, Cræsus to slay,
The Father's danger on th'Dumb Son did make
Such deep Impressions that he forthwith spake.
Pardon, great Sir, if I, in imitation,
Seeing the danger to your Land and Nation,

153

Do my resolv'd on silence also break,
Although I see the matter I shall speak,
Under such disadvantages will fall,
That it, as well as I, exploded shall;
But vainly do they boast they Loyal are,
That can't for Princes good, Reflections bear;
Nor will I call Compurgators to prove,
What honour to the Crown I've born, with Love,
My Acts have spoken, and sufficient are,
Above what e'er Detractors did or dare.
Wherefore, great Sir, 'tis Ignorance, or hate
Dictates these Counsels, you to precipitate.
For say't again I will, not eat my word,
No Council's Power, no, nor yet the Sword
Can old Foundations alter or make new:
Let time interpret who hath spoken true.
Those Country Gentry, with their Beef and Bacon,
Will shew how much you Courtiers are mistaken;
For Parliaments are not of that cheap rate,
That they will down without a broken Pate;
And then I doubt you'll find those worthy Lords
More Braves and Champions with their Tongue than Swords.
Wherefore, Dread Sir, encline not Royal Ear
To their Advice, but safer Counsels hear;
Stay till these Lords have got a Crown to lose,
And then consult with them which way they'll chuse.
Will you all hazard for their humours sake,
Who nothing have to lose, nothing at stake;
And at one Game your Royal Crown expose,
To gratifie the foolish Lusts of those,
Who hardly have Subsistence how to live,
But what your Crown and Grace to them does give?
And one of those (Bagpudding) Gentlemen,
(Except their places) would buy nine or ten:
Then, why they should thus slight the Gentleman,
I see no reason, nor think how they can;

154

For had not Gentleman done more than Lord,
I'll boldly say't, you ne'er had been restor'd.
But why, of Armies now, great Sir, must we
(So fond just now) all on the sudden be?
What faithfull Guardians have they been to Pow'rs
That have employ'd 'em, that you'd make 'em yours?
Enough our Age, we need not seek the glory
Of Armies Faith, in old, or doubtfull Story:
Your Father 'gainst the Scots an Army rear'd,
But soon, that Army more than Scot he fear'd:
He was in hast to raise them, as we are,
But to disband them was far more his care;
How Scottish Army after did betray
His Trust and Person both, I need not say.
Rump Parliament an Army rear'd, and they
The Parliament that rais'd them, did betray;
The Lord Protector they set up one hour,
The next pull'd down the Protectorian pow'r.
Your Father's Block and Judges the same Troops
Did guard some Tongues at Death of both made hoops:
And will you suffer Armies to beguile,
And give your Crown and them to cross and pile?
What if as Monk should both swear, lie and feign,
Till he does both your Trust and Army gain,
And you believe his Oath and Faith is true,
But serves himself instead of serving you.
Pardon, great Sir, if Zeal transports my Tongue,
'Texpress what your Greatness don't become.
Expose I can't your Crown and sacred Throat
To the false Faith of a common Red-coat.
Your Law, your All does fence secure from Fears;
That kept, what trouble needs of Bandileers?
Consider, Sir, 'tis Law that makes you King,
The Sword another to the Crown may bring;
For Force knows no distinction, longest Sword
Makes Peasant Prince, Lacquey above his Lord.

155

If that be all that we must have for Laws,
Your Will inferiour may be to Jack Straw's.
If greater Force him follow; there's no Right
Where Law is failing, and for Will men fight.
Best Man is he alone whose Steel's most strong;
Where no Law is, there's neither right nor wrong.
That Fence broke down, and all in common laid,
Subjects may Prince, and Prince may them invade.
See, greatest Sir, how these your Throne lay down,
Instead of making great your Royal Crown,
How they divest you of your Majesty:
For Law destroy'd, you are no more than we.
And very vain would be the Plea of Crown,
When Statute-Laws, and Parliaments are down.
This Peer proceeded on to shew how vain
An Holy League would be with Rome again,
And what dishonour 'twould be to our Crowns,
If unto France give cautionary Towns.
He's interrupted, and bid speak no more,
By's enraged Majesty, who deeply swore,
His Tongue had so run o'er, that he'd take
Such Vengeance on him, and example make
To after Ages, all which heard should fear,
To speak what wou'd displease the Royal Ear;
And bid the Lord that spoke before, go on,
And Silence all should keep till he had done;
Who thus his Speech re'ssum'd. If Lord spake last,
To interrupt me had not made such hast,
I soon had done; for I was come, Great Sir,
T'advise your sending Dutch Embassador;
But much it does concern you whom to trust,
With this Embassy: for none true, nor just,
Wise, Stout, or Honourable, nor a Friend,
Should you in any wise resolve to send,
Lest any unseen, or unlucky Chance
Shou'd in this War befall to us or France.

156

We may that loathed wretch give to the hate
Of th'Peoples fury, them to satiate.
And when all's done that can be done by man,
Much must be left to chance, do what we can.
And if you'll make all Christendom your Friend,
And put to Dutch-Land-League an utter end;
Then surely you may have of Men and Treasure
Enough of both to execute your Pleasure.

This Speech being ended, five or six agree,
France shall be lov'd, and Holland hated be.
All gone, I wak'd, and wondred what should mean
All I had heard, methought 'twas more than Dream.
And if Cabal thus serves us Englishmen,
'Tis ten to one but I shall dream again.

On the Three Dukes killing the Beadle on Sunday Morning, Febr. the 26th, 1670–1.

Near Holborne lies a Park of great Renown,
The place, I do suppose is not unknown.
For brevity's sake the Name I shall not tell,
Because most genteel Readers know it well,
(Since middle Park near Charing-Cross was made,
They say there is a great decay of Trade)
'Twas there a Gleeke of Dukes by Fury brought
With bloody Mind a sickly Damsel sought,
And against Law her Castle did invade,
To take from her her Instrument of Trade,
'Tis strange (but sure they thought not on't before)
Three Bastard Dukes should come t'undoe one Whore.
Murder was cry'd (truth is, her case was sad)
When she was like to lose ev'n all she had:
In came the Watch, disturb'd with Sleep and Ale,
By shrill Noises, but they could not prevail,

157

T'appease their Graces; straight rose Mortal Jarrs
Betwixt the Night black Guard and Silver Stars;
Then fell the Beadle by a Ducal Hand,
For daring to pronounce the Sawcy Stand.
The way in Blood certain Renown to win,
Is first with bloody Noses to begin.
The high-born Youths their hasty Errand tell,
Dam ye you Rogue, we'll send your Soul to Hell.
They need not send a Messenger before,
They're too well known there to stay long at Door.
See what mishaps dare ev'n invade Whitehall;
This silly Fellow's death puts off the Ball,
And disappoints the Queen, poor little Chuck,
I warrant 'twould have danc'd it like a Duck.
The Fidlars, Voices, Entries, all the sport,
And the gay Show put off, where the brisk Court
Anticipates in rich Subsidy-Coats
All that is got by mercenary Votes:
Yet shall Whitehall the Innocent, the Good,
See these men dance all daub'd with Lace and Blood.
Near t'other Park there stands an aged Tree,
As fit as if 'twere made o'th' nonce for Three;
Where that no Ceremony may be lost,
Each Duke for State may have a several Post.
What Storms may rise out of so black a Cause,
If such Turd-Flies shall break through Cobweb Laws?

The History of Insipids;

A Lampoon, 1676.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

By the Lord Roch---r.

1

Chaste, pious, prudent, C--- the Second,
The Miracle of thy Restoration,
May like to that of Quails be reckon'd
Rain'd on the Israelitick Nation;

158

The wisht for Blessing from Heav'n sent,
Became their Curse and Punishment.

2

The Vertues in thee, C--- inherent,
Although thy Countenance be an odd-piece,
Proves thee as true a God's Vicegerent
As e're was Harry with the Codpiece:
For Chastity and pious Deeds,
His Grandsire Harry, C--- exceeds.

3

Our Romish Bondage-breaker Harry,
Espoused half a dozen Wives;
C--- onely one resolv'd to marry,
And other Mens he never—
Yet hath he Sons and Daughters more,
Than e're had Harry by threescore.

4

Never was such a Faiths Defender,
He like a politick Prince, and pious,
Gives liberty to Conscience tender,
And doth to no Religion tye us.
Jews, Turks, Christians, Papists, he'll please us,
With Moses, Mahomet, or J---

5

In all Affairs of Church or State,
He very zealous is, and able,
Devout at Prayers, and sits up late
At the Caball and Council-Table;
His very Dog at Council-Board,
Sits grave and wise as any Lord.

6

Let C--- his Policy no man flout,
The wisest Kings have all some Folly;
Nor let his Piety any doubt;
J--- like a Sovereign wise and holy,

159

Make young men Judges of the Bench,
And B--- some that love a Wench.

7

His Father's Foes he doth reward,
Preserving those that cut off's Head:
Old Cavaliers the Crown's best Guard,
He lets them starve for want of Bread.
Never was any King endow'd
With so much Grace and Gratitude.

8

Blood that wears Treason in his Face,
Villain compleat, in Parson's Gown,
How much is he at, Court in Grace
For stealing Ormond and the Crown?
Since Loyalty does no Man good,
Let's steal the King and out-do Blood.

9

A Parliament of Knaves and Sots,
Members by name, you must not mention,
He keeps in Pay, and buys their Votes,
Here with a Place, there with a Pension.
When to give Money he can't cologue 'um,
He doth with Scorn prorogue, prorogue 'um.

10

But they long since by too much giving,
Undid, betray'd, and sold the Nation;
Making their Memberships a Living,
Better than e'er was Sequestration.
God give thee C--- a Resolution
To damn the Knaves by Dissolution.

11

Fame is not grounded on Success,
Though Victories were Cæsar's Glory;
Lost Battels make not Pompey less,
But left them stiled great in Story.
Malitious Fate doth oft devise
To beat the Brave and fool the Wise.

160

12

C--- in the first Dutch War stood fair
To have been Sovereign of the Deep;
When Opdam blew up in the Air,
Had not his Highness gone to sleep.
Our Fleet slack'd Sails, fearing his waking,
The Dutch else had been in sad taking.

13

The Bergen Business was well laid,
Though we paid dear for that Design:
Had we not three days parling staid,
The Dutch Fleet there, C--- had been thine.
Though the false Dane agree'd to sell 'um,
He cheated us, and saved Skellum.

14

Had not C--- sweetly choos'd the States,
By Bergen baffle grown more wise,
And made them Shit as small as Rats,
By their rich Smyrna Fleets Surprize.
Had haughty Holms but call'd in Spragg,
Hans had been put into a Bag.

15

Mists, Storms, short Victuals, adverse Winds,
And once the Navies wise Division,
Defeated C--- his best designs,
Till he became his Foes Derision.
But he had swing'd the Dutch at Chattam,
Had he had Ships but to come at 'um.

16

Our Blackheath Host without dispute,
Rais'd, (put on Board, why, no man knows)
Must C--- have rendred absolute,
Over his Subjects or his Foes.
Has not the French King made us Fools,
By taking Maestricht with our Tools?

161

17

But C--- what could thy Policy be,
To run so many sad Disasters;
To join thy Fleet with false D' Etrees,
To make the French of Holland Masters?
Was't Carewell, Brother James, or Teague,
That made thee break the Triple League?

18

Could Robin Viner have foreseen
The glorious Triumphs of his Master,
The Wool-Church Statue Gold had been,
Which now is made of Alabaster:
But wise Men think had it been Wood,
'Twere for a Bankrupt K--- too good.

19

Those that the Fabrick well consider,
Do of it diversly discourse;
Some pass their Censure of the Rider,
Others their Judgment of the Horse:
Most say the Steed's a goodly thing,
But all agree 'tis a Lewd K---.

20

By the Lord Mayor and his grave Coxcombs,
Free-man of London C--- is made;
Then to Whitehall a Rich Gold Box comes,
Which was bestow'd on the French Jade.
But wonder not it should be so, Sirs,
When Monarchs rank themselves with Grocers.

21

Cringe, scrape, no more, ye City Fops,
Leave off your Feasting and fine Speeches,
Beat up your Drums, shut up your Shops,
The Courtiers then will kiss your Breeches.
Arm'd, tell the Popish Duke that rules,
You're Free-born Subjects, not French Mules.

162

22

New Upstarts, Pimps, Bastards, Whores,
That Locust-like devour the Land,
By shutting up th'Exchequer Doors,
When thither our Money was trapan'd,
Have rendred C--- his Restauration,
But a small Blessing to the Nation.

23

Then C--- beware of thy Brother Y---
Who to thy Government gives Law;
If once we fall to the old Sport,
You must again both to Breda:
Where spight of all that would restore you,
Grown wise by wrongs, we shall abhor you.

24

If of all Christian Blood the guilt
Cry loud for Vengeance unto Heaven;
That Sea by treacherous Lewis spilt,
Can never be by God forgiven.
Worse Scourge unto his Subjects, Lord,
Than Pestilence, Famine, Fire or Sword.

25

That false rapacious Wolf of France,
The Scourge of Europe, and its Curse,
Who at his Subjects cry, does dance,
And study how to make them worse.
To say such Kings, Lord, rule by thee,
Were most prodigious Blasphemy.

26

Such know no Law but their own Lust,
Their Subjects Substance, and their Blood,
They count it Tribute due and just,
Still spent and spilt for Subjects good.
If such Kings are by God appointed,
The D--- may be the L--- Anointed.

163

27

Such Kings curst be the Power and Name,
Let all the World henceforth abhor 'em;
Monsters which Knaves sacred proclaim,
And then like Slaves fall down before 'em.
What can there be in Kings Divine?
The most are Wolves, Goats, Sheep, or Swine.

28

Then farewell sacred Majesty,
Let's pull all Brutish Tyrants down;
When Men are born, and still live free,
Here ev'ry Head doth wear a Crown.
Mankind like miserable Frogs,
Prove wretched, King'd by Storks and Logs.

ROCHESTER's Farewell, 1680.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Tir'd with the noysome Follies of the Age,
And weary of my part, I quit the Stage;
For who in Life's dull Farce a part would bear,
Where Rogues, Whores, Bawds, all the head Actors are?
Long I with charitable Malice strove,
Lashing the Court, those Vermin to remove,
But thriving Vice under the Rod still grew,
As aged Letchers whipp'd, their Lust renew;
Yet though my Life hath unsuccessfull been,
(For who can this Augæan Stable clean)
My gen'rous end I will pursue in Death,
And at Mankind rail with my parting breath.
First then, the Tangier Bullies must appear,
With open Bravery, and dissembled Fear:
Mulg---e their Head, but Gen'ral have a care,
Though skill'd in all those Arts that cheat the fair,
The undiscerning and impartial Moor,
Spares not the Lover on the Ladies score.

164

Think how many perish by one fatal shot,
The Conquests all thy Goggling ever got.
Think then (as I presume you do) how all
The English Ladies will lament your fall;
Scarce will there greater Grief pierce every heart,
Should Sir George Hewit or Sir Carr depart.
Had it not better been than thus to roam,
To stay and tie the Cravat-string at home?
To strut, look big, shake Pantaloon, and swear
With Hewit, Dame, there's no Action there.
Had'st thou no Friend that wou'd to Rouly write,
To hinder this thy eagerness to fight?
That without danger thou a Brave might'st be,
As sure to be deny'd as Shrews---y.
This sure the Ladies had not fail'd to do,
But who such Courage could suspect in you?
For say, what reason could with you prevail,
To change Embroider'd Coat for Coat of Mail?
Let Plim---h, or let Mord---t go, whom Fate
Has made not valiant but desperate.
For who could not be weary of his Life,
Who's lost his Money, or has got a Wife?
To the more tolerable Alcaid of Alcazzer,
One flies from Creditors, the other from Frazier;
'Twere cruelty to make too sharp Remarks,
On all the little, forward, fighting Sparks;
Only poor Charles I can't but pity thee,
When all the pert young Voluntiers I see.
Those Chits of War, who as much Mirth create
As the Pair Royal of the Chits of State:
Their Names shall equal all excelling Glory,
Chit Sund---d, Chit God---n, and Chit L---y.
When thou let'st Plim---h, 'twas such a jest,
As when the Brother made the same request;
Had Rich---d but got leave as well as he,
The Jest had been compleat and worthy thee.

165

Well, since he must, he'll to Tangier advance
It is resolv'd, but first let's have a Dance
First, at her Highness Ball he must appear,
And in a parting Country Dance, learn there
With Drum and Fife to make a Jigg of War;
What is of Soldier seen in all the heap,
Besides the flutt'ring Feather in the Cap,
The Scarf, and Yard or two of Scarlet Cloath,
From Gen'ral Mulg---e down to little Wroth?
But now they're all embark'd and curse there Fate,
Curse Charles that gave them leave, and much more Kate,
Who then Tangier to England and the King
No greater Plague, besides her self, could bring;
And wish the Moors, since now their hand is in,
As they have got her Portion, had the Queen.
There leave we them and back to England come,
Whereby the wiser Sparks that stay at home,
In safe Ideas by their fancy form'd,
Tangier (like Maestrich) is at Windsor storm'd.
But now we talk of Maestrich, where is he,
Fam'd for that brutal piece of Bravery?
He with his thick impenetrable Skull,
The solid, hard'ned Armour of a Fool:
Well might himself to all Wars ills expose,
Who (come what will yet) had no Brains to lose.
Yet this is he, the dull unthinking he,
Who must (forsooth) our future Monarch be,
This Fool by Fools (Armstrong and Vern---n) led,
Dreams that a Crown will drop upon his Head,
By great example he this Path doth tread,
Following such sensless Asses up and down,
(For Saul sought Asses when he found a Crown)
But Rosse is risen as Samuel at his call,
To tell that God hath left the ambitious Saul.
Never (says Heaven) shall the blushing Sun,
See P---s Bastard fill the Regal Throne.

166

So Heaven says, but Bran---n says he shall,
But whoe'er he protects is sure to fall.
Who can more certain of Destruction be,
Than he that trusts to such a Rogue as he?
What good can come from him who York forsook,
T'espouse the Interest of this Booby Duke?
But who the best of Masters could desert,
Is the most fit to take a Traytor's part.
Ungratefull! This thy Master-piece of sin,
Exceeds ev'n that with which thou did'st begin.
Thou great Proficient in the Trade of Hell,
Whose latter Crimes still do thy first excell:
The very top of Villany we seize,
By steps in order, and by just degrees.
None e'er was perfect Villain in one day,
The murder'd Boy to Treason led the way;
But when degrees of Villany we name,
How can we choose but think on Buck---m?
He who through all of them hath boldly ran,
Lest ne'er a Law unbroke of God or Man.
His treasured Sins of Supererogation,
Swell to a summ enough to damn a Nation:
But he must here, per force, be let alone,
His acts require a Volume of their own:
Where rank'd in dreadfull order shall appear,
All his Exploits from Shrews---y to Le Meer.
But stay, methinks I on a sudden find,
My Pen to treat of th'other Sex, inclin'd;
But where in all this choice shall I begin?
Where, but with the renowned Mazarine?
For all the Bawds the Courts rank Soil doth bear,
And Bawds and States-men grow in plenty there.
To thee submit and yield, should we be just,
To thy experienc'd and well travell'd Lust:
Thy well-known Merits claim that thou should'st be,
First in the Glorious Roll of Infamy.

167

To thee they all give place, and Homage pay,
Do all thy Letcherous Decrees obey;
(Thou Queen of Lust, thy Bawdy Subjects they.)
While Sussex, Brug---ll, Betty Felton come,
Thy Whores of Honour, to attend thy Throne;
For what proud Strumpet e'er could merit more,
Than be Anointed the Imperial Whore?
For tell me in all Europe, where's the part,
That is not conscious of thy Lewd desert.
The great Pedalian Youth, whose Conquests run
O'er all the World, and travel'd with the Sun,
Made not his Valour in more Nations known,
Than thou thy Lust, thy matchless Lust have shown.
All Climes, all Countries do with Tribute come,
(Thou World of Lewdness) to thy boundless Womb:
Thou Sea of Lust, that never ebb dost know,
Whither the Rivers of all Nations flow.
Lewd Messaline was but a Type of thee,
Thou highest, last degree of Letchery:
For in all Ages, except her and you,
Who ever sinn'd so high, and stoop'd so low?
She to th'Imperial Bed each Night did use,
To bring the stink of the exhausted Stews;
Tir'd (but not satisfy'd) with Man did come,
Drunk with abundant Lust, and reeling home.
But thou to our admiring Age dost show
More sin than inn'cent Rome did ever know;
And having all her Lewdnesses out-ran,
Takes up with Devil, having tir'd Man:
For what is else that loathsome ugly Black,
Which you and Sussex in your Arms do take?
Nor does old Age, which now rides on so fast,
Make thee come short of all thy Lewdness past:
Though on thy Head, Grey Hairs like Etna's Snow
Are shed, thou'rt Fire and Brimstone all below.

168

Thou monstrous thing, in whom at once does rage
The flames of Youth and Impotence of Age.
My Lady Dutchess takes the second place,
Proud with thy favour and peculiar grace;
Ev'n she with all her Piety and Zeal,
The hotter flames that burn in thee does feel.
Thou dost into her kindling breast inspire,
The lustfull Seeds of thy contagious fire;
So well the Spirit and the Flesh agree,
Lust and Devotion, Zeal and Letchery.
Important use Religion's made,
By those who wisely drive the cheating Trade;
As Wines prohibited securely pass,
Changing the Name of their own native Place.
So Vice grows safe, drest in Devotion's Name,
Unquestion'd by the Custom house of Fame:
Where e'er so much of Sanctity you see,
Be more suspicious of hid Villany;
Whose 'ever Zeal is than his Neighbours more,
If Man think he's a Rogue, if Woman Whore:
And such a thing art thou religious Pride,
So very Lewd, and yet so sanctify'd.
Let now the Dutchess take no further care
Of humorous Stallions, let her not dispair,
Since her indulgent Stars so kind have been,
To send her Bromley and Mazarine;
This last doth banish'd Monmouth's place supply,
And Wit supplanted is by Letchery.
For Monmouth he had Parts, and Wit, and Sense,
To all which Mazarine had no pretence;
A proof that since such things as he prevail,
Her Highness Head is lighter than her Tail.
But stay, I Portsmouth almost had forgot,
The common Theam of ev'ry rhiming Sot;
She'll after railing make us laugh a while,
For at her Folly who can chuse but smile?

169

While them who always slight her, great she makes,
And so much pains to be despis'd she takes.
Goes sauntring with her Highness up to Town,
To an old Play, and in the dark come down;
Still makes her Court to her as to the Queen,
But still is Justled out by Mazarine.
So much more Worthy a kind Bawd is thought,
Than ever she who her from Exile brought.
O Portsmouth, foolish Portsmouth! Not to take
The offer the great Sun---d did make,
When cringing at thy Feet; e'er Monmouth bow'd,
The Golden Calf, that's worshipp'd by the Crowd.
But thou for Y---k, who now despises thee,
To leave both him and pow'rfull Shaftsbury.
If this is all the Policy you know,
This all the skill in States you boast of so,
How wisely did thy Countrys Laws ordain,
Never to let the foolish Women reign.
But what must we expect, who daily see
Unthinking Charles rul'd by Unthinking thee.

Marvil's Ghost.

By Mr. Jo. Ayloffe.

From the dark Stygian Lake I come,
To acquaint poor England with her Doom;
Which by the infernal Sisters late,
I copied from the Book of Fate:
And though the sence may seem disguis'd,
'Tis in these following Lines compriz'd.

When England shall forsake the Broom,
And take the Thistle in the room;
A wanton Fidler shall be led
By Fate to shame his Master's Bed;

170

From whence a spurious Race shall grow,
Design'd for Britain's overthrow.
These, whilst they do possess her Throne,
Shall serve all interest but their own;
And shall be both in Peace and War,
Scourges unto themselves and her.
A brace of exil'd Youths, whose Fates
Shall pull down Vengeance on those States
That harbour'd them abroad, must come
Well skill'd in foreign Vices home,
And shall their dark designs to hide,
With two contesting Churches side;
Till with cross persecuting zeal,
They have destroy'd the Common-weal:
Then Incest, Murder, Perjury,
Shall fashionable Vertues be;
And Villanies infest this Isle,
Shall make the Son of Claudius smile.
No Oaths or Sacraments hold good,
But what are seal'd with Lust and Blood:
Lust, which cold Exile could not tame,
Nor Plague nor Fire at home reclaim:
For this she shall in Ashes mourn,
From Europe's envy turn her scorn,
And curse the day that e'er gave Birth
To Cæcil, or to Monk on Earth.

But as I onwards strove to look,
The angry Sister shut the Book,
And said, No more, that fickle State
Shall know no further of her Fate;
Her future fortunes must be hid,
Till her known Ills be remedied;
And she to those Resentments come,
That drove the Tarquins out of Rome;
Or such as did in fury turn
The Assyran's Palace to his Urn.

171

The true Englishman,

1686.

Curs'd be the tim'rous fool, whose feeble mind
Is turn'd about with every blast of Wind;
Who to self-interest basely does give ear,
And suffers Reason to be led by Fear:
He only merits a true English Name,
Who always says, and does, and is the same;
Who dares be honest, though at any rate,
And stands prepar'd to meet the worst of Fate:
He laughs at Threats, and Flatt'ries does despise,
And won't be knavish to be counted wise;
No publick storm can his clear Reason blind,
Or bad example influence his mind.

Let M--- like a Cur kick'd out of doors,
For his aspiring Projects and Amours,
Unman himself to sneak, fawn, cringe and whine,
And play the Spaniel, till they let him in;
Then, with a grinning and affected Leer,
Run his red snout in every Lady's ear.

Let a lewd Judge come reeking from a Wench,
To vent a wilder Lust upon the Bench;
Bawl out the Venom of his rotten Heart,
Swell'd up with envy, over-act his part;
Condemn the Innocent by Laws ne'er fram'd;
And study to be more than doubly damn'd.
Let a mean scoundrel Lord (for equal fear
Of hanging, or of starving) falsely swear;
Let him, whose Knavery and Impudence
Is known to every Man's experience,
With scraps of broken evidence, contrive
To feed, and keep a fainting Plot alive:
Nay, though he swears by the same Deities,
Whom he has mock'd by Mimmic Sacrifice.

172

Let Rumsey, with his ill-look'd treacherous Face,
That swarthy off-spring of a Hellish Race,
Whose Mother, big with an intriguing Devil,
Brought an Epitome of all that's evil:
Let him be perjur'd, and as rashly damn
T'eternal Infamy his odious Name.

Let Knaves and Fools confound the tott'ring State,
And plunge the Subjects in their Monarch's hate;
Blinding by false accounts of Men and Things,
The most indulgent, and the best of Kings.

Let an unthinking hare-brain'd Bigot's zeal,
(Not out of any thought of doing well,
But in a pure defiance of the Law)
In bloody Lines his true Idea draw;
That Men may be inform'd, and early see,
What such a Man (if once in pow'r) wou'd be:
Of Royal Mercy: let him stop the sourse,
That Death may have a free and boundless course;
Till shivering Ghosts come from their gloomy-Cell,
And in dumb Forms a fatal story tell.

Let the Court swarm with Pimps, Rogues, Bawds and Whores,
And honest Men be all turn'd out of doors;
Let Atheism and profaneness there abound,
And not an upright Man (God save the King) be found,
Let Men of Principles be in disgrace,
And mercenary Villains in their place;
Let free-born Cities be by Treach'ry won,
Lose their just Liberties, and be undone:
Let States-men sudden Changes undertake,
And make the Government's foundation shake;
Till strange tempestuous Murmurs do arise,
And show a storm that's gath'ring in the Skies.

Let all this happen. Nay, let certain Fate
Upon the issue of their Actions wait;
If you've a true, a brave undaunted Mind
Of English Principles, as well as kind;

173

You'll on the bottom of true Honour stand,
Firm as a Rock, unshaken as the Land:
So when vast Seas of Trouble 'gainst you beat,
They'll break, and force themselves to a Retreat;
No Fate, no flattery can e'er controul
A steady, resolute, Heroick Soul.

On the Young Statesmen.

By J. Dryden, 1680.

1

Clarendon had Law and Sense,
Clifford was Fierce and Brave,
Brennet's grave look was a pretence,
And D---y's matchless Impudence
Help'd to support the Knave.

2

But Sun---d, God---n, L---y,
These will appear such Chits in story,
'Twill turn all Politicks to Jests,
To be repeated like John Dory,
When Fidlers sing at Feasts.

3

Protect us, mighty Providence,
What wou'd these Mad-men have?
First, they wou'd bribe us without Pence,
Deceive us without common Sense,
And without Power enslave.

4

Shall free-born Men in humble awe,
Submit to servile shame;
Who from consent and custom, draw
The same Right to be rul'd by Law
Which Kings pretend to reign?

5

The Duke shall wield his conq'ring Sword,
The Chancellor make a Speech,

174

The King shall pass his honest word,
The pawn'd Revenue Summs afford;
And then, come kiss my Breech.

VI

So have I seen a King on Chess,
(His Rooks and Knights withdrawn,
His Queen and Bishops in distress)
Shifting about, grow less and less,
With here and there a Pawn.

Portsmouth's Looking-Glass.

Methinks I see you newly risen,
From your Embriodered Bed and pissing;
With studied Mien and much Grimace,
Present your self before your Glass,
To varnish and rub o're those Graces,
You rubb'd off in your Night Embraces:
To set your Hair, your Eyes, your Teeth,
And all those Powers you conquer with;
Lay trains of Love and State-Intrigues,
In Powders, Trimmings, and curl'd Wigs:
And nicely chuse, and neatly spread,
Upon your Cheeks the best French Red.
Indeed for Whites none can compare,
With those you naturally wear;
And though her Highness much delights
To laugh and talk about your Whites,
I never could perceive your Grace
Made use of any for your Face.
Here 'tis you practice all your Art,
To triumph o're a Monarch's Heart;
Tattle and smile, and wink and twink on't,
It almost makes me sp--- to think on't.

175

These are your master-strokes of Beauty,
That keeps poor Rowley to hard Duty:
And how can all these be withstood,
By frail amorous Flesh and Blood?
These are the Charms that have bewitch't him,
As if a Conjurer's Rod had switch't him:
Made him he knows not what to doe,
But loll and fumble here with you.
Amongst your Ladies, and his Chitts,
At Cards and Council here he sits:
Yet minds not how they play at either,
Nor cares not when 'tis walking weather:
Business and Power he has resign'd,
And all things to your mighty Mind.
Is there a Minister of State,
Or any Treasurer of late,
That's fawning and imperious too?
He owes his Greatness all to you:
And as you see just cause to doe it,
You keep him in, or turn him out.
Hence 'tis you give us War and Peace,
Raise Men, disband them as you please:
Take any Pensions, retrench Wages,
For Petticoats, and lusty Pages:
Contrive and Execute all Laws,
Suiting the Judges to the Cause.
Learn'd Scroggs and honest Jeffreys,
A Faithfull Friend to you who e're is;
He made the Jury come in booty,
And for your service wou'd hang Doughty.
You govern every Council meeting,
Making th'Fools do as you think fitting:
Your Royal Cully has command,
Onely from you at second hand;
He does but at the helm appear,
Sits there and sleeps while your Slaves steer:

176

And you are the bright Northern Star,
By which they guide this Man of War;
Yet without doubt they might conduct
Him better were you better f---
Many begin to think of late
His Crown and C---ds have both one date,
For as they fall so falls the State.
And as his Reins prove loose and weak,
The Reigns of Government must break

The Impartial Trimmer.

1682.

Since there are some that with me see the state
Of this declining Isle and mourn its fate,
French Councellors and Whores, French Education,
Have chang'd our Natures and enslav'd our Nation;
There was a time when Barons boldly stood,
And spent their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Confirm'd our Charter, with a Curse to light
On those that shou'd destroy that sacred Right,
Which Power with Freedom can so well unite,
The hated name of Rebel is not due
To him that is to Law and Justice true.
Brutus bold part may justly claim Renown,
Preferring Right to Friendship and a Crown;
For 'twas not Treason then to keep our own.
But now the Nation with unusual need
Cries help, where is our bold, our English Breed?
Popery and Slavery are just at hand,
And every Patriot is a S---d.
Shaftsbury's gone another Change to try,
He hates his Word, yet more the Monarchy.
No Head remains our Loyal Cause to grace,
For Monmouth is too weak for that high Place:

177

More proper for the Court where he was rais'd,
His Dancing envy'd, and his Dressing prais'd;
Where still such Folly is so well protected,
Those few that han't it are oblig'd t'affect it;
For Statesmen, King and Whore, and all have sworn
T'advance such Wit and Virtue as their own:
Degenerate Rome and Spain deserves to out-brave us,
If H---e or H---x can e'er enslave us;
Or he that kennels 'twixt his Dogs and Whore,
Rul'd by a Woman, he can use no more,
Whispers with Knaves, and Jests all day with Fools;
Is chid to Counsel like a Boy to School.
False to Mankind, and true to him alone
Whose Treason still attempts his Life and Crown.
Rouse up and cry, no Slavery, no York,
And free your King from that devouring Stork;
Tho' lull'd with Ease and Safety he appear,
And trusts the Reins to him he ought to fear.
'Tis Loyalty indeed to keep the Crown
Upon a head that would it self dethrone.
This is the case of our unthinking Prince,
Wheedled by Knaves, to rule 'gainst common Sense,
That we provok'd our Wrongs to justifie,
Might in his Reign his Brother's Title try.
Live long then Charles secure of those you dread,
There's not five Whigs that ever wish'd you dead;
For as old Men rarely of Gout complain,
That Life prolongs but sooths its wholsome pain.
So we with as small cause (God knows) to boast.
Bear much with you, rather than with him roast;
For if a Subject he such Terror bring,
What may we hope from a revengefull King?
Both lewd and zealous, stubborn in his Nonsense,
He'll sacrifice Mankind to ease his Conscience.

O happy Venice, whose good Laws are such,
No private Crime the publick Peace can touch.

178

But we most wretched, while two Fools dispute,
If Leg or Armstrong shall be absolute.

Brajazet to Gloriana,

1683–4.

Fair Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone,
To tell you how he drew his ruin on;
By what degrees he took that passion in,
That made him guilty of Promethean Sin,
Who from the Gods durst steal Celestial Fire;
And tho' with less success I did as high aspire:
Ah, why (you Gods) was she of mortal Race,
And why 'twixt her and me was there so vast a space?
Why was she not above my Passion made?
Some Star in Heaven or Goddess of the Shade
And yet my haughty Soul could ne'er have bow'd
To any Beauty of the common Crowd.
None but the Brow that did expect a Crown
Could charm or awe me with a Smile or Frown.

I liv'd the Envy of the Arcadian Plains,
Sought by the Nymphs, and bow'd to by the Swains.
Where-e'er I past I swept the Street along,
And gather'd round me all the gazing Throng.
In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound,
And when I vainly spread my Wishes round,
They wanted nothing but my being crown'd:
Yet witness all you spightfull Pow'rs above,
If my Ambition did not spring from Love:
Had you, bright Gloriana, been less fair,
Less excellent, less charming than you are,
I had my honost Loyalty retain'd,
My noble Blood untainted had remain'd;
Witness you Graces, witness you sacred Bowers,
You shaded River, Banks, and Beds of Flowers,
Where the expecting Nymphs have past their Hours;

179

Witness how oft (all careless of their fame)
They Languish'd for the Author of their Flame:
And when I came reproach'd, my old reserve
Ask'd for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve?
What sighing Maid was next to be undone,
For whom I drest and put my Graces on?
And never thought (tho' I feign'd ev'ry proof
Of tender Passion) that I lov'd enough.
While I with Love's Variety was cloy'd,
Or the faint Pleasure like a Dream enjoy'd;
'Twas Gloriana's Eyes my Soul alone,
With everlasting Gust could feed upon
From her first Bloom my fate I did pursue,
And from the tender fragrant Bud I knew,
The charming Sweet it promis'd when it blew.
They gave me hope, and 'twas in vain I try'd
The Beauty from the Princess to divide:
For he at once must feel whom you inspire
A soft Ambition and a haughty Fire,
And hopes the natural Aid of young desire.

My unconsidering Passion had not yet
Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great.
'Twas Love that I pursu'd, that God that leads
Sometimes the equall'd Slave to Princes Beds.
But oh, I had forgot that Flame must rest
In your bright Soul that makes th'Adorer blest;
Your sacred Fire alone must you subdue,
'Tis that, not mine, can raise me up to you;
Yet if by chance m'ambition meet a stop,
With any thought that check'd m'advancing hope:
This new one straight wou'd all the rest confound,
How every Coxcomb aim'd at being crown'd:
The vain young Fool with all his Mother's parts,
Who wanted Sense enough for little arts;
Whose composition was like Cheder Cheese,
(In whose Production all the Town agrees)

180

To whom, from Prince to Priest was added Suff,
From great King Charles e'en down to Father Goff;
Yet he with vain Pretension lays a claim,
To th'glorious title of a Sovereign:
And when for Gods such wretched things set up,
Was it so great a crime for me to hope?
No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove,
There is no Treason in ambitious Love:
That sacred Antidote i'th' poyson'd Cup
Quells the Contagion of each little drop.

I bring no forces but my Sighs and Tears,
My Languishments, my soft Complaints and Prayers.
Artillery which was never sent in vain,
Nor fails, where-e'er it lights, to wound or pain.
Here only, here rebated they return,
Meeting the solid Armour of your Scorn;
Scorn by the Gods, I any thing could bear,
The rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War;
Long Winter Marches or the Summers Heat,
Nay ev'n in Battle from the Foe defeat;
Scars on this Face, Scars, whose dull recompence
Would ne'er attone for what they rob from thence;
Scandal of Coward, nay half-witted too,
Or siding with the pardon'd rebel Crew:
Or ought but Scorn, and yet you must frown on,
Your Slave was destin'd thus to be undone;
You the avenging Deity appear,
And I a Victim fall to all the injur'd fair.

181

On King CHARLES, by the Earl of Rochester,

For which he was banish'd the Court and turn'd Mountebank.

In the Isle of Great Britain long since famous known,
For breeding the best C--- in Christendom;
There Reigns, and long may he Reign and thrive,
The easiest Prince and best bred Man alive:
Him no ambition moves to seek Renown,
Like the French Fool, to wander up and down,
Starving his Subjects, hazarding his Crown.
Nor are his high desires above his Strength,
His Scepter and his P--- are of a Length,
And she that plays with one may sway the other,
And make him little wiser than his Brother.
I hate all Monarchs and the Thrones that they sit on,
From the Hector of France to the Cully of Brittain.
Poor Prince, thy P--- like the Buffoons at Court,
It governs thee because it makes thee sport;
Tho' Safety, Law, Religion, Life lay on't,
'Twill break through all to make it's way to C---.
Restless he rolls about from Whore to Whore,
A merry Monarch, scandalous and poor.
To Carewell the most dear of all thy Dears,
The sure relief of thy declining Years;
Oft he bewails his fortune and her fate,
To love so well, and to be lov'd so late;
For when in her he settles well his T---
Yet his dull graceless Buttocks hang an Arse.
This you'd believe, had I but time to tell you,
The pain it costs to poor laborious Nelly,
While she employs Hands, Fingers, Lips and Thighs,
E'er she can raise the Member she enjoys.

182

Cato's Answer to Libanius,

when he advis'd him to go and consult the Oracle of Jupiter Hamon;

translated out of the 9th Book of Lucan, beginning at quid. quin. Labiene jubes, &c.

What should I ask my Friends which best would be,
To live enslav'd, or thus in Arms die free;
If any force can honours price abate,
Or Vertue bow beneath the Blows of Fate:
If Fortune's Threats a steady Soul disdains;
Or if the Joys of Life be worth the pains:
If it our Happiness at all import,
Whether the foolish Scene be long or short:
If when we do but aim at noble ends,
The attempt alone immortal Fame attends:
If for bad accidents which thickest press,
On Merit we should like a good cause less,
Or be the fonder of it for success.
All this is clear, words in our Minds it strikes,
Nor Hamon nor his Priest can deeper fix,
Without the Clergies venial Cant and Pains,
Gods never frustrate will holds ours in Chains,
Nor can we act but what th'all-Wise ordains,
Who need no Voice nor perishing Word to awe
Our wild Desires, and give his Creatures Law;
Whate'er to know or needfull was or fit,
In the wise frame of humane Souls is writ,
Both what we ought to do and what forbear,
He once for all did at our Birth declare;
But never did he seek out desert Lands,
To bury truth in unfrequented Sands;
Or to a corner of the World withdrew
Head of a Sect, or partial to a few.

183

Nature's vast Fabrick is his House alone,
This Globe his Footstool, and high Heaven his Throne.
In Earth, Air, Sea, and in whoe'er excells.
In knowing Heads and honest Hearts he dwells.
Why seek we then among these barren Sands,
In narrow Shrines and Temples built with hands;
Him whose dread Presence does all places fill,
Or look but in our Reason for his Will?
All we e'er saw is God, in all we find
Apparent Print of the eternal Mind.
Let flatt'ring Fools their course by Prophets steer,
And always of the future live in fear:
No Oracle or Dream the Crowd is told,
Can make me more or less resolv'd or bold;
But certain Death which equally on all,
Both on the Coward and the Brave must fall;
This said, and turning with disdain about,
He left scorn'd Hamon to the vulgar Rout.

The Lord Lucas's Ghost, 1687.

From the blest Regions of eternal day,
Where Heaven born Souls imbibe th'immortal Ray,
Where Liberty and Innocence reside
Free from the Gripes of Tyranny and Pride,
Where pious Patriots that have shed their Blood
For sacred Truths and for the publick Good,
Now rest secure from thence (poor Isle) I come
To see thy Sorrows and bewail thy Doom,
Thy sore Oppressions and thy peircing Cry,
Disturbs our Rest and drowns our Harmany.
When stiff-neck'd Israel did their God reject,
And in his stead an Idol King erect:

184

Heaven's flaming Sword he brandish'd in his hand,
And dreadfull Thunder struck their sinfull Land;
Till Penitence atton'd his sinfull Ire,
And quench'd the rage of his consuming fire.
But this poor Land still feels the dire effect
Of his just Wrath who his mild Reign reject.
Unhappy Isle, how oft hast thou been curst
With f---lish Kings, but this of all's the worst.
The Fire, the Plague, the Sword, are dreadfull fiends,
This R---l Plague all other far transcends.
From him the Fountain all our Mischiefs flows,
From him the Fire, from him the War arose.
With Rome he plots, Religion to o'erthrow,
With France combines to enslave the People too.
No Man must near his sacred Person come,
Unless he be for Tyranny and Rome.
With hardned Face he assaults the frail and fair,
Uses his Power the Vertuous to ensnare.
With Troops of Vice he conquers Liberty,
Depresses Virtue, enthrones Tyranny,
Threatens the Coward, fawns upon the Bold,
Debauches all with Power or with Gold.
Lift up thy Head afflicted Isle, and hear,
The time of thy Deliverance draws near,
His full blown Crimes will certainly pull down
A slow, but sure Destruction of his Crown.
His loathed Acts thy freedom's Birth shall cause,
Secure Religion, produce wholsome Laws.
No more the Poor the Rich one shall devour,
No more shall Right yield to oppressive Power:
No more shall Rapine make the Country groan,
Nor civil Wars shall reign within the Town:
The Iron Scepter, and the Tyrant's Hand,
Shall cease henceforth to bruise thy happy Land.
Rome's Hocus Pocus Ministers no more
Shall cause Mankind their jugling Priests t'adore:

185

Thy Learned Clergy shall confound them all,
And they, like Ely's Sons, unpitied fall.
Dark Mists of Errors then must fly away,
And Hell's Delusions shrink from the bright day.
Truth's sacred Light in full abundance shall
Upon thy Teachers and thy People fall.
So when th'eternal Son was born to die
For all the World, the lesser Gods did fly;
His bright appearance struck their Prophets domb,
And Death like silence did their Gods intomb.
The tunefull Spheres with Hallelujahs rung,
Heaven's mighty Host with Man one Chorus sung.
Ne'er fading Glory unto God above,
Peace upon Earth, to Men eternal Love.
Thus the Creation showted with one Voice,
Thus Heaven and Earth did at his Birth rejoyce:
And thus shall all repeat this Song again,
When upon Earth he shall begin to reign.
But this lov'd Isle shall be the chosen place,
Here shall the King of Kings begin his race:
Judea was his Cradle and the Tomb,
Britain shall be his Throne in time to come.

An EPITAPH.

Algernoon Sidney fills this Tomb;
An Atheist, by declaiming Rome:
A Rebel bold, by striving still
To keep the Laws above the Will;
And hindring those would pull them down,
To leave no limits to a Crown:
Crimes damn'd by Church and Government,
Oh! whither must his Soul be sent?
Of Heaven it must needs despair,
If that the Pope be turn-key there;

186

And Hell can ne'er it entertain,
For there is all Tyrannick Reign,
And Purgatory's such a Pretence
As ne'er deceiv'd a Man of Sense:
Where goes it then? Where 't ought to go,
Where Pope and Devil have nought to do.

The Brazen Head.

What strepitantious Noise is it that sounds
From raised Banks, or from the lower Grounds?
From hollow Caverns, Labyrinths from far,
Threatning Confusions of a dreadfull War?
What dismal Cries of People in Despair,
Fill the vast Region of the troubled Air?
The Tune of Horror, or of what's as strange,
That strikes uneven like a World of Change,
With such a bold Surprize attacks my Sense,
Beyond the Power of Counsel or Defence?
But tho' blind Fortune rolls her turning Wheel
With a perpetual Motion, who can feel
This Surge of Fate, push'd on with Fire and Steel?
You precious Moments of serener Days!
When many Victories enlarg'd my Praise,
And all things ran in a most easie Stream,
Back unto me their Ocean and Supreme.
Are you all vanish'd by the sudden Fright,
And left m' encompass'd with a dismal Night?
By my own Subjects in suspicion held,
Murmurings as bad, as if they had Rebell'd?
You all controuling Powers of things above!
Who easier Dictates guide the World by Love!
Avert th'impendent Miseries, and show
Us Earthly Gods to govern here below.

187

The Answer.

'Tis well you've thought upon the chiefest Cause,
Change nothing of Religion nor the Laws.
Let the great Monarch this good Motto wear,
Not only in his Arms but every where.
Integer Vitæ, is my whole Defence,
Scelerisque purus, a frost strong defence;
Non egec Mauri, that no Forces need,
Jaculis nec Arcu, which contentions breed:
Nec venenatis gravida Sagittis
Pharetra, to make Loyal his own Cities.

Upon the Execrable Murther of the Right Honourable Arthur Earl of Essex.

Mortality wou'd be too frail to hear,
How ESSEX fell, and not dissolve with fear;
Did not more generous Rage take off the Blow,
And by his Blood the steps to Vengeance show.

