University of Virginia Library

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.
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?
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:
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?