The Tow'r was for the Tragedy design'd,
And to be slaughter'd he is first confin'd:
As fetter'd Victims to the Altar go.
But why must noble ESSEX perish so?
Why with such Fury drag'd into his Tomb,
Murther'd by Slaves, and sacrific'd to Rome?

By Stealth they kill, and with a secret Stroke
Silence that Voice, which charm'd whene'er it spoke.
The bleeding Orifice o'erflow'd the Ground,
More like some mighty Deluge than a Wound.

188

Through the large space his Blood and Vitals glide,
And his whole Body might have past beside.
The reeking Crimson swell'd into a Flood,
And stream'd a second time in Capel's Blood.
He's in his Son again to Death pursu'd,
An instance of the high'st ingratitude.
They then malitious Stratagems employ,
With Life, his dear Honour to destroy;
And make his Fame extinguish with his Breath,
And act beyond the Cruelties of Death.
Here Murther is in all its shapes complete,
As Lines united in their Centre meet;
Form'd by the blackest Politicks of Hell;
Was Cain so de'vlish when his Brother fell?

He that contrives, or his own Fate desires,
Wants Courage, and for fear of Death expires;
But mighty ESSEX was in all things brave,
Neither to Hope, nor to Despair, a Slave.
He had a Soul too Innocent and Great,
To fear, or to anticipate his Fate:
Yet their exalted Impudence and Guilt,
Charge on himself the precious Blood they spilt.
So were the Protestants some Years agoe,
Destroy'd in Ireland without a Foe.
By their own barbarous Hands the Mad-men dye,
And massacre themselves, they know not why:
Whilst the kind Irish howl to see the Gore,
And pious Catholicks their Fate deplore.
If you refuse to trust erroneous Fame,
Royal Mac-Ninny will confirm the same.

We have lost more in injur'd Capel's Heir,
Than the poor Bankrupt Age can e'er repair.
Nature indulg'd him so, that there we saw
All the choice Strokes her steady Hand cou'd draw.

189

He the Old English Glory did revive,
In him we had Plantaganets alive.
Grandeur and Fortune, and a vast Renown,
Fit to support the Lustre of a Crown.
All these in him were potently conjoyn'd,
But all was too ignoble for his Mind:
Wisdom and Vertue, properties Divine,
Those, God-like ESSEX, were entirely thine.

In this great Name he's still preserv'd alive,
And will to all succeeding Times survive.
With just Progression, as the constant Sun
Doth move, and through its bright Ecliptick run.
For whilst his Dust does unextinguish'd lye,
And his blest Soul is soar'd above the Sky,
Fame shall below his parted Breath supply.

An Essay upon Satyr

By J. Dr---en, Esquire.

How dull, and how insensible a Beast
Is Man, who yet would Lord it o're the rest?
Philosophers and Poets vainly strove
In every Age the lumpish Mass to move:
But those were Pedants when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightfull way,
Mysterious Morals gently to convey
In charming Numbers; so that as men grow
Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wiser too.
Satyr has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest Faults,
To laugh at their vain Deeds, and vainer Thoughts.
In Satyr too the Wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.

190

Some did all Folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.
But of these two, the last succeeded best,
(As Men aim rightest when they shoot in jest:)
Yet if we may presume to blame our Guides,
And censure those who censure all besides;
In other things they justly are preferr'd,
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd;
Against the grossest Follies they disclaim,
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the Talent of each vulgar Wit;
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at Play, wise at a Ball,
Or bringing Wit and Friendship to Whitehall;
But with sharp Eyes those nicer Faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest Mind;
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-writ Libels of this Age,
Or the forc'd Scenes of our declining Stage;
Above all Censure too, each little Wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit:
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of such Correction will have cause to boast.
In such a Satyr all would seek a share,
And every Fool will fancy he is there.
Old Story-tellers too must pine and dye,
To see their antiquated Wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her Name in a Lampoon,
And grieve to find her self decay'd so soon;
No common Coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Not the dull train of dancing Sparks appear;
Nor fluttering Officers, who never fight;
Of such a wretched Rabble who would write?

191

Much less half Wits, that's more against our Rules;
For they are Fops, the other are but Fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbarr?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?
The cunning Courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull Knavery makes so much adoe;
Till the shrewd Fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Æsop's Fox, becomes a Prey at last:
Nor shall the Royal Mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easie to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming Fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:
Yet santering Ch---s between his beastly Brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected Humour or a painted Face
In Loyal Libels we have often told him,
How one has gilted him, the other sold him.
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever Prince by two at once mis-led,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Ayles---ry, with all that race
Of busie Block-heads shall have here no place;
At Council set as foils on D---'s score,
To make that great false Jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no medling with such nauseous Men,
Their very Names have tyr'd my lazy Pen;
'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse.

First, let's behold the merriest Man alive,
Against his careless Genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear Ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day:

192

Yet he will laugh at his best Friends, and be
Just as good Company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at Reason or at Rule,
He turns himself the best in ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Shew him but Mirth, and bait that Mirth with Wit;
That shadow of a Jest shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all Mankind to be destroy'd:
So Cat transform'd sat gravely and demure,
Till Mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But soon the Lady had him in her Eye,
And from her Friend did just as odly fly;
Reaching above our Nature does no good,
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood.
As by our little Matchiavel we find
(That nimblest Creature of the busie kind)
His Limbs are crippled, and his Body shakes,
Yet his hard Mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor Companion takes.
What Gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see that drag his feeble Legs about;
Like Hounds ill coupled, Jowler lugs him still
Through Hedges, Ditches, and through all that's ill!
'Twere Crime in any man but him alone,
To use a Body so, though 'tis ones own:
Yet this false Comfort never gives him o're,
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar:
Alas, that soaring to those few that know,
Is but a busie groveling here below.
So Men in Rapture think they mount the Sky,
Whilst on the Ground th'intransed Wretches lye;
So modern Fops have fancied they could fly:
Whilst 'tis their Heads alone are in the Air,
And for the most part building Castles there;
As the new Earl with Parts deserving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;

193

Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine Notion of a busie Man;
And what is that at best but one whose Mind,
Is made to tire himself and all Mankind:
For Ireland he would go, faith let him reign,
For if some odd fantastick Lord would fain
Carry in Trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him but admire him too;
But is there any other Beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittily contrives?
Will any Dog that has his Teeth and Stones,
Refin'dly leave his Bitches and his Bones
To turn a Wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival Dogs enjoy'd:
Yet this fond Man to get a Statesman's Name,
Forfeits his Friends, his Freedom and his Fame.

Though Satyr nicely writ, no humour stings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos sake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary Tongue,
From railing smoothly, and from reasoning wrong:
As Boys on Holy-days let loose to play,
Lay waggish Traps for Girls that pass that way;
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress,
Some silly Cit in flowr'd foolish Dress;
So have I mighty satisfaction found,
To see his tinsel reason on the Ground:
To see the florid Fool despis'd (and know it)
By some who scarce have words enough to show it;
(For sence sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer; nay sometimes the wittiest Speaker)

194

But 'tis prodigious so much Eloquence
Should be acquired by such a little Sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no Fool though this man be:
At Bar abusive, on the Bench unable,
Knave on the Woolsack, Fop at Council-Table.
These are the Grievances of such Fools as wou'd,
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.

Some other kind of Wits must be made known,
Whose harmless Errors hurt themselves alone;
Excess of Luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease:
To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Though their whole Life's but intermitting pain:
So much of Surfeits, Head-aches, Claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between:
Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasures sake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain we squander Life away.

Thus D---et purring like a thoughtfull Cat,
Married but wiser, Puss ne'er thought of that:
And first he worried her with railing rhime,
Like Pembrook's Mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish Life,
A teeming Widow but a barren Wife;
Suckl'd by contract of such a fulsome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till Fortune blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would use in all his sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker Times,
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious Rhimes.

Mul---ve had much adoe to scape the snare,
Though learn'd in those ill Arts that cheat the Fair:

195

For after all his vulgar Marriage-mocks,
With Beauty dazled Numps was in the Stocks;
Deluded Parents dry'd their weeping Eyes,
To see him catch his Tartar for his Prize:
Th'impatient Town waited the wisht for change,
And Cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth Plot made us with sorrow see,
As his Estate his Person too was free:
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move,
To Gold he fled from Beauty and from Love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and power,
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.

And little Sid---y for Simile renown'd,
Pleasures has always sought but never found:
Though all his Thoughts on Wine and Women fall,
His are so bad sure he ne'er thinks at all.
The Flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His Meat and Mistresses are kept too long;
But sure we all mistake this pious Man,
Who mortifies his Person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for Sin,
Are only Rules of this old Capuchin;
For never Hermit under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilfull Nose;
Which from all stink can with peculiar art
Extract Perfume, and Essence, from a F---t;
Expecting Supper is his great delight,
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o're his Cups this Night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Hewet, and Jack Hall for Wits.

Roch---r I despise for his meer want of wit,
Though thought to have a Tail and Cloven Feet;

196

For while he mischief means to all Mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find;
And so like Witches justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.
False are his words, affected is his wit,
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks.
Mean in each Action, lewd in every Limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes every Creature,
A very Killig---w without good Nature.
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own Kickings notably contriv'd:
For (there's the folly that's still mixt with fear)
Cowards more blows than any Hero bear;
Of fighting Sparks some may her pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
The World may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still:
Falsly he falls into some dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose;
A Life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his Poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely hit,
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the Cinder-womans trade;
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire:
So lewdly dull his idle Works appear,
The wretched Texts deserve no Comments here;
Where one poor Thought sometimes left all alone,
For a whole Page of dulness to attone:

197

'Mongst forty bad, one tolerable line,
Without expression, fancy, or design.

How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise,
Even he who would himself the most despise;
I who so wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own Vanity and Pride can't see.
While the World's nonsense is so sharply shewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own;
That we may Angels seem, we paint them Elves,
And are but Satyrs to set up our selves.
I who have all this while been finding fault,
Even with my Master, who first Satyr taught;
And did by that describe the Task so hard,
It seems stupendious and above reward.
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty Hill, unreacht by former time;
Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

Upon an undeserving and ungratefull Mistress, whom he could not help loving.

Being a Paraphrastical Translation of Ovid's Tenth Elegy. Lib. 3. Amorum.

I have too long endur'd her guilty Scorn,
Too long her falseness my fond Love has born;
My freedom and my wits at length I claim;
Be gone base Passion, dye unworthy flame;
My Life's sole torment and my Honour's stain,
Quit this tir'd Heart and end the lingring pain.
I have resolv'd I'le be my self once more
Long banish'd Reason to her right restore,
And throw off Love's tyrannick sway, that still encroaching power.

198

My growing shame I see at last, tho' late,
And my past Follies both despise and hate:
Hold out my Heart, nor let her Beauty move,
Be constant in thy Anger as thy Love:
My present pains shall give thee future ease,
As bitter Potions cure, tho' they displease.
'Tis for this end, for freedom more assur'd,
I have so long such shamefull Chains endur'd.
Like a scorn'd Slave before her door I lay,
And proud repulses suffer'd every day;
Without complaining, banish'd from her sight,
On the cold ground I spent the tedious Night;
While some glad Rival in her Arms did lye,
Glutted with Love and surfeited with Joy.
Thence have I seen the tir'd Adulterer come,
Dragging a weak exhausted Carkass home.
And yet this Curse a Blessing I esteem,
Compar'd with that of being seen by him;
By him descry'd attending in the Street,
May my foes only such Disgraces meet.
What toyl and time has this false Woman cost?
How much of unreturning Youth has for her sake been lost?
How long did I, where fancy led or fate?
Unthank'd, unminded, on her Rambles wait;
Her Steps, her Looks were still by mine pursu'd,
And watch'd by me she charm'd the gazing Crowd.
My diligent Love and over-fond Desire,
Has been the means to kindle others Fire.
What need I mention every little Wrong,
Or curse the softness of her soothing Tongue.
The private Love-signs that in publick pass,
Between her and some common staring Ass.
The Coquet Art her faithless Heart allows,
Or tax her with a thousand broken Vows:
I hear she's sick, and with wild hast I run,
Officious Hast, and Visit importune.

199

Entring, my Rival on her Bed I see,
The politick Sickness only was to me.
With this and more oft has my Love been try'd,
Some other Coxcomb let her now provide,
To bear her jilting and maintain her pride;
My batter'd Bark has reach'd the Port at last,
Nor fears again the Billows it has past.
Cease your soft Oaths and that still ready show'r,
Those once dear words have lost their charming pow'r.
In vain you flatter, I am now no more,
That easie Fool you found me heretofore.

Anger and Love a doubtfull fight maintain,
Each strives by turns my staggering heart to gain:
But what can long against Lov's force contend,
My Love I fear will conquer in the end;
I'll do what e'er I can to hate you still,
And if I Love, know 'tis against my Will.
So the Bull hates the Ploughman's Yoke to wear,
Yet what he hates, his stubborn Neck must bear.

Her manners oft my Indignation raise,
But straight her Beauty the short storm allays.
Her Life I loath, her Person I adore;
Much I contemn her, but I love her more.
Both with her and without her I'm in pain,
And rage to lose, what I should blush to gain:
Uncertain, yet at what my wishes aim;
Loath to abandon Love or part with Fame
That Angel-form ill suits a form all sin;
Ah! be less fair without, or more within.
When these soft Smiles my yielding Powers invade,
In vain I call her Vices to my aid;
Tho' now disdaining the disguise of Art,
In my esteem her Conduct claims no part,
Her Face a natural right has to my Heart.
No Crime's so black as to deform her Eyes,
Those Clouds must scatter when these Suns shall rise.

200

Enough, fair Conqueror, the day's your own,
See at your Feet, Love's vanquish'd Rebel thrown;
By these dear Joys, (Joys dear tho' they are past)
When in the kindest Links of Love we held each other fast;
By th'injur'd Gods your false Oaths did prophane
By all those Beauties that support and feed your proud disdain;
By that lov'd Face from the whole Sex Elect,
To which I all my Vows and Pray'rs direct,
And equal with a Power divine respect:
By every feature of a turn so fine,
And by those Arms that charm and dazle mine.
Spare from new triumphs, cherish without art,
This over-faithfull, this too tender Heart:
A Heart that was respectfull while it strove,
But yielding is all blind impetuous Love:
Live as you please, torment me as you will,
Still are you fair, and I must love you still.
Think only, if with just and clement Reign,
A willing Subject you wou'd chuse to gain,
Or drag a conquer'd Vassal in a Chain;
But to what ever Conduct you incline,
Do suffer, be what my worse fears divine,
You are, you ought, you must, you shall be mine.
Reason for ever, the vain strife give o'er,
Thy cruel Wisdom I can bear no more;
Let me indulge this one soft Passion's rule,
Curb vexing Sense and be a happy Fool;
With full spread Sails the tempting Gale obey,
That down Lov's Current drives me fast away.

201

The Town Life.

Once how I doated on this Jilting Town,
Thinking no Heaven was out of London known;
Till I her Beauties artificial found,
Her Pleasure's but a short and giddy round;
Like one who has his Phillis long enjoy'd,
Grown with the fulsom repetition cloy'd;
Love's Mists then vanish from before his Eyes,
And all the Ladies Frailties he descries:
Quite surfeited with Joy, I now retreat
To the fresh Air, a homely Country Seat,
Good Hours, Books, harmless Sports, & wholsom Meat.
And now at last I have chose my proper Sphere,
Where Men are plain and rustick, but sincere.
I never was for Lies nor Fawning made,
But call a Wafer Bread, and Spade a Spade.
I tell what merits got Lord—his place,
And laugh at marry'd M---ve to his Face.
I cannot vere with ev'ry change of State,
Nor flatter Villains, tho' at Court they're great:
Nor will I prostitute my Pen for Hire,
Praise Cromwell, damn him, write the Spanish Fryar:
A Papist now, if next the Turk should reign,
Then piously transverse the Alcoran.
Methinks I hear one of the Nation cry,
Be Christ, this is a Whiggish Calumny,
All Virtues are compriz'd in Loyalty.
Might I dispute with him, I'de change his Note,
I'de silence him, that is, he'd cutt my Throat.
This powerfull way of reasoning never mist,
None are so positive but then desist,
As I will, e're it come to that extreme;
Our Folly, not our Misery is our Theam.

202

Well may we wonder what strange Charm, what Spell,
What mighty Pleasures in this London dwell,
That Men renounce their Ease, Estates and Fame,
And drudge it here to get a Fopling's Name?
That one of seeming sense advanc'd in years,
Like a Sir Courtly Nice in Town appears:
Others exchange their Land for tawdry Cloaths,
And will in spight of Nature pass for Beauxs.
Indulgent Heaven, who ne'er made ought in vain,
Each Man for something proper did ordain;
Yet most against their Genius blindly run,
The wrong they chuse, and what they're made for shun.
Thus Ar---n thinks for State affairs he's fit;
Hewit for Ogling, C---ly for a Wit:
But 'tis in vain, so wise, these Men to teach,
Besides the King's learn'd Priests should only preach.

We'll see how Sparks the tedious day employ,
And trace them in their warm pursuit of Joy;
If they get drest (with much ado) by Noon,
In quest of Beauty to the Mall they run,
Where (like young Boys) with Hat in hand they try
To catch some flutt'ring gawdy Butterfly.
Thus Gray pursues the Lady with a Face,
Like forty more, and with the same success,
Whose jilting Conduct in her Beauty's spite,
Looses her fame, and get's no pleasure by't.
The secret Joys of an Intrigue she slights,
And in an Equipage of Fools delights
So some vain Heroes for a vain command,
Forfeit their Conscience, Liberty and Land.
But see high Mass is done, in Crowds they go,
What, all these Irish, and Mall Howard too?
'Tis very late, to Lockets let's away,
The Lady Frances comes, I will not stay.
Expecting Dinner, to discourse they fall,
Without respect of morals censuring all:

203

The Nymph they lov'd, the Friend they hug'd before,
He's a vain Coxcomb, she's a common Whore:
No obligation can their Jeasts prevent;
Wit, like unruly Wind in Bowels pent,
Torments the bearer till he gives it vent;
Tho' this offends the Ear as that the Nose,
No matter, 'tis for Ease and out it goes.
But what they talk (too nauseous to rehearse)
I leave for the late Ballad-writers Verse.
After a dear bought Meal they hast away,
To a desert of Ogling at the Play:
What's here which in the Box's front I see,
Deform'd old Age, deseases Infamy.

W---k, N---th, Paget, Hinton, Martin, Willis,
And that Epitome of Lewdness, Elly's.
I'll not turn that way, but observe the Play,
Pox, 'tis a tragick Farce of Banks to day:
Besides some Irish Wits the Pit invade
With a worse Din than Cat-call Serenade.
I must be gone, let's to Hide Park repair,
If not good company, we'll find good Air:
Here with affected Bow and Side-Glass look,
The self-conceited Fool is easily took.
There comes a Spark with six in Tarsels drest,
Charming the Ladies Hearts with dint of Beast:
Like Scullers on the Thames with frequent bow,
They labour, tugg, and in their Coaches row,
To meet some fair one, still they wheel about,
Till she retires, and then they hurry out.

But next we'll visit where the Beauxs in order come,
('Tis yet too early for the drawing-room)
Here Nowels and Olivia's abound;
But one plain Manly is not to be found:
Flattr'ng the present, the absent they abuse,
And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News:

204

Why, such a Lady's pale and wou'd not dance;
This to the Country gone, and that to France:
Whose marry'd, slip'd away, or mist at Court,
Others Misfortunes thus afford them sport:
A new Song is produc'd, the Author guest,
The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.
Live Laureat E---er, in whom we see,
The English can excell Antiquity.
Dryden writes Epick, Wosley Odes in vain,
Virgil and Horace still the chief maintain:
He with his matchless Poems has alone,
Bavius and Mevius in their way out-done.

But now for Cards, and play they all propose,
While I who never in good Breeding lose,
Who cannot civilly sit still and see
The Ladies pick my Purse and laugh at me,
Pretending earnest business drive to Court,
Where those who can do nothing else resort.
The English must not seek preferment there,
For Mack's and O's all places destin'd are.
No more we'll send our Youth to Paris now,
French Principles and Breeding once wou'd do:
They for Improvement must to Ireland sail,
The Irish Wit and Language now prevail.
But soft my Pen, with care this Subject touch,
Stop where you are, you soon may write too much.
Quite weary with the hurry of the day,
I to my peacefull home direct my way;
While some in Hack and Habit of Fatigue,
May have (but oft pretend) a close Intrigue;
Others more open to the Tavern scower,
Calling for Wine, and every Man his Whore,
As safe as those with quality perhaps,
For N---rgh says great Ladies can give Claps:
Somewhere they're kept, and many where they keep,
Most see an easie Mistress e'er they Sleep.

205

Thus Sparks may dress, dance, play, write, fight, get drunk,
But all the mighty Pother ends in Punk.

A Satyr on the modern Translators.

Odi imitatores servum pecus, &c.

Since the united cunning of the Stage,
Has balk'd the hireling Drudges of the Age:
Since Betterton of late so thrifty's grown,
Revives old Plays, or wisely acts his own:
Thum'd Rider with a Catalogue of Rhimes,
Makes the compleatest Poet of our Times:
Those who with nine months toil had spoil'd a Play,
In hopes of Eating at a full Third day,
Justly despairing longer to sustain
A craving Stomach from an empty Brain,
Have left Stage-practice, chang'd their old Vocations,
Atoning for bad Plays, with worse Translations,
And like old Sternhold with laborious spite,
Burlesque what nobler Muses better write:
Thus while they for their Causes only seem
To change the Channel, they corrupt the Stream.
So breaking Vintners to increase their Wine,
With nauseous Drugs debauch the generous Vine:
So barren Gipsies for recruit are said,
With Strangers Issue to maintain the Trade;
But lest the fair Bantling should be known,
A daubing Walnut makes him all their own.

In the head of this Gang too John Dryden appears,
But to save the Town-censure and lessen his Fears,
Join'd with a Spark whose Title makes me civil,
For Scandalum Magnatum is the Devil:
Such mighty Thoughts from Ovid's Letters flow,
That the Translation is a work for two;

206

Who in one Copy joyn'd their shame have shewn,
Since T---e could spoil so many, though alone:
My Lord I thought so generous would prove,
To scorn a Rival in affairs of Love:
But well he knew his teeming pangs were vain,
Till Midwife Dryden eas'd his labouring Brain;
And that when part of Hudibras's Horse
Jogg'd on, the other would not hang an Arse;
So when fleet Jowler hears the joyfull halloo,
He drags his sluggish Mate, and Tray must follow.
But how could this learn'd brace employ their time?
One construed sure, while th'other pump'd for Rhime:
Or it with these, as once at Rome, succeeds,
The Bibulus subscribes to Cæsar's Deeds:
This, from his Partners Acts, ensures his Name,
Oh sacred thirst of everlasting Fame!
That could defile those well cut Nails with Ink,
And make his Honour condescend to think:
But what Excuse, what Preface can atone,
For Crimes which guilty Bayes has singly done?
Bayes, whose Rose Alley Ambuscade injoyn'd,
To be to Vices which he practic'd kind,
And brought the venome of a spitefull Satyr,
To the safe innocence of a dull Translator.
Bayes, who by all the Club was thought most fit
To violate the Mantuan Prophet's wit,
And more debauch what loose Lucretius writ.
When I behold the rovings of his Muse,
How soon Assyrian Ointments she would lose
For Diamond Buckles sparkling at their Shoes.
When Virgil's height is lost, when Ovid soars,
And in Heroics Canace deplores
Her Follies, louder than her Father roars,
I'd let him take Almanzor for his Theme;
In lofty Verses make Maximin blaspheme,
Or sing in softer Airs St. Katharine's Dream.

207

Nay, I could hear him damn last Ages Wit,
And rail at Excellence he ne'er can hit;
His Envy shou'd at powerfull Cowley rage,
And banish Sense with Johnson from the Stage:
His Sacrilege should plunder Shakespear's Urn,
With a dull Prologue make the Ghost return
To bear a second Death, and greater pain,
While the Fiend's words the Oracle prophane;
But when not satisfy'd with Spoils at home,
The Pyrate wou'd to foreign Borders roam;
May he still split on some unlucky Coast,
And have his Works, or Dictionary lost;
That he may know what Roman Authors mean,
No more than does our blind Translatress Behn.

The Female Wit, who next convicted stands,
Nor for abusing Ovid's Verse but Sand's:
She might have learn'd from the ill borrow'd Grace,
(Which little helps the ruine of her Face)
That Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o're the Heart,
When more of Nature's seen and less of Art:
Nor strive in Ovid's Letters to have shown,
As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own:
Then let her from the next inconstant Lover,
Take a new Copy for a second Rover:
Describe the cunning of a Jilting Whore,
From the ill Arts her self has us'd before;
Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more.

R---mer to Crambo privilege does claim,
Not from the Poet's Genius, but his Name;
Which Providence in contradiction meant,
Though he Predestination cou'd prevent,
And with bold dulness translate Heavens intent.
Rash Man! we paid thee Adoration due,
That ancient Criticks were excell'd by you:
Each little Wit to your Tribunal came
To hear their doom, and to secure their Fame:

208

But for Respect you servilely sought Praise,
Slighted the Umpire's Palm to court the Poet's Bayes;
While wise Reflexions and a grave Discourse,
Declin'd to Zoons a River for a Horse.
So discontented Pemberton withdrew,
From sleeping Judges to the noisie Crew;
Chang'd awefull Ermin for a servile Gown,
And to an humble fawning smooth'd his frown:
The Simile will differ here indeed;
You cannot versify, though he can plead.

To painfull Creech my last Advice descends,
That he and Learning would at length be Friends;
That he'd command his dreadfull Forces home,
Not be a second Hannibal to Rome.
But since no Counsel his Resolves can bow,
Nor may thy fate, O Rome, resist his Vow;
Debarr'd from Pens as Lunaticks from Swords,
He shou'd be kept from waging war with Words.
Words which at first like Atoms did advance,
To the just measure of a tunefull Dance,
And jumpt to Form, as did his Worlds, by chance.
This pleas'd the Genius of the vicious Town;
The Wits confirm'd his Labours with renown,
And swear the early Atheist for their own.
Had he stopt here—But ruin'd by Success,
With a new Spawn he fill'd the burthen'd Press,
Till, as his Volumes swell'd, his Fame grew less.
So Merchants flattered with increasing Gain,
Still tempt the falshood of the doubtfull Main;
So the first running of the lucky Dice,
Does eager Bully to new Bets intice;
Till Fortune urges him to be undone,
And Ames-Ace loses what kind Sixes wone.
Witness this Truth Lucretia's wretched Fate,
Which better have I heard my Nurse relate;

209

The Matron suffers violence again,
Not Tarquin's Lust so vile as Chreech's Pen;
Witness those heaps his Midnight Studies raise,
Hoping to rival Ogilby in Praise:
Both writ so much, so ill; a doubt might rise,
Which with most Justice might deserve the Prize;
Had not the first the Town with Cutts appeas'd,
And where the Poem fail'd the Picture pleas'd.

Wits of a meaner rank I wou'd rehearse,
But will not plague your Patience nor my Verse:
In long oblivion may they happy lie,
And with their Writings may their Folly die.
Now why should we poor Ovid yet pursue,
And make his very Book an Exile too,
In words more barbarous than the place he knew?
If Virgil labour'd not to be translated,
Why suffers he the only thing he hated?
Had he foreseen some ill officious Tongue,
Wou'd in unequal Strains blaspheme his Song;
Nor Prayers, nor Force, nor Fame shou'd e'er prevent
The just Performance of his wise intent:
Smiling h'had seen his martyr'd Work expire,
Nor live to feel more cruel Foes than Fire.

Some Fop in Preface may those Thefts excuse,
That Virgil was the draught of Homer's Muse:
That Horace's by Pindar's Lyre was strung,
By the great Image of whose Voice he sung;
They found the Mass, 'tis true, but in their Mould
They purg'd the drossy Oar to current Gold:
Mending their Pattern, they escap'd the Curse,
Yet had they not writ better, they'd writ worse.
But when we bind the Lyric up to rhime,
And lose the Sense to make the Poem chime:
When from their Flocks we force Sicilian Swains,
To ravish Milk-maids in our English Plains;

210

And wandring Authors, e'er they touch our shore,
Must, like our Locust Hugonots, be poor.
I'de bid th'importing Club thier pains forbear,
And traffick in our own, tho' homely ware,
Whilst from themselves the honest Vermin spin,
I'de like the Texture, tho' the Web be thin;
Nay, take Crown's Plays, because his own, for wit;
And praise what D'urfey, not translating, writ.

The Parliament House to be Lett,

1678.

1

Here's a House to be let,
For C---, S---d swore,
On Portsmouth's bare Arse,
He wou'd shut up the Door.

2

Inquire at the Lodgings
Next Door to the Pope,
At Duke Lauderdale's Head,
With a Cravat of Rope.

3

And there you will hear
How next he will let it,
If you pay the old Price,
You may certainly get it.

4

He holds it in Tail,
From his Father, who fast
Did keep it long shut,
But 'twas open'd at last.

211

Advice to Apollo,

1678.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I've heard the Muses were still soft and kind,
To Malice Foes, to gentle Love inclin'd;
And that Parnassus Hill was fresh and gay,
Crown'd still with Flowers as in the fairest May:
That Helicon with Pleasures charm'd the Soul,
Could Anger tame, and restless Care controul:
That bright Apollo still delights in Mirth,
Chearing (each welcome day) the drowsie Earth;
Then whence comes Satyr, is it Poetry?
O great Apollo, God of Harmony!
Far be't from thee, this cruel Art t'inspire,
Then strike these Wretches who thus dare aspire,
To tax thy gentleness, making thee seem
Malicious as their Thought, harsh as their Theme.

First, strike Sir Carr, that Knight o'th' wither'd Face,
Who (for th'reversion of a Poet's place)
Waits on Melpomene, and sooths her Grace;
That angry Miss alone he strives to please,
For fear the rest should teach him Wit and Ease,
And make him quit his lov'd laborious Walks,
When sad or silent o'er the Room he stalks,
And strives to write as wisely as he talks.

Next with a gentle Dart strike Dryden down,
Who but begins to aim at the Renown
Bestow'd on Satyrists, and quits the Stage,
To lash the witty Follies of the Age.
Strike him but gently that he may return,
Write Plays again, and his past Follies mourn.
He had better make Almanzor give offence
In fifty Lines without one word of Sense,
Than thus offend and wittily deserve,
What will ensue with his lov'd Muse to starve.

212

D---set writes Satyr too, but writes so well,
O great Apollo! let him still rebell,
Pardon a Muse which does so far excell:
Pardon a Muse which does with Art support,
Some drowsie wit in our unthinking Court.

But M---ve strike with many angry Dart,
He who profanes thy Name offends thy Art
Ne'er saw thy Light yet would usurp thy Power,
And govern Wit, and be its Emperour.
In fee with Dryden to be counted wise,
Who tells the World he has both Wit and Eyes.

Rochester's easie Muse does still improve,
Each hour thy little wealthy World of Love,
(That World in which each Muse is thought a Queen)
That he must be forgiven in charity then;
Though his sharp Satyrs have offended thee;
In charity to Love who will decay,
When his delightfull Muse (its only stay)
Is by thy Power severely ta'ne away.
Forbear (then) Civil Wars, and strike not down
Love, who alone supports thy tottering Crown.

But sawcy Sh---ard with th'affected train,
Who Satyrs write, yet scarce can spell their Name,
Blast great Apollo with perpetual shame.

The Duel of the Crabs

By the Lord B---st.

In Milford Lane near to St. Clement's Steeple,
There liv'd a Nymph kind to all Christian People:
A Nymph she was, whose comely Mien and Stature,
Whose height of Eloquence and every Feature,
Struck through the heart of City and of Whitehall,
And when they pleas'd to court her did 'em right all.
Under her beauteous Bosom there did lye
A Belly smooth as Ivory.

213

Yet Nature to declare her various Art,
Had plac't a Tuft in one convenient part,
No Park with smoothest Lawn or highest Wood,
Cou'd e're compare with this admir'd abode.
Here all the Youth of England did repáre,
To take their pleasure and unease their Care.
Here the distressed Lover that had born
His haughty Mistress Anger or her Scorn
Came for Relief; and in this pleasant Shade,
Forgot the former, and this Nymph obey'd.
And yet what corner of the World is found,
Where pain our pleasure does not still surround?
One wou'd have thought that in this shady Grove,
Nought cou'd have dwelt but quiet, peace and love.
But Heaven directed otherwise; for here,
I'th' midst of plenty bloody Wars appear:
The Gods will frown wherever they do smile;
The Crocodile infests the fertil Soil:
Lyons and Tygers on the Lybian Plains,
Forbid all Pleasures to the fearfull Swains:
Wild Beasts in Forests do the Hunters fright,
They fear their ruine 'midst of their delight.
Thus in the shade of this dark silent Bower,
Strength strives with Strenth, & Power vies with Power,
Two mighty Monsters did this Wood infest,
And struck such awe and terror in the rest,
That no Sicilian Tyrant e're cou'd boast
He e'er with greater rigour rul'd the roast.
Each had his Empire, which he kept in awe,
Was by his will obey'd, allow'd no Law:
Nature so well divided had their states,
Nought but Ambition cou'd have chang'd their fates:
For 'twixt their Empire stood a briny Lake,
Deep as the Poets do the Centre make;
But dire Ambition does admit no bounds,
There are no limits to aspiring Crowns.

214

The Spaniard by his Europe Conquests bold,
Sail'd o're the Ocean for the Indian's Gold:
The Carthaginian Hero did not stay,
Because he met vast Mountains in his way:
He past the Alps like Molehills; such a Mind
As thinks on Conquest will be unconfin'd.
Both with these haughty thoughts one course to tend,
To try if this vast Lake had any end:
Where finding Countries yet without a Name,
They might by Conquests get Eternal Fame.
After long marches both their Armies tired,
At length they find the place so much desired;
Where in a little time each does descry,
The glymps of an approaching Enemy.
They in this sight do equal pleasure prove,
As we should do in well rewarded Love:
Blood-thirsty Souls, whose only perfect Joy,
Consists in what their Fury can destroy.
And now both Armies do prepare for fight,
And each of th'other unto War incite;
In vain, alas, for all their force and strength,
Was quite consumed by their Marches length;
But the great Chief's impatient of delay,
Resolve by single Fight to try the day.
Each does the other with Contempt defie,
Resolv'd to conquer, or resolv'd to die;
Both Armies are commanded to withdraw,
In expectation who should give 'em Law;
While the amaz'd Spectators full of care,
Hope for a better or worse Tyrant fear:
And now these Princes meet, now they engage
With all their chiefest Strength and highest Rage
Now with their Instruments of Wrath they push,
As Hills in Earthquakes on each other rush;
Where their Militia lies is still in doubt,
Whether like Elephants upon their Snout;

215

Or if upon their Heads vast Horns they wore,
Or if they fought with Tusks like the wild Boar.
Some Greshamites perhaps, with help of Glass,
And poring long upon't, may chance to guess;
But no tradition has inform'd our age,
What were their chiefest instruments of rage?
With small or no advantage they proceed,
Both are much bruised, and their Wounds do bleed:
Both keep their Anger, both do lose their Force,
Both get the better, neither get the Worse;
Justice her self might put into each Scale
One of these Princes, and see neither fall:
Spurr'd on by Fury, now they both provide,
To let one Graple this great cause decide;
Joyning, they strive, and such resistance make,
Both fall together in the Briny Lake,
Where from the trouble of a tottering Crown,
Each mighty Monarch is laid gently down:
Both Armies at this sight amazed stand,
In doubt, who shall obey, who shall command:
In this extremity they both agree,
A Commonwealth their Government shall be.

Instructions to his Mistress how to behave her self at Supper with her Husband,

1682.

Since to restrain our Joys, that ill but rude
Familiar thing, your Husband, will intrude;
For a just Judgment may th'unwelcome Ghest,
At this Night's lucky Supper eat his last:
O how shall I with Patience e'er stand by,
While my Corinna gives another Joy;
His wanton hands in her soft Bosom warms,
And folds about her Neck his clasping Arms

216

O tortering Sight, but since it must be so,
Be kind, and learn what 'tis I'de have you do.

Come first be sure, for tho' the place may prove,
Unfit for all we wish, you'll show me Love:
When call'd to Table, you demurely go,
Gently in passing, touch my hand or so:
Mark all my Actions, well observe my Eye,
My Speaking, Signs, and to each Sign reply.
If I do ought of which you would complain,
Upon your Elbow languishingly lean:
But if you're pleas'd with what I do or say,
Steal me a smile and snatch your Eyes away:
When you reflect on our past secret Joys,
Hold modestly your Fan before your Eyes;
And when the nauseous Husband tedious grows,
Your lifted hands with scornfull Anger close,
As if you call'd for Vengeance from above,
Upon that dull impediment to Love:
A thousand skilfull ways we'll find to show,
Our mutual Love which none but we shall know.
I'll watch the parting Glass where-e'er you drink,
And where your Lips have touch'd it, kiss the Brink:
Like still the dish that in your reach does stand,
Taking the Plate, I so may feel your hand.
But what he recommends to you to eat,
Coyly refuse, as if you loath'd the Meat;
Nor let his Matrimonial Right appear,
By any ill-tim'd Houshold freedom there:
Let not his fulsom Arms embrace your wast,
Nor lolling Head upon your Bosom rest.
One Kiss wou'd straight make all my Passion known,
And my fierce Eyes with rage would claim their own;
Yet what thus passes will be done i'th' Light,
But oh! the Joys that may be kept from Sight;
Legs lock't in Legs, Thighs pressing Thighs, and all
The wanton Spells that up Love's Fury call:

217

Those cunning Arts that I so oft have us'd,
Makes me now fear to be my self abus'd;
To clear my doubts, so far your Chair remove,
As may prevent th'intelligence of Love.
Put him in mind of pledging ev'ry Health,
And let the tutor'd Page add Wine by stealth:
The Sot grown drunk, we easier may retire,
And do as the occasion will require:
But after all, (alas) how small the gains
Will be, for which we take such mighty pains:
Torn from my Arms, you must go home to bed,
And leave your poor forsaken Lover dead:
Cruel Divorce, enough to break my Heart,
Without you promise this before we part;
When my blest Rival goes to reap his Joy,
Receive him so as may the Bliss destroy:
Let not the least kind mark of Love escape,
But all be Duty and a lawfull Rape;
So deadly cold and void of all desire,
That like a Charm it may put out the Fire;
But if compell'd you should at last comply,
When we meet next be sure you all deny.

The Session of the Poets,

to the Tune of Cook Lawrel.

1

Apollo concern'd to see the Transgressions,
Our paultry Poets do daily commit,
Gave order once more to summon a Sessions,
Severely to punish the abuses of Wit.

2

Will D' Avenant wou'd fain have been Steward o'th' Court,
To have fin'd and amerc'd each Man at his Will,
But Apollo, it seems, had heard a report,
That his choice of new Plays did show h'had no skill.

218

3

Besides some Criticks had ow'd him a spight,
And a little before had made the God fret,
By letting him know the Laureat did write,
That damnable Farce, The House to be Lett.

4

Intelligence was brought, the Court being set,
That a Play Tripartite was very near made,
Where malicious Matt Clifford and spiritual S---t,
Were joyn'd with their Duke a Peer of the Trade.

5

Apollo rejoyc'd, and did hope for amends,
Because he knew it was the first case,
The Duke e'er did ask the advice of his Friends,
And so wish his Play as well clapt as his Grace.

6

O Yes being made, and silence proclaim'd,
Apollo began to read the Court Roul,
When as soon as he saw Frank Berkley was nam'd,
He scarce cou'd forbear from tearing the Scroul.

7

But Berkley, to make his Interest the greater,
Suspecting before what would come to pass,
Procur'd him his Cozen Fitzharding's Letter,
With which Apollo wiped his Arse.

8

Guy with his Pastoral next went to Pot,
At first in a dolefull Study he stood,
Then shew'd a Certificate which he had got
From the Maids of Honour, but it did him no good.

9

Humorous Weeden came in in a Pet,
And for the Laurel began to splutter;
But Apollo chid him, and bid him first get
A Muse not so common as Mrs. Rutter.

219

10

A number of other small Poets appear'd,
With whom for a time Apollo made sport;
Clifford and Flecknoe were very well jear'd,
And in conclusion whipp'd out of the Court.

11

Tom Killegrew boldly came up to the Bar,
Thinking his jibing would get him the Bays,
But Apollo was angry and bid him beware
That he caught him no more a printing his Plays.

12

With ill luck in Battle but worse in Wit,
George Porter began for the Laurel to bawl,
But Apollo did think such Impudence fit
To be thrust out of Court, as he's out of Whitehall.

13

Savage missing Cowley came into the Court,
Making Apologies for his bad Play,
Ev'ry one gave him so bad a Report,
That Apollo gave heed to all he could say:

14

Nor wou'd he have had, 'tis thought, a rebuke,
Unless he had done some notable Folly;
Writ Verses unjustly in praise of Sam Tuke,
Or printed his pitifull Melancholy.

15

Cotton did next to the Bays pretend,
But Apollo told him it was not fit,
Though his Virgil was well, it made but amends
For the worst Panegyrick that ever was writ.

16

Old Shirley stood up and made an excuse,
Because many young Men before him were got;
He vow'd he had switch'd and spur-gall'd his Muse,
But still the dull Jade kept to her old Trot.

220

17

Sir R---t H---d, call'd for over and over,
At length sent in Teague with a Pacquet of News,
Wherein the sad Knight, to his grief, did discover,
How Dryden had lately robb'd him of his Muse.

18

Each Man in the Court was pleas'd with the Theft,
Which made the whole Family swear and rant,
Desiring their Obin i'th'lurch being left,
The Thief might be fin'd for the Wild Gallant.

19

Dryden, whom one wou'd have thought had more Wit,
The censure of ev'ry Man did disdain,
Pleading some pitifull Rhimes he had writ,
In praise of the Countess of Castlemaine.

20

Ned Howard, in whom great Nature is found,
Tho' never took notice of till that day,
Impatiently sat till it came to his round,
Then rose and commended the Plot of his Play.

21

Such Arrogance made Apollo stark mad,
But Sherley endeavour'd to appease his Choller,
By owning the Play, and swearing the Lad
In Poetry was a very pert Schollar.

22

James Howard being call'd for out of the Throng,
Booted and spurr'd to the Bar did advance,
Where singing a damn'd nonsensical Song,
The Youth and his Muse were sent into France.

23

Newcastle and's Horse for entrance next strives,
Well stuff'd was his Cloakbag and so was his Breeches,
And unbutt'ning the place where Nature's Posset-maker lives,
Pull'd out his Wife's Poems, Plays, Essays & Speeches.

221

24

Whoop, quoth Apollo, what a Devil have we here,
Put up thy Wife's Trumpery good noble Marquiss,
And home again, home again take thy Carreer,
To provide her fresh Straw, and a Chamber that dark is.

25

Sam Tuke sat and formally smil'd at the rest,
But Apollo, who well did his Vanity know,
Call'd him to the Bar to put him to th'Test,
But his Muse was so stiff she scarcely cou'd go.

26

She pleaded her Age desir'd a Reward;
It seems in her Age she doated on praise,
But Apollo resolv'd that such a bold Bard
Shou'd never be grac'd with a Per'wig of Bays.

27

Stapleton stood up and had nothing to say,
But Apollo forbid the old Knight to despair,
Commanding him once more to write a new Play,
To be danc'd by the Poppets at Barth'lomew Fair.

28

Sir William Killegrew doubting his Plays,
Before he was call'd crept up to the Bench,
And whisper'd Apollo, in case he wou'd praise
Selyndra, he should have about with the Wench.

29

B---st and Sydley, with two or three more
Translators of Pompey dispute in their claim,
But Apollo made them be turn'd out of door,
And bid them be gone like Fools as they came.

30

Old Waller heard this, and was sneaking away,
But somebody spy'd him out of the Crowd;
Apollo tho' h'had not seen him many a day,
Knew him full well, and call'd to him aloud;

222

31

My old Friend, Mr. Waller, what make you there,
Among those young Fellows that spoil the French Plays,
Then beck'ning to him, whisper'd in his Ear,
And gave him good Council instead of the Bays.

32

Then in came Denham, that limping old Bard,
Whose Fame on the Sophy and Cooper's Hill stands;
And brought many Stationers who swore very hard,
That nothing sold better, except 'twere his Lands.

33

But Apollo advis'd him to write something more,
To clear a suspicion which possess'd the Court,
That Cooper's Hill, so much bragg'd on before,
Was writ by a Vicar, who had forty Pound for't.

34

Then Hudibras boldly demanding the Bays,
But Apollo bad him not be so fierce,
And advis'd him to lay aside making his Plays,
Since he already began to write worse and worse.

35

Tom Porter came into the Court in a huff,
Swearing damn him, he had writ the best Plays;
But Apollo, it seems, knew his way well enough,
And wou'd not be hector'd out of his Bays.

36

Ellis in great discontent went away,
Whilst D' Avenant against Apollo did rage,
Because he declar'd the Secrets a Play,
Fitting for none but a Mountebank Stage.

37

John Wilson stood up and wildly did stare,
When on the sudden stept in a bold Scot,
And offer'd Apollo he freely wou'd swear,
The said Maister Wilson mought pass for a Sot.

223

38

But all was in vain, for Apollo, 'tis said,
Would in no wise allow of any Scotch Wit;
Then Wilson in spite made his Plays to be read,
Swearing he'd answer for all he had writ.

39

Clarges stood up and laid claim to the Bayes,
But Apollo rebuk'd that arrogant Fool;
Swearing if e're he translated more Plays,
He'd Crown him Sir Reverence with a Close-stool.

40

Damn'd Holden with's dull German Princess appear'd,
Whom if Davenant he got as some do suppose;
Apollo said the Pillory should crop off his Ears,
And make them more suitable unto his Nose.

41

Rhodes stood and play'd at Bo-peep in the Door,
But Apollo instead of a Spanish Plot;
On condition the Varlet would never write more,
Gave him three pence to pay for a Pipe and a Pot.

42

Ethridge and Shadwell and the Rabble appeal'd
To Apollo himself in a very great rage;
Because their best Friends so freely had deal'd,
As to tell them their Plays were not fit for the Stage.

43

Then seeing a Crowd in a Tumult resort,
Well furnish'd with Verses but loaded with Plays:
It forc'd poor Apollo to adjourn the new Court,
And left them together by th'Ears for the Bayes.

224

DESIRE.

A Pindaric.

What art thou, Oh thou new found pain?
From what Infection dost thou spring?
Tell me, O tell me, thou Inchanting thing,
Thy Nature and thy Name.
Inform me by what subtil Art,
What pow'rfull Influence,
You got such vast Dominion in a part
Of my unheeded and unguarded Heart,
That Fame and Honour cannot drive you thence?
Oh mischievous Usurper of my Peace!
Oh soft Intruder on my Solitude!
Charming disturber of my Ease,
That hast my nobler Fate pursu'd;
And all the Glories of my Life subdu'd.

Thou haun'st my inconvenient hours,
The business of the Day, nor silence of the Night,
That shou'd to Cares and Sleep invite,
Can bid defiance to thy conquering Pow'rs.
Where hast thou been this live long Age,
That from my birth till now,
Thou never didst one Thought ingage,
Or charm my Soul with the uneasie rage,
That made it all its humbler Feebles know?
Where wer't thou, O malicious Sprite,
When shining Glory did invite?
When Int'rest call'd then thou wer't shy,
Nor one kind Aid to my Assistance brought;
Nor would'st inspire one tender Thought,
When Princes at my Feet did lye.
When thou could'st mix Ambition with my Joy,
Then, peevish Phantome, thou wer't nice and coy.

245

Not Beauty would invade thee then,
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
Not all the powerfull Rhet'rick of the Tongue,
Nor sacred Wit cou'd charm thee on;
Not the soft Play that Lovers make,
Nor Sighs could fan thee to a Fire;
No pleading Tears or Vows cou'd thee awake,
Nor charm the unform'd—Something—to Desire.

Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear,
By Youth, by Love, by all their Pow'rs,
Have search'd and sought thee every where,
In silent Groves, in lonely Bowers,
On flow'ry Beds, where Lovers wishing lye,
In sheltring Woods, where sighing Maids
To their assigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their Blushes in the gloom of Shades.
Yet there, ev'n there though Youth assail'd,
Where Beauty prostrate lay, and Fortune woo'd,
My Heart (insensible) to neither bow'd;
Thy lucky Aid was wanting to prevail.
In Courts I sought thee then, thy proper Sphere,
But thou in Crowds wer't stifled there;
Interest did all the loving Bus'ness do,
Invites the Youths, and wins the Virgins too;
Or if by chance some Heart thy Empire own,
Ah, Pow'r ingrate! the Slave must be undone.

Tell me thou nimble Fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force through every part
What God or Human Power did thee create
In my (till now) unfacil Heart?
Art thou some welcome Plague sent from above,
In this dear Form, this kind Disguise?
Or the false Offspring of mistaken Love,
Begot by some soft Thought, that feebly strove
With the bright-piercing Beauties of Lysander's Eyes.

246

Yes, yes, Tormenter, I have found thee now,
And found to whom thou dost thy Being owe;
'Tis thou the Blushes do'st impart,
'Tis thou that tremblest in my Heart.

When the dear Shepherd does appear,
I faint and dye with pleasing pain;
My Words intruding Sighings break,
Whene're I touch the charming Swain;
Whene're I gaze, whene're I speak,
Thy conscious Fire is mingled with my Love.
As in the sanctify'd Abodes
Misguided Worshippers approve
The mixing Idols with their Gods.
In vain (alas) in vain I strive,
With Errours, which my Soul do please and vex;
For Superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.

Oh tell me, you Philosophers in Love,
That can these burning Fev'rish Fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the Soul,
And the fiery Calenture remove?

Tell me, ye Fair ones, you that give Desire,
How 'tis you hide the kindling Fire.
Oh wou'd you but confess the Truth,
It is not real Vertue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing Youth,
'Tis want of dear Desire to thaw the Virgin-Ice.
And while your young Adorers lye,
All languishing and hopeless at your Feet;
Raising new Trophies to your Chastity,
Oh, tell me how you do remain discreet?
And not the Passion to the Throng make known,
Which Cupid in revenge has now confin'd to one.

247

How you suppress the rising Sighs,
And the soft-yielding Soul that wishes in your Eyes,
While to the admiring Crowd you nice are found,
Some dear, some secret Youth, who gives the wound,
Informs you all your Vertue's but a Cheat,
And Honour but a false Disguise,
Your Modesty a necessary slight,
To gain the dull repute of being Wise.
Deceive the foolish World, deceive it on,
And veil your Passion in your Pride;
But now I've found your weakness by my own,
From me the needfull fraud you cannot hide;
For, though with Vertue I the World perplex,
Lysander finds the feeble of my Sex:
So Helen, tho' from Theseus's Arms she fled,
To Charming Paris yields her Heart and Bed.

On the Prince's going to England, with an Army to Restore the Government,

1688.

Hunc saltem everso Juvenem succurrere Sæclo
Ne prohibite —

Virg. Georg. Lib. 1.

Once more a FATHER and a SON falls out,
The World involving in their high Dispute;
Remotest India's Fate on theirs depends,
And Europe, trembling, the Event attends.
Their Motions ruling every other State,
As on the Sun the lesser Planets wait.
Power warms the Father, Liberty the Son,
A Prize well worth th'uncommon Venture run.
Him a false Pride to Govern unrestrain'd,
And by bad Means, bad Ends to be attain'd;

248

All Bars of Property drives headlong through,
Millions oppressing to inrich a few.
Him Justice urges, and a noble Aim
To equal his Progenitors in Fame,
And make his Life as glorious as his Name.
For Law and Reason's power he does engage,
Against the Reign of Appetite and Rage.
There all the licence of unbounded Might;
Here conscious Honour, and deep sense of Right,
Immortal enmity to Arms incite.
Greatness the one, Glory the other fires,
This only can deserve what that desires.
This strives for all that e're to Men was dear,
And he for what they most abhorr and fear.
Cæsar and Pompey's Cause by Cato thought
So ill adjudg'd, to a new Tryal's brought,
Again at last Pharsalia must be fought.
Ye fatal Sisters! now to Right be Friends,
And make Mankind for Pompey's Fate amends.
In Orange's Great Line, 'tis no new thing,
To free a Nation, and Uncrown a King.

On his Royall Highness's Voyage beyond Sea.

March 3d. 1678.

R. H. they say is gone to Sea,
Designed for the Hague;
But Portsmouth's left behind to be
The Nations Whorish plague.

Some think he went unwillingly,
Say others he was sent there;
But most conclude for certainty,
He's gone to keep his Lent there.

249

What need I to apologize?
'Tis said nothing more true is,
The chiefest part of's Errand lies,
To fetch in Cosen Lewis.

That both together, as they say,
If one may dare to speak on't;
Thro' Hereticks Throats may cut their way,
To bring in James the Second.

By Yea and Nay the Quaker cries,
How can we hope for better?
Truth's not in him that this denies;
Read Edward Coleman's Letter.

Gar, gar, the Jockey swears faw things,
Man here is mickle work;
Dee'l split his Wem, he's ne'er be King,
Whose Name does rhime to Pork.

Got's splutter a Nails the Welshman cries,
Got shield her frow her Foes;
He ne'er shall be a Prince of Wales,
That wears a Roman Nose.

The RABBLE.

1680.

The Rabble hates, the Gentry fear,
And Wise men want support:
A rising Country threatens, There,
And Here, a starving Court.

Not for the Nation, but the Fair,
Our Treasury provides:

250

Bu---ly's Go---'s only care,
As M---ton is H---de's.

R---ly too late will understand,
What now he shuns to find;
That nothing's quiet in the Land,
Except his careless Mind.

England is now 'twixt Thee and Y---k,
The Fable of the Frog:
He is the fierce devouring Stork,
And Thou the lumpish Log.

A New Song of the Times.

1683.

1

'Twere folly for ever
The Whigs to Endeavour
Disowning their Plots, when all the world knows 'um;
Did they not fix
On a Council of Six,
Appointed to Govern though no body chose 'um?
They that bore sway,
Knew not one would Obey,
Did Trincalo make such a ridiculous pother:
Monmouth's the Head,
To strike Monarchy dead,
They chose themselves Vice-Roys all o're one another.

2

Was't not a damn'd thing
For Russel and Hambden,
To serve all the Projects of hot-headed Tony?
But much more untoward,
To appoint my Lord Howard
Of his own Purse and Credit to raise Men and Money?

251

That at Kneghtsbridge did hide
Those brisk Boys unspy'd,
Who at Shaftsbury's whistle were ready to follow;
And when Aid he should bring,
Like a true Brandford King,
Was here with a whoop & gone with a hollow.

3

Algernoon Sidney,
Of Commonwealth Kidney,
Compos'd a damn'd Libel (ay marry was it)
Writ to occasion
Ill-Blood in the Nation,
And therefore dispers'd it all over his Closet.
It was not the Writing
Was prov'd, or Indicting;
Tho' he urg'd Statutes, what was it but fooling,
Since a new Trust is
Plac'd in the Chief Justice,
To damn Law and Reason too by Over-ruling.

4

What if a Traytor,
In spite of the State Sir,
Should cut his own Throat from one Ear to the other?
Shall then a new freak
Make Braddon and Speak
To be more concern'd than his Wife or his Brother?
A Razor all bloody,
Thrown out of a Study,
Is Evidence strong of his desperate Guilt, Sir;
So Godfrey, when dead,
Full of horrour and dread,
Run his Sword thro' his Body up to the Hilt Sir.

5

Who can think the case hard
Of Sir Patience Ward,
That lov'd his just Rights more than those of his Highness?

252

Oh Disloyal Ears,
As on Record appears,
Not to hear when to doe the Papists a kindness.
An old doting Citt,
With his Elizabeth Wit,
Against the French mode for freedom to hope on.
His Ears that told lies,
Were less dull than his Eyes,
For both them were shut when all others were open.

6

All Europe together
Can't shew such a Father,
So tenderly nice of his Son's Reputation,
As our good King is,
To labour to bring his,
By tricks to subscribe to a sham Declaration.
'Twas very good reason
To pardon his Treason,
To obey (not his own, but) his Brother's Command, Sir;
To merit whose grace,
He must in the first place
Confess he's dishonest under his hand, Sir.

7

Since Fate the Court blesses,
With daily Successes,
And giving up Charters go round for a frolick,
Whilst our D--- Nero,
The Churches blind Hero
By Murder is planting his Faith Apostolick.
Our Modern Sages,
More wise than past Ages,
Think ours to Establish by Popish Successors;
Queen Bess never thought it,
And Cecil forgot it,
But 'tis lately found out by our prudent Addressors.

253

The Battle-Royall:

A Dream.

1687.

As restless on my Bed one Night I lay,
Hoping with Sleep to ease the toyls of Day,
I thought, as graver Coxcombs us'd to doe,
On all the mischiefs we had late ran through,
And those which are now likely to ensue:
What 'tis that thus the frantick Nation dreads?
And from what Cause their Jealousie proceeds?
Whither at last, to what Event, and End,
These sad Presages probably might tend?
For as Physicians always chuse to know
Th'original Cause from whence Distempers flow,
And by their early Symptoms boldly guess,
Whether or no their Art shall have success;
So I, like a young bold State Emp'rick too,
Did the same methods, and same course pursue;
Till with variety of Thoughts opprest,
I turn'd about to sleep, and take my rest:
While Fancy like a Queen alone bore sway,
And did this Vision in a Dream convey.
Unknown, and unperceiv'd, I was me thought,
Into a close retiring Chamber brought;
And by my Guide behind the Hangings plac'd,
Where I cou'd hear and see whatever pass'd:
When in a corner of the Room there sate
Three fierce contenders in a hot Debate;
And on a Table lay before them there
The Directory, Masse, and Common-Pray'r.
This in a Cloak, That had a shaven Crown,
The other in a Surcingle and Gown;
Who by his Garb, Demeanour, and grave Look,
I for a Church of England Preacher took;
For howsoe'er they're drest they may be known
By a peculiar Carriage of their own.

254

At first I heard a strange confused sound,
Nor could the meaning, nor the sense expound;
Till he I mention'd last in rage up rose,
And partly through the mouth, and thro' the nose,
Did thus his whining Sentiments disclose.
And is this all the great Reward we must
Enjoy for being faithfull to our Trust?
Will all the Services we've done the King
No better recompence and profit bring?
And can our boasted Loyalty return
No other Payment but Contempt and Scorn?
Must we thus basely from our Hopes fall down,
And grow the publick scandal of the Town?
As our insulting Pride and Government
Has been the publick Grievance and Complaint,
Our Prebends, and our Bishops too, turn'd out,
Depriv'd, and scorn'd, in Querpo walk about;
And must a Transubstantiating Priest
Be with their goodly Lands and Lordships blest?
Did we for this the Popish Plot deride,
And all our Sense, and Nonsense too, apply'd
To blind the peoples Reason and their Eyes,
To take it for a Sham and meer Device:
Our best and learned'st of Divines employ
To foile the Scent, and to divert the Cry;
Set bawling P---ing up to talk it down,
And fill with canting Raillery the Town?
Did we for this, young Levites send about,
To charm the Rabble, and possess the Rout,
With feign'd Chymera's of a strange Design,
Against the Church, and State, and Royal Line?
And vilely Russel and the rest remov'd,
When neither Crime or Plot was ever prov'd?
Nay did we all for this the Church disown,
And coin a New Religion of our own,

255

Of a more spruce and fashionable make,
Than was the Old, and boldly undertake
By Scripture for to prove the Common Prayer,
When we well knew there's no such matter there:
Yet like the Calves at Bethel set it up,
And made them all before the Idol stoop;
And whosoe're the business would dispute,
We did by Fines and Pillory confute.
O precious Book! the dearest thing that's ours,
Except our Livings and our Sine-cures;
For which, might they but still with us abide,
Wee'd part with thee, or any thing beside:
As heretofore without reluctance we,
Have truck'd our forfeit Consciences for thee:
But those are going too—no more he cou'd,
Prevented by an overflowing Flood
Of Tears, which his lawn Band and Gown besmear'd,
As th'Ointment drench'd his Predecessor's Beard.
The subtle Priest who had resolv'd to stay,
Till he had spoken all he had to say;
Seeing the Wretch with too much Grief o'relaid,
Stood up, and thus the following Answer made.

'Tis true, you've done all this and ten times more,
As bad or worse than we have done before;
And if ye think ye have oblig'd the King,
Who were but under-Actors in the thing;
Then what do we deserve, whose Wit and Brain
Contriv'd the Plot and every private Scene?
For though a Conquest alwaies is obtain'd,
And by each Souldier's single valour gain'd;
Yet those who did Command and lead them on,
Share all the open Honour and Renown.
Ye were our Instruments, and Drudges too;
As Rumney, Keeling, Howard, were to you;
Who when they brought about your own design,
You left them to themselves to starve and pine:

256

So we the grand projectors of the Plot,
Who did to you your several Parts allot,
Having no farther Service to employ,
Think fit, as useless Tools, to lay you by.
Besides, what Title or, Pretence have you,
To any thing ye hold as right and due,
Since they were settled first on us alone,
And could no other Lords and Masters own;
Till ye by Rapine, Sacrilege and Force,
Discas'd us of our Rights and made them yours?
Nor can a Case more Legal e're appear,
At Court of Conscience, or at Chanc'ry Barr,
Than what ye did by violence obtain,
Should to their ancient Lords return again.
But that which you so much insist upon,
Your boasted Loyalty, and Service done,
From whence ye most erroneously inferr'd,
The justice of your Claim to a Reward,
Is a meer trifle and a weak defence,
With no validity of Consequence;
For there's no reason he should be repaid,
Who undesignedly a Kindness did;
When all the while his Thoughts were fix'd upon
His own Advancement and Increase alone;
And all the Profit that to me he brings,
Is by the bye and natural course of things:
'Twas rancour, envy, meer revenge and spight,
That made ye thus against Fanaticks fight;
And the dear dread of losing all ye had,
That first engag'd your malice on our side,
To plead the Royall Cause, and to promote
The King's Concern, and for Succession vote;
When could ye any other way have kept
The Saddle, and in ease and safety slept,
The King might have been banish'd, hang'd or drown'd
E're Succour or Relief from you have found.

257

But matters and affairs as yet are not
To such a difficult Conjuncture brought,
But that an handsome Fetch may bring ye off
With Honour and Security enough:
One gentle Turn will all the business doe,
Advance your Livings and secure them too;
Safe ye shall lie from all Phanatick harms,
Encircled in your Mother-Churches Arms,
From which ye've stray'd so long, and now to whom,
Ye ought in duty and respect to come.

The mournfull Levite straight prickt up his Ears,
As glad that things were better than his Fears,
And joyfull heard what means the Priest had found,
That might for his dear Benefice compound,
Compos'd his Band, and wip'd his blubber'd Cheeks,
Stood up again and thus demurely speaks:
The Proverb to my case I may apply,
Winners may justly laugh and Losers cry.
For when I thought my Livelihood was gone,
It was no wonder that I so took on;
As 'tis none now, Smiles should my gladness show,
For these good Tydings I receive from you;
Therefore, dear Sir, let us our Hearts combine,
And both in league against Dissenters joyn.
My self I under your Tuition place,
For Management and Method in the case,
How to proceed—The Cloak who all this while
Had unprovok'd and unconcern'd sate still,
And wisely what they'd both be at had guest,
Stood up to speak and to compleat the Jest:
But glowing Anger had so now prevail'd,
That in the first attempt he stopp'd and fail'd;
And when he found his Tongue to be confin'd,
He made his active Hands declare his Mind.
The one engag'd the Levite on the place,
And with the Directory smote his Face.

258

Confounded with the Stroke he stagger'd round,
And falling in his wrath tore up the Ground.
T'other he laid directly o're the Chest,
Sent Echoes from the hollow Breast of Priest,
Who stumbling as he went to take his flight,
Fell prostrate o're his new made Proselyte.
On both their Bodies mounts the nimble Cloke,
And this his Epicinium manly spoke:
Dejected Wretches, there together lye,
Unpitied, unbewail'd by every Eye;
May after-Ages your curst Names deride,
As we your damn'd Hypocrisies and Pride;
No Mark remain to know what ye have been,
But the remembrance of your Curse and Sin;
Which shall down Time's continual tide descend,
To propagate your fatal shame and end.
So may they fall, and all they that design,
Who e'er in league against the Truth combine,
By an unarm'd defenceless hand like mine.
Pleas'd with the Conquest of Victorious Cloke,
I laugh'd aloud methought, and so awoke.

An Epitaph upon Felton, who was hanged in Chains for Murdering the Old Duke of Buckingham

written by the late Duke of Buckingham.

Here uninterr'd suspends, though not to save
Surviving Friends th'Expences of a Grave,
Felton's dead Earth; which to the World will be
Its own sad Monument, his Elegie:
As large as Fame, which whether Bad or Good
I say not; by himself 'twas wrote in Blood;
For which his Body is intomb'd in Air,
Arch'd o're with Heaven, set with a thousand fair

259

And glorious Stars; a Noble Sepulcher,
Which Time it self can't ruinate; and where
Th'impartial Worm (that is not brib'd to spare
Princes corrupt in Marble) cannot share
His Flesh; which oft the charitable Skies
Imbalm with Tears; daining those Obsequies
Belong to Men shall last, till pitying Fowl
Contend to reach his Body to his Soul.

An Answer to Mr. Waller's Poem on Oliver's Death; called the Storm

written by Sir W******** G---.

'Tis well he's gone (O had he never been)
Hurried in Storms, loud as his crying Sin;
The Pines and Oakes fell prostrate at his Urn;
That with his Soul his Body too might burn:
Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move,
Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above.
From Theft, like his, great Romulus did grow,
And such a Wind did at his Ruine blow.
Strange that the lofty Trees themselves should fell
Without the Axe; so Orpheus went to Hell:
At whose descent the stoutest Rocks were cleft,
And the whole Wood its wonted station left.
In Battle Hercules wore the Lyon's Skin;
But our fierce Nero wore the Beast within:
Whose Heart was brutish more than Face or Eyes,
And in the shape of Man was in Disguise:
Where ever Men, where ever Pillage lies,
Like Ravenous Vultures our wing'd Navy flies:
Under the Tropick we are understood,
And bring home Rapine through a purple Flood:

260

New Circulations found our Blood is hurl'd,
As round the lesser to the greater World.

In Civil Broils he did us first engage,
And made Three Kingdoms subject to his Rage.
One Fatal Stroke slew Justice and the Cause
Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws.
So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band,
Though he still fought with Heaven its self in's hand:
Nor would Domestick Spoil confine his Mind,
Nor Limits to his Fury but Mankind.

The British Youths in Foreign Courts are sent,
Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment;
Who since they cannot in this Isle abide,
Are confin'd Prisoners to the World beside.
No wonder then if we no Tears allow
To him that gave us Wars and Ruine too:
Tyrants that lov'd him, griev'd concern'd to see,
There must be Punishment for Cruelty.

Nature her self rejoyced at his Death,
And on the Waters sung with such a Breath,
As made the Sea dance higher than before,
While her glad Waves came dancing to the Shore.

FINIS.

2. The Second Part. Written during the Reign of K. James the II. against Popery and Slavery, and his Arbitrary Proceedings.

Miscellany POEMS, &c.

The Man of HONOUR.

Occasioned by a Postscript of Pen's Letter.

Not all the Threats or Favours of a Crown,
A Princes Whisper, or a Tyrants Frown,
Can awe the Spirit, or allure the Mind
Of him, who to strict Honour is enclin'd;
Though all the Pomp and Pleasure that does wait
On publick Places, and Affairs of State,
Shou'd fondly court him to be base and great.
With even Passions, and with settled Face,
He wou'd remove the Harlots false Embrace:
Tho' all the Storms and Tempests should arise,
That Church-Magicians in their Cells devise,
And from their settled Basis Nations tear,
He wou'd unmov'd the mighty Ruin bear;
Secure in Innocence contemn 'em all,
And decently array'd in Honours, fall.

For this brave Shrewsbury and Lumly's Name,
Shall stand the foremost in the List of Fame;
Who first with steady Minds the Current broke,
And to the suppliant Monarch boldly spoke.

Great Sir, renown'd for Constancy, how just
Have we obey'd the Crown, and serv'd our Trust,
Espous'd your Cause and Interest in distress,
Your self must witness, and our Foes confess!
Permit us then ill Fortune to accuse,
That you at last unhappy Councils use,
And ask the only thing we must refuse.
Our Lives and Fortunes freely we'll expose,
Honour alone we cannot, must not lose:
Honour, that Spark of the Cœlestial Fire,
That above Nature makes Mankind aspire;
Ennobles the rude Passions of our Frame,
With thirst of Glory, and desire of Fame;
The richest Treasure of a generous Breast,
That gives the Stamp and Standard to the rest.
Wit, Strength and Courage, are wild dangerous force,
Unless this softens and directs their Course;
And would you rob us of the noblest part,
Accept a Sacrifice without a Heart?
'Tis much beneath the Greatness of a Throne,
To take the Casket when the Jewel's gone;
Debauch our Principles, corrupt our Race,
And teach the Nobles to be False and Base.
What Confidence can you in them repose.
Who, e're they serve you, all their Value lose;
Who once enslave their Conscience to their Lust,
Have lost the Reins, and can no more be Just.
Of Honour, Men at first, like Women Nice,
Raise Maiden-Scruples at unpractis'd Vice;
Their modest Nature curbs the strugling Flame,
And stifles what they wish to act, with Shame.
But once this Fence thrown down, when they perceive
That they may taste forbidden Fruit and live;

They stop not here their Course, but safely in,
Grow Strong, Luxuriant, and bold in Sin;
True to no Principles, press forward still,
And only bound by appetite their Will:
Now fawn and flatter, while this Tide prevails,
But shift with every veering blast their Sails.
Mark those that meanly truckle to your Power,
They once deserted and chang'd sides before,
And would to morrow Mahomet adore!
On higher Springs true Men of Honour move,
Free is their Service, and unbought their Love:
When Danger calls, and Honour leads the way,
With Joy they follow, and with Pride obey:
When the Rebellious Foe came rolling on,
And shook with gathering Multitudes the Throne,
Where were the Minions then? What Arms, what Force,
Cou'd they oppose to stop the Torrents Course?

Then Pembrook, then the Nobles firmly stood,
Free of their Lives, and lavish of their Blood;
But when your Orders to mean Ends decline,
With the same Constancy they all resign.

Thus spake the Youth, who open'd first the way,
And was the Phosphorus to th'dawning day;
Follow'd by a more glorious splendid Hoast,
Than any Age, or any Realm can boast:
So great their Fame, so numerous their Train,
To name were endless, and to praise in vain;
But Herbert and great Oxford merit more,
Bold is their flight, and more sublime they soar;
So high, their Virtue as yet wants a name,
Excceding wonder, and surpassing Fame:
Rise, glorious Church, erect thy radiant Head,
The Storm is past, th'Impending Tempest fled:

Had Fate decreed thy Ruine or Disgrace,
It had not given such Sons, so brave a Race.
When for Destruction Heaven a Realm designs,
The Symptoms first appear in slavish Minds:
These men would prop a sinking Nations weight,
Stop falling Vengeance, and Reverse even Fate.
Let other Nations boast their fruitful Soil,
Their fragrant Spices, their rich Wine and Oil;
In breathing Colours, and in living Paint
Let them excel, their Mastery we grant.
But to instruct the mind, to arm the Soul
With Virtue, which no dangers can controul;
Exalt the thought, a speedy Courage lend,
That Horrour cannot shake, or pleasure bend:
These are the English Arts, these we profess
To be the same in Mis'ry and Success;
To teach Oppressors Law, assist the good,
Relieve the Wretched, and subdue the Proud:
Such are our Souls: But what doth Worth avail,
When Kings commit to hungry Priests the Scale?
All Merit's light when they dispose the weight,
Who either would embroil, or rule the State.
Defame those Heroes who their Yoke refuse,
And blast that Honesty they cannot use;
The strength and safety of the Crown destroy,
And the King's Power against himself imploy:
Affront his Friends, deprive him of the brave,
Bereft of these he must become their Slave.
Men, like our Money, come the most in play
For being base, and of a course allay.
The richest Medals, and the purest Gold,
Of native value, and exactest mold,
By worth conceal'd, in private Closets shine,
For vulgar use too precious and too fine,

Whilst Tin and Copper with new stamping bright,
Coin of base Metal, counterfeit and light,
Do all the Business of the Nations turn,
Rais'd in Contempt, us'd and employ'd in Scorn:
So shining Vertues are for Courts too bright,
Whose guilty Actions fly their searching light;
Rich in themselves, disdaining to aspire,
Great without Pomp they willingly retire:
Give place to Fools, whose rash misjudging sence
Increases the weak measures of their Prince;
Prone to admire, and flatter him in ease,
They study not his good, but how to please;
They blindly and implicitly run on,
Nor see those dangers which the others shun:
Who slow to act, each business duly weigh,
Advise with Freedom, and with Care obey;
With Wisdom fatal to their Interest strive
To make their Monarch lov'd, and Nation thrive;
Such have no place where Priests and Women Reign,
VVho love fierce Drivers, and a looser Rein.

The Man of no Honour.

As the late Character of Godlike Men,
(Given, as it ought, by a Diviner Pen)
Will make the Race of those I write appear
Low as to Glorious Valour, wretched Fear;
So the smooth Lines in which those Truths are told,
(Lines justly happy as they're Nobly bold)
VVith right from humble Muses bold Esteem,
And show my Verse as distant as my Theam.

Forgive me, you Betrayers of your Land,
If I do scourge you with a wanting Hand;
My Will is good to give you all your due,
The Pope will pardon want of Power in you.

Your Aid, my Muse, this once I humbly ask,
Exposing Villany's a Noble task;
Assist my story with such ample Phrase,
It may find leave to live and see good Days:
Stamp an Eternal Value on the Brave,
By drawing to the Life a sneaking Knave;
Show him how justly he's expos'd by all,
And show him time may come when he may fall;
Show him on what Foundation now he stands,
Show him, instead of Rocks, mistaken Lands;
Show him it lately fail'd believing man,
And will do so when time shall serve again.

When Oxford Prophesies were come to pass,
And many a squeamish Church-man prov'd an Ass,
Then blockish Honesty was made give ground,
And foolish Knaves were much more useful found;
A search throughout the Senate pass'd for such,
(Since Fools would do to find no more 'twas much)
Vile Interest was oppos'd to Men of sense,
And many from that hour did Rogues commence.
Besides, with Gold the despicable Slaves,
Were willingly thought Fools, they might be Knaves.
Of these the Chief a Consultation call,
Where they shall stop, or whether stop at all.
Some faint Resistance Conscience wou'd have made,
And Honour wou'd have spoke, but was forbad;
Interest with Impudence assum'd the Chair,
And thus address'd to each Plebeian Fool was there:

Of all Philosophers that plagu'd the World,
And curious Brains in various Labyrinths hurl'd,

None far'd so ill, and yet so justly far'd,
As those Preach'd Vertue for its own Reward;
More useful Doctrines sprung from wiser Schools,
They heard their Morals, and resolv'd them Fools.
Mark those who strive the multitude to please,
Nice of their Honour, lavish of their Ease:
How in the gazing crowd they humbly stand,
With their perplexing Honesty at hand,
They dare not use the strength they may command.
They prove their Grandeur from their humble Soul,
But he is great who can and dare controul;
You'll soar above, exhal'd by Princely Rays,
And with contempt look down on rotten Praise;
Laugh at dull Notions of a Glorious Name,
When Beggery's the Basis of its Frame.
More useful Honour shall attend your Fate,
You serve a Power can make you Rich and Great,
VVho scorns the Nations Love shall live above their Hate.
Permit no Bugbear thoughts against your Cause,
The loss of your Religion and the Laws,
Trifles to those who dare their God defy,
And can with copious Consciences comply.
Contemn ye foolish Threats of distant Time,
'Tis plain that Honesty is yet a Crime;
If things hereafter turn another way,
You'll still be right, for still you can obey:
Ne'r fear the Brand of Knave will hurt you much,
The best of Courts will stand in need of such;
Fools oft grow useless, and are laid aside,
But Knaves of Conduct always will abide:
Old honesty some poor Employ may get,
But he that sticks at nothing shall be great,
The Villain wisely thrives in every State.

Thus Interest spoke, and merits just Applause,
The Judges first declar'd against the Laws;
Of Levi's Tribe not many went astray,
(Much wonder'd at, since they procur'd this Day)
But men of Conscience oft in Judgment fail,
Mistaken Loyalty did once prevail,
But such Diseases now no more they ail.
Become good Christians by Afflictons Rod,
Their King they Honour, but they fear their God.

Of those that brand their Country with Disgrace,
Noble in Title as in Practice base,
Give underhand Pre-eminence of place,
The sniveling Representer of the rest,
VVho in their Names the Monarch thus addrest:

Most Glorious Prince, in whom all Vertues shine,
VVhere every worth in one great Soul combine;
You for your Gracious Deeds we come to bless,
But most of all your constancy confess;
Safe by your VVord, in Peace your people sleep,
Your sacred VVord which you so nicely keep;
That word so much throughout your Land Renown'd,
In which Equivocation ne'r was found.
On this it is so firmly we rely,
You cannot ask the thing we can deny;
As Heaven has taught the Soul of men to know,
VVhat e're it pleaseth to dispence below,
Shall to advantage of believers tend,
And bless their blind Obedience in the end;
So we such awful Thoughts of you receive,
What e're you'll do we for our good believe;
Our grand Ambition is our King to please,
We ne'r can want Repose while he's at Ease.

When by Obedience we have giv'n you rest,
And blasted ev'n the frightful Name of Test,
But smile upon us, and your Slaves are blest.

Thus spake the fawning Minister of State,
Poor in Esteem, and despicably Great;
The Monarch blest the Priesthood skill,
Forsakes his Reason to perform his Will,
Deserts his Noble Friends for flattering Knaves,
Neglects his Subjects whilst he favours Slaves.

Rise up, brave Prince, attend your Natures Course,
We know that's Noble, when exempt from force;
Spread your relenting Arms, imbrace your Friends,
They'll help you to attain more Noble Ends;
You know their Love, the Rebels know their Force,
Serve God with speed, annul th'unjust Divorce,
Then shall you stand great in your Peoples Love,
A lively Emblem of the Mighty Jove.
Then shall your haughty Rival cease to soar,
And tremble at the Neighb'ring Brittish shore;
The Senates Bounty shall preserve you still,
VVith cheerful Tribute all your Coffers fill.
All Kings shall gaze with Envy on your Throne,
Then with Contempt look down upon their own;
To gain your smiles shall be their utmost Pride,
And happy he who nearest is ally'd.
Belov'd by God and Men you shall remain,
Great without VVar, and undisturb'd your Reign.
Then when the Remnant of your days are done,
The Thred of Glorious Life at length is spun,
Sincere in Grief your people all shall mourn,
Some goodly Fabrick shall your Grave adorn
VVith this Inscription, for Eternal Praise,
Here lyes the only Prince who left all Evil Ways.

The VISION.

Twas at an hour when busie Nature lay
Dissolv'd in slumbers from the noisy Day,
When gloomy shades and dusky Atoms spread
A darkness o'er the Universal Bed,
And all the gaudy beams of light were fled;
My flutt'ring fancy 'midst the silent peace,
Careless of sleep, and unconcern'd with ease,
Drew to my wandring thoughts an object near,
Strange in its form, and in appearance rare.
Methought (yet sure it could not be a Dream,
So real all its Imperfections seem)
With Princely Port a stately Monarch came,
Airy his mein, and Noble was his frame:
A sullen sorrow brooded on his Brow;
He seem'd beneath some weighty Fate to bow;
Distrust and Grief upon his Eye-lids rest,
And show the strugling troubles of his Breast.
Upon his Head a nodding Crown he wore,
And in his Hand a yielding Scepter bore;
Forlorn and careless did his strokes appear,
And every motion spoke a wild Despair.

This mournful Scene did all my Passions move,
And challeng'd both my pity and my love,
And yet I thought him by the ruins made
Above my pity, and beyond my aid;
Long did he in a pensive silence stand,
For sure his thoughts cou'd not his words command:
Too big for speech—

Till sullen murmurs from his bosom flew,
And thus a draught of his disorders drew.

Almighty Powers! By whose consent alone
Ordain'd, I did ascend the Regal Throne,
Led by your dark Decrees, and Conduct there,
I, as your great Vicegerent, did appear
Beneath my charge, whilst crowding Nations sate,
And bow'd and did admire my rising Fate:
'Twas then my Laurels fresh and blooming grew,
And a loud Fame of all my Glories flew;
My willing Subjects bless and clap the day;

The bravest and the best were all my friends,
Whilst Faction in confusion sneak'd away;

At distance grinn'd, but could not reach their ends.
Such Faith unto my promises were shown,
My Word they took, for Oaths were useless grown;
My very Word compos'd their hopes and fears,
Sacred 'twas held, and all Serene appears:

Until my Fate revers'd did backwards reel,
Blurr'd all my Fame, and alter'd Fortune's Wheel;
Ye Gods! Why did ye thus unconstant prove?
Was I the Envy of th'Abodes above?
Or was this stately Majesty but given
To be the Cheat and Flatt'ry ev'n of Heaven?
Can ne'er a Saint implore Cœlestial aid?
Nor yet the Virgin Goddess intercede?
'Twas for her Cause engag'd I suff'ring lie;
'Twas to advance her just Divinity:
Yes, I avow the Quarrel and the Cause,
'Twas for my Faith, and to out-cope the Laws.
I'de rather be forsaken and alone,
Than sit a craving Monarch on a Throne:
Let all my cringing Slaves at distance stand,
Fawn on th'Invading Foe, and kiss his Hand;

Leave me their Prince, forsaken and forlorn,
Expos'd to all their slights and public scorn.
Let after Ages judge the mighty Test,
Judge the Magnifick Grandure of my breast.
I saw my great forefather yet afore
Seal all his Sacred Vows with Martyr'd gore;
His Royal Issue branded with disgrace,
Saw all th'Efforts they us'd t'Exclude the Race:
And yet these Terrours all I dare invade,
Thus Conscience, thus Religion does perswade.
I'll stand or fall by both those Tenets still,
And be the second Martyr to my Will:
And then he stop'd, his fiery Eye-Balls move,
And thus with his resisting Fate he strove,
And stood, like Capaneus Defying Jove.

When streight a noise, from whence it came unknown,
Was heard to answer in an angry tone;
Die then, unpity'd Prince, for thus thy Fate
Long since, by its Decrees, did antedate:
To such perversness, what regard is shown?
What Merit could'st thou plead to mount a Throne?
To thy repeated Wishes Heav'n was kind,
And pleas'd the wild Ambition of thy mind;
It put a Scepter in thy eager Hand,
Yet not t'oppose the Genius of the Land;
If Reason could not sway thy Actions here,
Heaven's not oblig'd by Wonders to appear.

See how thy Creatures at a distance stand,
Sculk from thy troubles to a safer Land;
Those who their beings to thy bounty own,
Forsake their fawning Cheats, and now are gone.
Those who were Friends to thee and to thy Cause,
Bold for their Rights, and for their Countries Laws,

Thou, from thy darker Counsels, did'st remove,
And want their aid, now they refuse their love.
Some more imperfect sounds did reach my ear,
But sense return'd, and day-light did appear.

The ADVICE.

Would you be Famous and Renown'd in Story,
And after having run a Stage of Glory,
Go streight to Heaven and not to Purgatory:
This is the time.

Would you surrender your Dispensing Power,
And send the Western Hangman to the Tower,
From whence he'll find it difficult to scoure.
This, &c.

Would you send Father P*n, and Father L**,
Assisted by the Poet Laureat Squab,
To teach Obedience Passive to the Mob.
This, &c.

Would you let Reverend Father Peters know
What thanks the Church of England to him owe
For Favours past, he did on them bestow.
This, &c.

Would you with expedition send away
Those four dim Lights, made Bishops t'other day,
To convert Indians in America.
This, &c.

Would you the rest of that Bald-Pated Train
No longer flatter with thin hopes of Gain,
But send them to Saint Omers back again.
This, &c.

Would you (instead of holding Birchen tool)
Send Pulton to be lash'd at Busbey's School,
That he in Print no longer play the Fool.
This, &c.

Would you that Jack of all Religions scare,
Bid him for Hanging speedily prepare,
That Harry H***s may visit Harry Care.
This, &c.

Would you let Ireland no more fear Macdonnel,
And all the Rabble under Philem O Neale,
And Clarendon again succeed Tyrconnel.
This, &c.

Would you court Ear-wiggs banish from your Ears,
Those Carpet-Knights, and interested Peers,
And rid the Kingdoms from impending Fears.
This, &c.

Would you at once make all the Hogan Mogans yield,
And be at once their Terrour and our Shield,
And not appear by Proxy in the Field.
This, &c.

Would you no more a Womans Council take,
But love your Kingdoms for your Kingdoms sake,
Make Subjects Love and Enemies to Quake.
This, &c.

The CONVERTS.

I did intend in Rhimes Heroick
To write of Converts Apostolick,
Describe their persons and their shames,
And leave the World to guess their Names:

But soon I thought the scoundrel Theme
Was for Heroick Song too mean;
Their Characters we'll then rehearse
In Burlesque, or in Dogrel Verse;
Of Earls, of Lords, of Knights I'll sing,
That chang'd their Faith to please their King.

The first an Antiquated Lord,
A walking Mummy in a word,
Moves cloath'd in Plaisters Aromatick,
And Flannel, by the help of a Stick,
And like a grave and noble Peer,
Outlives his Sense by Sixty year;
And what an honest Man would anger,
Outlives the Fort he built at Tanger;
By Pox and Whores long since undone,
Yet loves it still, and fumbles on:
Why he's a Favourite few can guess,
Some say it's for his Ugliness;
For often Monsters (being rare)
Are valued equal to the Fair:
For in his Mistresses, kind James
Loves ugliness in its extreams;
But others say 'tis plainly seen,
'Tis for the choice he made o'th' Queen;
VVhen he the King and Nation blest
VVith Off-Spring of the House of Este;
A Dame whose Affability
Equals her Generosity:
Oh! VVell match'd Pair, who frugally are bent
To live without the aids of Parliament.
All this and more the Peer perform'd,
Then to compleat his Virtues, turn'd;
But twas not Conscience, or Devotion,
The hopes of Riches or Promotion,

That made his Lordship first to vary,
But 'twas to please his Daughter Mary;
And she to make retaliation,
Is full as lewd in her Vocation.

The next a Caravanish Thief,
A lazy Mass of damn'd Rump Beef;
Prodigious Guts, no Brains at all,
But very Rhynocerical,
VVas Married ere the Cub was lickt,
And now not worthy to be kickt;
By Jockeys bubbled, forc'd to fly,
To save his Coat, to Italy,
VVhere H---s and he, that virtuous Youth,
Equal in Honour, Sense, and Truth;
By Reason and pure Conscience urged,
Past Sins by Abjuration purged:
But 'tis believ'd both Rogue and Peer,
More worldly Motives had to veer;
The Scoundrel Plebeians swerving
Was to secure himself from starving;
And that which made the Peer a Starter,
VVas hope of a long wish'd for Garter.

Next comes a Peer who sits at Helm,
And long has steer'd the giddy Realm.
VVith Taylors motion, mein, and grace,
But a right Statesman in Grimace;
The Sneer, the Cringe, and then by turns,
The dully grave, the Frowns, and Scorns,
Promises all, but nought performs:
But howe'er great he's in Promotion,
He's very humble in Devotion;
VVith Taper light, and Feet all bare,
He to the Temple did repair,
And knocking softly at the Portal,
Cry'd, Pitty (Fathers) a poor Mortal,

And for a Sinner make some room,
A Prodigal returned home.
Some say that in that very hour,
Convert Mall Megs arriv'd at door;
So both with penitent Grimace,
States-man and Bawd with humble pace
Enter'd and were receiv'd to grace.

The next a Knight of high Command
'Twixt London-bridge and Dover-Sand;
A Man of strict and holy Life,
Taking example from his Wife;
He to a Nunnery sent her packing,
Lest they should take each other napping.
Some say L'Est--- did him beget,
But that he wants his Chin and Wit;
Good natur'd, as you may observe,
Letting his Titular Father starve;
A Man of Sense and Parts, we know it,
But dares as well be damn'd as show it;
Brib'd by himself, his trusty Servant
At Kings-Bench-Bar appear'd most fervent
Against his Honour for the Test,
To him 'twas Gain, to all Mankind a Jest.

Blue-Bonnet Lords a numerous store,
Whose best Example is they're poor,
Meerly drawn in, in hopes of Gains,
And reap the scandal for their pains;
Half-starv'd at Court with expectation,
Forc'd to return to their Sootch Station,
Despis'd and scorn'd by every Nation.

A paltry Knight not worth a mention,
Renounc'd his Faith for piteous Pension;
After upon True Protestant Whore,
H'had spent a large Estate before.

A thick short Collonel next does come,
With Stradling Legs and massy Bum:
With many more of shameful Note,
Whose Honour ne're was worth a Groat.

If these be Pillars of the Church,
'Tis fear'd they'll leave her in the lurch;
If abler Men do not support her Weight,
All quickly will return to Forty Eight.

The humble Address of your Majesty's Poet Laureat, and others your Catholick and Protestant dissenting Rhymers, with the rest of the Fraternity of Minor Poets, Inferiour Versifiers and Sonnetteers of Your Majesty's Ancient Corporation of Parnassus.

Humbly Sheweth,

That we your Majesty's poor slaves,
Your merry Beggars, witty knaves,
Being highly sensible how long
And dull dry Prose addressing Throng,
Have daily vext your Royal Ears
With fulsom speeches, canting Prayers,
Unanimously think it better
T'address your Majesty in Meeter.

Great Sir, your healing Declaration
Has cur'd a base distemper'd Nation;

The Godly hug it for the ease
It gives to squeamish Consciences;
And by the Mammonists, 'tis made
The grand encouragement of Trade;
But we must reckon it (in our sense)
A gracious Poetick Licence.
'Tis your peculiar excellency,
T'indulge Religion to a frensy;
And our Religion is our fancy:
For which, we judge 'twould be a crime,
Not to present our thanks in rhime;
We, with all Subjects of our mind,
To pay, like us, their dues in kind:
That jealous Protestants would greet
With Tests and Laws your Royal Feet;
That all would sacrifice in course
Their stubborn Consciences to yours;
That th'Academies wou'd oppose
On no pretence your Royal Cause,
But quit their Oaths and Founders Laws;
That Corporations yield their Charters,
And no more grudge your Souldiers Quarters;
That Borough Towns would chuse such Men,
As you shan't need send home again;
That all right Members take their stations,
Such as Sir Roger and Sir P---
That your new Friends stand every where,
Of which we recommend one pair,
Honest Will Pen and Harry Care.
Dissenters will with all their heart—a
Vote for a Gospel Magna Charta;
Your Judges too will over-awe
The poor dead letter of the Law;

Your High Commissioners, from whom
The obstinate receive their doom,
For trusty Catholicks make room.
Only one resty part o'th' Nation,
Wou'd bound your power of dispensation;
For which we'll bait the Rogues agen,
With second part of Hind and Pan:
We'll Rhime 'em into better manners,
And make them low'r their Paper-Banners;
Nor is this all that we will do,
No, Sir, we'll pray like Poets too.

May our great God Apollo bless you,
May Juno help your budding issue;
May you attempt no enemies
To skirmish with but Butterflies:
Nor exercise Your Martial Arms,
But in mock-sieges, false alarms.
May you have long and peaceful days,
And may we live to sing your Praise;
And after all, may you inherit
The overplus of the Saints merit.

The LAUREAT.

Jack Squabb, his History in little drawn
Down to his Evening, from his early dawn.

Appear thou mighty Bard, to open view;
Which yet we must confess you need not do:
The labour to expose thee we may save,
Thou stand'st upon thy own Records, a Knave;

Condemn'd to live in thy Apostate Rhimes,
The Curse of Ours, and Scoff of Future Times.
Still tacking round with every turn of State
Reverse to Sh---ry thy cursed Fate
Is always at a change to come to late:
To keep his plots from Coxcombs was his Care,
His Policy was mask'd, and thine is bare:
Wise Men alone cou'd guess at his Design,
And cou'd but guess, the Thred was spun so fine:
But every pur-blind Fool may see through thine.
Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem,
Thou hadst been Poet Laureat to him,
And, long ere now, in Lofty Verse proclaim'd
His high Extraction, among Princes Fam'd;
Diffus'd his Glorious Deeds from Pole to Pole,
Where VVinds can carry, and where VVaves can rowl.
Nay, had our Charles, by Heavens severe Decree,
Been found, and Murther'd in the Royal Tree,
Even thou hadst prais'd the Fact; his Father slain,
Thou call'dst but gently breathing of a Vein:
Impious, and Villanous! to bless the blow
That laid at once three lofty Nations low,
And gave the Royal Cause a fatal Overthrow.
VVhat after this cou'd we expect from thee?
VVhat cou'd we hope for, but just what we see?
Scandal to all Religions, New and Old;
Scandal to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold,
And Mortgag'd Happiness redeem'd for Gold:
Tell me, for 'tis a Truth you must allow;
VVho ever chang'd more in one Moon, than thou?
Even thy own Zimri was more stedfast known,
He had but one Religion, or had none:

VVhat sect of Christians is't thou hast not known,
And at one time or other made thy own?
A Bristled Baptist bred; and then thy strain
Immaculate, was free from sinful stain.
No Songs in those blest times thou didst produce
To brand, and sham good manners out of use:
The Ladies then had not one Bawdy Bob,
Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab.
Next, thy dull Muse, an Independent Jade,
On sacred Tyranny five Stanza's made,
Prais'd Noll, who ev'n to both extreams did run,
To kill the Father, and dethrone the Son.
VVhen Charles came in, thou didst a Convert grow,
More by thy Interest, than thy Nature so.
Under his livening Beams thy Laurels spread;
He first did place that wreath about thy Head;
Kindly reliev'd thy wants, and gave thee Bread.
Here 'twas thou mad'st the Bells of Fancy chime,
And choak'd the Town with suffocating Rhime.
Till Heroes form'd by thy Creating Pen,
VVere grown as cheap, and Dull, as other Men.
Flush'd with success, full Gallery, and Pit,
Thou bravest all Mankind with want of VVit.
Nay, in short time, wer't grown so proud a Ninny,
As scarce t'allow that Ben himself had any.
But when the men of Sense thy Error saw,
They check'd thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe.

To Satyr next thy Talent was Addrest,
Fell foul on all, thy friends among the rest:
Those who the oft'nest did thy wants supply,
Abus'd, Traduc'd, without a reason why.
Nay, ev'n thy Royal Patron was not spar'd,
But an obscene, a santring wretch declar'd.

Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce,
Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse.
O strange return, to a forgiving King,
But the warm'd Viper wears the greatest Sting.
Thy Pension lost, and justly without doubt,
VVhen Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out;
They that disdain their Benefactors Bread,
No longer ought by Bounty to be fed.
That lost, the Vizor chang'd, you turn about,
And strait a True-blue Protestant crept out;
The Frier now was writ; and some will say
They smell a Male-content through all the Play.
The Papist too was damn'd, unfit for Trust,
Call'd Treacherous, Shameless, Profligate, Unjust,
And Kingly Power thought Arbitrary Lust.
This lasted till thou didst thy Pension gain,
And that chang'd both thy Morals, and thy strain.
If to write Contradictions, Nonsense be,
VVho has more Nonsense in their VVorks than thee?
VVe'll mention but thy Lay-mans Faith, and Hind,
VVho'd think both these (such clashing do we find)
Cou'd be the product of one single mind:
Here, thou wou'dst Charitable fain appear,
Find'st fault that Athanasius was severe;
Thy Pity strait to Cruelty is rais'd,
And even the pious Inquisition prais'd,
And recommended to the present Reign.

“O happy Countries, Italy and Spain!
Have we not cause, in thy own words, to say,
Let none believe what varies every day,
That never was, nor will be at a stay.
Once, Heathens might be sav'd, you did allow;
But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now:

The Loyal Church, that buoys the Kingly Line,
Damn'd with a breath, but 'tis such breath as thine:
What credit to thy party can it be,
T'have gain'd so lewd a Profligate as thee?
Stray'd from our Fold, makes us but laugh, not weep;
We have but lost what was disgrace to keep:
By them Mistrusted, and to us a scorn;
For it is weakness, at the best to turn.
True, hadst thou left us in the former Reign,
T'had prov'd, it was not wholly done for Gain;
Now, the Meridian Sun is not so plain.
Gold is thy God, for a substantial summ,
Thou to the Turk, wouldst run away from Rome,
And sing his Holy Expedition against Christendom.

But to conclude, blush with a lasting Red,
(If thou'rt not mov'd with what's already said)
To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzards, Wolves and Owls,
And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls,
Routed by two poor Mice: (Unequal fight)
But easie 'tis to Conquer in the Right.
See there a Youth (a shame to thy gray hairs)
Make a meer Dunce of all thy threescore years.
What in that tedious Poem hast thou done,
But cramm'd all Æsops Fables into one.
But why do I the precious minutes spend
On him, that wou'd much rather hang, than mend.
No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art,
Thou'rt now in this last Scene, that Crowns thy part;
To purchase Favour, veer with every Gale,
And against Interest never cease to rail;
Tho thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail.

The Vision of Toleration.

Last Night, when I my self to sleep had laid;
Whilst bones did rest, my roving busie Head
Methought, had strangely carry'd me from home,
And I (the Lord knows how) was got to Rome;
It happen'd to be on a publick day,
When Pope and Cardinals were met; not to pray,
That's not their business, but to hold Debates,
How to Rule Kings, and how to Govern States.
Most strange Employments sure for Gospel Preachers,
The Apostles were not Rulers, but Mens Teachers.
When Tripple Crown had took St. Peter's Chair,
(He little thought a Crown should e'er come there:)
The rest to their respective seats repair;
And the first matter they did fall upon,
Was the Affairs of th'Isle call'd Albion:
Methought an horned Legate did present
In Parchment fair ingross'd, a long complaint,
Against the Monster call'd a Parliament:
Which being softly read, Christ's Vicar cries,
Who th'plague has open'd these damn'd Her'ticks eyes?
I thought the sugar'd promise at first made
To them, would the believing Fools perswade
Out of their Bread and Butter; but since jealous
Of Privilege, and for their Church so zealous;

Since we can't overturn this Impious Test,
Of all methods beyond dispute the best:
Since Shams won't take, What must the next be done,
Against our Rival Church of Albion?
His Reverend speech thus ended, whilst each mind
Was busied, some new Stratagem to find;
Ere any spake, there strangely did appear
One cloath'd in black, and stood before the Chair;
All Eyes upon him fixt, and all Tongues mute,
With a feign'd Voice he did them thus salute:
Hail! Reverend Patriarch, and ye that are
Worthy Assistants of St. Peter's Chair:
I from the Author of your Faith am come,
From him first plac'd th'unerring Chair in Rome;
Who gave judicial power to pardon sins,
And to Depose the Unbelieving Kings:
Who you out of your senses does perswade,
Not to discern Flesh, Blood, and Bones from Bread;
Who is your Churches best Friend and Physician,
To cure her Schisms by Holy Inquisition:
Who taught you burning was the Remedy,
Lawful to purge the Church from Heresie:
French Nero taught to manage Hugonaut:
He who all your new Articles has taught;
From him I come, and by Commission tell,
Right Trusty and Belov'd, he greets you well;
Extremely pleas'd with your great pains and care,
T'increase his Kingdom, in this grand Affair
Of Albion. It is his will and pleasure,
That to perfect the Work, you take this measure;
You know as well as he, that in that Nation,
Are many Bastard slips of th'Reformation;
Who, with their Sister have been still at odds,
Because (I wish 'twere true) she serv'd your Gods.

But seeing their mistake, they now begin
To have a good opinion, and come in
To her Communion; and she thereby
Grows daily a more potent enemy.
Now to prevent a Reconciliation,
He bids declare an Act of Toleration;
Let Independant, Presbyter, and Quaker,
With Anabaptist, Muggletonian, Seeker,
Sweet Singer, Family of Love, Fifth-Monarchy;
Give all these whimsy-heads their Liberty,
They'll with each other fall at enmity:
And all against the Church, confirm'd by Law,
Though for no other cause, but 'cause tis so.
If you can but perswade them to Rebel,
Th'King has an Army will make all things well;
In these Directions Expeditious be,
Your time's but short, J. R's past Fifty three.
His well invented Speech thus having ended,
He in a flash of Brimstone fire descended.
They seeing him to vanish in that fashion,
Cry'd out, that 'twas a Divine Revelation.
At which I wondred, for I did not know,
Till then, that Roman Gods had dwelt below.
First sight, I thought him Jesuit, but when
I saw the Cloven-Foot concluded then
He was th'old accuser of the Brethren.
VVhen they a while had on his Speech reflected,
They all agreed 't should be as 'twas directed.
One only, cry'd, more grave, and full of sense,
VVe our designs must colour with pretence;
VVe'll say 'tis tender Consciences to ease,
And to preserve the Government in peace,
VVhich all lik'd well; and bade, 't should be Ingrost,
And sent unto the Nuncio by the Post:

After which order to the Secretary,
They all concluded with an Ave Mary.

On the Bishops Confinement.

Where is there Faith and Justice to be found?
Sure the VVorld trembles, Nature's in a swound;
To see her pious Sons design'd to fall
A victim to Religion; Truth, and all
The charms of Piety are no defence
Against the new-found power, that can dispence
VVith Laws to murder sacred Innocence:
Surely, unless some pitying God look down,
And stem this torrent, it will down
Divinity it self.—
The Bishops Prisoners! Can we tamely see
Those Reverend Prelates bow the knee
To Antichrist? No, mighty Monarch, no,
Though we must pay to Cæsar what we owe,
There is a power supream, by which you live;
VVhose Arm is longer, and Prerogative
Larger by far than yours; whose very word
Can blast your hopes, and turn your two-edg'd sword;
Can make his Secular Vice-gerent know,
Virtue, like Palms deprest, do higher grow.
Though Rob'd in all the Grandeur of your State,
Courtiers, like radiant Stars, about you wait:
'Midst of your glorious joys, when you put on
That awful presence which becomes a Throne;
Belshazzar like, three Words upon the Wall
Shall blast your Joys, and make your Glories fall.

His Holiness, that Patriot of strife,
Though he can grant you Pardons, cannot Life.
Arise then, Mighty Sir, in God-like mien,
As of thy Valour, let thy Truth be seen;
Free from mistrust, let all your words be clear;
By actions, let your promises appear:
Protect that Church which brought you to the Crown;
You know 'tis great and honourable to own
A kindness done; but to reward with death
That happy instrument that gave you breath,
Is mean, and might a Cath'licks Conscience sting,
To cut the hand off that Anoints you King.

The Last Will and Testament of Father Peters.

I

In his Holiness Name,
With Amen I proclaim
My last Will and Testament following:
Who in body am well,
But in mind monstrous ill;
While in dismal Dispair I am wallowing.

II

My Soul I bequeath,
To the Regions beneath;
It has long to the Devil been due:
To be tortur'd in pain,
More than I did ordain
To inflict on the Heretick Crew.

III

My Body a Pledge,
I give to the Sledge,
To ride on't to Tyburn in state:
And there in a Cart,
Before I depart,
All my Villanous Actions relate.

IV

When the Rout I've harrang'd,
To submit to be Hang'd;
And ere dead to be cut down and Quarter'd:
While each Blockhead and Whore
Dips a Clout in my Gore,
To proclaim to the World I am Martyr'd.

V

My Politick Head
With my Quarters when Dead,
Each one to be perch'd on a Pole;
Thus by Prophetick Spirit,
According to Merit,
I've dispos'd of my Body and Soul.

VI

And next I declare,
Not to mention an Heir,
My Executors wholly and full,
To cut off all other,
The Spark and his Mother,
VVho three Politick Nations wou'd Gull.

VII

My Funeral Charge,
As it will not be large,
So 'twill take up less room in my VVill:
But were it much more,
Since I die on this score,
They'll never be troubled with Bill.

VIII

It may do 'em both good
For all their High Blood,
'Tis Full Threescore thousand compleat:
As I got it by Fools,
So I leave it to Tools,
While the Church and Relations I Cheat.

IX

My Books, tho' not many,
For I never lov'd any,
They may keep for their private Occasions;
They're of Riddles and Dreams,
From whence I took Theams
To furnish my self with Orations.

X

The rest of my Stuff,
Since they have enough,
I Bequeath to a pretty young Sinner;
'Twill furnish a Room
To practise at Home,
And encourage a happy Beginner.

XI

I'll not give 'em the Trouble
To pay the Priests double,
To fetch me from Purgatory:
For that, like the rest
Of our Creed, is a Jest;
And as true as the Song of John Dory.

XII

For if there's a Hell,
I deserve it so well
I need not despair of the Place;
And none but an Ass
Will believe that the Mass,
Can ever restore him to Grace.

XIII

I confess they are fools,
Which our Church daily gulls,
And particularly with this Nation:
Such as when they do Pray,
Know not one word they say,
'Tis their Ignorance helps their Devotion.

XIV

But I am wide of my Text,
Being damnably vext
To see how the Jesuits are fool'd;
And your prospects of peace
Do my Torments increase,
More than losing my Life and my Gold.

XV

On our Brotherhood all
May my last blessing fall,
And on every Monk, Friar and Priest;
May they ere 'tis too late
Partake of my Fate,
And become every Hereticks Jest.

XVI

I wou'd have Enlarg'd,
But my Conscience discharg'd,
I'll here make an end of my Sermon,
And wish all this Throng
May be damn'd, Old and Young,
And so drive away, Honest Carman.

The Pope's WISH.

[_]

To the Tune of the Old Mans's Wish.

If I wear out of date, as I find I fall down,
For my Chair it is rotten, and shakes like my Crown;
Tho I be an Impostor, may this be my doom,
Let my Spiritual Market continue at Rome:

May the words of my mouth the Nations betray,
Till Monarchs and Princes my Sceptre obey;
To feed on the fat, and the lean ones to flay:
And the lean ones to flay.

Tho my Birth be equivocal, I look like a Bear;
My Tribe they be cloath'd with sackcloath and hair,
(A Hypocrites habit, and fit to deceive)
Let no man decypher the Pope for a knave.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

Tho my Actions be wicked, my Principles ill,
May I be reputed his Holiness still;
With the Keys on my Arm to chink like a Bell,
And Conjure a Soul for Gold out of Hell.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

With a pair of Great Princes, both lazy and idle,
The one to hold Stirrup, the other the Bridle;
And when they have done, for their pains let 'em take
A kick on the breech, and a stamp on the neck.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

May I be adored by better and worse:
Let Kings kiss my Toe, and Mah'met mine A---e.
May Pardons give price, and Indulgences sell,
And every Opposer be turn'd into Hell.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

Let the spiritual Peddlers, the Priests tell a story,
Of Limbus Infantum, and New Purgatory,
T extinguish Sedition, and blow out Contention;
To work all my Miracles by apprehension.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

May the Church-men and Clergy ne're Marry nor Wed,
But hug the old Harlot that's cast in a Bed,
Let the Friars with the Nuns commit Fornication,
(If sin) tis but Venial, and sweet Recreation.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

May the Priests at Confession make a Virgin to fall,
And when she gets up, give her Pardon for all;
Let Bawds have their Trade, and Whores have their pleasure,
To fill (with their fleshly) my Spiritual Treasure.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

And whate're I do, or whate're befals me,
He's a Spiritual Traitor, that Whoremonger calls me;
By Bell, Book, and Candle, I'll bar him from Glory,
And send him to Hell, or at least Purgatory.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

Let the Saints at devotion make Prayers for the Dead,
And least they misreckon, count all by a Bead.
With Pictures in Churches, that people may pray
To Idols compos'd of Stone, Wood, and Clay.

May the words of my mouth, &c.

With a Lamp Everlasting that burneth for ever,
Of the poor Widows Oil, which providence gives her;

With St. Anthony's Fart, that he let in a Frolick,
Which smells like a Rose, and cures the Wind-colick

May the words of my mouth, &c.

Let people be cheated, a Wafer to take,
And call it a God, tho bak'd in a Cake;
Let them play their Devotion at Church on a fiddle;
But ne'er be so wise as to find out the Riddle.

May none be so bold my words to despise,
Till I dull all Mens ears, and hood-wink their eyes,
And blind the whole World with fopperies and lyes.

The Protestant Litany.

From Religion that's Nonsence, and larded with lyes;
From shutting the Cupbord, and chinking the Keys;
From Light that ascendeth like smoak to the Skies;
Good Lord deliver us.

From a Pope that's in Passion, and bendeth his Wits
For Plots, and Conspiracies, digging of Pits;
From a people that crameth their God in their Guts;
Good Lord deliver us.

From Spain's Inquisition, and Scarlet attire;
From zeal that is kindled with Faggot and Fire;
From a Priest that Dispenseth his Pardons for Hire;
Good Lord deliver us.

From Wine that's Converted to poison for blood;
From the Dragon's breath, and venemous flood;
From Babylon's Brats, and all the Beasts brood;
Good Lord deliver us.

From a Feminine Pope, of the Epicene Gender,
From Joan who did drink to the Devil her attender;
From him who's of fopperies (for faith) the Defender;
Good Lord deliver us.

From unprofitable Servants, who Heaven do merit,
Who Preach the true Gospel, denying the Spirit;
And think by their fool'ries Salvation t'inherit;
Good Lord deliver us.

From a Queen clad in Scarlet, that looks like a Witch;
From those who for Penance must whip their own Breech;
From her that needs brimstone to cure her old itch;
Good Lord deliver us.

From a Beast that is spotted, and snuffs up the Air,
With a Mouth like a Lion, and Feet like a Bear;
From Garments deceitful, composed of Hair;
Good Lord deliver us.

From Beggars who're Rich, and beg for the poor;
From Kings without Kingdoms, that Reign but an hour;
From the Grape of Gomorrha, that's sweet, and yet sower;
Good Lord deliver us.

From Leo the Coward, and Clement the Clown;
From Pius the wicked, that's veil'd with a Gown;
From fools out of fashion, and shav'd in the Crown.
Good Lord deliver us.

From Roma diu titubans, ready to spue;
From Locusts and Frogs, and Babylons crew;
From the Prophet, or tail which the Stars backward drew;
Good Lord deliver us.

From a Shepherd whose crook is knob'd like a Club,
The one end to catch, the other to rub;
And one who his Sheep of their Fleece does rob:
Good Lord deliver us.

Advice to the Prince of Orange, and the Packet-Boat returned.

Adv.
The year of wonder now is come,
A Jubilee proclaim at Rome;
The Church has pregnant made the Womb.

Pac.
No more of the admired year,
No more of Jubilee declare;
All Trees that blossom do not bear.

Adv.
Orange give o're your hopes of Crowns,
And yield to France the Belgick Towns;
And keep your Fleet out of the Downs.

Pac.
We'll wait for Crowns, not Interest quit,
Let Lewis take what he can get;
And do not you proscribe our Fleet.

Adv.
Ye talk of Eighty Men of War,
Well Rigg'd and Mann'd you say they are;
'Twas joyful News when it came here.

Pac.
Well may the sound of Eighty Sail,
Make England's greatest Courage fail;
When half the number will prevail.

Adv.
But we have some upon the Stocks,
And others laid up in our Docks;
Well fitted out, would match your Cocks.

Pac.
Tack not as if you'd match our Cocks,
And Launch your few Ships on the Stocks;
And if you can, secure your Docks.

Adv.
Besides, we've call'd our Subjects home,
Which in your Fleet and Army rome,
But you, they say, won't let them come.

Pac.
Your Subjects, in our Camp and Fleet,
Whom you with Proclamation greet,
Will all obey, when they think fit.

Adv.
Souldiers and Seamen both we need,
Old England's quite out of the breed;
Feather and Scarf won't do the deed.

Pac.
Of Men and Arms never despair,
The Civiliz'd wild Irish are
Couragious even to Massacre.

Adv.
Now, if you'd be Victorious made,
Like us, on Hounslow Masquerade;
Advance your Honour, and your Trade.

Pac.
Then take this Counsel back again,
Leave off to mimick in Campaign,
And fight in earnest on the Main.

Adv.
Buda we storm'd, and took't with ease;
Do you the same upon the Seas,
And then we'll meet you when you please.

Pac.
The storming Buda does declare,
That you the glorious Off-spring are,
Of them that made all Europe fear:

Adv.
Such Warlike Actions will at least
Inspire each neighbouring Monarchs breast,
Till Lewis shall compleat the rest.

Pac.
Such Camp, such Siege, and such sham Shews,
Make each small State your power oppose,
And Lewis lead you by the Nose.

The Hieroglyphick.

Come Painter, take a prospect from this Hill,
And on a well-spread Canvas shew thy Skill:
Draw all in Colours as they shall appear,
And as they stand in merit place them there.
Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field;
And, as directed, so let that fill'd.
First, draw a Popish Army brisk and gay,
Fighting, and beat, destroy'd, and run away.
Then draw a Hearse, and let it stand in view,
The Mourners more, far more than they're in shew,
Cursing their Fate, their Stars, and in that fear,
Shew, if thou canst, how those damn'd Sots prepare
To run, or stay and skulk in holes alone:
By them, this Motto, Gallows claim thy own.
Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil shew
Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.
Now draw a crowd of Priests prepar'd to run,
Like broken Merchants when their stock is gone;
Some howling out their Prayers, forget and say,
Save us St. Ketch: Are all our Saints away?
Draw them in hurry, running to and fro,
Posting to Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.
Next draw a croud of Lords. This Label by,
The great Design is lost. Alas, they cry,
Who'd serve a Cause of such curst Destiny?

Now draw four Priests, shew how they Rome adore,
And each mans Scarf hang to be seen before.
Two brace of Bishops, fallen to despair,
Arm'd Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.
Now shew the Judges, and with them thy skill,
That all who see it done, may say, 'tis well;
In Caps and Gowns, as they in order sate
'Twixt Heaven and Earth do thou them elevate;
For their grave Noddles can dispence with that.
Now draw the little Rogues, the Scoundrel Crew,
Knights, Knaves, and Beggars, they must have their due,
G*db*ry, B*ler, ay, and others too.
Amidst thus croud, on a fit spot of Land,
To crown the work, let a large Gallows stand;
All trembling by, arm'd with their guilt and fears,
Kneel to this Image, and pour out their Prayers,
And then die by Suffocation.

To the ten Dispensing Judges.

Dignify'd things, may I your leaves implore,
To kiss your hands, and your high Heads adore;
Judges you are, but you are something more.
May I draw near, and with a rough-hew'd Pen,
Give a small Draught of you, the worst of men:
Tell of your merits, and your mighty skill,
And how your Charms all Courts of Justice fill.
Your Laws, far stronger than the Commons Votes,
So finely flow from your Dispensing Throats.
What Rome will ask, you must not her deny:
If Hell command you too, you must comply.

There's none but you would in this Cause combine,
Things made like men, but act like brutes and swine.
Law-books are trash, a Student he's a Drudge:
Learn to say, Yes, he's an accomplish'd Judge;
He wins the Scarlet Robe, and wears it too:
Ay, and deserves it well, for more's his due;
All that compleats a Traytor dwells in you.
Thus you like Villains to the Benches get;
And in defiance to the Laws, you sit,
And all base actions that will please commit:
There must you toil for Rome, and also try
Your Irish Sense, and Cobweb Policy,
Compleat your Crimes; and then you're fit to die.
True Loyal Babes! Pimps to the Church of Rome,
Tresilian's Heirs: Heirs to his crimes and doom.
Was e'er the Hall fill'd up with such a Brood,
All dipt in Treason, Villanies or Blood:
Worse than Fanatick Priests, for they being prest
By a wise Prince, Preach'd to Repeal the Test.
Then here's the difference, 'twixt you Popish Tools,
You're downright Rogues, they only Knaves and Fools.

Religious Relicks:

Or, the Sale at the Savoy, upon the Jesuites breaking up their School and Chappel.

I

Last Sunday, by chance,
I encounter'd with Pr---e,
That Man of upright Conversation,

Who told me such News,
That I could not chuse
But laugh at his sad Declaration.

II

Says he, if you'll go,
You shall see such a show,
Of Reliques expos'd to be sold,
Which from sin and disease,
Will purge all that please
To lay out their Silver and Gold.

III

Straight with him I went,
Being zealously bent,
Where for sixpence the man let me in;
But the Crowd was so great,
I was all in a Sweat,
Before the rare show did begin:

IV

The Curtain being drawn,
Which I think was of Lawn,
The Priest cross'd himself thrice, and bow'd;
Then with a sour Face,
Denoting his case,
He address'd himself thus to the Crowd:

V

You see our sad State,
'Tis a folly to prate,
Our Church and our Cause is a-ground;
So in short, if you've Gold,
Here is to be sold
For a Guinea the worth of ten Pound.

VI

Here's St. James's Old Bottle,
It holds just a Pottle,
With the Pilgrims Habit he wore;

The same Scollop Shells,
As our Holy Church tells,
Who denies it's a Son of a W---

VII

Here's a piece of the Bag,
By Age turn'd to a Rag,
In which Judas the Money did bear;
With a part of his Rope,
Bequeath'd to the Pope,
As an Antidote 'gainst all Despair.

VIII

Here's a Rib of St: Laurence,
'Tis also at Florence,
And it may be in France, or in Spain;
It cures Stone and Gravel,
And Women in Travel,
And delivers without any pain.

IX

Here's St. Joseph's Old Coat,
Though scarce worth a Groat,
It's plainness does shew he'd no Pride;
Yet this he had on,
For besides it he'd none,
The day that he Marry'd his Bride.

X

His Breeches are there,
A plain Leather pair,
Come buy the whole Suit, if you please;
They'll defend you from th'Itch,
From Hag, and from Witch,
And preserve you from Buggs and from Fleas.

XI

Here's the Gall of a Saint,
For such as do faint,
Or are troubl'd with Fits of the Mother;

Nay, if your breath stink,
Worse than Close-stool or Sink,
It will cure you as soon as the other.

XII

Here's a Prayer of Pope John,
The like to't is none,
If you say it but three times a year;
Three hundred in Grace,
And three hundred 'twill place
In Heaven, if they ever come there.

XIII

Here's our Ladies old Shoe,
Which in Old time was new,
It will cure all your Kibes and your Corns;
With the Coif of St. Bridget,
To be worn by each Idiot,
Whose Head is tormented with Horns.

XIV

Here's a bottle of Tears,
Preserv'd many years,
Of Mary's that once was a Sinner;
Some o'th' Fish and the Bread,
That the five thousand fed,
Which our Saviour invited to Dinner.

XV

Here's St. Francis own Cord,
You may take't on my word,
Who dies in it cannot be Damn'd;
Do but buy it, and try,
If I tell you a lye,
Many thousands of Heaven are shamm'd.

XVI

Here's his Holiness's beard,
Of whom you have heard,
That the Hereticks called Pope Joan;

Yet this I dare swear,
Was his natural Hair,
Or else I'll be sworn he had none.

XVII

It's Vertue is such,
That if it does touch
Your Head, or your Face, or elsewhere,
It does straitway restore,
More than e're was before,
Though by Age or by Action worn bare.

XVIII

Here's St. Christopher's Boot,
For his Right Leg and Foot,
Which he wore when he ply'd at the Ferry,
When on's shoulders he bore
His blessed Lord o're,
For the poor man had never a Wherry.

XIX

Such as sail on the Seas,
I am sure it will please,
For its parallel never was found;
Neither Tempest nor Storm,
Can e'er do them harm,
Nor is't possible they should be drown'd.

XX

Here's infinite more,
I have by me in store,
All which lye conceal'd in this Hamper;
Either buy them to day,
Or I'll throw them away,
For to morrow, by Heaven, I'll scamper.

XXI

Our Market is done,
We must shut up at Noon,
VVe expect them each hour at the Door;

VVe are Hang'd if we stay,
And we can't get away,
For none will, nor dare carry us o're.

XXII

But by th'Faith of a Priest,
This is no time to jest,
Since we are baulk'd in our great Expectation;
Before I will swing,
Like a Dog in a string,
I'll Renounce the Transubstantiation.

Private Occurrences:

Or, the Transactions of the four last Years.

[_]

Written in Imitation of the Old Ballad of Hey brave Oliver, Ho brave Oliver, &c.

I

A Protestant Muse, yet a Lover of Kings;
On th'Age, grown a little Satyrical, sings,
Of Papists, their Counsels, and other fine things.

Sing hey brave Popery, horare Popery, oh fine Popery,
Oh dainty Popery, oh.

II

She hopes she offends no Englishman's patience;
Tho Satyr's forbid on all such occasions,
She's too good a subject to read Declarations.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

III

If the saying be good, of Let him laugh that Wins,
Sure a loser may smile without any offence;
My Muse then is gamesome, and thus she begins;

With hey brave Popery, &c.

IV

VVhen Ch--- deceas'd, to his Kingdoms dismay,
By an Apoplex, or else some other way:
Our brother with shouts was proclaim'd the same day.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

V

His first Royal promise was never to touch
Our Rights, nor Religion, nor priviledge grutch:
But Pet--- swore Dam him, he granted too much.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

VI

Then Mon--- came in with an Army of Fools,
Betray'd by his Cuckold, and other dull Tools,
That painted the Turf of Geen Sedgmore with Gules.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

VII

That Victory gotten, some think to our wrong,
The Priests bray'd out Joy in a Thanksgiving Song,
And Teague with the Bald-pates were at it ding dong.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

VIII

Then straight a strong Army was Levy'd in haste,
To hinder Rebellion; a very good Jest,
For some Rogues will swear 'twas to murder the Test.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

IX

A Politick Law which Recusants did doom,
That into our Senate they never might come;
But Equivalent since, was propos'd in its room.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

X

As if a true Friend should in kindness demand
A Tooth in my Head, which firmly doth stand,
To give for't another he had in his Hand.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XI

Then Term after Term, this great matter was weigh'd,
Old Judges turn'd out, and new Block---ds made;
That Cook or wise Littleton never did read.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XII

The good Ch. of England withspeed was run down,
VVhose Loyalty ever stood fast to the Crown;
And Presbyter John was made Mayor of the Town.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XIII

The Bishops Disgrace made the Clergy to sob:
A Prey to Old Pet--- and President Bob;
And hurried to Prison as if they did Rob.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XIV

Then into the world a dear P--- of W---s slipt;
'Twas plain, for we hear a great Minister peep'd:
The Bricklayer for prating had like t'a bin whipp'd.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XV

Thus England's distresses more fierce than the Plague,
That during three years, of no Quiet could brag.
The Prince Van Auraignia has brought from the Hague.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XVI

A strong Fleet and Army t'Invade us are bent;
We know not the Cause, tho there is something in't:
But we doubt not, e're long we shall see it in Print.

Sing hey brave Popery, &c.

XVII

Ah England, that never couldst value thy Peace:
Had matters been now as in Elsabeth's Days,
The Dutch had ne're ventur'd to Fish in our Seas.

Then Curse of Popery, pox o' Popery, plague o' Popery,
Oh Senseless Popery, oh.

On PURGATORY.

When the Almighty first his Palace fram'd,
That Glorious shining place he Heaven nam'd;
And when the first Rebellious Angels fell,
He Doom'd them to a certain place call'd Hell.
There's Heaven and Hell confirm'd in sacred story,
But yet I ne're could read of Purgatory:
That cleansing place, which of late years is found,
For sinning Souls to Flux in till they're sound.
In imitation of which 'tis said,
They have the Hummums and the Bagnio's made,
Two Purgatories of a quicker Trade.
There one days Sufferance cures the worst that comes,
And thence they are releas'd for easie Sums.
Oh! Rome, for Price and Time thou'rt too severe,
Keeping an honest Monarch in two year,
That never yet deserv'd to come there.
Priests found out this for good of human Race;
Th'Almighty never thought of such a place.
Oh! Rome, thou art a wise and learned Nation,
To add a place wanting in Gods Creation.

A Stanza lately put upon Tyburn.

Hail Reverend Tripos, Guardian of the Law;
Sacred to Justice, Treasons greatest awe!
Do thou decide the Nations weighty Cause,
And judge between the Judges and the Laws.
So shall no guiltless blood thy Timber e're pollute,
But Righteous Laws shall vouch all thou shalt execute.

Harry Care's last Will and Testament.

Not Hell it self, nor Gloomy Fate, can save
The lewdest sinner from his Destin'd Grave:
But all the sooty Surges once must try,
Old Charon's Boat's a certain Destiny.
This Harry found, whose moldring Corps did call
For Physick props t'uphold the human Wall;
Thinking himself to Ne plus ultra come,
He thought of Winding Sheets, and of his Tomb:
Summun'd his glorious Kindred to appear,
To see his last, and his last Will to hear,
The Weeping Crowd the mournful Chamber fill,
While he in dying Accents makes his Will.

Imprimis, for my Soul (if such I have)
I wish it buried with me in my Grave:
For if what great Divines do preach and tell,
Be real Verities of Heaven and Hell,

Down to the gloomy Shores I surely go,
The same I serv'd above must serve below.

And next, for my dear Wife, who Weeps my fall,
And is chief Mourner at my Funeral;
My sole Executrix I do here make,
And let her all my Goods and Chattels take:
Besides, my Province too let her command,
That undiscover'd lies in Fairy-Land.
To her my unsold Pamphlets I bequeath,
To buy her Brandy and Tobacco with:
And if she do a Male or Stallion take,
I hope he'll use her kindly for my sake;
With equal Strength the Marriage-Yoke she'll draw,
If he but drench her well with Usquebah.

My Daughter next, the Off-spring of my Bed,
I pour a double Blessing on her Head;
The only Legacy I can bestow,
And more than Heaven gave me here below:
May she the Irish Witness wed, and raise
A Race of Evidences for our Cause.

And for those kinder Folks that propt my Pains,
I freely leave them both my Pen and Brains:
May they my little Artifices use,
To raise up Factious, and the Crowd amuse,
Till being doubly dipt in Infamy,
Like me unpityed, and unenvy'd die.

Now to the numerous Crowd that do's survive,
I only can my dying Counsel give:
The Western Emissaries I approve,
And even dying do declare my Love.
I charge them to stand firm unto their Trust,
Accounting what's their Interest, to be Just.
The Females I commend to Brother Cox,
Who if he cannot cure, can give the Pox;

And may he still the vigorous warmth retain,
T'impart to stroaling She in Street or Lane.

I've nothing more to give to all the rest,
But leave Ten Thousand Curses on the Test:
And who do its Abolishing withstand,
I leave upon them an Eternal Brand.
And for the Penal Laws they like so well,
I'le write for their Repeal when I'm in Hell;
And if Damn'd Pluto's Laws are like to these,
I'll quickly sue him out a Writ of Ease,
I there will my Occurrence truly state,
Whilst some Infernal L***kin Prints the Cheat;
I Hells black Tyrant will both sooth and praise,
And even in Sulp'rous Styx Sedition raise.

A New SONG.

[Wou'd you be a Man of Favour?]

Wou'd you be a Man of Favour?
VVou'd you have your Fortune kind?
VVear the Cross and eat the VVafer,
And you'l have all things t'your Mind.
If the Priest cannot convert you,
Interest then must do the thing:
There be Friars can inform you
How to please a Popish King.

VVou'd you see the Papist Lowring,
Lost in a hurry and a fright,
And there Father Peters scouring,
Glad of Times for happy Flight.
Stay but till the Dutch are Landed,
And the Show will soon appear;
VVhen th'Infernal Court's disbanded,
Few will stay for Harbour here.

A new Catch in praise of the Reverend Bishops.

True Englishmen, drink a good Health to the Mitre;
Let our Church ever Flourish tho her Enemies Spight Her:
May their Cunning and Forces no longer prevail,
And their Malice, as well as their Arguments, fail.
Then remember the Seven which supported our Cause,
As Stout as our Martyrs, and as Just as our Laws.

A new SONG.

[To our once Loyal Town, is lately come down]

[_]

To the Tune of, Packintons Pound.

[I]

To our once Loyal Town, is lately come down,
Such an Hodge-Podge of Benchers, as never wore Gown:
Saints, sit for the Legend of Romes Pseudo-Martyrs,
VVho have pawn'd th'Old Religion, to purchase New-Charters;
To promote Publick Faith, they are zealously bent,
And Bugger Geneva to Fructifie Trent.

When Satan was squeamish, and long'd for a Dainty,
The Pope Fricassed him this New Four-and twenty,

II

The first a State-Jockey, bred up of a Groom,
Twixt a Colchester-Mare, and a Stallion of Rome.

He Cants when at Hollet's, on Hopkins his Metre,
And drops Pater-Nosters with Lowick and Petre:
Thus he Banters Non-Cons with Prophane Masquerade,
And quacks on the Gospel to force a lost Trade.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

III

The next Cacafugo, once a Captain of Peace,
At the sight of cold Iron he melts in his Grease;
Yet he looks Indignation, and huffs like an Hector;
He VVhores like an Abbot, and drinks like a Rector.
The third Nicodemus, a Seeker by Night;

St.

The 4th Father Whitebread, who halts for New Light.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

IV

The fifth and the sixth, two precise Renegades;

B. and A.

The one Jack of Diamonds, the other of Spades:
For Orphans and VVidows they beautifie Cloysters,
And swallow their Houses, as Barnacle Oysters;
But no Dish so fit when his Holiness treats,
As an

A great Italian Dish.

Oleopodrido of Zealots and Cheats.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

V

Next formal Sir Foplin, who often has slunk,

VVith a Tester at Rose's to purchase a Punk,
But if Porter or Carman be possest of his Doxy,
He adopts his kind Hostess her spiritual Proxy.
Thus a Puritan Lecher (though with a lewd Slut)
May solace the Spirit, while the Flesh goes to Rut.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

VI

Lo here

Fat St. Lean Jeff.

Gog and Magog at once represent
The prophane Carnaval, and Idolatrous Lent;

Both Teckelites true, as were

Oa[illeg.]mins in the Plot.

Titus and Eustace;
The Guts of good Manners, and Garbage of Justice:
But nothing more proper to vacuate Laws,
Than the Mouth of Rebellion, and Rump of the Cause.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

VII

Advance Ruffling Dick to supply the next place,

VVho on a bad Matter oft shams a worse Face:
VVhen the Algerine Caper has boarded his Frigat,
He can fawn like a Floater, and cringe like a Bigot.
VVell the good natur'd Wittal may wink at his Fate.
Since he that Cornutes him has bugger'd the State.

When Satan was squeamish, &c.

VIII

VVe'll refer Young Tertullus t'a Bill of Review,
Lest he shou'd Repeal what he never yet knew:
His VVorship we'll leave to his new Breviaries,
'Till One Miserere's worth Ten Avemaries;
For a Janus-like Convert, who in Faith interlopes,
Like a Cordeliar-Friar, must be sav'd by his Ropes.

When Satan was squeamish, and long'd for a Dainty,
The Pope Fricassed him this new Four-and-twenty.

A New Song of the Mayor being tossed in a Blanket, in the North.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

From the farthermost part of the North we have News
Of a Man of some Note that receiv'd an Abuse:
For a Dog to be toss'd in a Blanket, 'tis known,
But alas, what is that to the Mayor of a Town?
For a great Magistrate
To be us'd at that rate,
All the World must allow
It is very hard Fate.
Ah! is it not strange? Amongst Wonders we rank it,
That a Mayor of a Town shou'd be toss'd in a Blanket.
Had a drunken Tom Tinker the Penance receiv'd,
Or a Vintner for stumming his Wine, who'd have griev'd?
Had they bolted a Baker for making light Bread,
Or a Taylor for snipping a Yard for a Shred;
Had it been but a Tapster
For Nicking and Frothing,
Wee'd been contented
To take it for nothing.
But as the Case stands, who, alass! don't resent it,
And wish now 'tis done, that it might be prevented?

Diogenes was said once to live in a Tub,
But a Tenement of Blanket is such an odd Job
For a Man of his Rank, we must study the Fact,
Unless 'twas to mind him of the late Woollen Act.
However 'twas unkind
In the midst of his State,
So to trouble his Thoughts
With th'Approaches of Fate.
For Men when advanc'd to the height of their Glory.
Have something to dream on besides Purgatory.
For a new Convert in Relick to be wrapt,
To secure him from Danger, it often has happ'd;
But had this been such, in no story we find
A Mayor to cut Capers like a Witch in the Wind;
Sure there's something exceeding
Must cause this Extream;
Yet if we dare take it,
As Old Wives do Dream,
Unadvis'd mistaking between waking and sleep,
He pounded the Parson instead of his Sheep:
So in that cross Humour they were forc'd for to shake him,
To shew him his Error as soon as they wak'd him.
But now, to conclude, ah! Heaven be thanked,
The Mayor had no harm that was toss'd in a Blanket.

A New Song

[Ho Brother Teague dost hear de Decree]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Ho Brother Teague dost hear de Decree,
Lilli Burlero Bullen a la,
Dat we shall have a new Debittie,
Lilli Burlero, Bullen a la,

Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli Burlero Bullen a la,
Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli burlero bullen a la.

Ho by my Shoul it is a T---t,
Lilli, &c.
And he will cut all de English T---t,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

Though by my shoul de English do prat,
Lilli, &c.
De Law's on dare side, and Chrest knows what,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

But if Dispence do come from de Pope,
Lilli, &c.
We'll hang Magno Carto and demselves in a Rope,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

And the good T---t is made a Lord,
Lilli, &c.
And he with brave Lads is coming aboard,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

Who'! all in France have taken a swear,
Lilli, &c.
Dat day will have no Protestant h---r,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

O but why do's he stay behind?
Lilli, &c.
Ho by my Shoul 'tis a Protestant VVind,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

Now T---l is come a-shore,
Lilli, &c.
And we shall have Commissions gillore,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

And he dat will not go to Mass,
Lilli, &c.
Shall turn out and look like an Ass,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

Now now de Hereticks all go down,
Lilli, &c.
By Chreist and St. Patrick de Nation's our own,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

There is an old Prophesie found in a Bog,
Lilli, &c.
That Ireland should be rul'd by an Ass and a Dog,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

And now this Prophecy is come to pass,
Lilli, &c.
For T---but's the Dog, and Tyr---nel's the Ass,
Lilli, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

Tom Tyler;

or the Nurse.

Old Stories of a Tyler sing,
That did attempt to be a King:
Our Age is with a Tyler grac'd,
By more preposterous Planets rais'd.
His Cap with Jocky's match'd together,
Turn'd to a Beaver and a Feather;
His Clay transform'd to Yellow Guilt,
And Trowel to a Silver Hilt.

His Lady from the Tiles and Bricks,
Kidnap'd to Court in Coach and Six;
Her Arms a sucking Prince embrace,
(Whate'er you think) of Royal Race:
A Prince, come in the Nick of Time
(Bless'd Dada! 'tis a Venial Crime
That shall repeal our Breach of State,
While all the World congratulate,
Shall, like his Sire, suppress the Just,
Raise Knaves and Fools to place of Trust;
T---s and V---e, who sought his Fate,
Tylers and Macs, two Chits of State.
But here, unhappy Babe, Alass,
I cannot but lament thy Case!
That Thou, fed up with Rome's strong Meat.
Shou'd long for Milk of Heretick Teats!
Among the Daughters was there none
Worthy to Nurse a Monarch's Son,
That Thou, in spight of all the Priests,
Shoud'st long for Milk of Heretick Breasts?

But if thy Uncle, who before
Was always right, chang'd the last hour,
If thy undoubted Sire, so sage,
Declar'd i'th' Evening of his Age;
Why shou'dst not thou, Papist so soon,
Be a stanch Protestant e're Noon?

This said, the Tyler laugh'd in's Sleeve,
And took his Audience of Leave,
The Prince who answer'd ne're a Word,
That he shou'd Travel did accord;
To Paris, sent to learn Grimace,
To Swear and Damn with a Boon Grace.

To the Haters of Popery,

By what Names or Titles soever dignified or distinguished.

Thus 'twas of Old: then Israel felt the Rod,
When they obey'd their Kings and not their God?
When they went Whoring after other Loves,
To worship Idols in new planted Groves.
They made their Gods of Silver, Wood and Stone,
And bow'd and worshipp'd them when they had done
And to compleat their Sins in every way,
They made 'em things call'd Priests; Priests did I say,
A Crew of Villains more Prophane than they.
Hence sprung that Romish Crew, first spawn'd in Hell.
Who now in vice their Pedagogues excell;

Their Church consists of vicious Popes, the rest
Are whoreing Nuns, and bawdy Bugg'ring Priests.
A Noble Church; dawb'd with Religious Paint,
Each Priest's a Stallion, every Rogue's a Saint.
Come you that loath this Brood: this murthering Crew,
Your Predecessors well their Mercies knew.
Take courage now, and be both bold and wise;
Stand for your Laws, Religion, Liberties,
You have the odds, the Law is still your own,
They're but your Traytors, therefore pull them down;
They struck with fear for to destroy your Laws
There, raving mad, you see they fix their paws,
Because from them they fear their fatal fall,
And by them Laws they know you'l hang them all:
Then keep our Laws, the Penal and the rest,
And give your Lives up e'er you give the Test.
And thou great Church of England hold thy own,
Force you they may, otherwise give up none,
Robbers & thieves must pay for what they've done.
Let all thy mighty Pillars now appear
Zealous and brave, void both of hate and fear:
That Popish Fops may grin, lie cheat and whine;
And curse their Faith, while all admire thine.
And thou brave Oxford, Cambridge, and the rest,
Great Hough and Fairfax, that durst beard the Beast.
Let all the Just with thanks record their name
On standing Pillars of immortal fame.

Let God arise, and his Enemies perish

Protestantism Reviv'd:

or the Persecuting Church Triumphing.

In Sable Weeds I saw a Matron clad,
Whose Looks were grave, whose Countenance was sad,
Pensive with care, she musing sate alone,
Her State too too unhappy to bemoan:
Deep bitter pangs I saw her undergo,
And pay the tributary drops of woe,
So wept Ducalion when he saw the State
And face of Nature chang'd and desolate.
By this dumb Elegy a while sh' exprest
The gloomy sorrows of her troubled breast.
Then heaving up her head, she silence broke,
And with a heavy sigh dejected spoke.
Good God! what grief surrounds my aged head!
What new distracting woes I daily wed!
Who am by spightful Foes in triumph led:
They pierce my side with wound, they break my rest,
And snatch my sucking Children from my breast:
My elder Sons inhumanely they treat,
My weaker ones they bubble with Deceit.
Thus they insult, thus put me to disgrace,
And spit their frothy Venom in my face:
My growing sorrows to compleat the more,
I'm flouted by a Babylonish Whore.
Put me to death they can't, since Heav'n decreed
I must not die, though with my Saviour bleed,
But humbly should in after-times succeed:

VVhat most my anxious Soul tormented hath,
Is, he that should defend, betrays my Faith.
Thus, thus abus'd, I'm to all Griefs betray'd,
Thus my Delights are double Sorrows made.
VVho e'er was curb'd by such a Concubine?
Who so perplex'd? was ever grief like mine?

Then she bow'd down her head, and with her tears
Bedew'd the parched Earth: when streight appears
A Comforter by pittying Heaven sent
To raise her drooping Spirits almost spent:
Who when he had respectful Homage paid,
In terms obliging reverently said,

Mother, I know the cause of all thy Grief,
I'm sent thy Succour, and thy true Relief:
Thy God has heard thy Sighs, thy faithful Prayers,
And graciously receiv'd thy flowing Tears:
I'll wipe them off, I'll rugged Grief expel,
And usual Joy shall in thy Count'nance dwell:
I've made thy haughty Domineerers bow,
And own their Lives they to my bounty owe:
I've foil'd them all, I have disarm'd them quite,
They have the power to bark, but not to bite.
To ease your pain, by th'God of Heav'n I'm sent,
He acts, and I'm the Honour'd Instrument.

Then she arose, Joy smiling in her Eye,
And with a cheerful Voice did thus reply:
Thanks gracious God, thanks thou Victorious Son,
By whom I have my wonted Glory won:
Rejoyce my Sons, and Hallelujahs sing
Unto our Saviour, our Triumphant King.
For I an Anthem will compose, and then,
We'll sweetly sound it to our God.

Amen.

A View of the Religion of the Town: or a Sunday Mornings Ramble.

[I.]

On Saturday night we sate late at the Rose,
Carousing a glass to our Wives Repose,
After our usual Mode;
Till we dank so long,
That Religion came on,
For we were full of the God.
At Pro and Con
We held till One,
And then we agreed in the Close
To let Wording alone,
And Ramble the Town,
To see how Religion grows.

II.

We began at the Church of Saint Peter,
Whose Prebends make many Mouths water,
Religion did here,
Like Grave Matron appear,
Neat, but not Gawdy, like Courtezan Rome,
Plain, but no Slut like your Geneva Dame.
She hath on an old Stuff,
With a Primitive Ruff,
And round the Seam of her Vest,
In Musick-Notes scrawl'd all o'er,
Loyalty express'd she bore,
By which at her Church we guess'd.

III.

At the Tombs we did peep,
Where the Kings were asleep,
And the Choire melodiously chanted,
Without any concern,
As we could discern
Of being Be-Quo-warranted.
And we fancy, at the last cast (Sir)
When among the rest
They come to the Test,
Saint Peter will deny his Master.

IV.

Then shifting our Protestant Dress,
To the Royal Chappel we press,
Where Religion was fine indeed,
But with Facings and Fringings,
With Crossings and Cringings,
Entirely run up to Seed.
Good God, what distraction there reign'd,
Where Union in Worship was feign'd!
For I spy'd a poor Maid
Just come to the Trade,
(For I fancy she was but a Learner)
Who was but at most (Sir)
Half through Pater-Noster,
When the Priest was at Amen-Corner.

V.

Not an Irish-mans Breeches has half the Petitions
We saw put up there for various Conditions,
Sent to the bless'd Maid
With Care and with Speed,
And she soon had a Fellow-feeling,
For she was not far off,
But got up aloff,
Most curiously drawn on the Ceiling

By the Royal command;
Where Verrio's great Hand
(Such to the Saints is his Love)
To the Virgin has given
As glorious a Heaven,
As that she enjoys and reigns in above.
Whether like the Rogue drew her,
They can tell best that knew her,
Tho most men are apt to conjecture,
When he drew the bless'd Maid
(Moral Fancy to aid)
His Mistress sat for the Picture.

VI.

Then, bidding Farewel to their Goddess and them,
We put in at the Savoy, or New Amsterdam,
Not to find our Religion, but to see some odd Sights
To which Father Corker's Chappel invites.
As in ours sometimes we plac'd Saints and Martyrs,
So this Holy Room was surrounded with Traytors,
In Halters there hung,
Just so as they swung,
Saint Coleman, and most of the Gang (Boy)
And wa'n't it for something
That's just next to nothing,
Perhaps there had hung our new Envoy.

The Papists Exaltation, on His Highness the Prince of Orange, His Arrival in London.

Now, now, the Prince is come to Town,
The Nations Dread and Hope;
Who will support the Church and Throne,
Against the Turk and Pope.
The Folks are fled that were the Head,
The prop of Popery,
If all be true as it's said:
Then hey Boys up go we.

The Queen with her Adopted Heir,
Is on her way to Rome;
And all Undone, has left us here,
To end the Dance at home:
The Holy Fathers too are flown,
Saint Petre Gregory,
And if our Cause should once go down,
Then hey Boys up go we.

Sk---, Sh---, fled for fear,
Have render'd up the Keys;
And now our Magazine of War
Is made the seat of Peace.
The Chancellor is in the Power,
A woful sight to see;
And when he by the Head is lower,
Then hey Boys up go we.

Lord A---l and B---s,
With P---s are withdrawn;
The VVorld had not such Braves as these
To guard the Popish throne.
VVhen P--- turn'd of late,
VVith brawny S---
Their haughty Necks submit to Fate,
Then hey Boys up go we.

Poulton is in Newgate fast,
And some say Father Petre;
If they at Tyburn Swing at last,
VVho can die Martyrs greater;
VVhen Father Ellis is withdrawn,
VVho was so bold and free,
And Conquest for his Tongue is flown,
Then hey Boys up go we.

The Orange grafted in White-hall,
And Lucas in the Tower;
The Fathers fled both great and small,
'Tis time that we should scowre.
The Rabble they have eas'd the Town
Of Priests and Popery;
VVhen once they pull the Chappels down,
Then hey Boys up go we.

The Explanation.

[_]

To the Tune of, Hey Boys up go we.

I

Our Priests in Holy Pilgrimage,
Quite through the Land have gone,
Surveying each Religious House
Of Abbot, Fry'r, and Nun
The yearly Rent,
And full Extent
Of every one they know;
And in whose hands
Are all our Lands,
As ancient Writers show.

II

Those Places all shall be restor'd,
As in short time you'll hear,
I know the Man has pass'd his word,
Of which you need not fear:
He did ne'er evade
One Promise made,
Nor fail'd a Friend in Woe;
But when 'twill be,
Nor I, nor he,
Nor the Devil himself does know.

III

Religious Men shall hither haste,
Their Zeal shall make them run;
The Jesuits shall your Wives keep Chaste,
Each Fry'r Confess his Nun:
The Men shall Shrive,
The Women—
So all shall be forgiven;
Your Daughters Whore,
Then quit their Score,
And make them fit for Heaven.

IV

For Lady Abbess shall appear
An old Flux'd Bawd or Punk,
Has done both ways these threescore years,
Talk'd Bawdy, and been Drunk;
Religious Puns
To teach the Nuns
Committed to her Charge;
And mortifie
Their L---
As Nature does enlarge.

V

The Vestals all shall Virgins be
That never went astray,
Have been train'd up Religiously
The clean contrary way:
In Julian's Song
For Whoring long,
Tho oft they've noted been;
Nature of Force
Will have its Course,
'Twas all but Venial Sin.

VI

Your Colledges shall be our own,
As vacancy does fall;
We'll strip each Doctor of his Gown,
The Parsons turn out all:
Their Revenues great,
With pleasant Seat,
The Church to us has given,
To sing you Mass,
Confess each Ass,
And make you fit for Heaven.

VII

Nor will we any longer wait,
After such notice given;
Nor shall they in the Pulpits prate,
Or teach the way to Heaven:
'Tis our Province,
You to convince;
Our Arguments shall be,
Without Dispute
To make you mute,
Then, Hey Boys, up go we.

VIII

Now, Hereticks, consider well
The Game you have to play;
You yet may keep on this side Hell,
If warn'd by what we say:
But e'er your Lands
Shall 'scape our hands,
Which have been long our due;
We'll Stab, we'll Shoot,
And Damn to boot,
Then, Hey Boys, up go you.

A New Song on the Prince and Princess of Orange.

I

Since Orange is on British Land,
That Protestant who will not stand
To him, and under his Command,
Befriends the Romish Cause,
Gives all our Liberties away,
Our Lives to Popish Priests a prey,
And Magna Charta does betray
The Test and Penal Laws.

II

Bid too Illustrious Moll appear,
We sha'n't have them more cause to fear,
From any Jesuit practice here,
The Lawful Heir to cheat.
Then to her Highness a full Glass,
The Second Faith-defending Lass,
And to her Good Man: but the Mass
Let Providence defeat.

Tyrconnel's distracted Readings upon his Irish Forces in England.

In Allusion to Mr. Cowley's Pindarick Ode upon destiny.

Hoc quoque fatale est sic ipsum expendere fatum.

Manil.

I.

Strange and Unnatural. It's as Strange that England should want Ireland, as it is Unnatural for her War-like Spirits to brook their Infantry's Assistance.

Strange and unnatural, let's stay and see
This Pageant of a Prodigy.

Themselves. By their Barbarous, Thievish, and Rapatious Behaviors, where ever they Marched, one would think, they had no Officer to Command them.

Lo, of themselves, Dear Joyes, like Chess-men move,
Lo, the unbred, ill-contriv'd Machins prove
As full of Craft and Cruelty,
Of Baseness and of Butchery,
As we our self, who fear'd they wa'n't so fierce as we.
Here a proud Pawn in Irish shape l'admire,
That still designing higher,

A Dear Joy twice Whipt in Covent-Garden, for saying he hoped to see the Streets run with Heretical Blood on St. Clement's Day at Night, when, it seems, the Massacre was designed to be.

(Till the Fool lost his Lot
By blabbing out their Plot,
Foretelling the design'd St. Clements flood
He hoped to see run with Heretick Blood.

Viz. For discovering the Plot; not for the Words speaking, as the gulled Protestants were made to believe.

For which twice Whipt, that done,
And's Gauntlet Race begun)
At the Goal end became

Another Thing and Name, Viz. The Irish Gentleman Souldier by Father Whip and Gauntlet, was immediately Transubstantiated into a Casheired Scoundrel Rogue.

Another Thing and Name:

An Irish Spark, whose behaviour in his sundry Quarters from Chester to London and Portsmouth proclaim him.

Here I'm amaz'd at the actions of a Knight,
That does bold Plunders in no Fight;
Whose Landlords swear he has lost his Senses quite,
For he can't hear their Wrongs, nor see to do them Right.

Usurping Rooks, i. e. The Irish Priests, not content with their own natural Motions, but endeavoured to leap over the Bishops Heads, to make Vacancies for their own Perswasion.

Here I, (woe's me) Usurping Rooks do blame,
For those false Moves, that thus has broke our Game;

That to their Grave the Bag, those Conquer'd Machines bring,
But above all, th'ill Conduct of the Mated King.

II.

What e'er these seem, what e'er Philosophy
And Sense and Reason tell, said I,
These Tools have Life, Election, Liberty,
'Tis their own Native Wisdom Molds their State;
Their Wit and Folly make their Fate,
They do, they do, said I, but strait,
Lo, from my enlightned Eyes, the Mists and Shadows fell,
Which hinder Spirits from being Visible;

Locusts . It was the Opinion of that Reverend Divine Mr. Joseph Mead, and that Immortal Philosopher Dr. Henry Moor, that the Jesuits are meant by the Locusts from the Bottomless Pit, in the 9th Chapter of the Revelations.

And then appear'd the Locusts come from Hell;
When Lo, I see the Jesuits play'd the Mate.
With them, alas! no otherwise it proves;
An unseen Hand makes all their Moves;
And some are Great, and some are Small,
Some climb from good, some from good Fortune fall;
Those senceless Teagues, and these Dear Joys we call
Figures, alas, of Speech, for Pop'ry plays us all.

III.

Me from the Womb, Midwife Pope Joan did take;
She cut my Navel, Wash'd me, and my Head
With her own Hands she Fashoned;
She did a Covenant with me make,
And Circumciz'd my tender Soul, and thus she spake:
Thou Bigot of my Roman Church shall be;
Hate and Renounce (said she)
Sense, Reason, Laws and Test, Justice and Truth for me.
So shalt thou great at Court be, but in War

When Jepson, Wareing, and Tomson, were Executed at the Gallows at Dublin for Blood's Plot against the late Duke of Ormond, in the year 1663. some people cryed out a Rescue, a Rescue, which was suspected; at which 10000 of the gentle Spectators at least, run away from the Gallows, amongst which this Famous Warrior by the name of Colonel T---bot, spurred on to the Gates of the City, which finding shut against him, Couragiously ventured his Life to save it, by Swiming over the Liffie.

Thy flight from Dublin Gallows will thee bar.

Boast thou of thy great fertile Praise,
Thy design'd Massacre will raise,
Although thou liv'st not to enjoy the Bays.
She spoke, and all my years to come
Bewitch'd took their unlucky Doom.
Their several ways of Life let others chuse;
Their several Pleasures let them use:
But I was Born for Hate and to Abuse.

IV.

With Fate what boots it to contend?
Such I begun, such am, and so must end;
The Star that did my Being frame,
Was but a Lambent Flame.
And some small Light it did dispence,
But neither Wit nor Sense,
Nor Heat, nor Influence.
No matter Talbot, let the Blind Goddess see
How Grateful thou can'st be,
For all her Elegible Gifts conferr'd on thee,
(Specifick Essences of Popery)
As Folly, Lust and Flattery,
Fraud, Extortion, Calumny,
Murther, Self-will and Infidelity,
Cowardise and Hypocricy.
Do thou Rejoyce, not Blush to be,
As all th'Inspir'd Disingenuous Men,

Charles Martell, Son of the Whore Alpayde, (by Pipin the French King) the Great Church Robber, and first violater of Tythes in the Christian World, and Will. Pen the Second: For which Martell was Damn'd, or the Legend Lies: For Eucherie Bishop of Orleance, in a Vision, saw him in Hell Torments: And that Eucherie might believe what he saw, an Angel instructed him to seek for Martell in his Sepulchre, which he did, but found him not, but the Place all black, and instead of Martell a direful Serpent, as you have it in the Annals of Orleance.

And all thy Damn'd Fore-Fathers were, from Martell down to Pen.

A New Litany for the Holy Time of LENT.

I

From all the Women We have whor'd
From being bound to keep Our Word,
From Civil Broils and Foreign Sword,
Libera nos Domine.

II

From store of Ships and want of Men,
From leaping into the Lyons Den,
From a Dutch-War, and Burnet's Pen,
Libera nos, &c.

III

From Bombs of France, and Bulls of Rome,
From being Hen-peck'd worse at Home,
From D--- insatiate Womb,
Libera nos, &c.

IV

From Toleration and such Nonsense,
From granting Liberty of Conscience
To Hereticks, against their own Sense,
Libera nos, &c.

V

From hopes we shall Dissenters bring
To Union with a Popish King,
And P---n, that manag'd the whole thing,
Libera nos, &c.

VI

From standing of our Slaves in dread,
From being by the Priesthood led
From English-Limbs, to a Roman-Head,
Libera nos, &c.

VII

From Oxford, faithful to his Trust,
From being to Our Promise Just,
From M--- Pride to his VVive's Lust,
Libera nos, &c.

VIII

From Somerset and haughty Lory,
That would Eclipse our Roman Glory,
And make a Jest of Purgatory,
Libera nos, &c.

IX

From Parliaments that dare oppose,
And lead their Soveraign by the Nose,
And from the Sanguinary Laws,
Libera nos, &c.

X

From such as will not do their best
To take off Penal-Laws and Test:
From Stamford, Grey, and all the rest,
Libera nos, &c.

XI

VVe humble do beseech thee Lord,
That we may Govern by the Sword,
And Berwick know no other VVord,
Quæsimus te audire nos Domine.

XII

That it may please while we do Reign,
VVhatever Neighbour Rules the Main,
To make us great in our Campaign,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XIII

That it may be enough for these,
VVhile others Towns and Castles seize,
To storm 'em here in Effigies,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XIV

That they may feast and make a Noise,
And with their Volleys rend the Skies,
Against a flock of Butter-flys,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XV

That it may please thee to repair
Lord P---is, who is in despair,
And furnish England with an Heir,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XVI

That it may be a Prince of Wales,
And if the Smock and Dada fails,
Adopt a Brat of Neddy H---,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XVII

That it may prove its Fathers Hope,
Restore the Nuncio and the Pope,
And save Old Petre from the Rope,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XVIII

That we with Members may be bless'd,
In such a Parliament possess'd,
As shall Annul the Bloody Test,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XIX

That we have time before we dye
To settle Church and Popery,
That Father Condon may not fly,
Quæsimus te, &c.

XX

Grant we never cross the Main,
To be a Geneal for Spain,
And never see Breda again,
Quæsimus te, &c.

The Council.

[_]

To the Tune of, Jamaica.

I

Two O Toms and Nat,
In Council sat,
To rigg out a Thansgiving,
And make a Prayer,
For a thing in the Air,
That's neither Dead nor Living.

II

The Dame of East
As 'tis Express'd,
In her late quaint Epistle,
Did to our Lady,
Bequeath the Baby,
With Coral, Bells and Whistle.

III

With this intent, she to her sent
Her Gold and Diamond Bodkin,
That to conceive,
She might have leave;
And is not this an odd thing?

IV

Then a Pot of Ale,
To the Prince of Wales,
Tho some are of Opinion,
That when 'tis come out,
A Double Clout
Will cover his Dominion.

The Audience.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The Criticks that pretend to Sense,
Do cavil at the Audience,
As if his Grace were not as good,
To bow to, as a piece of Wood.
Did not our Fathers heretofore
Their sensless Deities adore?
Did not Old Delphos all along
Vent Oracles without a Tongue?
And wisest Monarchs did imporune
From the dumb God to know their Fortune.
Did not the Speaking-Head of late,
Of matters Learnedly Debate?
And rendred without Tongue or Ears
Wise answers to his whisp'ring Peers?
And shall we to a living Prince
Deny the State of Audience?
What tho the Bantling cannot speak?
Yet like the Blockhead he may squeak;
Give Audience by Interpreter,
The wisest Prince can do no more.

Then enter with a Princes Banner
Sir Charles, after the usual manner.
Great Sir, His Holiness from Rome
Greets your high Birth. The Prince cry'd Mum.
The Consecrated Pilch and Clout,
If you'll vouchsafe to hear me out,
And many other Toys I'm come
To lay them to your sacred Bum.

So young, yet such a Godlike Ray!
Phœbus, your Dad, was Priest D---a,
Great Prince, I have no more to say.
Conducted next their comes, Great Sir,
An Envoy from the Emperor,
To Gratulate your lucky Fate,
That gives to Englands Throne new date;
We joy that any thing should Reign,
To baffle Orange and the Dane.
The Youth, to see them thus beguil'd,
In token of his favour, smil'd.
But at the Spaniard laugh'd outright.
As shamm'd again in Eighty Eight.
Next, having pass'd the inward Centry,
The doubtful Monsieur made his entry.
The King, my Master, Sir, has sent
Your Royal Birth to complement;
If you will make it but appear,
That you are Englands Lawful Heir.
Here Lady P---is took him short,
Have you a King? Thank Maz'rine for't!

Fr. man

Whoe're the Father was, the Mother
Was France's Q.

(P---is)
Who questions t'other?

At this Reproof he pawn'd a Purse,
And parting made his peace with Nurse.
The Dane, the Suede, with other Nations,
Come in with loud Congratulations.
Upon the Suede so fam'd for Battel,
He cast a frown, and shook his Rattle.
And for the Dane, who took the part
Of good Prince George, he let a fart.
This put him in a sullen fit,
Nurse scarce could dance him out of it.
VVhen an Embassador from Poland,
Knock'd at the Door, and Velt from Holland,

He crying suck'd, and sucking cry'd,
VVhen Lady Governess reply'd,
Peace, Prince, peace, Prince, peace, pretty Prince
And let the States have Audience.

Dutch-man.]

From Holland I am hither sent,
To Challenge, not to Complement.
Prepare with speed your Twenty Sail,
Your twice four thousand on the Nail;
Which by your Senate was enacted,
With Orange, when your Sire contracted.

The Name of Holland did affright,
And make th'young Hero scream outright.
But, Orange nam'd, the Royal Elf,
The sweet, sweet Babe, beshit himself.
Tyrconnel, who came o're no less
Than to be made his Governess ,
To take her leave, by luck came in,
She suck'd his Nose, and lick'd him clean.
Last came the Lady H--- from Play,
Mov'd by Instinct he cry'd, Mamma,
And posted to the Queen away.

The States-Man's Almanack:

Being an Excellent New Ballad, in which the Qualities of each Month are consider'd; whereby it appears, that a Parliament cannot meet in any of the Old Months: With a Proposal for mending the Kalender, humbly offered to the Packers of the next Parliament.

[_]

To the Tune of, Cold and Raw, &c.

PROLOGUE.

[I]

The talk up and down,
In Country and Town,
Has been long of Parliaments sitting,
But we'll make it clear,
Ne'r a month in the Year,
Is proper for such a Meeting.

II

The Judges declare it,
The Ministers swear it,
And the Town as a Tale receives it:
Let them say what they can,
There's never a Man,
Except God's Vicegerent, believes it.

III

If the Criticks in spight,
Our Arguments slight,
And think 'em too light for the Master:
It has often been known,
That Men on a Throne,
Have Hrarang'd the whole Realm with no better.

IV

For in times of Old,
When Kings were less bold
And made for their faults Excuses:
Such Topicks as these,
The Commons to please,
Did serve for most Excellent Uses.

V

Either Christmas came on,
Or Harvest begun,
And all must repair to their Station:
'Twas too Dry, or too Wet,
For the Houses to Sit,
And Hey for a Prorogation.

VI

Then, Sir, if you please,
With such Reasons as these,
Let's see how each Moon is appointed:
For tho it be strange,
In all her Change,
She Favours not God's Anointed.

The ALMANACK.

January.

The first is too cold,
For Popery to hold,
Since Southern Climats Improve it:
And therefore in Frost,
'Tis Odds but it's lost,
If they offer to remove it.

February.

The next do's betide,
(Tho then the King dy'd)
Ill luck, and they must not be tampring:
For had not Providence quick,
Cool'd his Head i'th' Nick,
'Fore God they were all a scampring.

March.

The Month of Old Rome,
Has an Omen with some,
But the sleeping Wind then Rouzes,
And trust not the crowd,
When Storms are so loud,
Lest their Breath infect the Houses.

April.

In this by Mishap,
Southask had a Clap,
Which pepper'd our Gracious Master:
And therefore i'th' Spring,
He must Physick his Thing,
And venture no new Disaster.

May.

This Month is too good,
And too lusty his Blood,

To be for Business at leisure,
With his Confessors leave,
Honest Bridget may give,
The Fumbler Royal his Pleasure.

June.

The Brains of the State,
Have been too hot of late,
They have manag'd all Business in rapture:
And to call us in June,
Is much to the same Tune,
Being mad to the end of the Chapter.

July.

This Season was made
For Camp and Parade,
Where with the Expence of his Treasures;
Of much Sweat and Pains,
Discreetly he Trains,
Such Men, as will break all his Measures.

August.

This Month did advance
Our Projects in France,
As Bartholomew Remembers;
But alas they want force,
To take the same Course,
With our Heretical Members.

September.

They cannot now meet,
For the Progress was set,
But they find it a scurvy Fashion:
To ride, and to ride,
To be snubb'd and deny'd,
By every good man in the Nation.

October.

Now Hunting comes in,
That License for Sin,

That do's with a Cloak befriend him,
For if the Queen knows,
What at G---'s he do's,
His Divine Right can hardly defend him.

November.

November might do,
For ought that we know:
But that the King promis'd by chance Sirs,
And his Word before,
Was pawn'd for much more,
Than e're 'twill be able to Answer.

December.

The last of the year,
Resemblance does bear,
To their hopes and fortune declining:
Ne'r hope for success,
Day grows less and less,
And the Sun once so high has done shining.

EPILOGUE.

[I]

You Gypsies of Rome,
That run up and down,
And with Miracles People Cozen:
By the help of some Saint,
Get the Month that you want,
And make Thirteen of the Dozen.

II

You see the Old year,
Wont help ye, 'tis clear,
And therefore to save your Honour:

Get a new Sun and Monn,
And the Work is half done,
And Faith I think not sooner

The State-Holder:

Or, the Prince's Almanack, Calculated for the Meridian of London, and Calling of a Protestant Parliament; being a Counterpart of the States-Man's Almanack.

PROLOGUE.

I

The Talk about went,
That a Free Parliament,
Should never more Sit in this Nation:
But I'll make it clear,
There's no Month in the year,
But is proper on this occasion.

II

Tho some did deceive us,
You may now believe us,
Since the Royal Assent made his Exit:
Say what e'er you can,
There's never a man,
cepting Lord Wem that suspects it.

III

If the Graves of the Laws,
Our Topicks oppose,
We'll prove 'tis the Sense of the Nation;
The readiest way,
To make the Slaves pay,
For their Nibbling with Dispensation.

IV

In times on Record,
When Kings kept their Word,
And people were in their Senses:
So poor an Excuse,
Was such an Abuse,
No Monarch e'er made such Pret eces,

V

The King is withdrawn,
The Prince come to Town,
The timely Redeemer o'th' Nation:
The Lords are all Set,
And the old Members met,
Then hey! for a Convocation.

VI

For tho to our loss,
Things ever went cross,
Whilst Petre was chief Director:
There is not a Sun,
Or a Change in the Moon,
But favours our Great Protector.

The ALMANACK.

January.

Tho the First be too cold,
For Popery to hold,
Yet fear not a Dissolution:
For tho it be Frost,
And the Jesuists Crost,
It agrees with a Dutch Constitution.

February.

Though next came a thing,
Brought Popery in,
With all the fine Relicks and Crosses:
Tho then the King dy'd,
We have One on our side,
This Month will repair all our Losses.

March.

The Month of Old Rome,
Will bring 'em all home,
The Authors of all our Evil;
This Month the Wind blows,
And the Breath of the House
Will send 'em all going to the Devil.

April.

In this the Old Whore
Of Babel came o're,
Which was a sore Clap to the Nation;
And therefore i'th' Spring,
We must manage the thing,
To make a full Reformation.

May.

The Prince is too good,
And too near to the Blood,
To allow to the House any leisure;
The Lords and High Powers,
Must gather new Flowers,
To stock the Exhausted Treasure.

June.

This Month brought in Grist,
To the Hot-headed Priest,
Who over-rul'd the Ruler,
And therefore the House,
By way of a Doze,
Must Sit to prepare 'em a Cooler.

July.

This Month of late made,
For Camp and Parade,
In which were exhausted our Treasures,
Will better be spent
By a wise Parliament,
Enacting and making new Measures.

August.

This finished a League,
With Monsieur and Teague,
For a total Extirpation
Of the Hereticks Cause:
And therefore the House
Must sit to Establish the Nation.

September.

The Colleges fool'd,
This month over-rul'd,
And therefore each Protestant Member,
Must sit and Debate,
Of matters of State,
To set all things right in September.

100

October.

This Season was spent,
By Burton and Brent,
To manage each Corporation;
And therefore 'tis fit,
The Houses should sit,
To Vote it a Combination:

November.

Above all the rest,
Will be in request,
The Auspicious Month of November;
When Orange our Cause,
Restored with the Laws,
Recorded by every Member.

December.

Tho this be the last,
And all danger past,
Yet are we resolv'd every Member,
Both Common and Peer,
To sit all the Year,
From January to December.

EPILOGUE.

I

You Gypsies of Rome,
That hence are withdrawn,
In the Name of the State, we beseech you,
To the dozen before,
Find out a Month more,
And we'll sit out that month to oblige you.

101

II

You see ne're a close
Does favour your Cause,
Since England's so well protected:
When there's no more Moon,
You may sit on this Throne;
For sooner you cannot expect it.

The ORANGE.

I

Good People I pray,
Throw the Orange away,
'Tis a very sowre Fruit, and was first brought in play,
When good Judith Wilk,
In her Pocket brought Milk,
And with Cushins and Warming-pans labour'd to bilk
This same Orange.

II

When the Army retreats,
And the Parliament sits,
To Vote our K--- the true use of his Wits:
Twill be a sad means,
VVhen all he obtains,
Is to have his Calves-head dress'd with other mens Brains
And an Orange,

102

III

The sins of his Youth,
Made him think of one Truth,
VVhen he spawl'd from his Lungs, and bled twice at the mouth,
That your fresh sort of food,
Does his Carkass more good,
And the damn'd thing that Cur'd his putrify'd blood
Was an Orange.

IV

This hopeful young Son,
Is surely his own,
Because from an O--- it cry'd to be gone;
But the Hereticks say,
He was got by D---
For neither K--- nor the Nuncio dare stay
Near an Orange.

V

Since Lewis was Cut,
From his Breech to the Gut,
France fancies an Open-arse delicate Fruit,
We wiser than so,
Have two strings to our Bow,
For we've a good --- that's an Open-arse too,
And an Orange.

VI

Till Nanny writ much,
To the Rebels the D---
Her Mother, good Woman, ne'r ow'd her a grutch,
And the box of the Ear,
Made the matter appear,
That the only foul savour the Q--- could not bear
Was an Orange.

103

VII

An honest Old Peer,
That forsook God last year,
Pull'd off all his Plaisters, and Arm'd for the War;
But his Arms would not do,
And his Aches throbb'd too,
That he wish'd his own Pox and his M***s too
On an Orange.

VIII

Old Tyburn must groan,
For Jeffreys is known
To have Perjur'd his Conscience to marry his Son;
And D---s Cause
Will be try'd by Just Laws,
And H---t must taste a most damnable Sauce,
With an Orange.

IX

Lob, Pen, and a score
Of those honest men more,
VVill find this same Orange exceedingly sowre;
The Q--- to be seiz'd,
VVill be very ill pleas'd,
And so will K. P---, too dry to be squeez'd
By an Orange

An Epistle to Mr. Dryden.

Dryden , thy VVit has catterwaul'd too long,
Now Lero, Lero, is the only Song.
VVhat Singing, Dancing, Interludes of late,
Stuff, and set off our goodly Farce of State?
Not Albevil can turn a deep Intrigue,
Till first well warm'd with Bishop Talgol's Jigg.

104

W---m cannot sleep, or if a Nap he takes,
His Dream some Old Tressilian Ballad breaks.
But was e'er seen the like, in Prose or Metre,
To this mad Play, or work of Father Petre?
At Court no longer Punchionello takes,
Each Scene, Part, Cue, mishapen to the Mac's.
Such Plot, and the Catastrophe is such,
We must be either Irish all, or Dutch.
Our very Judges in Westminster-Hall,
Like their Old Roof, were Irish Timber all.
And (bless us!) Irish Wolves are brought to keep
The Nation, grown now all such silly Sheep;
Such errant Asses, errant Cattle made,
Or to be yok'd, or saddl'd, fleec'd, or flead.
O Martyrs Son! thy destiny is shown,
Such props are for a Scaffold, not a Throne:
So Juno, in her impotence of rage,
By Heaven deny'd, did Hell's black Powers engage;
Yet sped the Heroe: Jove and Fate were strong;
Religious care: He took his Gods along:
But hark, O hark, the Belgick Lion roars,
And shakes afar the French and British Shoars:
One Brandy drinks, one mad with Prophecies:
Lord! what they tell us of some Prince from Frize;
Arms, and the Man they sing, no French finess,
But hearty blows, and Brandenburg Address.
Hence Vigour, and our Figure comes agen,
We rise, and walk, all true erected men.
The force of those Circæan Cups subdu'd,
And the wild Charms our new Armida brew'd,
The Witchcraft he (our true Rinaldo) broke,
And grubs the base pretenders to his stock.

But oh, what Spirit of deceit afar,
Possess'd our Pulpits, and bewitch'd the Bar?

105

What Bane, what Mischief on poor Mortals shed
By Vermin, from the Laws corruption bred?
Tho to their Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave,
Below what strife and endless toyls they weave:
Wanting brave strength to strangle men to death,
What Frauds they hide! What Venom underneath!
And when some shorter course to Murder's shown,
Cry, O that (luscious) Point! they gain'd the Crown.

Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep,
And of that same stumm'd Cup have drunk as deep.
Agog for some odd transubstantiate thing,
Chimera Reign, or Metaphysick King,
Sublim'd to School Divinity extreams,
Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams.
So high from solid honest wisdom blown,
They'd have some Hippo-Centaur on the Throne.
Not Law-ordain'd, but by some God appointed,
Not Lay-elected, but be Priest-anointed.
Away this Goblin Witchcraft, Priestcraft-Prince;
Give us a King, Divine, by Law and Sense.

Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport,
Their Cause is carried to the last Effort.
Princes in more compendious method teach,
Force is their way; let Old Apostles Preach.
What's stablish'd Law, where standing Armies come,
Or who'll talk Gospel to a Kettle-Drum?
When God would hear, where Giants did oppress,
The several Nations had their Hercules.
So were the Horns of grizly violence broke,
So people freed from triple Geryon's yoke.
The various Snake in Lerna-Lough that bred,
That loll'd and hiss'd to Death, at every head,
Nemæan Lion, Erymanthian Boar,
In Bogs that wallow, and on Hills that roar:

106

All by his Godlike Prowess done away,
Their Lawless Rule, and that Gigantick sway.

In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought,
The Nassau-House were never yet without.
Nor is confin'd to Provinces their care,
Their generous labour neighbouring Kingdoms share.
Here the foul Herd flee from his lifted hand,
That long had made a Stable of the Land.
The Monster of the Lough, new Lerna-Plague
(But scarce in head) the Bog-begotten Teagne,
The ravenous kind, the Harpies sharp for prey,
With Birds obscene, and uncouth to the day.
No Den, no Ditch, no rousting for them more,
Now, now is come our Hercules ashore.
Vile Fraud dispell'd, and superstitious Mists:
He from our Temple drives all Knaves and Priests.
Then warmer W---op, in due Scarlet shown,
To Coffee-Dick bequeaths his rusty Gown.
Oh Dryden, if this Hercules were thine,
How wou'd his Club, and Atlas-shoulders shine:
How wou'dst thou all our Maids of Honour fright,
With naughty Tale, of Fifty in a Night?
Howe'er, no more let Xavier mar thy Pen,
No Miracle to forty thousand men.
When Law, and bald Divinity begins,
Why then, the marvel that a Poet fins?

107

A Sale of Old State Houshold-Stuff.

[_]

To the Tune of, Old Simon the King.

I

The Government being resolv'd
To new furnish the House of State,
Hath thought fitting to put off the old,
That was rusty and worn out of date.
Then come all you State-Brokers away,
And take off our old fashion'd trinkoms,
You for a small matter may buy
What cost the price of three Kingdoms.

Quoth J--- the Bigotted K---
Quoth J--- the Politick thing,
With a thred-bare Oath,
And a Catholick Troth,
That never was worth a farthing.

II

Here's (what was to cleanse Church and State)
The Beesom of Reformation,
Brought in by Henry the Eighth,
And Besses grave Convocation.
Here are diverse Conformity Acts,
The Penal Laws and all,
With a parcel of over-rul'd Statutes,
Kick'd out of Westminster-Hall.

Quoth J---, &c.

108

III

Come buy the old Tapistry Hangings,
Which hung in the House of Lords,
That kept the Spanish Invasion,
And Powder-plot, on Record.
A musty old Magna Charta,
That wants new scowring and cleansing,
Writ so long since, and so dark too,
That 'tis hard to pick out the meaning.

Quoth J---, &c.

IV

Here's a Pack of nasty Court Cards,
Much foul'd with over playing,
Condemn'd to the Fields of Tom T---d,
For they never were worth the buying.
A pitiful tatter'd Scotch League,
Swallow'd meerly to trepan men,
Took by the late King in Intrigue,
And aftewards burnt by the Hangman.

Quoth J---, &c.

V

Three Protestant Vizors much worn,
And in use since the days of Queen Bess,
Which now we have laid by with scorn,
Being resolv'd to appear with bare face.
Come buy a thing brought from Breda,
Call'd a Royal Declaration,
Which of late we have copied at large,
Having promis'd to keep up the fashion

Of old Simon the King,
Quoth J---, &c.

109

VI

A parcel of Conge d' esliers,
By Heretick Bishops own'd,
The reward of the old Cavaliers,
For their Loyalty to the Crown.
Here's your Corporation Charters,
And University Regulations,
For all which as cheap you may barter,
As Cucumbers in the Vacation.

Quoth J---, &c.

VII

Here's a Crew of Exclusion Abhorrers,
And a litter of Loyal Addressors,
Who'd have run to the Devil for us,
When they Bully'd for Popish Successors.
But now they are down in the mouth,
Their Damning and Healthing forsakes 'em,
If you think them not a penny-worth
For fetching, the Devil may take them.

Quoth J---, &c.

VIII

Here's a Tribe of mad Pulpiteers,
That still for Right Line were trimming,
We'll exchange them for Bandileers,
And leave them to Urim and Thummim.
Here's a Cart Load of Observators,
That were writ in Defence of the Church,
By Hodge that Eternal Prater,
Whose Quill is now left in the lurch.

Quoth J---, &c.

IX

Will you buy any Protestant Places,
In Army, or where you think best Sir?
Those that think to keep them are Asses,
VVhen once we are rid of the Test Sir.

110

And thus I will end my Sale,
With a Bar to either House,
If we get but over it well,
For the rest I care not a Lowse.

Quoth J---, &c.

The DREAM.

Weary'd with Business, and with Cares opprest,
My faculties were Doz'd and fond of rest,
An unusual heaviness did on me creep,
My Soul Indulg'd it; yet I could not sleep.
Dreams short and frightful vext me all the Night,
I found I was betray'd, and long'd for Light;
The first such Wonders brought within my view,
And when I wak'd I almost thought them true.
Methought I saw great Julius sadly lye
Bleeding from all his Wounds, and Brutus by.
The ungrateful Brutus which he doted on,
With Meager Cassius pleas'd with what he had done,
Crying, the World and Brutus are my own.
I nearer drew to view the Ghastly Trunk,
But oh! the Scene was chang'd, Cæsar was sunk;
'Twas Charles the Second, which lay mangl'd there,
The Sacrificing Tribe too did appear,
Brutus and Cassius, Y---k and Petre were.
Charles weeping, grasp'd his Brother by the hand,
I heard him sighing say, within my Land
A faithful Pious Mother thou wilt command,
Who in the utmost of Extremity,
When all but her and much upbraided, I

111

Wou'd from the Crown have quite excluded thee,
Preach'd up thy forfeit Title by our Laws,
And in thy banishment maintain thy Cause;
Passive Obedience thou hast much in store,
But do not urge it to thy utmost power:
James to preserve her most devoutly swore,
Charles dy'd, and James discharg'd his Oath next hour,
I saw the Priests flock in: the Bishops out,
Saw Petres cram the VVafer down his Throat,
Tho' dead, it sav'd the Heretick no doubt.
I saw him poorly bury'd in the Night,
A wretched Train, and a more wretched sight;
To me it seem'd a Funeral in Disguise,
For fear his Creditors shou'd his body seize.
I saw him shewn for two pence in a Chest,
Like Monk, Old Harry, Mary, and the rest,
And if the figure answer'd its intent,
In ten years time 'twould buy a Monument.
My fancy brought me back again to Court,
Where only Fools Advise, and Knaves Resort,
Our Kingdoms Curse, and other Nations Sport.
I heard the Jesuits in a grand Cabal,
Resolve to Root out Heresie or fall,
Each his particular Opinion gave,
They cry'd an opportunity we have
To fetter her, who kept us long her Slave.
Immediately they pitch'd upon a Rule,
How to suppress it by a forward Fool,
A bawling blund'ring senseless Tool;
VVhose Mouthing at White-Chappel first began,
VVho regularly to his Greatness ran
Thro' all the vile degrees of Treachery,
And now Usurps the Court of Equity?

112

He said, if you wou'd bring the Clergy down,
Erect a Court-Commission from the Crown,
And for Dispencing Law let me alone,
They hugg'd their Bubble, and the deed was done.
Petre grew Fat, and with Mandamus's,
Canker'd the VVorthy Universities.
The seats of Learning Black-Heads might command,
Yet the Kings promise to the Church doth stand.
Next, Liberty of Conscience was Ordain'd;
The Bishops for Contempt were then Arraign'd;
The Nobles and the Commons Closetted,
The Penal Laws must be Abolished:
If you refuse, your Principles are base,
Disloyal, and you lose our Royal Grace,
And each that has Dependencies his place.
Rochester fell, the Loyal Herbert starv'd,
Each that forsook his God, his Monarch serv'd:
Somerset lost his Troops, and Shrowsbury,
Oxford was stripp'd to Scarsdal Lumbley;
And many more too tedious to relate,
By whom in safety, James, thou now dost sit.
VVhen thou perceiv'dst no comfort from this Wild,
Thy Dame, immediately was quick with Child,
The Princess at the Bath when it was Born,
The Bishops in the Tower, yet had he sworn
The Church of England never should be wrong'd,
Upon this News the Hot-brain'd Papists Throng'd;
I wak'd, and as I on my Dream Reflected,
My reasonable Notions thus projected:
O King, I cry'd, thy Measures run too fast,
And thou wilt find the curse of it at last;
Why dost thou wrong thy Country, shame thy life,
To please false Priests, and an ungrateful Wife.

113

A VVife, whose Character has always been
A Fawning Dutchess, and a Sawcy Queen.
How canst thou suffer Petre's Insolence,
VVho only makes a harvest of his Prince.
A Slave, to Rule Three Kingdoms, Govern thee,
Yet ne'er was Master of a Family:
This Serpent envying thy Happiness,
Has crept into thy Eve, whose wilfulness
Has certainly betray'd thy Paradise;
Discerning Hallifax thy fall foresaw,
And early did his slghted Faith withdraw;
He needs no pardon for the advice he gave,
VVhich shews him honester than some that have.
Under the Rose Men use their mind to tell,
But now Myne-Heir 'tis under the Broad Seal;
O Nassaw, with thy promis'd Succours come,
And be to us like Anthony to Rome:
Thy Wife shall young Octavia's place supply,
And those that have betray'd our Country fly,
Unless the King to prove the Prince his own,
Shall to the Lyons-Den present his Son,
And if the Royal Brute do not destroy,
The Infant, by Christ 'tis his none Joy.

The Paradox on the Confinement of the Lords.

Let Cynicks bark, and the stern Stagyrite
At Epicures Precepts vent his spite;
Let Church-men Preach their Thred-bare Paradox,
Passive Obedience to their bleeding Flocks.

114

Let Stoicks boast of a contented mind,
The unknown pleasures of a Life confin'd;
That in Imprisonment the Soul is free,
Grant me (ye Gods) but Ease and Liberty.

That there is Pleasure in a dirty Road,
A tir'd Horse that sinks beneath his Load,
No money, and an old inveterate Pox;
This I'll believe without a Paradox.

But to affirm 'twas the Dispencing Power,
That did Decree the Prelates to the Tower;
And such Confinements for the Propagation
Of the true Doctrine of the Reformation.

That to remove the Candlesticks from sight
Is to enlarge the Gospel and the Light;
And the Seven Angels are in Tribulation.
To Guard the Church from Pagan Invocation.

To say this is the keeping of our VVord,
The only way we have to be secur'd;
Supporting of the English Church and Cause,
In all its Priviledges, Rights and Laws.

Pardon my Faith, for sooner I'll believe
The Subtile Serpent was deceiv'd by Eve;
Rome shall with Hereticks her promise keep,
And Ravenous VVolves Protect the straggling Sheep,

That P--- shall be mild and moderate,
Not out of meer regard to his Estate;
And for a Hopeful Heir Invoke the Saints,
Out of his tender love to Protestants.

That Father Petres Counsel shall prevail,
To quit their guiltless Lordships without Fail;
And Gildford beg i'th' name of the Young Prince,
Dispencing James may with their minds dispence.

I will believe D--- shall Fail His Grace,
And C--- shall with C--- change place;

115

And H--- when made a Cardinal,
Shall Write a Learn'd Apology for all.

That for Old Ely, Bristol, Bath and Wells,
The Jesuits would pawn their Beads and Bells;
For Lloyd and Peterborough to be Bail,
Good Rochester would lye himself in Goal.

That the Lord Chancellor shall quit the Purse,
For their respective Fines to Reimburse;
Or that the Judges should not all Conspire
To find them guilty of a Preminire.

That Pemberton shall at the Bench prevail,
And Allibone shall Plead to be their Bail;
Or H---, that lyes upon the Lurch;
Who left the Charter shall restore the Church.

That she, who lately lookt into her Choice,
The Witty Author of the Brace of Mice,
Shall baffle the Old Panther in her Race,
And Crown her Husband with the Lawrels Bays.

All this I freely could believe and more,
But that the Lords are Sail'd out of the Tower,
Out of Respect to be sent back again,
For breach of Laws they sworn are to maintain.

That they have guilt of Disobedience,
In this you must excuse my Diffidence,
Who plac'd upon the Monarchs Head the Crown,
Props of the Church, and Pillars of the Throne.

116

*Over the Lord D***rs Door.*

Unhappier Age who e'er saw,
When Truth doth go for Treason;
Every Blockead's Will for Law,
And Coxcombs Sense for Reason.
Religion's made a Bawd of State,
To serve the Pimps and Panders,
Our Liberty a Prison Gate,
And Irishmen Commanders.
O Wretched is our Fate!
What Dangers do we run,
We must be Wicked to be Great,
And to be Just, undone.
'Tis thus our Sov'raign keeps his Word,
And makes the Nation Great;
To Irishmen he trusts the Sword,
To Jesuits the State.

Over the Lord S---s Door.

If Cevil the Wise,
From his Grave should arise,
And look the fat, B--- in the Face.
He'd take him from Mass,
And turn him to Grass,
And swear he was none of Race.

117

To the Speaking-Head.

I'm come my future Fate to seek,
Speak then, Cœlestial Block-head speak.

Answer.

Had'st thou not consulted with the Witch at Rome,
Thou need'st not thus, like Saul, to Endor come
To seek out (Brother Solid-head) thy Doom
The Hearts of all thy Friends are lost and gone;
Gazing they stand, and grieving round thy Throne.
And scarce believe thou art the Martyrs Son.
Those, whom thou favourest, merit not thy Grace,
They, to their Interest, Sacrifice thy Peace,
And will in sorrow make thee end thy days.
Tempt not thy Fate too far, do not rely
On force or fraud; Why should'st thou Monarch, why,
Live unbelov'd, and unlamented dye?

The Ghost.

A Papist dy'd, as 'twas Jehovah's Will,
And his poor Soul went trudging down to Hell!
Where, when he did arrive, just at the Entry,
He found a Mastive Devil standing Centry,
With flaming Eyes, and Face as black as Soot,
A Musqueteer with a great Cloven Foot:
And who goes there? I, a poor Papist Ghost,
That's come to dwell upon the Stygian Coast.

118

Stay where you are, and do not press so hard,
For I must call the Captain of the Guard;
He gave me Orders to let none come in,
But only such as should have leave from him.
The Captain call'd, accordingly came forth,
A Devil, of Integrity and Worth;
VVho all in Noblest Scarlet being dress'd,
VVith a most delicate fine Embroider'd Vest,
He asks the Ghost with a great Voice, as loud
As mighty Thunder, breaking from a Cloud,
VVhat was the bus'ness? Sir, I am come to dwell,
If you will please to give me leave, in Hell.
Damn you, you whorson Dog, said he to him,
I love my Master, and you shan't come in;
For if above you eat your God, I fear,
Should you come in, youl'd eat the Devil here.

A Dialogue between a Loyal Addressor, and a Blunt Whiggish Clown.

Ungrateful VVreth! Can'st thou pretend a Cause'
To fear the loss of Liberty and Laws?
Has not the King been at a vast Expence,
To raise the Gallant Troops in thy Defence?
Did he not promise in a Proclamation,
To rule by Law at's Coronation?

Clown.
But has he not already dam'd the Test?
And sure that Princes VVord is but a jest,
VVho Rules an Army, and Obeys a Priest:
Nor can his Solemn Oath make us much safer;
His Sword is Steel, his God is but a VVafer.

119

A new Song of the misfortunes of an Old Whore and her Brats.

I

Tho' the Old Hag of Rome,
Has bewitch'd us all Dumb,
She can Tongue-tye our Muses no longer;
We now spue out her Charms,
And sing the brave Arms
Of Great Orange and Scomberg, ding-dong Sir.

II

If we open'd our Lips,
Wooden Peep holes and Whips
Was of late the mild Pennance enjoyn'd us;
Now Truth's no more Treason,
We esteem it a season
To be merry, and so you shall find us.

III

Life and Fortune Addresses,
Shall not wear out our Presses,
To flatter and sooth a Just Nero;
But loud Declarations,
To secure the three Nations
Nrom the French, and from Lilli-burlero.

IV

See how each Popish Gull,
Does look silly and dull,
O hone! O hone! all are Lamenting,

120

They've no Catholick Banter,
No wise Hind and Panther.
Nor any thing else worth the Printing.

V

While we Hereticks do write,
Ay, and Print too in spite
Of the Devil, to revenge our late wrongs Sir;
And the Hawkers hoarse Lungs,
With our Lampoons and Songs,
Make the Streets eccho all the day long Sir:

VI

Now brave Orange advances,
What the fam'd League with France is,
We shall know to poor Catholicks sorrow,
Stricken with Pannick Fears,
How the Whelps hang their Ears,
Pack up Relicks, and bid us good Morrow!

VII

Father Petre, and others
Of his Politick Brothers,
Who one would think should have disdain'd it
Are on fire to be gone,
Tho they might every one,
If they'd stay here a little, be Sainted.

VIII

Just like old Rats and Mice,
These bold Vermine are Wise,
VVhen they find a House ready to tumble,
Away strait they advance,
Bound for Flanders or France,
Adieu, Votre Serviteur humble.

121

IX

But pray what shall become,
O'th' young Kitlings of Rome,
I mean those the Old Whore has Converted;
When they're grip'd by the Claws,
Of reviv'd Penal Laws,
And by all Ghostly Fathers deserted.

X

'Tis hard to leave the poor Elves,
Thus to shift for themselves,
For unless you'd confirm'd the Babes better-a,
With your Cowardise tainted,
They'll e'ne grudge to be Sainted
With St. Coleman, St. Whitebread, &c.

XI

So when Witches are taken
For enchanting Folks Bacon,
Cows, Horses, or any such thing Sir;
And the Hang-man once takes 'em,
Their Imps all forsake them,
And bequeath 'em to a right Hempen-string Sir.

XII

Our great States-men and Judges,
The Jesuits true Drudges,
To advance the Plots of Holy Church Sir;
Do make wretched Grimaces,
Losing Pensions and Places,
To a Parliament left in the lurch Sir.

XIII

And the young VVelshman's Sre,
Stuck like Dun in the Mire,
With revengeful Despair looks around him;
And then Curses the Crowd,
That with Suffrages loud,
Shouted (Vive le Roy) when they Crown'd him.

200

XIV

He thinks 'tis an hard Fate,
Now to Capitulate,
And revoke his Indulg'd Dispensations;
To his Sons Terms to buckle,
To a Parliament truckle,
And Eat up his kind Declarations.

XV

'Tis hard that dull Hereticks,
Still Suspicious of Tricks,
Cant believe the young Bantling's his Son Sir;
As if Priests cou'd n't create,
At least Transubstantiate
Him a Boy, for an Heir to his Crown Sir.

XVI

Nay renown'd Lords and Ladies,
A long Bead-row have made us,
VVith the Midwife and Learned Physicians;
Cannot all this convince,
That it is a Welch Prince,
Though we publish the plain Depositions?

XVII

VVell it seems (to be short)
There's no Remedy for't,
Both his Gods and his Friends are retiring;
And his Army falls off,
While his Enemies scoff,
To see the Prince curb his aspiring.

XVIII

Have we not a Wise King,
To resolve he would bring
All to Rome's Lure, or else Sacrifice Sir,
Three Kingdoms to his Spleen,
And to th'Will of his Queen?
Did the world ever hear of a wiser?

201

XIX

Without one sturdy fight,
He's obliged to alight
From the Throne, which he envy'd his Brother,
And may like a poor Bigot,
Go embarque in a Frigat,
To see if he can find such another.

XX

Since these Switzers and Dutchmen,
Come to stand by our Church-men,
VVith hard grim Fellows from Fin-land,
The Old Politick VVhore,
Now must never hope more,
To sit brooding o're Plots here against England.

XXI

Is't not Reason and Sense,
If a King will Dispence,
VVith our Statutes, and with his own word Sir,
To decide the Just Cause,
Of Religion and Laws,
VVith a swinging Great Protestant-Sword Sir?

XXII

The French Tyrant dissembles,
And huffs, though he trembles,
VVe shall Visit that Son of a VVhore Sir:
If the weather hold fair,
VVe'd fain take a Tour there,
As our Fathers did in Days of Yore Sir.

XXIII

VVhile the Germans before,
Pay him off his old score,
For the mischief they've felt and do fear Sir,
VVith Pipe, Sword and Pistol,
VVe shall Probe his old Fistule,
And charge the Dog home in the rear Sir.

124

A New Song.

[Come, come, great Orange, come away]

[_]

To the Tune of, Couragio.

I

Come, come, great Orange, come away,
On thy August Voyagio,
The Church and State admit no stay,
And Protestants wou'd once more say
Couragio, Couragio, Couragio.

II

Stand East, dear Wind, till they arrive,
On their design'd Voyagio,
And let each Noble Soul alive
Cry loud, Qu'il Prince d' Aurange vive!
Couragio, &c.

III

Look sharp, and see the Glorious Fleet,
Appear in their Voyagio!
With loud Huzza's we will them greet,
And with both Arms and Armies meet;
Couragio, &c.

IV

Then, welcome to our English shore,
And now I will engage—o,
VVe'll thump the Babylonish Whore,
And kick her Trump'ries out of Door;
Couragio, &c.

125

V

Poor B---k! how will thy Dear Joys,
Oppose this brave Voyagio?
Thy tallest Sparks will be meer Toys,
To Brandenburgh and Swedish Boys;
Couragio, &c.

VI

D---n sputters now like mad,
Against this great Voyagio;
Old C---n too in Sable's clad,
And F---m looks wondrous sad;
Couragio, &c.

VII

But Solmes has took a Glorious Cause,
In this Warlike Voyagio,
To Guard us from their Ravenous Paws,
And to protect our Lives and Laws;
Couragio, &c.

VIII

Nassaw will ridicule the Fop,
By this Belgic Voyagio,
And make their gawdy feathers drop,
Their slaughter's but a Harvest Crop:
Couragio, &c.

IX

Stirum, advance the Buda Blades,
Thou'st brought in this Voyagio;
And since thy Lawrel never fades,
Send our Foes to the Stygian shades;
Couragio, &c.

204

X

Scombergh thunders Heroe-like,
In this Stormy Voyagio;
His very Name does Horrour strike,
And will slay more than Gun or Pike;
Couragio, &c.

XI

Thus they the Victory will gain,
After their brave Voyagio;
And all our Liberties maintain,
And settle Church and State again:
Couragio, &c.

XII

Then 'twill be Just, and no Extream,
To see by this Voyagio,
That Wem shou'd have th'effect of's Dream,
For Driving headlong with the Stream;
Couragio, &c.

XIII

The Judges too, that Traitors be,
Must truss by this Voyagio,
'Twill be a Noble Sight to see,
Dispencing Scarlet on a Tree!
Couragio, &c.

XIV

The Monks away full swift will hye,
On their dismal Voyagio;
Ten Pounds a Post-Horse then they cry,
And all away to Calis fly;
Couragio, &c.

205

XV

S---d has Shot the Pit,
And is on his Voyagio;
Dada must no more hatching sit,
And Petre too the Board must quit:
Couragio, &c.

XVI

Old A---l does hang his Ears,
Because of this Voyagio;
And Miser P---s stews in Tears;
B---sis roars, and damns, and swears:
Couragio, &c.

XVII

When all is done, we then shall hope
To see, by this Voyagio,
No more Nuncio, no more Pope,
Except it be to have a Rope;
Couragio, Couragio, Couragio.

A new Song of an Orange.

[_]

To that Excellent Old Tune Of a Pudding.

Good People come buy,
The Fruit that I cry,
That now is in Season, tho' Winter is nigh,
'Twill do you all good,
And sweeten your Blood,
I'm sure it will please you when once understood
'Tis an Orange.

128

Its Cordial Juice,
Does much Vigour produce,
I may well recommend it to every mans use;
Tho' some it quite chills,
And with fear almost kills,
Yet certain each honest Man benefit feels
by an Orange.

To make Claret go down,
Sometimes there is found
A Jolly good Health to pass pleasantly round;
But yet I'll protest,
Without any Jest,
No flavour is better than that of the tast
Of an Orange.

Perhaps you may think,
At White-H--- they stink,
Because that our Neighbours come over the Sea,
Yet sure 'tis presum'd,
That they may be perfum'd,
By the scent of a Clove, when once it is stuck
In an Orange.

If they'd cure the ails
Of the P--- of W---
When the Milk of Milch Tyler does not well agree,
Tho he's subject to cast,
They may better the tast,
Yet let 'em take heed left it Curdle at last
With an Orange.

Old Stories rehearse,
In Prose and in Verse,
How a Welsh Child was found by loving of Cheese,

129

So this will be known,
If it be the Q--- own,
For the taste it utterly then will disown
Of an Orange.

Tho the Mobile bawl,
Like the Devil and all,
For Religion, Property, Justice and Laws;
Yet in very good sooth,
I'll tell you the truth,
There nothing is better to stop a mans mouth
Than an Orange.

We are certainly told,
That by Adam of old,
Himself and his Bearns for an Apple was sold;
And who knows but his Son,
By Serpents undone,
And his Juggling Eve may chance lose her own
For an Orange.

A New Song on the Calling of a Feee Parliament,

January 5th, 1688.

I

A parliament, with one consent
Is all the cry oth' Nation,
Which now may be, since Popery
Is growing out of fashion:
The Belgick Troops approach to Town,
The Oranges come Powring,
And all the Lords agree as one
To send the Papists scowring.

130

II

The Holy Man shall lead the Van,
Our Father and Confessor;
In Robes of Red the Jesuits fled,
Who was the chief Transgressor.
In this disguise he thought to escape,
And hop'd to save his Bacon,
But H--- he has laid a Trap,
The Rat may be Retaken.

III

The Nuncio too, the day may rue
That he came o'er the Ocean,
I'th' English Court, to keep's Resort,
And teach his blind Devotion:
The Prelates, Ellis, Smith, and Hall,
Have sold their Coach and Horses,
And will no longer in White-Hall
Foment their Learn'd Discouses.

IV

The Groom o'th' Stool, that play'd the Fool,
Full sorely will repent it,
And S---, did barefoot stand
For Pennance, shall lament it.
M--- and the Scotch are fled,
Whom hopes of Interest tempted;
Those Lords did turn for want of Bread,
And ought to be Exempted.

V

But S---, what cause had he
To fear his Highness Landing,
Who by his A---s and Legs might pass
For one of understanding.
To take up Arms at such a time,
Against the Rules were gave him;

131

His Head must answer for the Crime,
His Pardon will not save him.

VI

The Fryers and Monks with all their punks,
Are now upon the Scamper,
T---l Swears, and Rants and Tears,
And Teague does make a clamper.
The Foreign Priests that Posted o're,
Into the English Nation,
Do now repent that on that Shore
They laid their weak Foundation.

VII

'Twou'd be a sight 'twou'd move delight,
In each obdurate Varlet,
To see the Graves that made us Slaves,
Hang in dispensing Scarlet.
And every Popish Counsellour,
That for the same Cause Pleaded,
Shall all turn off at the same score,
Be Hang'd or else Beheaded

The Second part of Lilli—li burlero Bullen a-la.

I

By Creist my dear Morish vat makes de sho'shad
Lill—li burlero bullen a-la.
The Hereticks Jear us and mauke me Mad,
Lill—li burlero bullen a-la,
Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli burlero bullen a-la,
Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli burlero bullen a-la.

132

II

Pox take me dear Teague but I am in a rage,
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la,
Poo' what Impidence is in dish Age?
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la,
Lero, Lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

III

Vat if Dush shou'd come as dey hope,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
To up hang us for all de Dispence of de Pope,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

IV

Dey shay dat T---l's a Friend to de Mash,
Lilli burlero bullen a la,
For which he's a Traitor, a Pimp, and an Ass,
Lilli burlero bullen a la,
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

V

Ara' Plague tauke me now I make a Swar,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
I'd to Shent Tyburn will mauke a great Prayer,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

VI

O'l will pray to Shaint Patricks Frock,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
Or to Loretto's Sacred Smock;
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

133

VII

Now a Pox tauke me, what dost dow tink,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
De English Confusion to Popery drink,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

VIII

And by my Shoul de Mash House pull down,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
While dey were Swearing de Mayor of do Town,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

IX

O' Fait and be, I'll mauke de Decree,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
And Swar by de Chancellor's modesty;
Lilli burlero bullen a-la,
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

X

Dat I no longer in English will stay,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
For be goad day will hang us out of de way,
Lilli burlero bullen a-la;
Lero, lero, &c.
Lero, lero, &c.

134

The Chancellour turn'd Tarpaulin.

To be a Pris'ner, hated, loath'd, and scorn'd,
With unlamented Plagues, thy fall unmourn'd,
Under approaching Torments keenest Dread,
And 'midst a shouting Crowd unpitied led,
To meet a shameful Death, would seem t'attone
All horrid Villanies except thy own:
But they so numerous, great and loud appear,
They dull Repentance, as they heighten fear.
Curs'd by your King, your Country, and it seems
You're Curs'd too by your own Prophetick Dreams:
Curs'd in your Novice Years and Indigence,
When Railing was your Law and Eloquence.
And Curs'd e'er since for Fraud and Bribery,
Lying, Partiality, and Perjury.
Curs'd by all People, Prosp'rous and Forlorn,
And will be Curs'd by thousands yet unborn.
Curs'd by the Just and Virtuous, and what's worse,
You have your Fathers and your Childrens Curse.
Legions of Ghosts you've murder'd will appear,
And whisper, on the Gallows, in your Ear;
Your Byass'd Judgment's giv'n against the Good,
That you might reek in Mony and in Blood.
The Tyrant, when Perillus brought his Bull,
Made the Inventor prove the first sad Howl.
Your Whipping so (tho late) should well be try'd
(Which you found out) upon your bleeding Hide.
And thus Condemn'd, you'll be rewarded well
With Pill'ry, Carts-Tail, Gibbets, Flames and Hell.

135

And with your Quarters hurl'd into your Grave,
Let this be wrote, I was both Fool and Knave,
To Law and Drink a Scandal and a Slave.

Stafford's Ghost,

February 1681.

Is this the Heav'nly Crown? Are these the Joys
Which bellowing Priests did promise with such noise;
Charming my Fears with such lewd Words as these,
A Saint, a Martyr, Bliss, Eternal Ease?
Such promised Glories were for meaner Deeds.
He's trebly blest by whom our Monarch bleeds.
Curs'd Priests did me with other Fools delude,
Brib'd with their Gifts of the Beatitude.
Had I that Life so unadvis'dly lost,
'Tis not your fawning Jesuitish Host,
Should e'er prevail on my misguided sense,
To smother Guilt with Vows of Innocence:
Nor thou, false Friend, as false to me or more,
Then all thy Oaths for Coleman's Life before;
With thy true Catholick protesting Breath,
Should'st e'er betray me to a pejur'd Death.
Blinded with Zeal, what, did we once admire
A Sulph'rous Soul, by Jesuits set on Fire;
A Headstrong, Stupid, Rash Bigotted P---
Declar'd the open Enemy to Sense.
Weak are the Sacred Ties that should attend
The Name of Sov'raign, Brother, and of Friend;
This Pious Samson would with Joy o'er throw
The Universe, and perish by the Blow;
His Plots, tho known, yet will he ne'er give o'er,
But still Intreagues with his dear Babel Whore;

136

So much infected by that Fatal Bitch,
He's all broke out in Scabby Zeal and Itch.
Could we distinctly view his Tainted Soul,
That all the Relicks of S--- were small,
Compar'd with th'Scars of his P--- Spiritual:
'Tis not the pow'rful Force of Jordan's Streams,
Nor his dear Purgatorys cleansing Flames,
Can e're remove from his polluted Soul:
The least remains of a Disease so foul:
You'll say, 'tis hard that such a one as he
Should be depriv'd of Naamans Remedy;
But there's distinction to be made, I hope,
'Twixt those that worship Rimmon and the Pope.
Amends for my intended Crimes I make,
If Charles from his Lethargick Sleep I wake,
But such a Dose of Opiats they have given
To Rouse him were a Miracle for Heaven;
I hope, tho when he hears what I can tell,
Success may Crown my Embassy from Hell.
I'll boldly name those that pursue his Life,
And 'mongst his Subjects fester endless Strife;
Their Friends and their Advisers I'll reveal,
Those Holy Men that toucht with pious Zeal,
Are such Well-wishers to the Common Weal.

Y--- most Belov'd, and boldest Friend is he,
VVho knows he must succeed by Gadbury;
Yet some with wonder are surpriz'd to find
That in the Loyal Ague of his Mind,
His hot Fit comes in such a proper time,
VVhose cold one thought the Covenant no Crime.
The next a Slave to his Ambitious Pride,
Must be the chief, tho of the falling side.
This Hot-brain'd Machiavel once vainly strove,
For what he ne're can hope the Peoples Love.

137

But foil'd he flies for Refuge to the Throne,
Trusting to th'Bladders of his VVit alone,
VVithout one Honest Thought to fix them on.

The Third a VVrack of the divided Chits.
Better than Jilting VVhore he Counterfeits;
But not his Treach'rous Eyes dissolv'd in Tears,
Nor the false Vizard his Ambition wears,
Can blind the VVorld, or hide what must be seen,
His Practices with J--- and Maz---n.
Vote on, poor Fools! ye Commons vent your Spleen
Sure France and Y--- are a sufficient Screen:
A Tax at home's a Project Old and Dull.
He'll find new ways to keep the Coffers Full:
The French shall some of our fled Gold restore,
They suck like Leeches, but they ruin more
When they Spue back part of th'infected Ore:
'Tis his Contrivance too, by Change of Air,
To ease our Monarch of his Fears and Care
They jointly toil to make thy burden light,
Knowing that Quiet is thy chief Delight,
They therefore haste and hurry thee to fight.
No Matter C--- thy Enemies they'l fright,
One Stamps, one Talks, one VVeeps thy foes to flight,
I come (dread Lord) from the dark Shades below
To give thee timely notice of the Blow.
Which thov may'st yet prevent; think well of those
Whom now (mistaken) you believe your Foes.
They who against your Will wou'd fix your Crown,
Giving your Riches, Happiness, Renown;
Which Metamorphose should accepted be,
Because redeem'd from Want and Infamy.
(Observe poor Wanderer, how thou walk'st alone,
Might is the Atlas that supports thy Throne)

139

Haste to comply, defer it not too long,
Thou can'st not stem a Current that's so strong.
Trust to th'Affections of thy Britains bold,
Give them but leave thy Honour to uphold;
Tho Bessus, yet a Cæsar thou may'st be,
Opprest with Trophies of their Victory.

On the D---ss of P---th's Picture,

Sept. 1682.

Who can on this Picture look,
And not strait be wonder strook,
That such a peaking doudy thing,
Should make a Beggar of a King?
Three happy Nations turn to Tears,
And all their former Love to Fears;
Ruine the Great, and raise the Small,
Yet will by turns betray 'um All
Lowly born, and meanly bred,
Yet of this Nation is the Head:
For half Whitehall make her their Court,
Tho th'other half make her their sport.
Monmouth's Tamer, Jeffery's Advance,
Foe to England, Spye for France;
False and foolish, proud and bold,
Ugly as you see, and Old.
In a word, her mighty Grace
Is Whore in all things but her Face.

138

All Shams.

[_]

To the Tune of, Packington's Pound.

I

An Invasion from Dutchland is all the discourse,
And incredible Tale of Incredible force!
While each graver Sir Pol unfolded his Sheet,
An exact Computation of Army and Fleet:
Of their Horse and their Foot,
And their Great Guns to boot,
Each Fireship, each Tender, and Flat-bottom'd Boat;
The time of their Landing, and place, can reveal,
But that, as a secret, as yet he'l conceal.

II

While each busie-brain'd Machnie, and Fool,
Each chattering Barber, each Aporn and Rule;
Let his private concern be of ne'r so much weight,
And nought but his Trade he can call his Estate:
Yet straight he declares,
It has long been his Fears,
He dreaded this business for several Years:
Nay, the future events he cou'd easily relate;
But 'tis dangerous, Neighbours, and touches the State.

III

Now while we are hearing and telling of Lyes,
A Cloud from the West does quite darken the Skies:
All Ægypt's ten Plagues do at once on us fall,
For, in Naming the Irish, it comprehends all:

140

To what purpose they come
Is no secret to Rome;
And, to guess at the consequence, we may presume:
Old England was ne're so unhappy before,
While the Scum of three Nations for aid we Implore.

IV

Now lay by Chimeras of Fleets, and Armados,
And, if you can, fairly march off to Barbadoes,
Jamaica, Virginia, or any Plantation,
Except that of Will Pen, the disturber o'th' Nation;
To Lapland, or Greenland,
Nay sail into Finland,
To Presbyter John, or the Islands within Land:
And leave both your Honors, Estates and your Wives,
On condition that you may depart with your Lives.

Fumbumbis:

or the North-Country-Mayor. A Ballad.

[_]

To the Tune of, Packinton's Pound.

[I]

I sing of no Heretic, Turk, or of Tartar,
But a suffering Mayor, who may pass for a Martyr;
For a story so Tragic was never yet told
By Fox, or by Stow, those Authors of old;
How a vile Lansprezado,
Did a Mayor Bastinado,
And play'd him a Trick worse than a Strapado.

Oh Mayor, Mayor, thou had'st better never Transub'd,
Than thus to be toss'd in a Blanket, and drub'd.

141

II

All laugh'd to behold this Saint of a Mayor
To Heav'n assum'd on a Colstaff of Air;
From the Earth to the Skies they removed his station,
So quick, you'd have thought it Transubstantiation:
Our Hereticks boast,
He for turning was toss'd,
And sent up, to catch the Religion h' had lost.

Oh Mayor, Mayor, &c.

III

Not Quixot himself was ever less daunted
For charging the Windmils, or Gyants Inchanted.
A mind so resolv'd what danger cou'd threaten?
'The Hero's the same, whether beat or is beaten:
And the Cudgels and Stones
May bruise and break Bones;
Tis the manner of Kicking for Kicking attones.

Oh Mayor, Mayor, &c.

IV

The various Effects of his VVorship's disgrace
Might have spoil'd the Bel-Air of a modester Face;
But such an assurance his cause does admit,
He discovers as little of shame, as of wit:
For, besides the expence,
Wou'd one Post from thence
To prove himself such a Poltroon to his Prince!

Oh Mayor, Mayor, thou'd'st better have never Transub'd
Than thus to be toss'd in a Blanket and Drub'd!

142

Essay written over his Door upon an Institution and Induction.

I

'Tis a strange thing to think on
That old Tom of Lincoln,
Who writ for the Reformation,
Shou'd so basely submit,
Without honor, or Wit,
To the Reading the Declaration.

II

Who ever takes Order
From this Satan-Recorder,
And thinks to go out a Divine,
Will find it a Folly
To expect the Ghost Holy,
'Tis the Devil that enters the Swine

A Heroick Scene.

Enter Oliver's Porter, Fidler, and Poet in Bedlam.
The Scene adorned with several of the Poets own Flowers, known by the Itallick Character.
Porter.
O glory! Glory! who are these appear?
My Fellow-Servants, Poet, Fidler here?
Old Hodge the Constant, Johnny the Sincere.
Who sent you hither? And pray tell me why
An horrid silence does Invade mine Eye,
While not one sound of Voice from you I spye.

Johnny.
I come to let thee know, the time is now
To turn and fawn, and flatter as we do,
And follow that which does too fast pursue.
Be wise, neglect your Interest now no more;
Interest! The Prince we serve, the God w' adore.

146

I for the Royal Martyr first declar'd;
But, e're his Head was off, I was prepar'd
To own the Rump, and for that Cause did Rhime;
But those kick'd out, next Moment turn'd to him
Who routed them: Call'd him my Soveraign,
And prais'd his opening of a Kingly Vein.

Hodge.
I by my Lowring Planets was accurst
To be for barren Loyalty at first;
But when to Nolls, our Charles's fate gave place,
I could abjure the Unhappy Royal Race:
To Noll I all my fingers skill did show,
And charm'd his Highness with my nimble Bow.
Besides, I serv'd him as a faithful Spy,
And did decoy the Cavalierish Fry;
Gold from his bounteous Highness charm'd my Eyes,
My old Whore Balt Gl---ss could ne're suffice
For the Expence and Equipage of spies.

Johnny.
Come joyn with us to make our Party strong,
And you can never be in Bedlam long.

Hodge.
Were you yet Madder you might serve the state,
And be concern'd in things of greatest weight.

Johnny.
For (as Turks their Santons) we adore
The Fools and Madmen, and their aid implore:
They're such who share my Panegyrick Verse,

Hodge.
To such I write, not to Philosophers.

Porter.
Such frequent turns should you to Bedlam bring
From Rump to Cromwell, Cromwell to the King;
Then to your Idol Church, next to the Pope,
Which may one day prefer you to the Rope:
I amongst Madmen am confin'd 'tis true,
But I have more solidity than you.

Johnny.
A Windmill is not fickle; for we find
That it is always constant to the Wind:

147

I never change; I'm still to Interest true;
The Conquerour ever does my Muse subdue;
And with whatever Tossing she shall meet,
She, like a Cat, shall light upon her feet.

Hodge.
How long did I write for the English Church,
Yet now think fit to leave her in the lurch:
Like Will o'th'-Wispe th'Inferiour Clergy I
Led into Quagmires, where I let them lie;
Some into Boggs and Ditches I have cast,
Where let them flounder what they will, they're fast:
So far Crape-Gown is plung'd into the mire,
It is not possible it should retire.

Porter.
My Spirit boils within my troubled Breast,
These Rogues are come to interrupt my rest.

Johnny.
When the Exalted Whiggs were in their
I spent my Oyl and Labour on their side.
Wrote a Whigg Play, and Shaftsbury out-ran;
For all my Maxims were Republican;
For the Excluding-Bill I did declare,
Libell'd and Rail'd, and did no Monarch spare:
When they began to droop I fac'd about,
And with my Pen I damn'd the Whiggish rout.
Nay every turn before-hand I can find,
As your sagacious Hog foresees the Wind.

Hodge.
You nimbly turn to that which does prevail,
No Seaman e're could sooner shift his Sail.

Johnny.
Like a true Renegado still I maul
The party I forsook with utmost gall.

Hodge.
So I ere long shall damn the Heretick Souls
Of my old Comrade Coffee-Priests near Pauls.
Spies upon all their Pulpits I maintain,
And if of Rome, or Slavery they complain,
Or for their own against our Church they Preach;
I roar as if they did Sedition Teach;

148

I brand the Person with most Venemous Lies
If I want Truth, Invention still supplies.

Johnny.
But a reserve I kept for Monmouth still,
Should he prevail, I with such equal skill
With Satyr-mingled praise he could not take it Ill.
And had that Prince Victorious been at Lime,
I the Black-Box had justified in Rhime.
I was prepar'd to praise or to abhor him,
Satyr I had and Panegyrick for him.

[Por. aside.]
Oh feed of Locusts, from the Infernal Lake
You'l cause my anger and I'le make you quake.

Hodge.
Long my sly pen serv'd Rome, and I atchiev'd
Ample Rewards, whole sholes of Priests deceiv'd.
I wrought with such Imperceptible Tools,
That I of heaps of Guineas gull'd those Fools:
The only Bubbles in the World they be,
Who, to their cost, must feel before they see:
In publick yet the English Church I own,
Tho' I am subtilly Writing of it down;
For yet it is not time I should declare
Lest Fools, to whom I write, should be aware.

Johnny.
Men best themselves 'gainst open foes defend,
But perish surely by a seeming Friend;
One Son turn'd me, I turn'd the other two;
But had not an Indulgence, Sir, like you;
I felt my Purse insensibly consume
Till I had openly declar'd for Rome.

Hodge.
Now fellow Servant pray at length be wise
And follow our Example and Advice.

Porter.
VVhat! turn to Rome, who did our City burn?
And wou'd our Ancient Government o'return?

Hodge.
Hold! Is not the Inscription blotted out?

Por.
Therefore who burnt the City none need doubt.

149

Johnny.
It was Almighty Fire from Heav'n came down
To punish the Rebellious stiff-neck'd Town;
All which had perish'd in devouring flames,
Tho on the fire y'had emptied all the Thames;
Had all its Waves been on the Houses tost,
It had but basted them as they did rost;
But Heaven a Chrystal Pyramid did take,
Of that a broad Extinguisher did make
In Firmamental Waters dipt above,
To Hood the Flames which to their Quarry strove.

Porter.
A Pyramid Extinguisher to Hood!
'Tis Nonsense never to be understood.

Hod.
What, you believe the Plot of Varlet Oates?

Por.
Ten Proclamations and Four Senates Votes.

John.
That Godfreys Life was by the Papists sped?

Por.
Oh, No! He kill'd himself when he was dead.

Hod.
To Jesuits dying you will Credit give.

Por.
Yes! full as much as all the while they live.
But dying Protestants I'le not believe,
For they allow of neat Equivocation,
And of flat Lies, with Mental Reservation.

John.
Hark Hodge: To gain him we in vain contend,
Our Fellow Servant is a Wagg, dear Friend.

Hodge.
I'le try him farther; for his Parts are such,
To bring him o're must needs avail us much,
Who are for Rome & France 'gainst th'English & the Dutch
Come Fellow Servant, you blieve our Plot
Of Russel, H---n, Sydney, and what not?
Of B---, Walcot, of Bow-steeple and the Rye

Por.
For R---l would, but H---n wou'd not Lie,
Rumbald and Walcot too did both deny
Ayloff to boot; but Cowards are not brave;
For Fear's a Passion which all Cowards have:

150

Yet to the Plot I firm belief afford,
Of th'Evidence I credit not one word.

Johnny.
Can you distrust what G--- and E--- say?

Port.
What! two such Excellent Moral Men as they!

Hod.
Others there are swore home as Men cou'd do.

Por.
Who for their Lives must swear home 'tis true.
Against the Popish Crew none ever swore
But a full Pardon he obtain'd before;
These Swearers are like Cormorants, for they,
On Whiggs with ropes about their gullets prey.

John.
What then? will you not be to Interest true?
We both are of the same belief with you;
But we know better what we have to do.

Por. aside.
Did ever Hell send such a brace of Knaves;
Such abject Cowards, Mercenary Slaves!

[Exit frowning.
John.
His looks are wild, his fiery Eye-balls roul,
A Raging Tempest's labouring in his Soul.
Let's prudently retire.
Porter Re-enters with a great Bible given him by Nell G.

Por.
You sneaking Rogues would you be gone?
Here's that shall knock both you and Popery down.
He knocks them down with the Bible, and stamps upon them, they get up.

Hodge.
Rash Man! for this I full revenge will take,
And set our Evidence upon your back.

John.
Audacious Fool, how dare you tempt your fate?
Provoking me a Pillar of the State,
Who with my Pen alone have turn'd the Scale,
And made the Tories o're the Whiggs prevail?

Hodge.
Your Pen alone!—
Can I this Arrogance endure to hear,
Wou'd you usurp the Garland I should wear?

151

Johnny.
You with your Forty Eight, and Forty One,
VVith Screws and Antipendiums plagu'd the Town;
VVhile even the Whiggs admir'd my lofty Verses,
Your VVitless Prose did Fodder Torys Arses.

Hodge.
I'll through your Arse touch Honour to the quick,
And find if you have any by this kick.

[Kicks the Poet.
Johnny.
Kick on, old Fool, till you your Toes shall maul,
I have had several, and can bear them all:
Besides, I'm us'd to't—

Porter.
Hence you wretched Slaves,
There is Contagion in such Fools and Knaves.
I'll wring your Necks off, if you ever more
Presume to set your feet within this door:
I'm Chief, and have Dominion in this place.

Johnny.
I'll spend my gushing blood upon thy Face;
And if thou dar'st effect thy dire Design
With my two Hands I'll fling my Head at thine.

Porter.
Holloa St. Dennis, have at you.

Johnny.
Murder, Murder!

[He kicks and beats them, they run roaring out.
Hodge.
Help, Help!

Porter.
I on these Knaves shall never more complain,
They have call'd back my wandring sense again. [He Pawses, and seems to come to himself.

Of all Mankind, happy alone are we,
From all Ambition, from all Tumults free:
No Plots nor vile Informers need we fear;
No Plagues, nor Tortures for Religion here.
Our Thoughts, nay even our very words are free,
Not damn'd by Fines, or loss of Liberty;
None here's impeach'd by a vile Table spye,
VVho with an Innuendo backs his lye;
VVords and Lampoons we laugh at, and ne're care
VVhat's said by Men, if Actions they forbear;

152

Anger at words is weakness understood,
Since none can Ridicule ought that is good;
'Tis VVomanish, and springs from Impotence,
For no great Man at words e're took Offence.
At Rome, in all her Glory, words were free;
Just Governments can never Jealous be;
But when to Tyranny Rome did decline,
VVeak Emperours with Delatores join
To plague the people, and themselves undo;
For when they're fear'd they must be hated too.
And whom Men hate with Ruin they'll pursue.
One VVitness and a Circumstance for Facts,
Is not enough; we must prove Overt Acts.
Our happy Government makes no Offence,
But open and Rebellious Violence.
VVhich we to quell no standing Army need,
Nor can Dragoons upon free Quarter feed;
Booted Apostles we have none, that come
To knock and beat Men to the Church of Rome;
VVhen its Butt-end prevails not, Torments will,
For Lewis is not yet so Merciful to kill.
Here we divided from the troubled VVorld,
Rest and are into no Confusions hurl'd;
For all our wants does our wise State provide
Here ev'ry Vacant place is still supply'd,
VVith Persons that are duly qualify'd;
No favour raises a Desertless Knave,
Nor Infamy, nor yet the Gold he gave.
How would all Subjects envy us, shou'd we
Publish the secrets of our Hierarchy?

153

The True Way to Honour.

I

Wou'd you (Sir) attain that Honour,
Favourites neither know nor mind,
March under Vertue's Noble Banner,
Change not Faith with each Court Wind.
Neither pray to Saint nor Lady,
Their Religion's but a Jest,
Who kneel down to a painted Baby,
Worshipping the Roman Beast.

II

Why in the Youth yet Interested,
That's a point I can't reach,
Cause Monarchs have the Sparks addressed,
Must that belief and Duty teach?
Well, since we may not dispute that matter,
This I hope will be confess'd,
Who build their Faith on Holy Water,
Worship to the Roman Beast.

III

In short, the best way to promotion,
Is to make the Laws your Rule,
And truckle to such blind Devotion,
Which does Religion ridicule.
VVhat tho their Cause a while prevails,
Stick you to that endures the Test,
Let them cry up their P--- of W---,
VVho worship to the Roman Beast.

154

A New Litany.

[_]

To the Tune of, Cook Lawrei invited the Devil his Guest, &c.

From Jesuitical Polls, who proudly Expose
The only Bulwark 'twixt them, and their Foes,
To Ramble i'th' Night to see Rare shows;
For ever Good Lord deliver me.

From a Pious Wise K--- who lets his reign pass,
In raising of Villains, and hearing of Mass,
All whose designs still prove but mine A---;
For ever, &c.

Who is rid, and impos'd on, by many a score
Of Priests, Mac's, and Footmen, his Q. and his W---
Who to make his Foes Rich, will make his Friends Poor;
For ever, &c.

Who without doing business still o're it does Buz,
Takes always wrong Measures in all that he does,
As prepostrous in State as H--- in's Cloaths;
For ever, &c.

Who has made his Religion a Ridiculous Jest,
And sells all his Friends to buy off the Test,
Yet gives it his Servants from biggest to least;
For ever, &c.

From a P---ce in whose word and promise no trust is,
And a Court without Conscience, Honour and Justice,
Who's bus'ness, Pride, Flattry, Intrest, and Lust is;
For ever, &c.

155

From a blinking Confessor, as free of his Word,
And as slack in performance as his disciplin'd Lord,
Whose Merits in time may meet with a Cord;
For ever, &c.

From Petres that positive Politick Sage,
Who shame upon Heav'n, and comforts his Age,
In filling his Coffers, and Bugg'ring his Page;
For ever, &c.

From a Turn-coat, Mail-setting, King-killing Rascal,
Who spight of those Villanies, which he's past all,
Is become a Kings Favourite, ev'n from a Stall;
For ever, &c.

From a Hosier preferr'd before all the State blocks,
From Preaching in Tubs, and footing of Socks,
And giving Quack Bills to cure the Pox;
For ever, &c.

Who had hang'd in Hones stead with a handsomer face,
And the Joiner had gain'd the Counsellours place,
If to impeach first he had had but the Grace;
For ever, &c.

From a Nation, which now in so woful a case is,
To be call'd by Church Cheats, and Jesuitical Clashes,
Who their Politicks learn from whipping boys A---
For ever, &c.

158

A Match, between the keen Rasor, and the dull Ax,

1683.

Occasioned by the death of the Lord Russel and the E. of Essex.

[I.]

Ten Pounds to a Crown, (who will make the match)
On Bomini's head, against Squire Catch;
Whose Instrument shall make most quick dispatch.
The Noble Rasor, or the Ax
In Bulk, (perhaps) not Virtue, lacks;
Which, by rare slight of hand, can do
More at one stroke, than that at two:
So Gems are precious, which unite
In little Orbs, great Rays of Light:
More subtle than th'Inchanted Sword,
Which slew twice o'er
The Knight, once slain before;
For thou cou'dst kill,
Against thy will,
And his, and ours, a Noble Lord.

II.

Dead doing Tool! surely just Fate
Will dub thee now the Ax of State;
If first the grateful Heav'ns shall not Translate
The thither, to maintain
The Regiment of C--- his VVain.
But gentle Muse, I pray thee tell,
What made that Hack, this Shave so well:
And why the dapper Monsieur can
Out-do the heavy Englishman?

159

Did the old Ax, on that great day,
It went away
To Rome, to be Enshrin'd,
Steal all the Steel; and only Iron leave behind?
Or did the Hone
Sharpen the Rasor, to the Ax give none?

III.

VVou'd you this Riddle understand;
Distinguish 'twixt the Butcher's clumsy Hand,
And the invisible Command,
Divines allow, the unseen Powers
May wonders work; and why not ours,
VVhether on Scaffolds, or in Towers?
All you, whose Lot
It once may be to go to Pot,
VVhen e'er the State shall hit your Blot;
And you whose Heads by sullen Fates
Are doom'd to fall at these hard rates:
Pray use your Barbers cheaper Art,
And let your bungling Butchers bear no Part.
Now, for a curious Youth to cut your Throats,
VVho (on occasion fine, and neat)
VVill do the clever Feat;
Let trusty Monsieur preingage your ready Votes.

A New Litany in the Year, 1684.

From Immoderate Fines and defamation,
From Braddons Pennyless Subornation,
And from a Bar of Assassination,
Libera nos, &c.

160

From a Lawyer that scolds like an Oyster Wench,
From an English Body, and a Mind that is French,
And from the new Bonner upon the Bench,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Partial Preaching that is now in Fashion,
From Divinity to undo a Nation,
From Wooden Shoes, and Transubstantiation,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Nonsencial cant of a Loyal Addressor
From the Impudent Shams of Popish Professor,
And from Protestant Zeal in a Popish Successor,
Libera nos, &c.

From all those Esau's within their Nonage,
That would both our Laws and Liberties Forage,
And sell their Birthright for a Mess of a Court Pottage,
Libera nos, &c.

From Juries that Murther do Justice call,
And undoing of Men a Matter but small,
And from the Star-Chamber in Westminster-Hall,
Libera nos, &c.

161

The Fable of the Pot and Kettle,

as it was told by Collonel Titus the Night before he Kiss'd the Kings Hand.

As down the Torrent of an angry Flood,
An Earthen Pot, and a Brass Kettle flow'd;
The heavy Caldron, sinking and distress'd
By his own Weight, and the fierce VVaves oppress'd,
Slily bespoke the lighter Vessels Aid;
And to the Earthen Pitcher friendly said,
Come, Brother, why should we divided lose
The strength of Union, and our selves expose
To the Insults of this poor paltry Stream,
Which with united Forces we can stem?
Tho different heretofore have been our Parts,
The Common Danger reconciles our Hearts;
Here, lend me thy kind Arm to break the Flood.
The Pitcher this New Friendship understood,
And made this Answer; Tho I wish for Ease
And Safety, this Alliance does not please;
Such different Natures never will agree,
Your Constitution is too rough for me;
If by the Waves I against you am tost,
Or you to me, I equally am lost;
And fear more Mischief from your hard-end-side,
Than from the Shores, the Billows, or the Tide:
I calmer Days and ebbing Waves attend,
Rather than buoy you up, and serve your end,
To perish by the Rigor of my Friend.

162

The Moral.

Learn hence (ye Whigs) and act no more like Fools,
Nor trust their Friendship who wou'd make you Tools;
While empty Praises and smooth Flatt'rys serve;
Pay with feign'd Thanks, what their feign'd smiles deserve:
But let not the Alliance farther pass,
For know that you are Clay, and they are Brass.

Epitaph on Harry Care.

A true Dissenter here does lye indeed,
He ne'er with any, or himself agreed;
But rather than want subjects to his spight,
Wou'd Snake-like turn, and his own Tail wou'd bite.
Sometime, 'tis true, he took the faster side,
But when he came by suff'ring to be try'd,
The Craven soon betray'd his Fear and Pride:
Thence, Settle-like, he to recanting fell
Of all he wrote, or fanci'd to be well;
Thus purg'd from good; and thus prepar'd by evil,
He fac'd to Rome, and marcht off to the Devil.

A New Way to Honour.

[I]

Wou'd you be a Man of Honour,
Wou'd you be advanc'd to Place,
Take Measures from good Bishop Bonner,
And Maxims from Tyrconnel's Grace?

163

Pray to a Lady that can hear ye;
Who, as She's Greatest, is the Best;
Your Suit is granted, never fear ye,
If you'l worship to the Est.

II

Next in her Son get interessed,
That's a Point must be believ'd;
Mighty Kings have been Addressed,
Monarchs cannot be deceiv'd.
Come, come, ne'er dispute the Matter,
That Religion must be best,
Which purges sin with Holy Water,
Therefore worship to the Est,

III

In short, if you wou'd gain Promotion,
Do as Holy Church Commands,
Be constantly at her Devotion,
And serve her with your Heart and Hands:
Tis our Religion now prevails,
Therefore still maintain the Jest,
Swear Fealty to the P--- of W---
And worship always to the Est.

A Lenten Prologue refus'd by the Players,

1682.

Our Prologue-Wit grows flat: the Naps worn off;
And howsoe'er We turn, and trim the Stuff,
The Gloss is gone, that look'd at first so gaudy;
'Tis now no Jest to hear young Girls talk Baudy.
But Plots, and Parties give new matter birth;
And State Distractions serve you here for mirth!

164

At England's cost Poets now purchase fame
While Factious Heats destroy us, without Shame
These wanton Neroes fiddle to the Flame.
The Stage, like old Rump pulpits, is become
The Scene of News, a furious Party's Drum.
Here Poets beat their Brains for Volunteers,
And take fast hold of Asses by their Ears.
Their jingling Rhime for Reason here you swallow;
Like Orpheus Musick makes Beasts to follow.
What an enlightning Grace is want of Bread?
How it can change a Libeller's Heart, & clear a Laureats Head!
Open his Eyes till he the Mad Prophet see

Medal. p.41.

Plots working in a future power to be
Traitors unform'd to his Second Sight are clear;
And Squadrons here, and Squadrons there appear;
Rebellion is the Burden of the Seer.
To Bays in Vision were of late reveal'd
Whigg Armies, that at Knightsbridg lay conceal'd.

Reher. Com. p. 31.

And tho no mortal Eye could see't before
The Battel was just entring at the Door!

Rehears. Comedy p. 52.

A dangerous Association—sign'd by None!
The Joyners Plot to seize the King alone!
Stephen with College made this Dire compact;
The watchful Irish took 'em in the Fact—
Of riding arm'd! Oh Traiterous Overt Act!
With each of 'em an ancient Pistol sided;
Against the Statute in that Case provided.
But why was such an Host of Swearers prest?
Their succour was ill Husbandry at best.
Bays's crown'd Muse by Sovereign Right of Satyr,
Without desert can dub a man a Traitor.
And Toryes, without troubling Law, or Reason,
By Loyal Instinct can find Plots and Treason.

165

But here's our Comfort; though they never scan
The Merits of the Cause, but of the Man,
Our gracious Statesmen vow not to forsake
Law—that is made by Judges whom they Make.
Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with ease
Thy turn those Plyant Puppets as they please.
With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed,
Such shall be sure to meet—but when there's Need.
When a sick State, and sinking Church call for 'em,
Then 'tis our Tories most of all abhor 'em.
Then Pray'r, that Christian Weapon of defence,
Grateful to Heaven, at Court is an Offence,
If it dare speak th'untamper'd Nations sense.
Nay Paper's Tumult, when our Senates cease;
And some Mens Names alone can break the Peace.
Petitioning disturbs the Kingdom's Quiet;
As choosing honest Sheriffs makes a Ryot.
To punish Rascals, and bring France to Reason,
Is to be hot, and press things out of Season;
And to damn Popery is Irish Treason.
To love the King, and Knaves about him hate,
Is a Fanatick Plot against the State.
To Skreen his Person from a Popish Gun
Has all the mischief in't of Forty One.
To save our Faith, and keep our Freedom's Charter,
Is once again to make a Royal Martyr.
This Logick is of Tory's deep inditing
The very best they have—but Oaths, and Fighting.
Let 'em then chime it on, if 'twill oblige ye,
And Roger vapour o'er us in Effigie.
Let 'em in Ballads give their folly Vent,
And sing up Nonsense to their Hearts content.
If for the King (as All's pretended) they
Do here drink Healths, and curse, sure we may pray,

166

Heaven once more keep him then for Healing Ends,
Safe from old Foes—but most from his new Friends!
Such Protestants as prop a Popish Cause,
And Loyal Men, that break all Bounds of Laws!
Whose Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed,
And when they've scarce left him a Crust of Bread,
Their corrupt Fathers foreign Steps to follow,
Cheat even of scraps, and that last Sop would swallow.
French Fetters may this Isle no more endure;
Spite of Rome's Arts stand England's Church secure,
Not from such Brothers as desire to mend it,
But false Sons, who designing worse to rend it
With leud Lives, and no Fortunes would defend it.

Dangerfield's Ghost to J---

Revenge! Revenge! my injur'd Shade begins
To haunt thy guilty Soul, and scourge thy sins:
For since to me thou ow'st the heaviest score,
Whose Living words tormented thee before,
When Dead, I'm come to plague thee yet once more.
Don't start away, nor think thy Brass to hide,
But see the dismal shape in which I dy'd!
My Body all deform'd with putrid Gore,
Bleeding my Soul away at every Pore;
Pusht faster on by Francis, less unkind;
My Body swoln, and bloated as thy Mind.
This dangling Eye-Ball rolls about in vain,
Never to find its proper seat again,
The hollow Cell usurpt by Blood and Brain:
The trembling Jury's Verdict ought to be
Murder'd at once, by Francis, and by Thee.

167

The Groans of Orphans, and the pondrous guilt
Of all the Blood that thou hast ever spilt;
Thy Counteys Curse, the Rabbles Spite, and all
Those Wishes sent thee since thy long-wisht Fall;
The Nobles just Revenge, so bravely bought,
For all the Ills thy Insolence has wrought:
May these and more their utmost force combine,
Joyn all their Wrongs, and mix their Cries with mine.

And see, if Terror has not struck thee blind;
See here a long, a ghastly Train behind!
Far, far, from utmost WEST they crowd away,
And hov'ring o'er, fright back the sickly Day;
Had the poor Wretches sinn'd as much as Thee,
Thou shou'dst not have forgot Humanity:
Who e'er in Blood can so much pleasure take?
Tho an ill Judge wou'd a good Hang-man make.
Each hollows in thy Ears,—Prepare! Prepare
For what thou must, yet what thou canst not bear!
Each, at thy Heart a bloody Dagger aims,
Upward to Gibbets point, downward to enless Flames.

The Troop at Beaconsfield and their March.

[I]

A medley of Ruffians, bound up in a Band,
The shame of their Sex, & the Pest of the Land,
Like Blood-hounds train'd up to the Word of Command.

II

To hunt in a Pack, who single wou'd flye,
And tho fierce to others, yet supplicant lye
To be beat by their Keepers, like Dogs, till they cry.

168

III

Each one in Armor, like a Crab in his Case,
On a Horse that can wisely find for him his Place,
And place his Red Nose to his Leaders broad A---se.

IV

With a Curse at his Mouth, and a Shot in his Gun,
The one to storm Quarters, the other storm Town,
And a Sword that 'gainst Poultry has Miracles done.

V

With Tears of the March from Bastard-big-Whore,
Petitions and Curses from Tapster for Score,
And honest Men's Wishes to see 'em no more.

VI

The Trumpet their Actions and Order does sound,
The Corporal aloud must the Meaning expound
To each Horse how his Rider must keep to his Ground.

VII

The Files being straitn'd; the Ranks being even,
And all things reduced to Sixes and Sevens,
The Blundering Lieutenant swears Thanks up to Heaven.

VIII

The Captain then struts on his Barbary-Nag,
Looks Grim, and the Cornet advances the Flag,
The Trumpet does sound, and then marches Tag-rag.

IX

The Dogs they do bark, and the Poultry run,
Their meeting on each hand the Passengers shun,
And Curses are after them shot from the Town.

X

Where springs a glad Din 'mongst the Girls and the Boys;
The Females they lift up the Heart and the Voice,
The Whores to Lament, and the Chast to rejoice.

169

XI

The Countrey and Towns-men do meet, and condole
For what has been scor'd, and what has been stole,
For Damages, Cuts, and for Knocks on the Pole.

XII

But when they examine, and find that the Tub,
Tho mightily wrong'd, yet retaineth some Bub,
They drink, and shake hands, to each Loss and each Drub.

XIII

Good God! when a Prince thou dost give us again,
Such Faith and such Principles in him ordain,
His Friends may live Safely, and he without Pain.

XIV

By the Laws of the Land, and Melitia's old Force,
Instead of these Legions of Foot and of Horse,
And Irish Dragoons than Devils far worse.

XV

Then France may her Models of Government keep,
Our Seamen return, and go plow on the Deep,
And Justice and Trade may revive from their sleep.

SONG.

[Keep to the Church, while yet you may]

[_]

To the Tune of, Gather your Rose-Buds, &c.

[I]

Keep to the Church, while yet you may,
Now Sects are still a growing,
And Popery that buds to day,
To Morrow will be blowing.

170

II

We Dance an endless Circle round,
Like Fairies in Religion,
While the Italian gets the Ground;
And calls us senseless Widgeon.

III

The Presbyterian leads the Van,
And next the Independent,
The Dapper Quaker then comes in
But Popery's the end on't.

IV

Then be not Wedded to the New,
But in the Old way tarry,
For having once but left the New,
You may for ever vary.

A true and full Account of a late Conference between the wonderful Speaking-Head and Father Pulton,

as it was related by the Heads own Mouth to Dr. F---r, 1686.

I that was once an humble Logg,
The pissing Post for every Rogue;
And did hope for nothing higher,
Than to grace a Christmass Fire,
From th'Element escaped hard,
By th'Favour of F***et Shepherd;

171

VVho, being a Friend to Mathematicks,
Do's for Virtuoso's lay Tricks;
Did procure a Man of Art,
That gave me Voice Articulate,
Taught me Tongues the most difficile,
To sing Sawney, Laugh and VVhistle.
Follow'd now by Court and City,
I confound with my strange Ditty,
Both the Learned and the VVitty:
And make all the Talk at Betty's,
By the help of my Friend P---s.
For you VVits were always good
To the Family of VVood,
And before kept such a puther
VVith the Groaning Board my Brother,
Some Men think you know our Mother.
And I hope both you and they Sir,
VVill favour me sweet Dr. F---r,
To help me out but with one Jest;
Let me alone for all the rest;
For my wondrous Voices sound,
Is much admir'd by the Beau Mond,
VVho to me pay more Devotion
Than to pretty Punches Motion.
Many a Lady bright and fine
Lays her Cherry Lips to mine,
And without offence I smack her
Till I rub off all my Lacker;
VVith that Sex I more prevail
Than any Head that wants a Tail.
The King to Court sent for my Timber
As kind as if I had been a Member,
And found me an obedient Head
That did agree to all he said;

172

Which being strange, pleas'd him so much,
He wish'd that all the House were such;
And 'twould much advance his Cause,
If such Noddles could make Laws.
This indeed's a mighty Comfort,
But, alas! I am paid home for't.
Busie Priests with their Disputing,
Reasoning, Arguing, and Confuting,
Who with Charms Ecclesiastick,
Can make good Catholick of a Stick:
Do torment and plague me more
Than without Ears I ever bore;
May I be a Logg again,
To avoid their Noisy Train.
Pulton t'other Night did come,
(If I Lie, may I be Dumb,
Or may a Plague I wish my Foes,
Will R***s blow into my Nose,)
And brought a Letter sign'd S. Petre,
That he'd privately Confer with me.
I at the Challenge did not flinch,
But bid him sit down on my Bench;
And since he had so good a Warrant,
Blow in my Mouth, and tell his Errand.
Says he, I Missionary come,
Ad Partes Infidelium;
For your Faith cannot be good,
That springs from Shepherds and hard Wood:
I to all Blockheads am the Legate,
And gain some in spight of Clegat.
They alone our Business must do,
Who han't a grain of Sense to trust to.

'Tis not my Province to Confute
Those that think and can Dispute;

173

And here we need not such Expences,
Since our Nation suits our Senses.
Nothing is so apt and fit
For our Doctrine, as your Wit,
And he is most our Enemy
Who is most removed from thee.
Oh! happy Off-spring of the Maple,
To praise thee enough I am not able.
Oh! what comfort dost thou show Men
In thy lucky Faces Omen?
Times will come again, I see,
When England shall adore a Tree;
When Oracles old Poets shall utter,
Wafers bleed, and Flints sweat Butter.
If in Mother Church you stood,
You'd do Wonders like the Rood;
In her Sacred Bosom foster'd,
What might we hope from such a Costard;
For you might convert the Nation,
Since you speak by Inspiration.

While he thus foam'd with Holy Rage,
B---y with pale Visage,
To bring my late Conveyance home,
Came by chance into the Room,
And look'd on him as well as me,
Like Ghost of little Shaftsbury;
The frightned Priest let fall the Matter,
And headlong down the Stairs did clatter;
Nor could sustain in any place
The Terror of that hated Face.
I in this Deliverance blest,
Got in my Chest, and went to rest.

174

A new Address to Mr. Bays, on his late Conversion to the Church of Rome.

Hast thou at last that Mother Church too quitted,
To which thy Laymans Faith so oft submitted?
To gain whose Grace, and keep thy self from want,
Thou didst thy Fathers Principles recant;
Sinn'd against all the sense thou didst inherit,
And choak'd the Motions of thy Grandsire's Spirit.
Has then establish'd VVorship lost her Charms?
And does blind Admirer Bays fly to an Outlaws arms?
She who thy VVit to joyn with Law still bred,
And of thy Conscience had the Maidenhead;
VVho nurs'd with Care thy pliant-passive Nature,
And sanctify'd thy base-time-serving Satyr;
Can she e're lose that true Adorers Heart,
VVhom from Bawd R***s three Shankers could not part?
Thou, who thy Neck, thy Ears, thy Soul did venture,
To libel Whiggs, art thou turn'd a Dissenter?
VVell doth this Change, which thou to curse may'st live,
Expound thy blustering for Prerogative;
Some Sense those Rhymes had, which we thought all Rank,
This is the Key to thy complying Cant;
Drawing the Curtain from Long-framing Scenes,
Thou tell'st us (now at last) what [Loyal] means,
See here, ye Sots who serv'd the same vile Cause,
The end of Faith, that hangs on Human Laws!
VVere with more ease did Love from friendship grow,
Than Toryism up to Popery will flow.

175

From having sold, with a Poetic Dotage,
Our ancient Birthrights for a Mess of Pottage;
From a Defence of Civil Cheat, and Nonsense,
VVith a Brass-Forehead, and Case-hard'n'd Conscience,
Like a Bilow, who durst all Laws defy,
To like Imposture in a Church thou dost for a safety fly;
After long Floating to a Faith thou'rt driven,
Where all thy villany may be forgiven,
Nay us'd, and hallow'd, to restore her see,
Rome has no Hope while Men from Force are free,
But by such Fortune-Followers, as Thee.
How did the Whore open her filthy Breast,
And with spread Arms receive a Rogue profest!
Methinks already with the Beasts own brand
Mark'd, in her Calender I see thee stand!
Hard by the Noble Army of Church-braves,
Among the goodly Fellowship of Knaves!
Who, to allay the Ferment of Divisions,
Have into Veins Basilic made Incisions,
And play'd the Devils Part in Apparations;
To give fresh Dread to the Pope's slighted Thunders,
Have at the Altar acted Lying Wonders,
As Boys do Proverbs, and reviv'd the spell,
To prove Impossible by Miracle,
The better with their Bubble to succeed,
And Faith in Stubborn-Stony-Hearts to bleed,
Made Pictures bow, and broken Wafers bleed;
VVhen e're this Bitch, their spiritual Mother, will'd,
Their Countrey's Father have depos'd or kill'd;
Brought Hecatombs of Hereticks to the Flame,
And VVorlds laid wast to spread her impious Name.

This Party may'st thou never disavow,
Ne're were thy Morals so well-match'd, as now,

176

Fact, Scripture, Reason, Common sense defying,
'Tis they alone could equal thee in Lying:
Since Man in Gods Name cheated, never yet
Was Church for Saint, or Saint for Church more fit.
Oh, may'st thou reason for it, as of late
Thou did'st in Prefaces for the Crown and State!
In spite of a Fr--- League, and Jesuit's Wit,
Such fulsom Fooling might preserve us yet;
Such Teaguish Arguments, to whipe one's Br---,
VVould turn Men's stomachs, worse than the K---S---.
Since in low Fawning thou do'st so delight,
Art siding still with Power against Right,
And, like a Turk, success in Peace, or VVar,
To all the Moral vertues do'st prefer,
As the worst Curse we can wish England's Foe,
May'st thou at last truly a Papist grow;
So many Heav'n's wrath confound thy servile Brain,
Thou may'st in Earnest all their Trash maintain,
Damn'd to believe what now thou do'st but feign?
Since on Rome's Truth thou wou'd'st have all relye,
That be thy Comfort, when thou com'st to dye;
VVhen all the Terrors of grim Death attend thee,
Have not one vertuous Action to befriend thee;
No, in the Church's Pale think thy self safer,
And find no God to save thee, but her VVafer;
For thy past Life full of a just Confusion,
And given over to a strong Delusion,
Put thy sole Trust in a Priest's Absolution;
Let his vain Unction, on thy outward skin,
Be thought to heal thy ulcerous Soul within;
Take't for the Balm which Gilead did afford,
And have no hope of Heaven, but his word.

177

A Short Letany.

[_]

To the Tune of Cook Lawrel.

I

From an old Inquisition and new Declaration,
From Freedom of Conscience and Whig-Toleration,
'Gainst Conscience imposing upon the whole Nation,
For ever, Good Lord, deliver me!

II

From Knaves wou'd set up a Dispensative Power,
To pull down the Test, to which we have swore,
By imposing a greater than any before,
For ever, &c.

III

From the Courts Triumvirate Counsel in vain,
The Father Confessor, that Cheater of Men,
The Hypocrite Lobb, and the Jesuit Pen,
For ever, &c.

IV

From losing the Set in a Passion and Flame,
By taking seven Men up, and hoping the same,
To recover by playing an After-back-game,
For ever, &c.

V

From a Schismatick State and a Catholick Court,
From picking a Jury in hopes to be for't,
By Lopping the Bishops the Church to support,
For ever, &c.

178

VI

From a Puritans Malice and a Jesuits Spite,
From shewing our Teeth without Pow'r to bite,
Against our own Conscience from doing of Right,
For ever, &c.

VII

From making a Pannel the Prelates to blast,
In hopes with St. Peter their Lordships to cast,
And finding it all Ignoramus at last,
For ever, &c.

Popish Politicks Unmaskt.

Walking (some ten years since) along the Park,
One Summer Eve, before it was quite dark;
I fancyed 'mongst a Grove of Trees I spy'd
A Man stand musing by the Water side:
I wish 'twas but a Fancy, but I doubt
You'll find it none when you have heard it out.

181

This Person was a very tall black Man,
Above the common size almost a Span,
His Face was wasted in most piteous sort,
In all things else he was of Royal Port:
But if grim-looks alone Majestick be,
Commend me to that Face for Majesty,
For such it had enough for two or three.
To this Tall Man joyn'd instantly another
Of near his Stature, whom he called Brother,
Richly incircled with a numerous Ring,
Which shew'd he wanted nought but Name of King;
Some time they silent were, till all were gon;
Then did the Taller say, Brother go on,

Which thus he did—
I shall, Great Sir, my last Discourse retrieve,
I pray you Good Attention to it give;
Your Case peculiar is, peculiar too
Must be your Care, or you your self undo;
For Stations high, with Industry and Wit,
A second way may find, if first don't hit:
But Princes mounted on a Sovereign Throne,
Nor have, nor can have other way but one,
To curb the saucy Vulgar, and pull down
Their Cobweb Rights that circumscribe the Crown.
Tear off your Shackles, make the Bumpkins know
There's none but you Almighty here below.
You spoil your Game, Sir, while you do thus dally;
Who follows him that standeth, shall I, shall I?
You Cow the Bold, and Keen the Cowards Heart,
Whilst you, divided, act the doubtful part.
Had you, when London was in Flames, but run
And cut the Cits damn'd Throats, your work you'd done,
You should have made their Blood the Fire to meet,
With Bodies fed the Flames in every Street.

182

To do and undo, suits well with sorry things,
But 'is beneath the Majesty of Kings:
Cæsar, or Nothing's writ on all they do;
For Monarchs know no Medium 'twixt these two.
What is't you stick at, Sir? would you retreat?
Y' are now so far engaged you must beat,
Or beaten be, ride or be ridden now;
He never back must look that holds the Plow.
It may be you not Promise break, nor Oath;
Pish! All the World well know you can do both.
With great Advice the other day you said,
By Parliaments and Counsels you'd be sway'd:
To day you think it good to let them know
What e're you said, you ne're intended so:
Fools to their Word, but Princes great, like you,
To nought but their Intentions must be true.
What! Is't the Laws you tender are to break?
It's well known that's a Scruple but too weak;
For Laws are nothing else but Ties and Bands,
On purpose made to shackle Subjects Hands.
Or, of fit Tool, is't you so doubtful are?
If that be it, I'll ease you of your Care;
I Villains of Intrinsick value have,
And more obedient than a Turkish Slave:
If you but bid them thrust their bloody Knives
Into their Fathers Throats, their Childrens, Wives,
Or any but their own, they'l freely do't,
And lay them sprawling at your Sacred Foot.
I have my Teagues and Tories at my beck
Will wring their Heads off like a Chickens Neck;
Try'd Rogues, that never will so much as start
To tear from Mothers Belly Infants Heart;
First Rape, then rip them up, in one half hour
Two Lusts they'l satiate, do but give them power.

183

Faint Rogues will melt, and have their qualms of fear
At Fathers Groans, or at a Mothers Tear;
But mine are Monsters, fit for any Prince,
Not plagu'd with Conscience, nor yet plagu'd with Sense.
The Flames of Hell, Horror, eternal Pains,
The Clergy's Cheats to propagate their Gains;
They ridicule and scorn to lend their Ear;
Let Knaves for Profit preach, and Fools go hear
The Tales of future Bliss, not worth a Rush.
With them one Bird in Hand's worth two i'th' Bush.
Others won't serve you but on constant Pay,
My Hounds will hunt, and live upon their Prey:
A Virgins Haunch, or well-bak'd Ladies Breast
To them is better than a Venson Feast:
Babes Petticoats, cut large with Arms and Leggs,
They far prefer 'fore Pettitoes of Pigs:
Poor Span-long Infants, that like Carps, well stew'd
In their own Blood, their Irish Chaps have chew'd;
And Fathers Cauls have Candles made, to light
Those black inhumane Banquets of the Night.
What e're you'd have, what e're your wishes crave,
Nod, and 'tis done by my obedient Slaves.
They know no Scruple, no Command dispute,
But do't as readily as Turkish Mute.
You see, Sir, where you are, your Royal Date
Grows out, if you don't soon support your Fate.
To shak off Parliaments will be too great,
And put you in too violent a Sweat;
To baffle therefore, but not cast them off,
To hold them still, but hold them still in Scoff,
Must be your work; for we are weakned so,
That we must drive the Nail that now will go:
And that too we must do with gentle hand,
That tho' they sit, they may not understand.

184

When January comes, cold and ill way
VVill call it Love to put them off till May;
In May some odd Intelligence comes newly
VVon't suffer you to hold them until July;
And July so with heat and sickness vext,
Pity Prorogues them to November next.
And time is ill spent, if before that day
VVe be not able to throw Mask away.
This far exceeds Dissolving in my Mind,
And gives to our Design a better Blind;
For if two Parliaments you slight, I doubt
The Rogues will then begin to scent us out;
For (watchful, with Erected Ears) the Herd
Stand listning now concern'd, and much afear'd;
A Covey, half o're-spread, half scap'd the Net,
Are always harder than at first to set:
So People slipt out of the Noose or Train,
Are much the harder to be catcht again.
VVith Prorogations therefore short and soft
They must be treated; these repeated oft
VVill chafe them so, that either mad with rage,
They'll bring their old Rebellion on the Stage,
Or sullen sit, and leer on what we do,
(The far more dangerous humour of the two)
Their dogged Nature now its Venom vents
In choosing damn'd and plaguy Parliaments:
Poor Fools, their Rage does quite out-run their VVit,
Yet you must never suffer them to sit,
But mock the Choice, and mock the Session too.
Another way, Sir, we our work will do;
One Plot is better than ten Parliaments,
Those give you Taxes, these shall give you Rents;
A Thousand of the Richest we will scrue
Into a Plot they ne'r heard of, nor knew.

185

If Rents 3000 l. a Day, won't do,
I'le three times three, by this Plot help you to.
This, Sir's, your business, and look to your Stuff,
Is all your care, for we have Rogues enough;
Do you but Judges get, I'le Juries find;
Witnesses too, according to our mind,
Such Spruce Rogues, ah! 'twould do you good to hear
How daring bold, and bravely they will Swear;
They're not like Bedlow, Dugdale, Oates, and such,
Consider first, for fear to speak too much,
Nor let their Conscience maim their Evidence,
Through tender fear of hurting Innocence:
Nor do I care for a Phanatick Noose,
All are Phanaticks that have ought to lose.
Judge, Witnesses, and Jury, I'le make sure,
The Devil's in't if all ben't then secure.
Yet if this fails, don't you discourag'd be,
To form new Plots, leave to my Priests and me;
Like Pins one Plot another shall drive out,
Till we have brought our only Plot about.
Our first work is to save our Friends, that done,
Like shirts t'our backs, we'll have more Plots than one;
As fast as this fails, t'other we will start,
Till Plot, like Pox has seiz'd on every part.
They fain would foil our Plots, and fill your Ears
With Regicide intents to raise your fears,
This fruitless Gun, that Dagger stabs your Belly,
When you know all, better than they can tell ye.
Go on, Sir, never fear the heedless Herd,
They have no Courage but when you're afear'd:
On me lay all the faults of Town and Age,
I'le safely screen you from the Peoples Rage;
For when ill Accidents our Plots do spoil
Me they'l call Rogue, but you most sacred stile:

186

For Loyalty aws them in every thing,
Tho' you destroy them, yet, God save the King.
Tho' you them stab and I but hold the Knife,
Yet still they'l wish your Majesty long life.
Thus, great Sir, you're the greatest Prince alive;
If Plots according to our projects thrive;
And thrive they shall, if you'l but do your part,
And from proposed methods never start:
For Plots like Clock-work are; one Pin pull'd out
Doth all its Order, and its Beauty rout,
Steady your hand, keep Parliaments at Bay,
Nor off, nor on, nor VVorking, nor at Play,
Clip every Tongue you find does hang too long,
('Tis taking wind makes every thing scent strong.)
Thus if you do, ill fortune I'le defie,
All other things pray leave to Fate and I:
And now adieu, I'le dive beneath the show,
And act my Popish VVill by Art below.

He being gone, in steps a certain Lord,
VVho had of all was said heard every VVord.
Great Sir (said he) who can tell what to say?
If you by Popish Councils mean to sway,
Curs'd be those Councils! and the Men that do
Perswade you to our Ruine, and yours too.
A Thousand Names, Ten Thousand let your Brother
In's next Book write, if he dare write another:
Ten Gentrys Names for one that he hath got,
Nay let him name us all in the next Plot.
All but the Papists Sir,—all but a few
Of Rome's sworn Vassals and her Clergy Crew.
Bate but this sort, and then take you the Pole,
You'll hardly get another English Soul.

187

Assoon as will then let your Brother draw
High'r Huffs, yet he shall never England awe,
On our side stand the People, and the Law:
For don't mistake, Sir, 'tis by Law alone:
Your Right's derived to our English Throne,
Set that aside, and make the Law a sham,
No Soveraign you, nor I a Subject am;
For that same Law that gives you Dignity,
Gives me my Life, Fortune and Liberty:
Pardon, if with less reverence this is said,
Than doth become a Member to its Head;
For it sound Doctrine is, tho' Cully Brother
And Popishs VVits would fain find out another.
VVithin the Circle of the Law; great Sir,
I stand, and out of it I'le never stir:
If to be King you be content, I will
Pay all Allegiance and Obedience still;
The Peoples Rights, and all our English Laws
Do make the strongest side the Subjects Cause.
Nor can your keeping us from Parliaments
E're futher or advantage your Intents,
Far greater are the Choosers than the Choice,
England's Free-holders have a mighty voice;
These we'l unite, these we'l associate,
And if we can't defend our Lives and Fate
We'l fairly fall, and Freemen to our Graves,
VVe'l rather choose to go, than to be Slaves:
Our Ancesters shan't Curse us in their Tomb,
Nor shall our Children in their Mothers VVomb
They left us Free, and we ours Free will leave.
Or Death, our Hopes and Us shall both deceive.
Thus said—with angry looks He went his way
No answer from his greatness could I pray;
Then I trudg'd too; for vain it was to stay.

188

On Easter-day 87. this was found fixed on the King's Chappel Door.

When God Almighty had his Palace fram'd,
That Glorious shining Place he Heaven Nam'd;
And when the first Rebellious Angels fell,
He Doom'd them to a certain place, call'd Hell.
Here's Heaven and Hell confirm'd by Sacred Story,
But yet I ne'er could read of Purgatory,
That cleansing place which of late years is found,
For sinning Souls to Flux in till they're sound:
The Priest form'd that for the good Roman Race,
Our Maker never thought of such a place.
Oh Rome! wee'l own thee for a Learn'd wise Nation,
To add a place wanting in Gods Creation.

Vpon K. J. Pistolling a Mastiff Dog at Banbury, in his last Progress.

The Poets tell us idle Tales to please us,
Of mighty Perseus, Hercules, and Theseus;
And several other gallant Heroes too,
Who ev'ry one their several Monsters slew.

189

The Minotaur did Theseus bravely slaughter,
And then as bravely Sw---d the Kings own Daughter.
Nemean Lion bold Hercules did choak,
And of his Skin made him a lasting Cloak.
The far-fam'd Perseus kill'd a mighty Whale,
And all t'enjoy Andromeda's brown Tail.
Historians all the great St. George admire,
For murdering horrid Dragon that spit Fire.
But what concerns us yet far more to tell,
One of these Heroes slew the Dog of Hell;
Renown'd Attempts (you'll all confess) if true,
But our great J---s did more than this, (Morbleau:)
He who before, t'immortalize his Name,
Lost dreaded England all her Naval Fame;
He who return'd from Belgick Lions Roar,
When Sandwich sunk in sight of Southwold Shore;
He who two Summers but of late sat down
With all his Forces before Hounslow Town,
And nothing else but bare dishonour won;
He, when he saw his Loving Friend assail'd
By furious Mastiff Cur, Ear-snip'd, bob-tail'd,
Eyes darting Fire, and with his Boo-woo's fierce,
Ready to seize the Lord Lieutenants Horse:
'Tis true, quoth he, to shew that wondrous Might,
Which I have long conceal'd from human sight:
With furious Tone pursuing then his Speech,
Fanatick Dog, forbear my Royal Breech,
(He cry'd) For know thou art but bluntly pointed,
Tho sharp thy Fangs, to touch the Lords Anointed.
To which the Dog, who never Scripture read,
And scorn'd to call an Earthly Monarch Dread.
I am no Dog (quoth he) to fawn and flatter,
But I address according to my Nature:

190

However know I am a Dog of Sense,
That's more than may be said of many a Prince.
With this the mighty J--- a Pistol drew,
Discharg'd, and shot the Mastiff thro' and thro:
Some say that, Vulcan-like, he riv'd his Brain,
No matter which, the Dog receiv'd his Bane,
By Royal Hand for saucy Language slain,
And both got Honour, Dog and Sovereign;
The Sov'reign had the Honour Dog to kill;
The Mastiff, that a Prince his Gore did spill.
Now then, come down from Heaven (ye Cur) come down,
Thou whom the sweltry Summers so renown;
Resign that Place of thine more justly due
To this same Dog, whom God's Vice-gerent slew:
Surely a Dog so dignify'd in Story,
Is th'only Dog worth Constellations Glory.

And you, who in your Signs St. George advance,
Trampling o're Dragon's Jaws peirc'd thro' with Lance,
Alter your painting, and set up in place,
The bravest Hero of the Scotish Race,
Discharging Thunder from his gaudy Saddle,
And Mastiff-prostrate in a goary Puddle:
So shall you Truth advance o're Fabulous Toyes,
And Dog and Monarch both Immortalize.

To the Observator.

Hast thou no Friend so kind, to let thee know
(But thou (lost Wretch) hast neither Friend nor Foe)
That thy insipid Libel's nauseous grown,
No Man will read, or any Party own:

191

Despis'd by all, who have the least pretence
To Wit, to Business, Learning, or good Sense;
That every little Fool does thee deride,
And ev'n the Clergy have forsook their Guide.
Canst thou no new, no fresh Diversion bring,
But ever fiddle on the self-same string?
A solemn Blockhead, or brisk old Buffoon,
After the Rates of Influence from the Moon.
Tho Mischief dwells in thy felonious VVill,
The Pow'r is wanting, and thou'rt harmless still:
Thou art an impotent, well-wishing Slave,
But Nature made the Fool outweigh the Knave.
Thou shift'st thy Sails, and changest every side,
Art ever labouring to save thy Tide.
In vain thy dulness throws thee still behind,
VVhile nimbler Knaves laugh, and thy Prizes find:
Contemn'd by all, of all Recourse bereft,
Thou leav'st old Friends, and by the new are left.
But since 'twere vain th'abandon'd to advise,
And bid a positive old Fool be wise:
VVere I to answer the Fop Observator,
I'd wipe—with his Works, piss on their Author.

Old Gammer Cook.

As Mother Cook went t'other day
To do the Deed of Nature,
VVhat lay in the way, instead of Hay,
But reverend Observator?

She took it up, and read a Scrap:
Alas! (quoth she) 'tis pity
That Nock shou'd ever have a wipe
VVith Pamphlateer so witty!

O ingrateful world! must this learn'd Sire
Be dawb'd, to save our Fingers,
The bawling, Ballad-making-Squire,
That makes such work for Singers?

VVas Towzer and Fidlerio too,
VVhip-Cat, and Antipendium,
Inferiour Clergy's Guide, I tro,
That strikes Dissenting Men dumb?

He whips VVhig-Conventicle Doggs,
And Jears old Fox's Martyrs,
He whips the Sister-Saints, and flogs
Susanna's Bouncing Daughters.

Thus far she trumpeted his Praise,
And (squitter squatter) guilt his Bays.

The Drinking Song.

Give us Musick with VVine,
And we'll never repine
At prosperous Knaves, but defy 'em;
Those Politick Sots
Are still weaving of Plots,
So sine, that at last they fall by 'em.

VVe Laugh and we Drink,
And on business ne'r think,
Our Voices and Hautboys still sounding;
VVhile we dance, play, and sing,
VVe've the world in a string,
And our pleasure is ever abounding.

293

Your sober dull Knave,
For VVise is but Grave,
'Tis Craft, and not VVisdom, employs him:
VVe nothing Design
But good Musick and VVine,
And blessed is he that enjoys them.

A Dialogue between Father Petre and the Devil.

F. P.
Oh, are you come? 'Tis more than time;
Your Tardiness is no small Crime;
All our Designs are at a stand,
They've got again the upper hand;
Yet like true Jesuite, I have wrought
My Charge up to the Point I sought,
Both Sense and Reason quite or'ethrown,
For those we deal with must have none.

D.
Is this a Conquest to relate,
Worthy a Jesuitic Pate?
I have more Trouble with you had,
Than all the Orders I have made:
Beside, I joyn'd in the Design
One, whose fell Malice equals mine;
One so ambitiously inclin'd,
Of such an uncontrouled Mind,
That, let the Gulph be ne're so deep,
Or Pyramids prodigious steep;
If in th'Extreams thou can'st disclose
Any that does her Will oppose;

194

(Tho' on just Grounds) they meet their Fate
In violent—unbounded Hate.

F. P.
I did not call you to discourse,
We must do something now by Force:
Our whole Society is sham'd,
And we in our first Founder damn'd.
Did I, tho' to my Souls Perdition,
Add things more black than my Commission,
Gaining Belief among the Great,
Who forc'd upon themselves the Cheat?
While the good Man I kept at th'Oar,
No Gally Slave e're labour'd more;
Nor durst I let him pause upon't,
Lest, if he thought he shou'd recant;
With puzzling Notions still possess'd him,
At once tormented and caress't him;
Hood-wink'd the Pilot that shou'd steer us,
With our infallible Chimeras.

D.
Boast not as if you'd Conquest won,
You've started much, and nothing done;
Your Order, wheresoe're they came,
Have set whole Kingdoms in a Flame:
Nor Hell, nor Rome, can give you thanks
For acting thus a mad Man's Pranks.
Did I not always to you preach,
The English wou'd you over-reach?
They'l be convinc'd e're they believe,
Not pin their Faith upon your Sleeve;
Your publick Chappels have o'rthrown us,
Our very Proselytes disown us;
And face about to th'other Side,
Exclaiming 'gainst the Roman Pride.

195

F. P.

What, do you now complain of me,
For over-acting Villany?
I still consulted you in all,
Did daily for your Conduct call:
And tho', 'tis true, I nam'd the Saints,
Yet 'twas to you I made my Plaints.
I own, about the French we fail'd,
But in the Irish we prevail'd:
Propose once more, and I'l obey't,
It shall be done if you but say't:
You know, in such a holy Juggle,
My seared Conscience ne'r did boggle:
We must not flag, or sit down here,
That wou'd declare Remorse or Fear,
Which Jesuits do more decline,
Than e're the Rechabites did Wine.
But I have something to impart,
Which does oppress my tender Heart,
And made me now invoke you hither,
Tho' 'gainst your Principles, to gather
The truth of some important Queres
Most needful in this dubious Series.

First, if it in you Pow'r does lye,
Tell me what Death I'm doom'd to dye:
I dare not hope 't must be in Bed,
That suits not with the Life I led:
But if I must be hang'd and quarter'd,
Let me be canoniz'd and martyr'd,
With holy Harcourt, and his Fellows,
Like them be Sainted at the Gallows.

The next thing I desire to learn,
(If you the Secret can discern,

196

If Truth does in your Bosom lye,
Which were indeed a Mystery.)
Let me in private understand,
Both when, and where, the Dutch will Land.
And last, I do this Favour crave,
Since I have ever been your Slave;
Unfold the mystic Book of Fate,
And read me England's future State,
Who next shall to the Throne succeed,
The English or Italian Breed.

The Devil answering, laugh'd outright:
Wou'd I these Secrets bring to light,
I shou'd not half that Harvest gain,
For which I've taken all this Pain:
Nor wou'd I, if I cou'd, reveal
That which my Interest bids conceal.
Yet I will answer thee in part,
Since I've an Interest in thine Heart;
The first, peculiar is to thee,
For which thou need'st not trouble me,
'Tis what thy self did long foresee.
Nor is it reason to believe
Thou shou'd'st the Mobile deceive:
But whether Martyr, or a Traytor,
Thy Ballad will be Truth's Relator,
The other two will be made plain,
When Belgic Lions cross the Mane.
This said, the Devil left the Father,
The Meaning of his VVords to gather,
And vanish'd from him down the Stairs,
VVhile he proceeded in his Pray'rs.

197

The Metamorphosis.

Had the late fam'd Lord Rochester surviv'd,
VVe'd been inform'd who all our Plots contriv'd;
Authors and Actors we had long since seen,
In sharpest Satyrs they'd recorded been,
Tho' Captain, Doctor, Lord, Duke, K**g, or Queen:
His bold and daring Muse had soar'd on high,
And brought down true Intelligence from the Sky.
He oft the Court has of its Vices told,
VVhile Priests pretend they dare not be so bold;
Tho' they're Heav'n's Messengers, it's Livery wear
Receive it's bounteous Salary, yet they dare,
Neglect their Duty, or for Gain or Fear:
Connive at what's directly opposite,
And, e're they'l give Offence, each turn a Proselyte:
VVitness the dismal Change that now is come,
Long since expected by the Church of Rome.
The Calves of Dan and Bethel bleat aloud,
And Jeroboam worships in the Crowd;
Our Upstart Statesmen turn with every VVind,
That blows from Rome, to Sense and Truth are blind.
But yet, tho' ten of our twelve Tribes shou'd fall,
And worship Dagon, Ashtaroth, and Baal;
A Remnant will remain, who firm will stand,
To God, Religion, and their Native Land;
VVho will not bow themselves to th'Romish Yoke,
Tho' they share Sydney's or brave Russel's Stroke
Nor can this Egypt's Darkness long remain,
A Star of Jesse will shine out again;

198

Scotch Vermine, Irish Frogs, French Locusts; All
That swarm both at Saint James's and Whitehall;
Tho' now advanc'd to all Trust, all Command,
All Offices enjoy by Sea and Land,
Shall, when this Sun doth set, no more appear
Within the Confines of our Hemisphere.
A Princely Branch remains will on us smile,
And spread its goodly Boughs quite o're the Isle;
Confirm our staggering Hopes, remove our Fears,
And turn to Balm of Gilead all our Tears;
The Church and State shall nourish as before,
Just Judges to the needful Bench restore;
And throughly purge the Judgment-Seat from those
Who make the Laws themselves the Laws Oppose.
For such there are, and in the highest Place,
VVho their Profession do so much disgrace;
That many fear their Grievance to unfold,
Where Law and Conscience both are bought and sold.
Our Pulpits too shall be adorn'd with those
VVho turn not with each Blast of VVind that blows;
VVho dare preach Truth, and dare that Truth maintain,
Not mov'd by Threatnings, Frowns, Favor, or Gain;
That dare declaim against the Sins o'th Nation,
VVhile others of that Tribe embrace the Fashion.
Nor thenceforth shall those Black Coat-Vipers come,
VVho here are daily disembogu'd from Rome;
VVhere Sins of all Kinds, and of all Degrees,
(The Church Revenues, and the Office Fees
Being discharg'd) Religiously are done,
Tho' 't be to murther Father, Brother, Son;
Ravish a Sister, with a Daughter do
VVhat Nature has a just Abhorrence to;

199

For which, if Purgatory or Hell you shun,
Fee the Priests largely, and your Work is done;
They're Delegates to him that keeps the Keys,
And can't admit one Soul without the Fees;
For he, as God, in Heaven and Earth has Pow'r
To Crown and to Uncrown in the same Hour;
Unmake and Make, Create and Uncreate,
To Torments after Death can give a Date;
From him proceeds inevitable Fate.
These Imps do now in Crowds each other follow,
And hope e're long Churches and Bells to hallow;
To teach you how to worship to the East,
Prescribe us Fasts, while they themselves do Feast;
Whole Loads of Reliques they have got together,
Ay, and Saint Peter's Shadow's gliding hither;
In th'Abbey shortly will be kept a Fair,
Where you may buy such consecrated Ware,
As England has not seen this hundred Year.
For 'tis not France, nor Italy, nor Spain,
That can the thousandth Part of Saints contain;
For Saints, by Canonizing, do become,
By an infallible Deception made at Rome,
Not only Omnipresent, but beside,
One into twenty thousand they divide:
The like with other Reliques they can do,
Joseph's old Coat, the Virgin Mary's Shoe;
Saint Peter's Sword, that cut off Malchus Ear;
The Hoofs o'th' silly Ass which Christ did bear;
The Right Eye of John Baptist, and the Apostle
St. Thomas's Shoulder Blade-Bone, with the Gristle;
The Virgin Mary's Milk, sold by the Quart;
Nay, th'Blood and Water, which from Jesu's Heart
Was by a Souldier let out with a Spear,
By Miracle kept 'bove sixteen hundred year:

200

Besides all this, more Nails to shew there be,
That fix'd our Saviour Christ unto the Tree;
Than twenty Smiths in a whole Day can make;
Yet all these for the same the Church does take.

Bless me, thought I, good Heaven! What does this mean?
Such Trumpery by me shall ne'r be seen;
No, nor the Monsters, that were nam'd before,
Altho' a Trumpet stood before the Door,
And, after dismal Sound on Ludgate-Hill,
VVhere Porcupine of you did cast his Quill;
VVhere Crocodile, Rhinoceros, and Baboon,
VVith other Prodigies are daily show'n;
Invite me in, I wou'd not stir I swear,
To see those more Prodigious—there.

Cæsar's Ghost.

'Tvvas still low Ebb of Night, when not a Star
Was twinkling in the muffled Hemispere;
But all around in horrid Darkness mourn'd,
As if old Chaos were again return'd;
When not one Gleam of the eternal Light
Shot thro' the solid Darkness of the Night;
In dismal Silence Nature seem'd to sleep,
And all the Winds were buried in the Deep;
No whispering Zephyrus aloft did blow,
Nor warring Boughs were murmuring below;
No falling Waters dash'd, no Rivers purl'd;
But all conspir'd to hush the drowsie World.

When on my Couch in thoughtless Slumbers wrapt
I lay repos'd;—My very Soul too slept

201

In peaceful Dulness, silent and serene,
Till 'twas debauch'd and waken'd into Dream.

Methought I saw a dark and dismal Vault,
Whose Horror cannot be conceiv'd by Thought,
And seem'd by some Infernal Magick wrought:
So vast, and so perplexing intricate,
As if the dreadful Court of Death and Fate;
And yet of Kings the great Repositer,
And only Royal Dust lyes mouldering here.
Amongst these Monuments of Sacred Fame,
Great Cæsar stood; Cæsar, whose deathless Name,
When Shrines decay, triumphant shall remain,
While Sense, good Nature, Wit, and Love shall reign.
VVhile I with awful Fear and Trembling paid
Humble Oblations to the mighty Dead,
Methought the sweating Marble did unclose,
And from Death's Mansion the dead Monarch rose;
His Eyes o're all scatter'd a sullen Light,
Such as divides the breaking Day from Night;
By whose faint Rays the Object I discern'd
All pale—with ghastly Majesty adorn'd.
His stiffen'd Loyns a purple Mantle bore,
His Brows a VVreath of wither'd Lawrels wore,
Such as had flourish'd there in Life before.
Now forth he stalks, silent as Shadows glide,
Or Clouds that skim the Air while they divide,
As quick as thought the faithless Town he pass't,
And towards the Camp of wonderous Fame does hast,
VVhile Midnight Fogs surround his awful Head,
And down his Locks their baneful Poyson shed;
The wandring airy Demons at the View,
And all the Ignis Fatuus's withdrew;

202

Hecate let fall, her charm-preparing Weeds,
Wondring what unknown Pow'r Earth's Surface treads,
Which more than that which she invokes, she dreads.
She flies all frighted with erected Hair,
And scarce her Broomstaff bears her thro' the Air;
From his dread Presence every Evil ran,
Except that more exalted Evil, Man:
Not the first Race of less corrupted Fiends,
Till taught by Man, knew half their new-coin'd Sins.
Thrice with Majestick Pace he walks the round
Surveying the Pavilions utmost bound,
And useless Grandeur every where he found.
Philippi, nor the fam'd Pharsalian Field,
Did not more Signs of Glorious Action yield;
But this was all for show not Terror made,
'Twas Hounslow Farce, a Siege in Masquerade.
More near he views it yet, and found within,
All the Degrees of Luxury and Sin;
Alsatia's Sink into this Common-Shore,
Did all its vile and nasty Nusance pour;
Fat Sharpers, Broken Cuckolds, Gamesters, Cheats,
What Newgate disembogues find here Retreats;
The Groom and Footman from their Livery stript,
With Scarf, Gay Feather, and Command equipt.
Promotion gives to Sauciness Pretence,
And greatness is mistook for Insolence;
And to evince their Valour every Hour
Bamboo the Slaves that bow beneath their Pow'r;
Yet to the Countrey Ladies these appear
So Novel, witty, beau, en Cavalier,
That scarce a tender Heart is left behind,
Pray God a Maidenhead you chance to find!

203

The Phantom to that Quarter first resorts,
Where the Illustrious Generals keep their Courts.

I.

Great F--- the Foremost of the Crew,
Whose Uncle Tureign well cou'd fight we know.
He who so often do's repeat the Jest
How he subdu'd the Monarch of the West,
(Or wou'd have done had he not been undrest.)
This rough stern Hero of the British War
To Neighbouring Tents is always born in Chair,
For fear of Incommodement from the Air.

II.

It wonders what did C---ll recommend,
VVho never did to Deeds of Arms pretend:
Love, all his Active Youth, his business was,
Love that best suits his handsom Shape and Face.
But Armies are like Verse, whose Dogrel Lines
Are here for Sense, and there for gingling Rhimes.
(Here where Bellona lays her Armour by,
And learns to be more charming Company,
VVhere the ill-manner'd God has nought to do:)
Some few for fighting are, but most for show;
VVhere rich embroidered Cloaks a la Campagne
So often shine, unless it chance to rain.
Then Lord, how the Sir M. will fret and fling!
Undone, 'tis spoil'd, e're shown before the King;
In perfum'd Beds adorn'd they're basking laid,
As fine as young Brides, on Persian Carpets tread,
That o're the spacious Floor in wanton Pride are spread,
Like Feasting Gods luxurious, and, they say,
As arrant Fornicators too as they.
None come amiss when Lust their Fancies lead,
Alcmena, nor the sweet-fac'd Ganimede;

204

And, like those Gods, they all are given to Love,
But none we hear e're thunder'd but old Jove.

III.

Here one the Hero acts in Lovit's Arms,
And calls his Passion out in warlike Terms,
Tells of soft Sieges, Batteries and Alarms;
How the Artillery of her Eyes did wound,
And how at the first Onset he gave ground:
He who ne're yet did to a Conqueror bow,
Yet kisses and adores his Fetters now;
VVhile all the Batteeies ever he essay'd,
Have been against some Female Fortless Maid;
But Love-it, who has less of Love than Pride,
Being with guilt Coach and Country-house supply'd,
Makes that attone for all Defects beside.

IV.

There lay a Youth of all his VVits bereft,
Who this Campaign was by his Mistress left;
A nauseous Strumpet, insolent and loud,
False and destructive, basely born and proud.
Oh bubbl'd Fool, thou that hadst seen the Fate
Of Cully-B***shes quietly spent Estate:
Collier undon, and forty Rake-hells more
For an old common o're-grown flabby VVhore,
Whose Bastard Son may vie with thee for Age,
A Trader twenty years upon the Stage:
What from th'expensive Folly couldst thou see,
But shameful Ruine, laught-at Infamy?
Thy Eyes, I know, were open'd long before,
But still the Jilt betray'd thee to the VVhore;
Debas'd thy Noble Spirits to her Rule,
And turn'd thy once fair Fame to Ridicule,
Debauch'd thy Sense with Conversation base,
Whores, Eating Pimps, Players, a numerous Race,

205

While thou the treating Cully art despis'd,
And Cuckold by the Slaves thou Gormandiz'd.
Return, thou Prodigal, from Husks and Swine,
The Ruine of the first, was cause of thine:
They say thou'rt brave, give us this Proof of it,
And we'll believe thou can'st be braver yet:
Thou'st yet a Nobler Race of Life to run,
Leave Herwood to her now to be undone:
But her kind Keeper gone, his Flame will fade;
Love cools when 'tis an Obligation made.

V.

Here an old batter'd Tangieren he beheld,
More mawl'd by Love than e're he was in Field;
Yet wondrous Amorous still, and wondrous gay,
Old January dizen'd up in May;
His Zeals as Trophies of his Victory Graces,
But all adorn'd with many Looking-glasses,

Col. Sachvil.

In which he practises Bon Mein and Faces;
How well to manage Ogling, and what Air
He shou'd maintain, when cock, when frisk his Hair;
What Affectation best wou'd Youth express,
And least the Ruines of his Age confess;
Half-choak'd with monstrous Crevat-string, Disputes
What Colour best to his Complection suits;
And all in Middle Gallery to pore,
And claim which is his Joy, some low-priz'd Whore
Vain self-admiring Fop, tho every day
Thou dost thy antiquated Form survey!
But to be well deceiv'd, cease playing the Ass
Six hours each Morning before a Looking-glass,
And trust the wiser Valet with thy Dress;
For whilst thou dost not that ag'd Face behold,
Thy Dress may flatter thee, thou art not old.

206

6.

Chett, that Scundrel, he whom Nature made
An arrant Fool, although a Rogue by Trade,
Which he industriously improv'd so well,
He does in nicest Villany excel,
And from the Trumpet rais'd the Colonel;
Yet lives a double Scandal in his Race,
His Morals are as odious as his Face:
Tho Knave and Coward in his Front be writ,
He has one Vertue recommends him yet;
A Passive Valour that can kicking bear,
A Caution that secur'd him in his Fear
Behind the Canon in the Western War.
And farther to this Honour has Pretence,
Can cheat his Men with matchless Impudence:
But that's the general Cry, While no bold Tongue
Is found to tell Augustus of their wrong.

VII.

Next a Grabesious Allonier, who sat
Like Bacchus on his Tun in drunken state,
With all his mellow Gang encompass'd round,
In high Debauch of Wine and Bawdry drown'd.

VIII.

That Monster G---dy of prodigious size,
A Body fitted to his beastly Vice;
A Face to all more formidable far
Than Gorgon's Head, or to that Coward Warr;
In youth mean Cheats and Rooking was his Trade,
Now (starving) got Command—for Drink—not Bread.

IX.

V--- our new Troy's Hector, and it's hope,
Preferr'd from Tail of Coach to Head of Troop;
'Twas no true Valour got him first a Name,
But some Welsh Fury did his Blood inflame,
And sure he never fought when he was tane.

207

No Brutal Coward Tyrant Algerien
E're healed Slaves so ill as his have been;
As if to him Authority were new,
It is but damn the Rascal, and a Blow.
For they so oft false Musters we observe,
Rather than follow him the Rogues will starve;
And wou'd, if e're indeed there came a War
Be justly shot like wry-neck'd Chevalier,
By some of his own Soldiers in the Reer.
But V---n's not alone, more of his stamp,
That better merit Tyburn, rule the Camp.

X.

Among this Crew M---ll that Fornicator,
Incamp'd with Grandam Doxy and her Daughter;
The good old Soul he loves because she's handy,
Can joque and smoak, and hold him tack with Brandy;
Full threescore years in wise Experience bred,
Preferr'd from drawing Ale to M---ll's Bed;
She's old enough to witch, and by her Art
Has struck some crooked Pin quite through his Heart.
Or has some damn'd Infirmity unseen,
That makes him dote on such a rivell'd Queen.

XI.

Among this Drunken Club was Beau Sir Tom,
Dub'd for his Brother's Merits, not his own;
From drudging City Prig advanc'd to be
Right Worshipful, in Place of High Degree,
But knew not how to manage Quality.
And thought the nearest way was to be lewd,
While all Degrees the Debochee pursu'd;
But like true Cit did always over-do,
As well in Lewdness as in Fashions too;
Drinking's his leading Vice, his Darling Sin,
That pumps his duller Inclination in;

208

Then loud as Storms, incourag'd for all evil,
Swears and invokes by Healths his Guardian Devil.
By chance the Poet Elcanah was there
To make 'em sport, for 'twas not yet the Fair;
VVith many more too scandalous to name,
VVhose Talents are to swear, whore, drink and game;
At a large Table they were seated round,
VVith Bottles, Snush, foul Pipes and Glasses crown'd,
Boxes and Dice—but whether false or true,
I leave it to the Fools that Night shall rue;
For there was Country Squire and City Cully,
That came to see the Show, look'd to by Bully,
VVhere bubbl'd of their Coyn, they healed are
A la Campagne—that is, with Chear entire:
Damme, cries Grab, each Prig his Buttork bring,
And let us forthwith fall to managing;
When I am boozing, clear old Dudgeon's Drolish,
Then let my Natural be a Jump, a Polish,
I sink her down—Then makes some nasty Jest,
And Crowns it with a Bumper to the Best;
(And calls for Link-boy, swears his Pego's nice,
And therefore cannot deal in common Vice.)
Then to the Height of Lewdness they retire,
And Venus must extinguish Bacchus fire.
Thus 'tis when Men forsake an honest Trade,
How much a better Pedant thou hadst made;
Or (bilking sharp) hadst bully'd up and down,
And scar'd the Trembling Mortals of the Town?
This was thy Talent, this thy proper Sphere;
Yet still this Part of thee remains while here,
That thou canst cheat, oppress, and domineer.
Tho thus much by thy Foes must be confess'd,
Of all thy roaring Tribe thou art the best.

209

The rest such Cowards, Sots, such hard'ned Rogues,
Blasphemers, Villains, Rake-hells, Swines and Dogs,
Have newer Sins than were to Sodom known,
And if just Heav'n shou'd send his Vengeance down,
There's not one Lot to save a sinking Town.
But numberless and endless 'twere to tell
All the rank Vice that fills this Local Hell.
All which the Phantom does in hast survey,
He scents the Morning Air, and must away,
And on the Eastern Hill he views the breaking day.
Yet e're he goes with a Remorse extreme
Looks back and sighs o're this Jerusalem;
Nor cou'd depart till like the Prophet too,
In whispering Our pronounc'd thrice—wo, wo, wo;
And then methought I hear'd a Hollow Sound,
Like Ecchoes that from Caves and Rocks rebound;
And thus it spake—Full five and twenty years
I Reign'd, without the Noise or Toil of Wars,
Bore all th'Indignities of Factious Power,
And saw my Life in danger every hour;
Yet rather had resign'd it up in Peace,
Than ow'd my Safety to such Brutes as these;
At best a Scare-crow Rebels to affright,
Put them to Action, and scarce one will fight.
Ah, great Augustus! thou deserv'st an Host
Of Heroes, such as ancient Rome produc'd;
When each Commander should like Scipio be;
Or rather like the yet more Godlike thee,
Brave, Temperate, Prudent to the last degree.
The common Rout all Sceva's in the Field,
Who bore a thousand Arrows in his Shield.
At least they shou'd have Souls to be inspir'd,
And by thy great Example to be fir'd;

210

Thy Constancy and Valour imitate,
And raise at once thy Glory and the State.
This said, and parting with a pittying Look,
Tow'rds his Eternal Hope his way he took,
And blest his Fate he cou'd again return
To the blest Confines of his peaceful Urn.

The Fourth Satyr of Boileau to W. K.

1687.

Believe me, Will, that those who have least Sense,
Think they to VVisdom have the sole Pretence;
And that those VVretches who in Bethlem are,
Deserve it less than those who put them there.
The haughty Pedant, swoln with Frothy Name
Of Learned Man, big with his Classick Fame;
A thousand Books read o're and o're again,
Does word for word most perfectly retain,
Heap'd in the Lumber-Office of his Brain;
Yet this cram'd Skull, this undigested Mass,
Does very often prove an arrant Ass;
Believes all Knowledge is to Books confin'd,
That reading only can inform the Mind;
That Sense must Err, and Reason ramble wide,
If Sacred Aristotle ben't their Guide.
While, on the other hand, a Flutt'ring thing,
VVith a full Roll, and three pil'd Crevat string,
Whose Life's a Visit, who alone takes care
To say fine things, write Songs, and count the Fair;

211

Laughs at the musty Precepts of the School,
Calls the Learn'd Writer an Authentick Fool;
Swears that all Learning is a thing unfit
A well-bread Person, or a Man of Wit;
Names proper only to the Sparks o'th' Town,
And dams his Scholar to his Colledge Gown.

The fierce Bigot, who vainly does believe
His bantring Zeal can Heaven it self deceive;
With Saint-like Looks the bleer-ey'd Crowd does blind,
And the Jilt Villain damns all Human kind.

While the wild Libertine, that Beast of Prey,
Who bears down all that stops him in his way,
Ranges o're all, and takes his savage fill
In the wild Forest of a boundless will:
Swears that Heaven, Jove's, and Hells Eternal Pain,
Are the sick Dreams of a Distemper'd Brain,
Tales fit for Children, a meer holy Jest,
to starve the People, and to glut the Priest.

The sharpest Satyrist with Poetick Rage
Strives to reform the Vices of the Age;
Laughs at the Fool, and at the Villain rails;
Yet Folly reigns, and Villany prevails;
VVhile the crack'd Skull shows all that has been said,
Leaves Marks on nothing but the Poet's Head:
For partial Man, try'd by himself alone,
Protesting every Sentence but his own;
Severe to all Men, to himself too kind,
Sees others Faults, but to his own is blind.
The sordid Miser, a meer lump of Clay,
Form'd into Man e're from its gross Allay,
It was refin'd by the Souls Heavenly Ray,

212

VVhose Thirst of Wealth encreases with his Store,
And to spend less, does covet to have more;
VVho Midas-like, to feed his Avarice,
Starves in the enjoyment of a golden wish;
Thinks himself wise, boasts of being provident,
And down-right Scraping calls good Management.
The Love of VVealth is madness, and I hate
The very trouble of a great Estate:
'Tis perfect Dirt, cries the vain Prodigal,
Mad till 'tis gone, and when he has spent all,
The beggar'd Fool calls himself Liberal.
Now weigh them both, and tell me, if you can,
VVhich of the two seems the most prudent Man:
The Gamester swears both shou'd in Bethlem be,
That Fortune-monger, maddest of the three,
VVhose Life, whose Soul, whose very Heav'n is Play,
At which the Bubble throws them all away;
Who every moment waits his Destiny
From the uncertain running of a Die;
And, if he chance to lose, then how he stares!
Then how the Fury, with his bristled Hairs
Curses his Fate! Earth, hell, and Heaven defies,
And with Oaths heap'd on Oaths, he storms the Skies.
I could name thousands more, but to draw all
The Shapes of this false Reasoning Animal,
Wou'd be as hard, as to count all that die
Each Spring and Fall by Low'r and Mercury:
Or say how of th'impatient Heir, to have
The Old Man's wealth, has wisht him in his Grave:
A Drudgery so great my Pen declines,
Content to sum up all in these four Lines.

213

Greece boasts seven Sages, but the Story lies,
For the whole World ne'r saw one truly VVise:
All Men are Mad; and the sole Difference
Lies in the More, or the Less, want of Sense.

A Cawdle for a Sick Jesuit.

From Rome's Infallibility take a Grain,
Two Drams of Inquisition fetch from Spain;
Of Dr--- Honesty one Mite engage,
Dr--- the Glory of the British Stage!
O're Flaming Coals in [OMITTED] let 'em blow it,
Till the all-conquering [OMITTED] dissolve the Poet.
Add, that the Fire and Brimstone be not dull,
Two Grains of VVit drain'd from an Irish Scull,
VVith Conscience galling for those senseless Gulls,
To see th'untimely Fate of twenty Bulls.
From Statute-Shelfs pull down the Acts, and drain
The Twenty Fifth of old Queen Bess's Reign;
Set those on Coals of Purgatory-Fire,
The space the Devil napping catch'd the Frier;
'Twill cure all Maladies, tho conceal'd in Closet,
And 'tis the true Catholic-Cordial Posset.

214

A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the Prince of Orange, his coming into England.

Written by Mr. Thomas Shadwell.

Our Glorious Realm, o're all the Earth Renown'd,
Once with the Noblest Government was Crownd;
By which all Foreign Tyrannies were aw'd,
Easie we were at home and Terrible abroad.

All our wise Laws of Empire were design'd
Nor for the Lust of one, but good of all Mankind;
The great Prerogative was understood
A vast unbounded pow'r of doing good:
From doing ill, by Laws it was confin'd;
If Sanctions, Pacts, or Oaths, could Princes bind,
By Ancient usages and Laws they sway'd,
VVhich both were by the choice of Subjects made.
Old Customs grew to Laws by long consent,
And to each Written Law of Parliament:
Freedom in Boroughs, and in Land Freehold;
Gave all, who had them, Voices, uncontroul'd:
But few new Rights were by new Laws obtain'd,
Only some ravish'd liberties regain'd.
Who had no Voices, yet alike were bound
By the Protection, which from Law's they found,
For every one in those had equal right,
And no great Man could injure, or affright;
Where Subjects in the Laws can claim no share.
'Twixt them and Cattel no distinctions are.

215

This was the Constitution of our State,
And true Religion flourish'd in its height:
From lying Legends, false Traditions, free,
From Monkish Ignorance, Schoolmens Frippery,
From Idols, and from Papal Tyranny.
Their building made of Stubble and of Hay,
VVas by our Wise Reformers swept away;
Thus we enjoy'd a happy Union,
Under the great Eliza, perfect grown,
Hers and the Peoples Int'rests, were thought one.
She, and the Realm, with mutual kindness strove,
Great its Obedience, and as great her Love;
Long might such happiness have been enjoy'd,
Had it not been b' Ambitious Priests destroy'd.
Those haughty Priests could not contented be
VVith what remain'd from Popish Dignity,
But would their Hierarchy have greater made,
VVith cast off Rights the Laity th'invade,
And call in Jus Divinum to their aid.
VVith that invisible Commission arm'd
Our Kings, with Sov'raign, and Inherent charm'd,
VVith Sacred Person, power without a Bound,
Prerogative unlimited, no ground
VVhereof is in our Constitution found.
Thus they, by Ecclesiastick Flattery,
Turn'd Kings to Tyrants, and to Slaves, the free;
These Furious Fools yet VVise Divines contemn'd,
And their rash Doctrines, privately condemn'd;
None dare in publick say they were unsound,
But Fines, and Pillories, and Brands, were found.
For now Commission'd from above the Sky,
Kings soon were deem'd for Laws, and Oaths too high;
Hotly 'twas taught, they were not bound by Oaths,
Because no Pow'r above them to impose.

216

'Twas now no Kingly Office nor a Trust,
No Laws to Rule by but their Sov'raign Lust;
And all the Land for their Estate they own'd,
The Subjects were their Stock upon the Ground.
At length, to rivet on the Chains we wore,
Leud Knaves in Quoifs yield the Dispensing Pow'r,
VVhich never Tyrant here had claim'd before.
The Scandals of the Bar must now be found
To give the Government this mortal wound;
VVhich at one blow took all its strength away,
And down in pieces dash'd, the Noble Structure lay.
Ruine and Rubbish cover'd all the Ground,
And no Remains were of the building found.
Monsters of Roman and Hybernian Race,
VVith Phangs and Claws infect the wasted place:
VVith one of Brittish kind, who swallow'd more
Than any other Bloody Beast of Pow'r;
Fiercely he goggled, his Jaws open'd wide,
Louder he roar'd than all the Beasts beside.
Some like Jaccals, before him Prey'd for Blood,
And to his Rav'nous Maw brought all they cou'd:
Against the Rapine of these Beasts of Prey,
First Londons Noble Prelate stood at Bay;
One fit t'attone for all the Clergies Blots,
For three vile English Bishops, and twelve Scots.
Then Valiant Fairfax and brave Hough made head,
But by these Monsters were discomfited;
And now the trembling Church began to reel,
And the effects of Non-resistance feel
VVhere Jus Divinum was not on their side;
They strove to stop the fierce impetuous Tyde.
Seven Suffering Heroes gave it such a shock,
It seem'd to dash its Surges on a Rock;

217

But Show'rs of Locusts came with thickest Fogs,
From Tybers Marshes and from Shanons Bogs;
Vast clouds of Vermin hasten to their aid,
And intercepting light thick darkness made;
All clouded was our Sullen Hemisphere,
But Lo! the Glorious Orange does appear!
And by his Universal Influence,
Does to our Drooping Land new Life dispence;
His heat ferments that Lump, was dead before,
VVhich now in every part exerts its Pow'r;
To purge its self, that it may clean become,
The Fermentation soon throws off the Scum.
And ev'ry part does tow'ards Perfection move,
Tow'rds Strength, and Soundness, Harmony & Love:
When Earth oppress'd, with darkness over-spread,
From filthy Boggy exhalations bred.
The Sun with noiseless Marches of his light,
Discusses Vapours, and dispels the Night;
With Equal Silence in his Glorious Race,
Our noysome Fogs does the Brave Orange Chase:
Does all the powers of Darkness put to flight,
And the Infernal Ministers of Night;
The Guilty Spirits shun th'approach of light.
When undistinguish'd in the Mighty Mass,
And in Stagnation Universal matter was;

Huddled in heaps the diff'ring Attomes lay
Quiet, and had no Laws of Motion to obey:
Th'Eternal Mover threw the ferment in,
The Solid Attoms did their Course begin;
The Quickning Mass moves now in every part,
And does its Plastick Faculties exert.
The jarring Attomes move into a peace,
And all Confusion, and Disorders cease:
The Ugly undigested Lump became,

218

The perfect Glorious, and well order'd Frame.
Let there be Light, th'Almighty fiat Run,
No sooner 'twas pronounc'd, but it was done:
Inspir'd by Heav'n, thus the great Orange said,
Let there be Liberty, and was obey'd.
Vast VVonders Heav'ns great Minister h'as wrought,
From our dark Chaos, beauteous Order brought:
H'invaded us with Force to make us free,
And in anothers Realm, could meet no Enemy.
Hail Great Assertor, of the Greatest Cause;
Mans Liberty, and the Almighty's Laws:
Heav'n Greater VVonders has for thee design'd.
Thou Glorious Deliv'rer of Mankind!

A Congratulatory Poem to the most Illustrious Queen Mary, upon her Arrival in England.

By Thomas Shadwell.

MADAM,

Immur'd with Rocks of Ice no VVretches left
Hopeless of Life, of Heat and Light bereft,
Under the Influence of the rugged Bear,
Where but one Day and Night is all the Year,
With ne'er so much transporting Joy could meet
The dawning Day, as Your Approach we greet:
Your Beams reviv'd us from the Belgian Shore:
VVhich now our long-lov'd Princess does restore.
VVhat could make us so rich? Or them so poor?
The World nought equal to our Joy can find,
But the despairing Grief You left behind.

219

We from the Mighty States have now gain'd more
Than by our Aid they ever got before.
When the Great Vere's and Sidney's won such Fame,
That each of them immortalliz'd his Name.
Not Alva's Rage would have distress'd them so
As, MADAM, we have done, recalling You.
Our ador'd Princess to Batavians lent,
Is home to us with mighty Interest sent:
For we, with her, have won the Great Nassau,
VVhose Sword shall keep the Papal World in awe.
She comes, She comes, the Fair, the Good, the Wise,
VVith loudest Acclamations rend the Skies,
Rock all the Steeples, kindle ever Street,
Thunder ye Cannons from each Fort and Fleet.
To all the neighb'ring Lands sound out your Joys,
And let France shake at the Triumphant Noise.
Bless'd be the rising Waves, the murmuring Gales
Sustain'd the Mighty Cargo, swell'd the Sayls.
Bless'd be the Vessel, as that was which bore
The Sacred Remnant, when there was no Shore.
Not the returning Dove they welcom'd so
As we our MARY, who brings Olive too;
That only promis'd Safety to their Lives,
This our lost Peace and Liberty revives.
Bless'd, bless'd be his Invasion, which made way
For this most happy and Illustrious Day.
So brave an Action, so Renown'd a Name,
Was ne'er yet written in the Book of Fame.
Let Parasites call Princes Wise, and Brave,
Who bear inglorious Arms but to inslave.
Our Prince will break those Chains wherewith they bind:
'Tis his true Glory to enlarge Mankind.
In any Land You would Dominion gain;
And MADAM, in each Common-Wealth would Reign.

220

VVhere'er your God-like PRINCE from us should go
They would like us, submit without a Blow.
In his short Sway more Wisdom He has shown,
Than here before in Ages has been known.
The Name of KING adds nothing to his Fame;
But his great Virtues dignifie that Name.
VVhat Land can boast of such a matchless Pair,
Like him so wise, so brave; like You so wise, so fair?
VVhere e're so many sacred Virtues joyn,
They to a Scepter shew a Right Divine.
Who are approv'd so Valiant, Wise and Just,
Have the best Titles to the highest Trust,
Though from the Loins of greatest Kings deriv'd,
That Title's not so strong, nor so long liv'd;
For Princes more of solid Glory gain,
Who are thought fit, than who are born to Reign.

Ode on the Anniversary of the King's Birth.

By Thomas Shadwell.

Welcome, thrice welcome, this Auspicious Morn,
On which the Great Nassau was Born,
Sprung from a mighty Race, which was design'd
For the Deliv'rers of Mankind.
Illustrious Heroes, whose prevailing Fates
Rais'd the Distress'd, to High and Mighty States;
And did by that possess more true Renown,
Than their Adolphus gain'd by the Imperial Crown.

221

They cool'd the Rage, humbled the Pride of Spain,
But since the Insolence of France no less,
Had brought the States into Distress,
But that a precious Scien did remain
From that Great Root, which did the shock sustain,
And made them High and Mighty once again.

This Prince for us, was Born to make us free
From the most abject Slavery.
Thou hast restor'd our Laws their Force again;
VVe still shall Conquer on the Land by thee;
By thee shall Triumph on the Main.

But thee a Fate much more sublime attends,
Europe for Freedom on thy Sword depends;
And thy Victorious Arms shall tumble down
The Savage Monster from the Gallick Throne:
To this Important Day, we all shall owe,
Oh Glorious Birth, from which such blest effects shall flow.

On this glad Day let every Voice,
And Instrument, Proclaim our Joys,
And let all Europe joyn in the Triumphant Noise.
Io Triumphe let us Sing,
Io Triumphe let us Sing,
And let the Sound through all the spacious Welkin Ring.

From thy fresh Lawrels shall the Olive spring,
Thy Victories shall bring us Peace,
And under Thee, our most Indulgent King,
Shall Industry and Arts increase;
Quiet we shall possess, but not Inglorious Ease.
Then shall each fertile Mead, and grateful Field,
Amply reward our Care and Toil;

222

The Herds and Flocks a vast increase shall yield,
Which raging War shall never spoil,
Free from Invading Force, and from Intestine Broil.

And though our plenteous Isle shall need no more,
Than what its Soil for Natives does provide,
Yet added to its mighty Store,
Whatever any Foreign Coast,
Of Plenty, or of Wealth can boast,
Shall on our Happy Shores flow in beside,
From the superfluous Bounty of each Tide.

Now Av'rice or Ambition in the Great,
Shall under thee thy Godlike Power pervert,
Rewards nor Threats corrupt thy Judgment Seat;
Nor Trusts be gain'd but by desert,
While thy Great Self thy Wisdom shalt exert.
Then shall the vile ungrateful murm'ring Band,
Whom our great Moses has set free
From Egypts Bondage, and Idolatry,
Glad to submit to his Command;
For shame their guilty Heads hang down,
Owning the best of Kings that ever fill'd the Throne.

Thus the Prophetick Muses say,
And all the VVise and Good will say,
That they long, long, may celebrate this Day.
Soon Haughty France shall bow, and Coz'ning Rome,
And Britain Mistress of the World become;
And from thy wise, thy Godlike Sway,
Kings learn to Reign, and Subjects to Obey.

On this Blest Day let every Voice,
And, &c.

223

An Ode on the Queens Birth-Day, Sang before their Majesties at Whitehal.

By Tho. Shadwell.

Now does the glorious Day appear,
The mightiest Day of all the Year;
Not any one such Joy could bring,
Not that which ushers in the Spring.

That of ensuing Plenty hopes does give,
This did the hope of Liberty retrieve;
This does our Fertile Isle with Glory Crown,
And all the Fruits it yields we now can call our own.
On this blest day was our Restorer born,
Far above all let this the Kalender Adorn.

II.

It was a work of full as great a weight,
And require the self-same Power,
Which did frail Humane kind Create,
When they were lost them to restore;
For a like Act, Fate gave our Princes Birth,
Which adding to the Saints, made Joy in Heaven,
As well as Triumphs upon Earth,
To which so great, so good a Queen was given.

III.

By beauteous softness mixt with Majesty,
An Empire over every Heart she gains,
And from her awful Power none could be free,
She with such Sweetness and such Justice Reigns:
Her Hero too, whose Conduct and whose Arms
The trembling Papal World their Force most yield,

224

Must bend himself to her victorious Charms,
And give up all the Trophies of each Field.
Our dear Religion, with our Laws defence,
To God her Zeal, to Man Benevolence;
Must her above all former Monarch raise
To be the everlasting Theme of Praise;
No more shall we the great Eliza boast,
For her Great Name in Greater Mary's will be lost.

Now now, with one united Voice
Let us aloud proclaim our Joys;
Io Triumphe let us sing,
And make Heaven's mighty Concave Ring.

FINIS.

The Oservator.

Or the History of Hodge, as reported by some; from his siding with Noll, and scribling for Rome.

Stand forth thou grand Impostor of our time,
The Nations scandal, Punishment and Crime;
Unjust Usurper of ill gotten Praise,
Unmatch'd by all but thy leud Brother Bays;
How well have you your sev'ral Gallants chose,
Damnably to plague the World in Verse and Prose.
Like two Twin Comets: when you do appear
We justly may suspect some danger near.
He lately did under correction pass,
Honour'd by that great hand that gave the Lash,
A doom too glorious for that cursed head,
And unproportion'd to the Life he lead,
But you are to a viler fate design'd,
To suffer by a vulgar hand like mine,
We'll tear your Vizard and unmask your shame,
And at each corner Gibbet up your name.
Expose you to the Scorn of all you meet,
As Dogs drag grinning Cats about the Street.
Under Usurping Noll you first began
To rear your Head and shew your self a Man;
Unpittying saw the Royal Party fall,
And Danc'd and Fiddled to the Funeral;
Disclaim'd their Interest and renounc'd their side,
And with the Independant straight comply'd;

Officious in their Service wrote for Hire;
A brisk Crowdero in the Factious Quire:
Your nimble Pen on all their Errands run;
The Horoscope still opens to the Sun.
There 'twas in those unhappy days,
You laid foundation for designed Praise;
By disrespect ignobly purchas'd shame,
And damn'd your Soul to scandalize your Name:
When Charles at length by Providence came in,
You fac'd about and quickly chang'd the Scene;
Turn'd to new Notes your mercenary strings,
Began to play Divinity of Kings:
Your former Master straightway is forgot,
Stil'd Villain, Rogue, Thief, Murderer, what not?
Such recompence he doth deserve to have,
Who for his Interest durst employ a Knave.
Now 'twas a time you thought to take your ease,
After such great Exploits perform'd as these:
Applauding to your self your own deserts,
You strait set up for a vain Ass of Parts;
Resolving that the Ladies too should know,
What other Tricks and Gambals you could do.
Was there a skipping Whore about the Town?
Or private Baudy-house to you unknown?
Here for a Stallion, there for a Pimp you went;
To do both Drudgeries alike content.
But Ill success you had with Madam C---k,
Whom in the Act her Husband took:
Strong Bastinado o're your shoulders laid,
Made you a while surcease that letcherous trade,
Till growing old in customary sin,
You with a Chaster Lady did begin,
Whom when you found she all Assaults refus'd,
And would not yield her self to be abus'd;

Down on your Knees you presently was laid,
And thus (O righteous Heaven) devoutly pray'd:
Since you disdain the kind request to grant,
Dear Madam let me lay my hand upon't.
This is the Man whose whole Discourse and tone,
Is Honour, Justice, Truth, Religion;
Was such a Godly Rascal ever known?
But now reform'd by indigence of Gold.
Your former wanton course grew slack and cold,
For 'twas at first indeed too hot to hold.
Now new expedients must employ your Brain,
And other Methods for advance of Gain;
Something contriv'd in private, touch'd the State,
Which made you timely think of a retreat;
Beyond Sea then the wretched Caitiff flies,
A guilty Conscience has Quick-sighted Eyes.
When you return'd, you fell to work amain,
And took up your old Scribling trade again;
Some sorry scandal on Fanaticks thrown,
And viler Canting upon Forty one;
You thought sufficient to oblige the Crown;
Then who but you, the World was all your own.
Now for the Church of England you declare,
A witty zealous Protestant appear;
Your secret spies and emissaries use
To pay for false Intelligence and News:
When nam'd in two Diurnals you dispence
Equally void of Reason, Truth, and Sense.
Guinea's now from every quarter came
To pay respect to your encreasing Fame,
While you at Sam's like a grave Doctor sate,
Teaching the Minor Clergy how to prate,
Who lickt your Spittle up and then came down,
And shed the nasty Drivel o're the Town.

Ay these were blessed times and happy days,
When all the World conspired to your praise:
He who refus'd and would no Token send,
Must be traduc'd as the Dissenters Friend:
And that your Greatness no regard might lack,
You got a Knighthood chopt upon your Back.
But something now has stopt that rapid stream,
And you have nothing more to say for them:
Your piercing Eye discovers from a far,
The glittering Glory of some further Star,
Which bids you pay your adoration there.
Inconstant Rover, whether do'st thou tend?
When will thy tedious Villanies have end?
Whither at last do'st thou intend to go?
Of which party wilt thou e'er prove true?
To Turk, or Pope, to Protestant or Jew?
Should I here all thy Villanies recount,
To what a mighty summ do they amount?
Thy solemn Protestations, Oaths and Lies,
Devices, Shams, Evasions, Perjuries,
My Paper to a Volumn would exceed,
Of greater bulk than Hollingshead and Speed.
For thou art now so scandalously known,
And so remarkable in Vice alone,
That every one can find a stone to throw
At such a snarling pimping Cur as thou.
But wretch! if still thou art not past all Grace,
And wholsome counsel can with thee find place;
If thou at last sincerely wouldst attone,
And expiate thy former mischiefs done,
Like dying Judas render back thy pelf,
Recant thy Books and then go hang thy self.

The Farewell.

I

Farewell P---, farewell Cross;
Farewell C---, farewell Ass.
Farewell P---, farewell Tool,
Farewell S---, farewell Fool.

II

Farewell M---, farewell Scot;
Farewell B---, farewell Sot.
Farewell R---, farewell Trimmer;
Farewell D---, farewell Rhymer.

III

Farewell B---, farewell Villain;
Farewell W---, worse than Tresilian.
Farewell Chancellor, farewell Mace;
Farewell Prince, farewell Race.

IV

Farewell Q---, farewell Passion;
Farewell K---, farewell Nation,
Farewell Priests, and farewell Pope;
Farewell all that deserve a R---.

The SCAMPERERS.

[_]

To the Tune of, Packinton's Pound.

[I]

When the Joy of all Hearts, & desire of all Eyes,
In whom our chief Refuge and Confidence lies,
The Protestant Bulwark against all Despair,
Has depriv'd us at once, of her self and her Heir:
That hopeful young Thing,
Begot by a King,
And a Q. whose Perfections o'er all the world ring.
A Father whose Courage no Mortal can daunt,
And a Mother whose Virtue no Scandal can taint.

II

When Jeffryes resigns up the Purse and the Mace,
Whose impudent Arrogance gain'd him the place,
When, like Lucifer, thrown from the height of his pride,
And the Knot of his Villanies strangely unty'd.
From the Chancery Bawling,
He turns a Tarpaulin;
Men still catch at any thing when they are falling:
But a plague of ill fortune, before he could scoure,
He was taken at Wapping, and sent the Tower.

III

When Confessor Petre's does yield up the Game,
And proves to the worst of Religion a shame;
When his cheating no more o're our Reason prevails,
But is blasted like that of his true Prince of Wales:

Which was his Contrivance,
And our Wise King's Connivance,
To establish the Papists, and Protestants drive hence:
But their Cobweb Conception is brought to the Test,
And the coming of Orange has quite spoil'd the Jest:

IV

When Pet--- noted for all that is ill,
Was urg'd by his Wife to the making his Will;
At the hearing which words he did stare, foam & roar,
Then broke out in Cursing and calling her Whore.
And for two hours at least
His Tongue never ceas'd,
He rail'd on Religion, and damn'd the poor Priest,
And his Friends, who had hope to behold him expire,
Are afraid by this Bout they shall lose their desire.

V

Young S--- fam'd in this great Expedition,
Not for going to War, but obtaining Commission;
It's no Mystery to me if his Courage did fail,
When the greatest of Monarchs himself did turn Tail:
So that if he took Flight,
With his Betters by night,
I am apt to believe the pert Spark was i'th' right:
For the Papists this Maxim do every where hold,
To be forward in Boasting, in Courage less Bold.

VI

Nor should B---, P---, and A--- throng,
But each in due place have his Attributes sung.
Yet since 'tis believ'd by the strange turn of Times,
They'll be call'd to account for their Treasonable Crimes,
While the Damn'd Popish Plot,
Is not yet quite forgot,
For which the Lord St--- went justly to Pot;

And to their great comfort I'll make it appear,
They that gave them their Freedom, themselves are not clear.

VII

Wi. W---, that Friend to the Bishops and Laws,
As the Devil would have it, espous'd the wrong Cause;
Now loath'd by the Commons, and scorn'd by the Peers,
His Patent for Honour, in pieces he tears,
Both our Britains are fool'd,
Who the Laws over-rul'd,
And next Parliament each will be plaguily school'd:
Then try if your Cunning can find out a Flaw
To preserve you from Judgment according to Law.

VIII

Sir Edward Hale's Actions I shall not repeat,
Till by Axe, or by Halter, his Life he compleat,
Pen's History shall be related by Lobb,
Who has ventur'd his Neck for a Snack in the Jobb,
All their Priests and Confessors,
With their Dumb Idol-Dressers,
Shall meet that Reward which is due to Transgressors,
And no Papist henceforth shall these Kingdoms inherit,
But ORANGE shall reap the Fruit of his Merit.

The Miracle;

How the Dutchess of Modena (being in Heaven) prayed the B. Virgin that the Queen might have a Son, and how our Lady sent the Angel Gabriel with her Smock; upon which the Queen was with Child.

[_]

To the Tune of, O Youth, thou handst better been starv'd at Nurse. In Bartholomew-Fair.

[I]

You Catholick States men and Church-men rejoyce,
And Praise Heavens Goodness with Heart and with Voice;
None greater on Earth or in Heaven than she,
Some say she's as good as the best of the three.
Her Miracles bold,
Were Famous of Old,
But a braver than this is was never yet told;
'Tis pity that every good Catholick living,
Had not heard on't before the last day of Thanksgiving.

II

In Lombardy-Land, great Modena's Dutchess
Was snatch'd from her Empire by Death's cruel Clutches,
When to Heaven she came (for thither she went)
Each Angel received her with Joy and Content.
On her knees she fell down,
Before the bright Throne,
And begg'd that Gods Mother would grant her one Boon;

Give England a Son (at this Critical Point)
To put little Orange's Nose out of Joynt.

III

As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition,
To Gabriel, the Angel, she straight have Commission;
She pluck'd off her Smock from her shoulders divine,
And charg'd him to hasten to Englands fair Queen.
Go to the Royal Dame,
To give her the same,
And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name;
For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder,
Shall keep the most Insolent Hereticks under.

IV

Tell James (my best Son) his part of the matter
Must be with this, Only to cover my Daughter;
Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand;
Then let him go Travel to visit the Land;
And the Spirit of Love,
Shall come from above,
Tho not as before, in form of a Dove;
Yet down he shall come in some likeness or other,
(Perhaps like Count Dada) and make her a Mother.

V

The Message with hearts full of Faith were receiv'd,
And the next news we heard was Q. M. conceiv'd;
You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters,
Grave Judges, Lords, Bishops, & Commons, Consenters
You Commissioners all,
Ecclesiastical,
From M--- the Dutiful, to C--- the Tall;
Pray Heaven to strengthen Her Majesties Placket,
For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket.

DIALOGUE.

Why am I daily thus perlex'd?
Why beyond Womans patience vex'd?
Your Spurious Issue grow and thrive;
VVhile mine are dead e'er well alive.
If they survive a nine days wonder,
Suspicious Tongues aloud do thunder;
And streight accuse my Chastity,
For your damn'd Insufficiency:
You meet my Love with no desire,
My Altar damps your feeble fire:
Though I have infinite more Charms
Than all you e'er took to your Arms.

The Priest at th'Altar bows to me;
VVhen I appear he bends the Knee.
His Eyes are on my Beauties fixt,
His Pray'rs to Heav'n and Me are mixt;
Confusedly he tells his Beads,
Is out both when he Prays and Reads.

I travell'd farther for your Love,
Than Sheba's Queen, I'll fairly prove.
She from the South, 'tis said, did rome,
And I as far from East did come.
But here the difference does arise,
Though equally we sought the Prize;
VVhat that great Queen desir'd she gain'd,
But I soon found your Treasury drain'd,
Your Veins corrupted in your Youth,
'Tis sad Experience tells this Truth:

Though I had caution long before
Of that which I too late deplore.

Pray, Madam, let me silence break,
As I have you, now hear me speak.
These Stories sure must please you well,
You're apt so often them to tell.

But, if you'll smooth your brow a while,
And turn that Pout into a Smile,
I doubt not, but to make't appear,
That you the great'st Aggressor are.

I took you with an empty Purse,
Which was to me no trivial Curse,
No Dowry could your Parents give;
They'd but a Competence to live.
When you appear'd, your Charming Eyes
(As you relate) did me surprize
With VVonder, not with Admiration,
Astonishment, but no Temptation:
Nor did I see in all your Frame,
Ought could create an amorous flame,
Or raise the least Desire in me,
Save only for Variety.
I paid such Service as was due,
VVorthy my self, and worthy you:
Caress'd you far above the rate
Both of your Birth, and your Estate.
VVhen soon I found your haughty mind
VVas unto Sov'raignty inclin'd;
And first you practis'd over me
The heavy Yoke of Tyranny,
VVhile I your Property was made,
And you, not I, was still obey'd:
Nor durst I call my Soul my own,
You manag'd me as if I'd none.

I took such measures as you gave,
All day your Fool, all night your slave.

Nor was Ambition bounded here,
You still resolv'd your course to steer:
All that oppose you, you remove;
'Twas much you'd own the Powers above.
Now several Stratagems you try,
And I'm in all forc'd to comply:
To Mother Church you take Recourse,
She tells you 'tmust be done by force;
And you, impatient of delay,
Contrive and execute the way.

When mounted to the place you sought,
It no Contentment with it brought:
One Tree within your Prospect stood
Fairest and tallest of the Wood:
Which to your prospect gave offence,
And it must be remov'd from thence.
In this you also are obey'd,
While all the Fault on me is laid.

Now you was quiet for a while,
As flattering Weather seems to smile,
Till buzzing Beetles of the Night
Had found fresh matter for your spite,
And set to work your busie Brain,
Which took Fire quickly from their Train.
Some VVise, some Valiant, you remove,
'Cause they your Maxims don't approve;
And in in their stead such Creatures place
VVhich to th'Employments bring disgrace:
While whatsoe'r you do I own,
And still the dirt on me is thrown.

Straight new Chimear's fill your Brain,
The humming Beetles buz again;

A Goal-Delivery now must be,
All tender Consciences set free;
Not out of Zeal, but pure Design
To make Dissenters with us joyn,
To pull down Test and Penal Laws,
The Bulwark of the Hereticks Cause.
The sly Dissenters laugh the while,
They see where lurks the Serpents guile;
And rather than with us comply,
Will on our Enemies rely.
The Chieftains of the Protestant Cause,
We did confine, though 'gainst the Laws:
But soon was glad to set 'em free,
Fearing the giddy Mobile.

Now all is turning upside down,
Loud Murmuring's in every Town;
We've Foes abroad, and Foes at home,
Armies and Fleets against us come:
The Protestants do laugh the while,
And the Dissenters sneer and smile;
But no assistance either sends;
They're neither Enemies now Friends.

Now pray conclude what must be done,
Consult your Oracle of ROME,
For next fair Wind be sure they come.

The Prophesie.

When the K. leaves of S**ly, & holds to the Queen
And B**wick has fought as many Battles as he's seen,
Then Cl**ford shall look like a Lass of fifteen,
And Popery out of this Nation shall run.

When M--- shall leave off his Lust and his Pride,
And C---wall his Pimp, which none but his breed,
Then M--- Letchery shall be deny'd.
And Popery, &c.

When B---ly the Cynick leaves being Satyrick,
And of his Wifes Vertue writes a large Panegyrick,
Then his Manners shall fight for his good Natures Merit,
And Popery, &c.

When R--- gives up his 12 s. i'th' Pound,
And the Army does B--- Generosity sound,
Then D--- refusing of Bribes shall be found;
And Popery, &c.

When G--- his Conscience shall fly in's face,
And rather than Vote 'gainst, the the Test leav's place,
And S--- likewise shall have no more Grace;
And Popery, &c.

When C--- and D--- for Religion dye Martyrs,
And C--- refuses to be Knight of the Garter.
Then the Country no longer shall the Dragoons Quarter;
And Popery, &c.

When the K. from the Word he hath given does swerve,
And the Judges the Oath they have taken observe,
Or for breaking have but what they deserve;
And Popery, &c.

When Archbishop of York we see Dr. Ken,
And Compton made Bishop of London agen,
And Herbert Rule, as before, on the Main;
And Popery, &c.

When N**folk grows Rich, and P**is grows poor,
When N--- is humble S---cer demure,
When the Town can love one, & the other endure;
And Popery, &c.

When T---l's turn'd out, and an Ormond put in,
When the Groom of the Stool thinks declaring a Sin,
Then Oxford shall have his Regiment agen;
And Popery, &c.

When the P--- of Denmark leaves W--- direction,
And is suff'red to bring what she breeds to perfection,
And a Parliament's call'd by a legal Election,
And Popery, &c.

When Fe**hams Conduct a Souldier shall prove him,
And the Chancellour beggs that the King would remove him,
Oh, then we shall see how the People will love him;
And Popery, &c.

When Petres and P--- Council shall fail,
And if what the Q. goes with shou'd prove a Female,
Lord! How wou'd the Romish Religion prevail,
That out of this Nation it might not turn.

An Excellent new Ballad, call'd, the Prince of Darkness;

shewing how three Nations may be set on Fire by a Warming-Pan.

As I went by St. James's I heard a Bird sing,
Of certain, the Q. has a Boy in the Spring,
But one of the Chair-men did laugh and did say,
It was born over Night, & brought forth the next day;
This Bantling was heard at St. James's to squaul,
Which made the Q. make so much haste from White-H.
Peace, Peace, little Master, and hold up thy head,
Here's Money bid for thee, the true Mother said;

But no body knows from what Parish it came,
And that is the reason it has not a Name.
Good Catholicks all were afraid it was dying,
There was such abundance of sighing and crying;
VVhich is a good Token by which we may swear,
It is the Q---s own, and the Kingdoms right Heir.
Now if we should happen to have a true Lad,
From the Loins of so wholsom a Mother and Dad,
'Twere hard to determine which Blood were the best,
That of Southask, or the Bastard of Est;
But now we have cause for Thansgiving indeed,
There was no other way for mending the Breed.

A New SONG.

[Our History reckons some Kings of great fame]

[_]

To the Tune of, Lilli-burlero.

[I]

Our History reckons some Kings of great fame,
Ninny Mack Nero, Jemmy Transub,
But none before this who deserved the Name
Of Jemmy Mack Nero, Jemmy Transub;
Nero, Nero, Nero, Nero, Ninny Mack Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, Nero, Nero, Ninny Mack Nero, &c.

II

He pick'd up a parcel of Fools and Knaves,
Ninny Mack, &c.
And make them all Judges to make us all Slaves,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

III

Then for the Church he solemnly swore,
Ninny Mack, &c.
He took as much care as his Brother before,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

IV

To D--- the dapper, and C--- the tall,
Ninny Mack, &c.
He added Tom. W--- and Timothy H---,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

V

Yet for all this the Heretick Clowns,
Ninny Mack &c.
Have set out a Fleet to ride in the Downs,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

VI

And General Scomberg fierce as a Bear,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Is coming a Board, let him come if he dare,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

VII

For now our brave K--- has fitted his Arms,
Ninny Mack, &c.
And all our Dear Joys are Landing in Swarms,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

VIII

VVhat though the Dutch are so Impudent grown,
Ninny Mack, &c.
To swear the K---s Son is none of his own.
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

IX

VVhat need they make such a deal ado,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Is not our K---a Ch---g too,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

X

As long as he bought him with his French Pence,
Ninny Mack, &c.
For matter of getting the Pope will Dispence,
Ninny Mack, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.
Nero, Nero, &c.

A New SONG.

[In Rome there is a most fearful Rout]

[_]

To the Tune of, Lulla by Baby.

In Rome there is a most fearful Rout,
And what do you think it is about,
Because the Birth of the Babe's come out:
Sing lulla by Babee, by, by, by.

The jesuits swear the Midwife told tales,
And ruin'd His Highness the Prince of Wales;
She's a jade for her pains, Cutsplutter-anails:
Sing lulla, &c.

The Popish Crew did all protest,
That twenty great men would swear at least,
They see his Welsh Highness creep out of his Nest;
Sing lulla, &c.

The Goggle-ey'd Monster in the Tower,
He peep'd at his Birth for above an hour,
And 'twas a true Prince of Wales he swore:
Sing lulla, &c.

Another great Lord, both Grave and VVise,
Stood peeping between Her Majesties Thighs;
He look'd through a Glass for to save his Eyes:
Sing lulla, &c.

Both were so well satisfy'd,
They knew the sweet Babe from a thousand they cry'd;
'Twas Born with the Print of a Tile on his Side:
Sing lulla, &c.

Some say 'tis a Prince of Wales by Right,
And those that deny it tis out of Spight;
But God send the Mother came honestly by't:
Sing lulla, &c.

Some Priest, they say, crept nigh her Honour,
And spinkled some good Holy VVater upon her:
VVhich made her conceive of what has undone her.
Sing lulla, &c.

The Papists thought themselves greatly blest,
Before the young Babe was brought to the Test;
But now they call Peters a Fool of a Priest:
Sing lulla, &c.

The Priests in order to fly to the Pope,
Are got on Board on the Foreign Hope,
For all that stay here will be sure of a Rope:
Sing lulla by Babee, by, by, by.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

I. [Volume I.] From the time of Oliver Cromwell to the Abdication of K. James the Second.

1. [The First Part.]

A Panegyrick on O. Cromwell, and his Victories.

Three POEMS on the Death of the late Protector, Oliver Cromwell.

Heroick Stanza's, on the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell:

Written after his Funeral, by Mr. Dryden.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXIV

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

To the happy Memory of the late Usurper. Oliver Cromwell.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

Upon the late Storm, and Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same,

By Mr. Waller.

Directions to a Painter.

To the KING.

Directions to a Painter.

To the KING.

Direstions to a Painter.

Directions to a Painter.

Quæ sequuntur, in limine Thalami Regii, à nescio quo nebulone scripta, reperibantur.

The last Instructions to a Painter, About the Dutch Wars 1667.

To the KING.

The Loyal Scot.

By Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt on his Ship at Chatham.

Britannia and Raleigh.

Advice to a Painter,

by A. Marvell Esqr;

To the King.

Nostradamus's Prophecy.

Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost.