Poems on Affairs of State

Long time had Israel been disus'd from Rest,
Long had they been by Tyrants sore opprest;
Kings of all sorts they ignorantly crav'd,
And grew more stupid as they were enslav'd:
Yet want of Grace they impiously disown'd,
And still like Slaves beneath the Burthen groan'd:
With languid Eyes their Race of Kings they view,
The Bad too many, and the Good too few;
Some rob'd their Houses, and destroy'd their Lives,
Ravish'd their Daughters, and debauch'd their Wives;
Prophan'd the Altars with polluted Loves,
And worship'd Idols in the Woods and Groves.

To Foreign Nations next they have recourse;
Striving to mend, they made their State much worse.
They first from Hebron all their Plagues did bring,
Cramm'd in the single Person of a King;
From whose base Loins ten thousand Evils flow,
Which by Succession they must undergo.
Yet sense of Native Freedom still remains,
They fret and grumble underneath their Chains;
Incens'd, enrag'd, their Passion does arise,
'Till at his Palace-Gate their Monarch dies.
This Glorious Feat was by the Fathers done,
Whose Children next depos'd his Tyrant Son,
Made him, like Cain, a murd'rous Wanderer,
Both of his Crimes, and of his Fortunes share.

But still resolv'd to split on Foreign Shelves,
Rather than venture once to trust themselves,
To Foreign Courts and Councils do resort,
To find a King their Freedoms to support:
Of one for mighty Actions fam'd they'r told,
Profoundly Wise, and desperately Bold,
Skilful in War, Successful still in Fight,
Had vanquish'd Hosts, and Armies put to flight;
And when the Storms of War and Battels cease,
Knew well to steer the Ship of State in Peace,
Him they approve, approaching to their sight,
Lov'd by the Gods, of Mankind the Delight.
The numerous Tribes resort to see him land,
Cover the Beach, and blacken all the Strand;
With loud Huzza's they welcom him on shore,
And for their Blessing do the Gods implore.

The Sanhedrim conven'd, at length debate
The sad Condition of their drooping State,
And sinking Church, just ready now to drown;
And with one Shout they do the Heroe crown.

Ah happy Israel! had there never come
Into his Councils crafty Knaves at home,
In combination with a Foreign Brood,
Sworn Foes to Israel's Rights and Israel's Good;
Who impiously foment intestine Jars,
Exhaust our Treasure, and prolong our Wars;
Make Israel's People to themselves a Prey,
Mislead their King, and steal his Heart away:
United Interests thus they do divide,
The State declines by Avarice and Pride;
Like Beasts of Prey they ravage all the Land,
Acquire Preferments, and usurp Command:
The Foreign Inmates the Housekeepers spoil,
And drain the Moisture of our fruitful Soil.
If to our Monarch there are Honours due,
Yet what with Gibeonites have we to do?
When Foreign States employ 'em for their Food,
To draw their Water, and to hew their Wood.

What Mushroom Honours does our Soil afford!
One day a Begger and the next a Lord.
What dastard Souls do Jewish Nobles wear!
The Commons such Affronts would never bear.
Let no Historian the sad Stories tell
Of thy base Sons, O servile Israel!
But thou, my Muse, more Generous and Brave,
Shalt their black Crimes from dark Oblivion save
To future Ages shalt their Sins disclose,
And brand with Infamy thy Nation's Foes.

A Country lies, due East from Juda's shore,
Where stormy Winds and noisy Billows roar;
A Land much differing from all other Soils,
Forc'd from the Sea, and buttress'd up with Piles.
No Marble Quarrys bind the spungy Ground,
But Loads of Sand and Cockle-shells are found:
Its Natives void of Honesty and Grace,
A boorish, rude, and an inhumane Race;
From Nature's Excrement their Life is drawn,
Are born in Bogs, and nourish'd up from Spawn.
Their hard-smoak'd Beef is their continual Meat,
Which they with Rusk their luscious Manna eat.
Such Food with their chill Stomachs best agrees,
They sing Hosannah to a Mare's-milk Cheese.
To supplicate no God, their Lips will move,
Who speaks in Thunder like Almighty Jove:
But watry Deities they do invoke,
Who from the Marshes most Divinely croak.
Their Land, as if asham'd their Crimes to see,
Dives down beneath the Surface of the Sea.
Neptune, the God who does the Seas command,
Ne'er stands on Tip-toe to descry their Land;
But seated on a Billow of the Sea,
With ease their humble Marshes does survey.
These are the Vermin do our State molest;
Eclipse our Glory, and disturb our Rest.

BENTIR in the inglorious Roll the first,
Bentir to this and future Ages, curst,

Of mean Descent, yet insolently proud,
Shunn'd by the Great, and hated by the Crowd;
Who neither Blood nor Parentage can boast,
And what he got, the Jewish Nation lost:
By lavish Grants whole Provinces he gains,
Made forfeit by the Jewish Peoples Pains;
Till angry Sanhedrims such Grants resume,
And from the Peacock take each borrow'd Plume.
Why should the Gibeonites our Land engross,
And aggrandize their Fortunes with our Loss?
Let them in foreign States proudly command,
They have no Portion in the promis'd Land,
Which immemorially has been decreed,
To be the Birth-right of the Jewish Seed.
How ill does Bentir in the Head appear
Of Warriours, who do Jewish Ensigns bear,
By such we're grown e'en scandalous in War.
Our Fathers Trophies wore, and oft could tell
How by their Swords the mighty Thousands fell;
What mighty Deeds our Grand-fathers had done,
What Battels fought, what Wreaths of Honour won:
Thro' the extended Orb they purchas'd Fame,
The Nations trembling at their awful Name:
Such wondrous Heroes our Fore-fathers were,
When we base Souls! but Pigmies are in War:
By foreign Chieftains we improve in Skill,
We learn how to intrench, not how to kill:
For all our Charge are good Proficients made
In using both the Pickax and the Spade.
But in what Field have we a Conquest wrought?
In ten Years War what Battel have we fought?

If we a foreign Slave may use in War,
Yet why in Council should that Slave appear?
If we with Jewish Treasure make him great,
Must it be done to undermine the State?
Where are the ancient Sages of Renown?
No Magi left, fit to advise the Crown?
Must we by foreign Councils be undone?

Unhappy Israel, who such Measures takes,
And seeks for Statesmen in the Bogs and Lakes;
Who speak the Language of most abject Slaves,
Under the Conduct of our Jewish Knaves.
Our Hebrews murder'd in their hoarser Throats;
How ill their Tongues agree with Jewish Notes!
Their untun'd Prattle does our Sense confound,
Which in our Princely Palaces does sound;
The self-same Language the old Serpent spoke,
When misbelieving Eve the Apple took:
Of our first Mother why are we asham'd,
When by the self-same Rhetorick we are damn'd?

But Bentir, not content with such Command,
To canton out the Jewish Nation's Land;
He does extend to other Coasts his Pride,
And other Kingdoms into Parts divide.
Unhappy Hiram! dismal is thy Song;
Tho born to Empire, thou art ever young!
Ever in Nonage, canst no Right transfer:
But who made Bentir thy Executor?
What mighty Power does Israel's Land afford?
What Power has made the famous Bentir Lord?
The Peoples Voice, and Sanhedrims Accord.
Are not the Rights of People still the same?
Did they e'er differ in or Place or Name?
Have not Mankind on equal Terms still stood,
Without Distinction, since the mighty Flood?
And have not Hiram's Subjects a free Choice
To chuse a King by their united Voice?
If Israel's People could a Monarch chuse,
A living King at the same time refuse;
That Hiram's People, shall it e'er be said,
Have not the Right of Choice when he is dead?
When no Successor to the Crown's in sight,
The Crown is certainly the Peoples Right.
If Kings are made the People to enthral,
We had much better have no King at all:

But Kings, appointed for the Common Good,
Always as Guardians to their People stood.
And Heaven allows the People sure a Power
To chuse such Kings as shall not them devour:
They know full well what best will serve themselves,
How to avoid the dangerous Rocks and Shelves.

Unthinking Israel! Ah henceforth beware
How you entrust this faithless Wanderer!
He who another Kingdom can divide,
May set your Constitution soon aside,
And o'er your Liberties in Triumph ride.
Support your Rightful Monarch and his Crown,
But pull this proud, this croaking Mortal down.

Proceed, my Muse; the Story next relate
Of Keppech, the imperious Chit of State,
Mounted to Grandeur by the usual Course
Of Whoring, Pimping, or a Crime that's worse;
Of Foreign Birth, and undescended too,
Yet he, like Bentir, mighty Feats can do.
He robs our Treasure to augment his State,
And Jewish Nobles on his Fortunes wait:
Our ravish'd Honours on his Shoulder wears,
And Titles from our ancient Rolls he tears.
Was e'er a prudent People thus befool'd,
By upstart Foreigners thus basely gull'd?
Ye Jewish Nobles, boast no more your Race,
Or sacred Badges did your Fathers Grace!
In vain is Blood, or Parentages, when
Ribbons and Garters can ennoble Men.
To Chivalry you need have no recourse,
The gawdy Trappings make the Ass a Horse.
No more, no more your ancient Honours own,
By slavish Gibeonites you are outdone:
Or else your ancient Courage reassume,
And to assert your Honours once presume;
From off their Heads your ravish'd Lawrels tear,
And let them know what Jewish Nobles are.

The True-born Englishman:

A SATYR.

The Introduction.

Speak, Satyr; for there's none can tell like thee
Whether 'tis Folly, Pride, or Knavery,
That makes this discontented Land appear
Less happy now in Times of Peace, than War:
Why Civil Feuds disturb the Nation more
Than all our Bloody Wars have done before.

Fools out of Favour grudg at Knaves in Place,
And Men are always honest in Disgrace:
The Court Preferments make Men Knaves in course;
But they who would be in them would be worse.
'Tis not at Foreigners that we repine,
Wou'd Foreigners their Perquisites resign:
The Grant Contention's plainly to be seen,
To get some Men put out, and some put in.
For this our S---rs make long Harangues,
And florid M---rs whet their polish'd Tongues.
Statesmen are always sick of one Disease;
And a good Pension gives them present Ease.
That's the Specifick makes them all content
With any King and any Government.
Good Patriots at Court-Abuses rail,
And all the Nation's Grievances bewail:
But when the Sov'reign Balsam's once apply'd,
The Zealot never fails to change his Side:
And when he must the Golden Key resign,
The Railing Spirit comes about again.

Who shall this Bubbl'd Nation disabuse,
While they their own Felicities refuse?
Who at the Wars have made such mighty Pother,
And now are falling out with one another:
With needless Fears the Jealous Nation fill,
And always have been sav'd against their Will:

Who fifty Millions Sterling have disburs'd,
To be with Peace and too much Plenty curs'd:
Who their Old Monarch eagerly undo,
And yet uneasily obey the New.
Search, Satyr, search; a deep Incision make;
The Poison's strong, the Antidote's too weak.
'Tis pointed Truth must manage this Dispute,
And down-right English Englishmen confute.

Whet thy just Anger at the Nation's Pride;
And with keen Phrase repel the Vicious Tide.
To Englishmen their own beginnings show,
And ask them why they slight their Neighbours so.
Go back to elder Times and Ages past,
And Nations into long Oblivion cast;
To old Britannia's Youthful Days retire,
And there for True-Born Englishmen enquire.
Britannia freely will disown the Name,
And hardly knows her self from whence they came:
Wonders that They of all Men shou'd pretend
To Birth and Blood, and for a Name contend.
Go back to Causes where our Follies dwell,
And fetch the dark Original from Hell:
Speak, Satyr, for there's none like thee can tell.

I. PART I.

Where-ever God erects a House of Prayer,
The Devil always builds a Chappel there
And 'twill be found upon Examination,
The latter has the largest Congregation:
For ever since he first debauch'd the Mind,
He made a perfect Conquest of Mankind.

With Uniformity of Service, he
Reigns with a general Aristocracy,
No Nonconforming Sects disturb his Reign,
For of his Yoke there's very few Complain.
He knows the Genius and the Inclination,
And matches proper Sins for ev'ry Nation.
He needs no Standing-Army Government;
He always Rules us by our own Consent:
His Laws are easie, and his gentle Sway
Makes it exceeding pleasant to obey.
The List of his Vice-gerents and Commanders,
Out-does your Cæsars, or your Alexanders.
They never fail of his Infernal Aid,
And he's as certain ne'er to be betray'd.
Thro' all the World they spread his vast Command,
And Death's Eternal Empire is maintain'd.
They rule so politickly and so well,
As if they were L--- J--- of Hell.
Duly divided to debauch Mankind,
And plant Infernal Dictates in his Mind.

Pride the first Peer, and President of Hell,
To his share Spain, the largest Province, fell.
The subtile Prince thought fittest to bestow
On these the Golden Mines of Mexico;
With all the Silver Mountains of Peru;
Wealth which would in wise hands the World undo:
Because he knew their Genius was such,
Too Lazy and too Haughty to be Rich.

So proud a People, so above their Fate,
That if reduc'd to beg, they'll beg in State.
Lavish of Money, to be counted Brave,
And proudly starve, because they scorn to save.
Never was Nation in the World before,
So very Rich, and yet so very Poor.

Lust chose the Torrid Zone of Italy,
Where Blood ferments in Rapes and Sodomy:
Where swelling Veins o'erflow with livid Streams,
With Heat impregnate from Vesuvian Flames:

Whose flowing Sulphur forms Infernal Lakes,
And humane Body of the Soil partakes.
There Nature ever burns with hot Desires,
Fann'd with Luxuriant Air from Subterranean Fires:
Here undisturb'd in Floods of scalding Lust,
Th'Infernal King reigns with Infernal Gust.

Drunk'nness, the Darling Favourite of Hell,
Chose Germany to Rule; and Rules so well,
No Subjects more obsequiously obey,
None please so well, or are so pleas'd as they.
The cunning Artist manages so well,
He lets them bow to Heav'n and drink to Hell.
If but to Wine and him they Homage pay,
He cares not to what Deity they pray,
What God they worship most, or in what way:
Whether by Luther, Calvin, or by Rome,
They sail for Heav'n, by Wine he steers them home.

Ungovern'd Passion settled first in France,
Where Mankind lives in Hast, and thrives by Chance;
A Dancing Nation, Fickle and Untrue,
Have oft undone themselves and others too:
Prompt the Infernal Dictates to Obey,
And in Hell's Favour none more great than they.
The Pagan World he blindly leads away,
And personally rules with Arbitrary Sway:
The Mask thrown off, Plain Devil his Title stands;
And what elsewhere he Tempts, he there Commands.
There with full Gust th'Ambition of his Mind
Governs, as he of old in Heav'n design'd.
Worship'd as God, his Painim Altars smoke,
Embru'd with Blood of those that him Invoke.

The rest by Deputies he rules as well,
And plants the distant Colonies of Hell.
By them his secret Power he maintains,
And binds the World in his Infernal Chains.

By Zeal the Irish; and the Rush by Folly:
Fury the Dane: The Swede by Melancholy:

By stupid Ignorance, the Muscovite:
The Chinese, by a Child of Hell, call'd Wit;
Wealth makes the Persian too Effeminate:
And Poverty the Tartars Desperate:
The Turks and Moors by Mah'met he subdues:
And God has giv'n him leave to rule the Jews:
Rage rules the Portuguese, and Fraud the Scotch,
Revenge the Pole, and Avarice the Dutch.

Satyr be kind, and draw a silent Veil,
Thy Native England's Vices to conceal:
Or if that Task's impossible to do,
At least be just, and show her Vertues too;
Too Great the first, Alas! the last too Few.

England unknown as yet, unpeopled lay;
Happy, had she remain'd so to this day,
And not to every Nation been a Prey.
Her Open Harbours, and her Fertile Plains,
The Merchants Glory these, and those the Swains,
To every Barbarous Nation have betray'd her,
Who Conquer her as oft as they Invade her.
So Beauty guarded but by Innocence,
That ruins her which should be her Defence.

Ingratitude, a Devil of Black Renown,
Possess'd her very early for his own.
An Ugly, Surly, Sullen, Selfish Spirit,
Who Satan's worst Perfections does Inherit:
Second to him in Malice and in Force,
All Devil without, and all within him Worse.

He made her First-born Race to be so rude,
And suffer'd her to be so oft subdu'd:
By several Crowds of wandring Thieves o'er-run,
Often unpeopl'd, and as oft undone.
While every Nation that her Powers reduc'd,
Their Languages and Manners introduc'd;
From whose mix'd Relicks our compounded Breed,
By Spurious Generation does succeed;
Making a Race uncertain and unev'n,
Deriv'd from all the Nations under Heav'n.

The Romans first with Julius Cæsar came,
Including all the Nations of that Name,
Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards; and by Computation,
Auxiliaries, or Slaves of every Nation.
With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came,
In search of Plunder, not in search of Fame.
Scots, Picts, and Irish from th'Hibernian Shore:
And Conqu'ring William brought the Normans o'er.

All these their barbarous Off-spring left behind,
The Dregs of Armies, they of all Mankind:
Blended with Britons who before were here,
Of whom the Welsh ha' blest the Character.

From this Amphibious Ill-born Mob began
That vain ill-natur'd thing, an, Englishman.
The Customs, Sir-names, Languages, and Manners
Of all these Nations are their own Explainers:
Whose Relicks are so lasting and so strong,
They've left a Shibboleth upon our Tongue;
By which with easie search you may distinguish
Your Roman-Saxon-Danish-Norman English.

The great invading

Wm. the Conq.

Norman let us know
What Conquerors in after-Times might do.
To every

Or Archer.

Musqueteer he brought to Town,
He gave the Lands which never were his own.
When first the English Crown he did obtain,
He did not send his Dutchmen home again.
No Reassumptions in his Reign were known,
D' Avenant might there ha' let his Book alone.
No Parliament his Army cou'd disband:
He rais'd no Money, for he paid in Land.
He gave his Legions their Eternal Station,
And made them all Freeholders of the Nation.
He Canton'd out the Country to his Men,
And ev'ry Soldier was a Denizen.
The Rascals thus enrich'd, he call'd them Lords,
To please their upstart Pride with new made words,
And Doomsday-Book his Tyranny records.

And here begins our Ancient Pedigree,
That so exalts our poor Nobility:
'Tis that from some French Trooper they derive,
Who with the Norman Bastard did arrive:
The Trophies of the Families appear;
Some show the Sword, the Bow, and some the Spear,
Which their Great Ancestor, forsooth, did wear.
These in the Heralds Register remain,
Their Noble mean Extraction to explain.
Yet who the Hero was, no Man can tell,
Whether a Drummer or a Colonel:
The silent Record blushes to reveal
Their Undescended Dark Original.

But grant the best, How came the Change to pass;
A True-Born Englishman of Norman Race?
A Turkish Horse can show more History,
To prove his Well-descended Family.
Conquest, as by the

Dr. Sherl. de Facto.

Moderns 'tis exprest,
May give a Title to the Lands possest:
But that the Longest Sword shou'd be so Civil,
To make a Frenchman English, that's the Devil.

These are the Heroes that despise the Dutch,
And rail at new-come Foreigners so much;
Forgetting that themselves are all deriv'd
From the most Scoundrel Race that ever liv'd,
A horrid Croud of Rambling Thieves and Drones,
Who ransack'd Kingdoms and dispeopled Towns.
The Pict and Painted Briton, Treach'rous Scot,
By Hunger, Theft, and Rapine, hither brought:
Norwegian Pirates, Buccaneering Danes,
Whose Red-hair'd Off-spring ev'ry where remains:
Who join'd with Norman French, compound the Breed
From whence your True-Born Englishmen proceed.

And left by Length of Time it be pretended,
The Climate may this Modern Breed ha' mended;
Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,
Mixes us daily with exceeding Care:

We have been Europe's Sink, the Jakes where she
Voids all her Offal Out-cast Progeny.
From our Fifth Henry's time, the Strolling Bands
Of banish'd Fugitives from neighb'ring Lands,
Have here a certain Sanctuary found,
Th'Eternal Refuge of the Vagabond:
Where in but half a common Age of Time,
Borr'wing new Blood and Manners from the Clime,
Proudly they learn all Mankind to contemn,
And all their Race are True-born Englishmen.

Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots,
Vaudois and Valtolins, and Hugonots,
In good Queen Bess's Charitable Reign,
Supply'd us with three hundred thousand Men.
Religion, God we thank thee, sent them hither,
Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together:
Of all Professions, and of ev'ry Trade,
All that were persecuted or afraid;
Whether for Debt or other Crimes they fled,
David at Hackelah was still their Head.

The Off-spring of this Miscellaneous Crowd
Had not their new Plantations long enjoy'd,
But they grew Englishmen, and rais'd their Votes
At Foreign Shoals for Interloping Scots.
The

K. J. 1.

Royal Branch from Pictland did succeed.
With Troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed.
The Seven first Years of his Pacifick Reign
Made him and half his Nation Englishmen.
Scots from the Northern Frozen Banks of Tay,
With Packs and Plads came Whigging all away:
Thick as the Locusts which in Egypt swarm'd,
With Pride and hungry Hopes compleatly arm'd:
With native Truth, Diseases, and no Money,
Plunder'd our Canaan of the Milk and Honey.
Here they grew quickly Lords and Gentlemen,
And all their Race are True-Born Englishmen.

The Civil Wars, the common Purgative,
Which always use to make the Nation thrive,

Made way for all that stroling Congregation,
Which throng'd in Pious Ch---s's Restoration.
The Royal Refugee our Breed restores,
With Foreign Courtiers, and with Foreign Whores:
And carefully repeopled us again,
Thoughout his Lazy, Long, Lascivious Reign,
With such a blest and True-born English Fry,
As much Illustrates our Nobility.
A Gratitude which will so black appear,
As future Ages must abhor to hear:
When they look back on all that Crimson Flood,
Which stream'd in Lindsey's, and Caernarvan's Blood:
Bold Strafford, Cambridge, Capel, Lucas, Lisle,
Who crown'd in Death his Father's Fun'ral Pile.
The Loss of whom, in order to supply,
With a True-born English N---ty,
Six Bastard Dukes survive his Luscious Reign,
The Labours of Italian C---n,
French, P---h, Tabby S---t, and Cambrian:
Besides the Num'rous Bright and Virgin Throng,
Whose Female Glories shade them from my Song.

This Off-spring, if one Age they multiply,
May half the House with English Peers supply:
There with true English Pride they may contemn
S---g and P---d, new-made Noblemen.

French Cooks, Scotch Pedlars, and Italian Whores,
Were all made L*ds, or L---ds Progenitors.
Beggars and Bastards by this new Creation,
Much multiply'd the P---ge of the Nation;
Who will be all, e'er one short Age runs o'er,
As True-Born L---ds as those we had before.
Then to recruit the Commons he prepares,
And heals the Latent Breaches of the Wars;
The pious Purpose better to advance,
H' invites the banish'd Protestants of France:
Hither for God's-sake and their own they fled,
Some for Religion came, and some for Bread:

Two hundred thousand Pair of Wooden Shooes,
Who, God be thank'd, had nothing left to lose,
To Heav'n's great Praise did for Religion fly,
To make us starve our Poor in Charity.
In ev'ry Port they plant their fruitful Train,
To get a Race of True-Born Englishmen:
Whose Children will, when Riper Years they see,
Be as Ill-natur'd and as Proud as we:
Call themselves English, Foreigners despise,
Be Surly like us all, and just as Wise.

Thus from a Mixture of all Kinds began
That Het'rogeneous Thing, An Englishman:
In eager Rapes, and furious Lust begot,
Betwixt a Painted Briton and a Scot:
Whose gend'ring Off-spring quickly learn'd to Bow,
And yoke their Heifers to the Roman Plough:
From whence a Mongrel half-bred Race there came,
With neither Name, nor Nation, Speech or Fame:
In whose hot Veins new Mixtures quickly ran,
Infus'd betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their Rank Daughters, to their Parents just,
Receiv'd all Nations with Promiscuous Lust.
This Nauseous Brood directly did contain
The well-extracted Blood of Englishmen.

Which Medly canton'd in a Heptarchy,
A Rhapsody of Nations to supply,
Among themselves maintain'd eternal Wars,
And still the Ladies lov'd the Conquerors.

The Western Angles all the rest subdu'd;
A bloody Nation, barbarous and rude:
Who by the Tenure of the Sword possest
One part of Britain, and subdu'd the rest.
And as great things denominate the small,
The Conq'ring part gave Title to the Whole.
The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit,
And with the English-Saxon all Unite:
And these the Mixture have so close pursu'd,
The very Name and Memory's subdu'd:

No Roman now, no Britain does remain;
Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain:
The silent Nations undistinguish'd fall,
And Englishman's the common Name for all.
Fate jumbl'd them together, God knows how;
What e'er they were, they're True-Born English now.

The Wonder which remains is at our Pride,
To value that which all wise Men deride.
For Englishmen to boast of Generation,
Cancels their Knowledg, and lampoons the Nation.
A True-Born Englishman's a Contradiction,
In Speech an Irony, in Fact a Fiction:
A Banter made to be a Test of Fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules:
A Metaphor invented to express
A Man a-kin to all the Universe.

For as the Scots, as Learned Men ha' said,
Throughout the World their Wand'ring Seed have spread;
So open-handed England 'tis believ'd,
Has all the Gleanings of the World receiv'd.

Some think of England, 'twas our Saviour meant,
The Gospel should to all the World be sent:
Since, when the Blessed Sound did hither reach,
They to all Nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that Vertues give Nobility,
How shall we else the want of Birth and Blood supply?
Since scarce one Family is left alive,
Which does not from some Foreigner derive.
Of sixty thousand English Gentlemen,
Whose Names and Arms in Registers remain,
We challenge all our Heralds to declare
Ten Families which English-Saxons are.

France justly boasts the Ancient Noble Line
Of Bourbon, Montmorency, and Lorain.
The Germans too their House of Austria show,
And Holland their Invincible Nassau.
Lines which in Heraldry were Ancient grown,
Before the Name of Englishman was known.

Even Scotland too her Elder Glorys shows,
Her Gourdons, Hamiltons, and her Monroes;
Dowglas, Mackays, and Grahams, Names well known,
Long before Ancient England knew her own.

But England, Modern to the last degree,
Borrows or makes her own Nobility,
And yet she boldly boasts of Pedigree:
Repines that Foreigners are put upon her,
And talks of her Antiquity and Honour:
Her S---lls, S---ls, C---ls, De--- M---rs,
M---ns and M---ues, D---s and V---rs,
Not one have English Names, yet all are English Peers.
Your H---ns, P---llons, and L---liers,
Pass now for Trueborn-English Knights and Squires,
And make good Senate Members, or Lord-Mayors.
Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes
Lords of Mechanicks, Gentlemen of Rakes:
Antiquity and Birth are needless here;
'Tis Impudence and Money makes a P---r.

Innumerable City-Knights we know,
From Blewcoat-Hospitals and Bridewell flow.
Draymen and Porters fill the City Chair,
And Foot-Boys Magisterial Purple wear.
Fate has but very small Distinction set
Betwixt the Counter and the Coronet.
Tarpaulin L---ds, Pages of high Renown,
Rise up by Poor Mens Valour, not their own.
Great Families of Yesterday we show,
And Lords, whose Parents were the Lord knows who.

II. PART II.

The Breed's describ'd: Now, Satyr, if you can,
Their Temper show, for Manners make the Man.
Fierce, as the Britain; as the Roman, Brave;
And less inclin'd to Conquer, than to Save:
Eager to Fight, and lavish of their Blood;
And equally of Fear and Forecast void.
The Pict has made 'em Sour, the Dane Morose:
False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.
What Honesty they have, the Saxons gave them,
And That, now they grow old, begins to leave them.
The Climate makes them Terrible and Bold;
And English Beef their Courage does uphold:
No Danger can their Daring Spirit pall,
Always provided that their Belly's full.

In close Intrigues their Faculty's but weak,
For gen'rally whate'er they know, they speak:
And often their own Councils undermine,
By their Infirmity, and not Design;
From whence the Learned say it does proceed,
That English Treasons never can succeed:
For they're so open-hearted, you may know
Their own most secret Thoughts, and others too.

The Lab'ring Poor, in spite of Double Pay,
Are Sawcy, Mutinous, and Beggarly:
So lavish of their Money and their Time,
That want of Forecast is the Nation's Crime.
Good drunken Company is their Delight;
And what they get by Day, they spend by Night.
Dull Thinking seldom does their Heads engage,
But Drink their Youth away, and Hurry on Old Age.

Empty of all good Husbandry and Sense;
And void of Manners most, when void of Pence.
Their strong Aversion to Behaviour's such,
They always talk too little, or too much.
So dull they never take the pains to think:
And seldom are good natur'd but in Drink.

In English Ale their dear Enjoyment lies,
For which they'll starve themselves and Families.

An Englishman will fairly drink as much
As will maintain two Families of Dutch:
Subjecting all their Labour to their Pots;
The greatest Artists are the greatest Sots.

The Country Poor do by Example live,
The Gentry lead them, and the Clergy drive;
What may we not from such Examples hope?
The Landlord is their God, the Priest their Pope.
A Drunken Clergy, and a Swearing Bench,
Has giv'n the Reformation such a Drench,
As wise Men think there is some cause to doubt,
Will purge good Manners and Religion out.

Nor do the Poor alone their Liquor prize,
The Sages join in this great Sacrifice,
The Learned Men who study Aristotle,
Correct him with an Explanation-Bottle;
Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander,
And

The Drunkards Name for Canary.

Aristippus more than Alexander.
The Doctors too their Galen here resign,
And gen'rally prescribe Specifick Wine.
The Graduates Study's grown an easier Task,
While for the Urinal they toss the Flask.
The Surgeon's Art grows plainer ev'ry Hour,
And Wine's the Balm which into Wounds they pour.

Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken,
And say the ancient Bards were all mistaken.
Apollo's lately abdicate and fled,
And good King Bacchus governs in his stead;
He does the Chaos of the Head refine,
And Atom-Thoughts jump into Words by Wine:

The Inspiration's of a finer Nature;
As Wine must needs excel Parnassus Water.

Statesmen their weighty Politicks refine,
And Soldiers raise their Courages by Wine:
Cœcilia gives her Choristers their Choice,
And lets them all drink Wine to clear their Voice.

Some think the Clergy first found out the way,
And Wine's the only Spirit by which they Pray.
But others, less profane than so, agree,
It clears the Lungs and helps the Memory:
And therefore all of them Divinely think,
Instead of Study, 'tis as well to Drink.

And here I would be very glad to know,
Whether our Asgilites may drink or no.
Th'Enlightening Fumes of Wine would certainly
Assist them much when they begin to fly:
Or if a Fiery Chariot shou'd appear,
Inflam'd by Wine, they'd ha' the less to fear.

Even the Gods themselves, as Mortals say,
Were they on Earth, wou'd be as drunk as they:
Nectar would be no more Celestial Drink,
They'd all take Wine, to teach them how to think.
But English Drunkards, Gods and Men out-do,
Drink their Estates away, and Senses too.
Colon's in Debt, and if his Friends should fail
To help him out, must die at last in Goal;
His Wealthy Uncle sent a Hundred Nobles,
To pay his trifles off, and rid him of his Troubles:
But Colon, like a True-Born-Englishman,
Drank all the Money out in bright Champain;
And Colon does in Custody remain.
Drunk'ness has been the Darling of this Realm,
E'er since a Drunken Pilot had the Helm.

In their Religion they are so unev'n,
That each Man goes his own By-way to Heav'n:
Tenacious of Mistakes to that degree,
That ev'ry Man pursues it sep'rately,
And fancies none can find the Way but he:

So shy of one another they are grown,
As if they strove to get to Heav'n alone:
Rigid and Zealous, Positive and Grave,
And ev'ry Grace, but Charity, they have:
This makes them so Ill-natur'd and Uncivil,
That all Men think an Englishman the Devil.

Surly to Strangers, Froward to their Friend;
Submit to Love with a reluctant Mind,
Resolv'd to be Ungrateful and Unkind.
If by Necessity reduc'd to ask,
The Giver has the difficultest Task:
For what's bestow'd they awkardly receive,
And always take less freely than they give.
The Obligation is their highest Grief;
And never love, where they accept Relief.
So Sullen in their Sorrows, that 'tis known,
They'll rather die than their Afflictions own:
And if reliev'd, it is too often true,
That they'll abuse their Benefactors too.
For in Distress their Haughty Stomach's such,
They hate to see themselves oblig'd too much.
Seldom contented, often in the Wrong;
Hard to be Pleas'd at all, and never long.

If your Mistakes their ill-Opinion gain,
No Merit can their Favour re-obtain:
And if they're not Vindictive in their Fury,
'Tis their Unconstant Temper does secure-ye;
Their Brain's so cool, their Passion seldom burns;
For all's condens'd before the Flame returns:
The Fermentation's of so weak a Matter,
The Humid damps the Fume, and runs it all to Water.
So tho' the Inclination may be strong,
They're pleas'd by sits, and never angry long.

Then if good Nature shows some slender Proof,
They never think they have reward enough:
But like our Modern Quakers of the Town,
Expect your Manners and return you none.

Friendship, th'abstracted Union of the Mind,
Which all Men seek, but very few can find;
Of all the Nations in the Universe,
None talk on't more, or understand it less:
For if it does their Property annoy,
Their Property their Friendship will destroy.

As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell
All things in which they think they do excel:
No Panegyrick needs their Praise record;
An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word.
His long Discourses gen'rally appear
Prolong'd with his own wond'rous Character:
But to illustrate first his own good Name,
He never fails his Neighbour to defame.
And yet he really designs no wrong;
His Malice goes no farther than his Tongue.
But pleas'd to Tattle, he delights to Rail,
To satisfy the Lech'ry of a Tale.
His own dear Praises close the ample Speech,
Tells you how Wise he is, that is, how Rich:
For Wealth is Wisdom; he that's Rich is Wise;
And all Men Learned Poverty despise.
His Generosity comes next, and then
Concludes that he's a True-Born-Englishman;
And they 'tis known, are Generous and Free,
Forgetting, and forgiving Injury:
Which may be true, thus rightly understood,
Forgiving Ill turns, and forgetting Good.

Chearful in Labour when they've undertook it,
But out of Humour when they're out of Pocket.
But if their Belly and their Pocket's full,
They may be Phlegmatick, but never Dull.
And if a Bottle does their Brains refine,
It makes their Wit as sparkling as their Wine.

As for the general Vices which we find
They're guilty of in common with Mankind,
Satyr, forbear, and silently endure;
We must conceal the Crimes we cannot cure.

Nor shall my Verse the Brighter Sex defame:
For English Beauty will preserve her Name.
Beyond dispute Agreeable and Fair;
And Modester than other Nations are:
For where the Vice prevails, the great Temptation
Is want of Money more than Inclination.
In general, this only is allow'd,
They're something Noisy, and a little Proud.

An Englishman is gentlest in Command,
Obedience is a Stranger in the Land:
Hardly subjected to the Magistrate;
For Englishmen do all Subjection bate.
Humblest when rich, but peevish when they're poor;
And think whate'er they have, they merit more.

The meanest English Plow-man studies Law,
And keeps thereby the Magistrates in Awe;
Will boldly tell them what they ought to do,
And sometimes punish their Omissions too.

Their Liberty and Property's so dear,
They scorn their Laws or Governours to fear:
So bugbear'd with the Name of Slavery,
They can't submit to their own Liberty.
Restraint from Ill, is Freedom to the Wise;
But Englishmen do all Restraint despise.
Slaves to the Liquor, Drudges to the Pots,
The Mob are Statesmen, and their Statesmen Sots.

Their Governors they count such dangerous things,
That 'tis their Custom to affront their Kings:
So jealous of the Power their Kings possess'd,
They suffer neither Power nor Kings to rest.
The Bad with Force they eagerly subdue;
The Good with constant Clamours they pursue:
And did King Jesus reign, they'd murmur too.
A discontented Nation, and by far
Harder to rule in Times of Peace than War:
Easily set together by the Ears,
And full of causeless Jealousies and Fears:

Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel,
And never are contented when they're well.
No Government cou'd ever please them long,
Cou'd tie their Hands, or rectify their Tongue.
In this to Ancient Israel well compar'd,
Eternal Murmurs are among them heard.

It was but lately that they were opprest,
Their Rights invaded, and their Laws supprest:
When nicely tender of their Liberty,
Lord what a Noise they made of Slavery!
In daily Tumults show'd their Discontent;
Lampoon'd their King, and mock'd his Government.
And if in Arms they did not first appear,
'Twas want of Force, and not for want of Fear.
In humbler Tone than English us'd to do,
At Foreign Hands for Foreign Aid they sue.

William, the Great Successor of Nassau,
Their Prayers heard, and their Oppressions saw:
He saw and sav'd them: God and Him they prais'd;
To this their Thanks, to that their Trophies rais'd.
But glutted with their own Felicities,
They soon their New Deliverer despise;
Say all their Prayers-back, their Joy disown,
Unsing their Thanks, and pull their Trophies down:
Their Harps of Praise are on the Willows hung;
For Englishmen are ne'er contented long.

The Rev'rend Clergy too! and who'd ha' thought
That they who had such Non-resistance taught,
Should e'er to Arms against their Prince be brought?
Who up to Heaven did Regal Pow'r advance;
Subjecting English Laws to Modes of France:
Twisting Religion so with Loyalty,
As one cou'd never live, and t'other die.
And yet no sooner did their Prince design
Their Glebes and Perquisites to undermine,
But all their Passive Doctrines laid aside;
The Clergy their own Principles deny'd:

Unpreach'd their Non-resisting Cant, and pray'd
To Heaven for Help, and to the Dutch for Aid.
The Church chim'd all her Doctrines back again,
And Pulpit Champions did the Cause maintain;
Flew in the Face of all their former Zeal,
And Non-Resistance did at once repeal.

The Rabbies say it would be too prolix,
To tye Religion up to Politicks:
The Churches Safety is Suprema Lex.
And so by a New Figure of their own,
Their former Doctrines all at once disown.
As Laws Post Facto in the Parliament,
In urgent Cases have obtain'd Assent;
But are as dang'rous Precedents lay'd by,
Made Lawful only by Necessity.

The Rev'rend Fathers then in Arms appear,
And Men of God became the Men of War.
The Nation, Fir'd by them, to Arms apply;
Assault their Antichristian Monarchy.
To their due Channel all our Laws restore,
And made things what they shou'd ha' been before.
But when they came to fill the Vacant Throne,
And the Pale Priests look'd back on what they'd done;
How English Liberty began to Trive,
And Church of England Loyalty out-live:
How all their persecuting Days were done,
And their Deliv'rer plac'd upon the Throne;
The Priests, as Priests are wont to do, turn'd Tail;
They're Englishmen, and Nature will prevail.
Now they deplore the Ruins they ha' made,
And murmur for the Master they betray'd:
Excuse those Crimes they cou'd not make him mend;
And suffer for the Cause they can't defend.
Pretend they'd not have carry'd things so high;
And Proto-Martyrs make for Popery.
Had the Prince done as they design'd the thing,
Ha set the Clergy up to rule the King;

Taken a Donative for coming hither,
And so ha' left their King and them together,
We had, say they, been now a happy Nation;
No doubt we we 'ad seen a Blessed Reformation:
For Wise Men say 'tis as dangerous a thing,
A Ruling Priesthood, as a Priest-rid King.
And of all Plagues with which Mankind are Curst,
Ecclesiastick Tyranny's the Worst.

If all our former Grievances were feign'd,
King James has been abus'd, and we Trapann'd;
Bugbear'd with Popery and Power Despotick,
Tyrannick Government, and Leagues Exotick:
The Revolution's a Phanatick Plot,
W--- a Tyrant, S--- a Scot:
A Factious Army, and a poyson'd Nation,
Unjustly forc'd King James's Abdication.

But if he did the Subjects Rights invade,
Then he was punish'd only, not betray'd;
And punishing of Kings is no such Crime,
But Englishmen ha' done it many a Time.
When Kings the Sword of Justice first lay down,
They are no Kings, though they possess the Crown
Titles are Shadows, Crowns are empty things,
The Good of Subjects is the End of Kings;
To guide in War, and to protect in Peace;
Where Tyrants once commence, the Kings do cease:
For Arbitrary Power's so strange a thing,
It makes the Tyrant, and unmakes the King.

If Kings by Foreign Priests and Armies reign,
And Lawless Power against their Oaths maintain,
Then Subjects much ha' reason to complain.

If Oaths must bind us when our Kings do ill;
To call in Foreign Aid is to Rebel.
By force to circumscribe our Lawful Prince,
Is wilful Treason in the largest Sense:
And they who once Rebel, most certainly
Their God, and King, and former Oaths defy.

If we allow no Male-Administration
Could cancel the Allegiance of the Nation;
Let all our Learned Sons of Levi try,
This Eccles'astick Riddle to unty:
How they could make a Step to call the Prince,
And yet pretend to Oaths and Innocence.

By th'first Address they made beyond the Seas,
They're perjur'd in the most intense Degrees;
And without scruple for the time to come,
May swear to all the Kings in Christendom.
And truly did our Kings consider all,
They'd never let the Clergy Swear at all:
Their Politick Allegiance they'd refuse;
For Whores and Priests do never want excuse.
But if the Mutual Contract was dissolv'd,
The Doubt's explain'd, the Difficulty solv'd:
That Kings when they descend to Tyranny,
Dissolve the Bond, and leave the Subject free.
The Government's ungirt, when Justice dies,
And Constitutions are Non-Entities.
The Nation's all a Mob, there's no such thing
As Lords or Commons, Parliament or King.
A great promiscuous Croud the Hydra lies,
Till Laws revive, and mutual Contract ties:
A Chaos free to chuse for their own share,
What Case of Government they please to wear.
If to a King they do the Reins commit,
All Men are bound in Conscience to submit:
But then that King must by his Oath assent
To Postulata's of the Government;
Which if he breaks, he cuts off the Entail,
And Power retreats to its Original.

This Doctrine has the Sanction of Assent,
From Nature's Universal Parliament.
The Voice of Nature, and the Course of Things,
Allow that Laws superiour are to Kings.
None but Delinquents would have Justice cease,
Knaves rail at Law, as Soldiers rail at Peace:

For Justice is the End of Government,
As Reason is the Test of Argument.

No Man was ever yet so void of Sense,
As to debate the Right of Self-Defence;
A Principle so grafted in the Mind,
With Nature born, and does like Nature bind:
Twisted with Reason and with Nature too;
As neither one nor t'other can undo.

Nor can this Right be less when National;
Reason which governs one, shou'd govern all.
Whate'er the Dialect of Courts may tell,
He that his Right demands, can ne'er Rebel.
Which Right, if 'tis by Governours deny'd,
May be procur'd by Force, or Foreign Aid.
For Tyranny's a Nation's Term of Grief;
As Folks cry Fire, to hasten in Relief.
And when the hated Word is heard about,
All Men sho'd come to help the People out.

Thus England groan'd, Britannia's Voice was heard;
And Great Nassau to rescue her appear'd:
Call'd by the Universal Voice of Fate;
God and the Peoples Legal Magistrate.
Ye Heav'ns regard! Almighty Jove, look down,
And view thy Injur'd Monarch on the Throne.
On their ungrateful Heads due Vengeance take,
Who sought his Aid, and then his part forsake.
Witness, ye Powers! It was our Call alone,
Which now our Pride makes us asham'd to own.
Britannia's Troubles fetch'd him from afar,
To court the dreadful Casualties of War:
But where Requital never can be made,
Acknowledgment's a Tribute seldom pay'd.

He dwelt in Bright Maria's Circling Arms,
Defended by the Magick of her Charms,
From Foreign Fears, and from Domestick Harms.
Ambition fround no Fuel for her Fire,
He had what God cou'd give, or Man desire.

Till Pity rouz'd him from his soft Repose,
His Life to unseen Hazards to expose:
Till Pity mov'd him in our Cause t'appear;
Pity! that Word which now we hate to hear.
But English Gratitude is always such,
To hate the Hand which does oblige too much.

Britannia's Cries gave Birth to his Intent,
And hardly gain'd his unforeseen Assent:
His boding Thoughts foretold him he should find
The People Fickle, Selfish and Unkind.
Which Thought did to his Royal Heart appear
More dreadful than the Dangers of the War:
For nothing grates a generous Mind so soon,
As base Returns for hearty Service done.

Satyr be silent, awfully prepare,
Britannia's Song, and William's Praise to hear.
Stand by, and let her chearfully rehearse
Her Grateful Vows in her Immortal Verse.
Loud Fame's Eternal Trumpet let her sound;
Listen ye distant Poles, and endless Round.
May the strong Blast the welcome News convey
As far as Sound can reach, or Spirit can fly.
To Neighb'ring Worlds, if such there be, relate
Our Hero's Fame, for theirs to imitate.
To distant Worlds of Spirits let her rehearse:
For Spirits without the helps of Voice converse.
May Angels hear the gladsome News on high,
Mix'd with their everlasting Symphony.

BRITANNIA.

The Fame of Vertue 'tis for which I sound,
And Heroes with Immortal Triumphs crown'd.
Fame built on solid Vertue swifter flies,
Than Morning-Light can spread my Eastern Skies.
The gath'ring Air returns the doubling Sound,
And loud repeating Thunders force it round:

Ecchoes return from Caverns of the Deep:
Old Chaos dreams on't in Eternal Sleep:
Time hands it forward to its latest Urn,
From whence it never, never shall return;
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long;
'Tis heard by ev'ry Ear, and spoke by ev'ry Tongue.

My Hero, with the Sails of Honour furl'd,
Rises like the Great Genius of the World.
By Fate and Fame wisely prepar'd to be
The Soul of War, and Life of Victory.
He spreads the Wings of Virtue on the Throne,
And ev'ry Wind of Glory fans them on.
Immortal Trophies dwell upon his Brow,
Fresh as the Garlands he has won but now.

By different Steps the high Ascent he gains,
And differently that high Ascent maintains.
Princes for Pride, and Lust of Rule make War:
And struggle for the Name of Conqueror.
Some-fight for Fame, and some for Victory;
He Fights to Save, and Conquers to set Free.

Then seek a Phrase his Titles to conceal,
And hide with Words what Actions must reveal.
No Parallel from Hebrew Stories take,
Of God-like the Kings my Similies to make:
No borrow'd Names conceal my living Theam;
But Names and Things directly I proclaim.
'Tis honest Merit does his Glory raise;
Whom that Exalts, let no Man fear to Praise;
Of such a Subject no Man need be shy;
Vertue's above the Reach of Flattery.
He needs no Character, but his own Fame,
Nor any flattering Titles, but his Name.
William's the Name that's spoke by ev'ry Tongue;
William's the Darling Subject of my Song.
Listen ye Virgins to the Charming Sound,
And in Eternal Dances hand it round:
Your early Offerings to this Altar bring;
Make him at once a Lover and a King.

May he submit to none but to your Arms;
Nor ever be subdu'd, but by your Charms.
May your soft Thoughts for him be all Sublime;
And ev'ry tender Vow be made for him.
May he be first in ev'ry Morning Thought,
And Heav'n ne'er bear a Pray'r, when he's left out.
May ev'ry Omen, ev'ry boding Dream,
Be fortunate by mentioning his Name;
May this one Charm Infernal Powers affright,
And guard you from the Terrors of the Night.
May ev'ry chearful Glass, as it goes down,
To William's Health, be Cordials to your own.
Let ev'ry Song be Chorust with his Name,
And Musick pay her Tribute to his Fame.
Let ev'ry Poet tune his Artful Verse,
And in Immortal Strains his Deeds rehearse.
And may Apollo never more inspire
The Disobedient Bard with his Seraphick Fire.
May all my Sons their grateful Homage pay,
His Praises sing, and for his Safety pray.

Satyr, return to our Unthankful Isle,
Secur'd by Heaven's Regard, and William's Toil.
To both Ungrateful, and to both Untrue;
Rebels to God, and to Good Nature too.
If e'er this Nation be Distress'd again,
To whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain.
To Heav'n they cannot have the Face to look:
Or if they should, it would but Heaven provoke.
To hope for Help from Man would be too much;
Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch:
How they came here our Freedoms to maintain,
Were Pay'd, and Curs'd, and Hurry'd home again.
How by their Aid we first dissolv'd our Fears,
And then our Helpers damn'd for Foreigners.
'Tis not our English Temper to do better:
For Englishmen think ev'ry Man their Debtor.

'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'd
Of Foreigners, nor of the Wealth they gain'd,
Till all their Services were at an end.
Wise Men affirm it is the English way.
Never to Crumble till they come to Pay;
And then they always think their Tempers such,
The Work too little, and the Pay too much.
As frighted Patients, when they want a Cure,
Bid any Price, and any Pain endure:
But when the Doctor's Remedies appear,
The Cure's too Easy, and the Price too Dear.
Great Portland ne'er was banter'd when he strove
For Us his Master's kindest Thoughts to move.
We ne'er lampoon'd his Conduct, when employ'd
King James's Secret Councils to divide:
Then we caress'd him as the only Man,
Which could the doubtful Oracle explain:
The only Hushai able to repel
The dark Designs of our Achitophel.
Compar'd his Master's Courage to his Sense;
The Ablest Statesman, and the Bravest Prince.
On his wise Conduct we depended much,
And lik'd him ne'er the worse for being Dutch.
Nor was he valu'd more than he deserv'd;
Freely he ventur'd, faithfully he serv'd.
In all King William's Dangers he has shar'd;
In England's Quarrels always he appear'd.
The Revolution first, and then the Boyne;
In both his Counsels and his Conduct shine.
His Martial Valour Flanders will confess;
And France regrets his Managing the Peace.
Faithful to England's Interest and her King,
The greatest Reason of our murmuring.
Ten Years in English Service he appear'd,
And gain'd his Masters, and the Worlds Regard:
But 'tis not England's Custom to Reward.
The Wars are over, England needs him not;
Now he's a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.

Sconbergh, the Ablest Soldier of his Age,
With Great Nassau did in our Cause engage;
Both join'd for England's Rescue and Defence,
The Greatest Captain, and the Greatest Prince.
With what Applause his Stories did we tell?
Stories which Europe's Volumes largely swell.
We counted him an Army in our Aid:
Where he Commanded, no Man was afraid.
His Actions with a constant Conquest shine,
From Villa-Vitiosa to the Rhine.
France, Flanders, Germany, his Fame confess;
And all the World was fond of him but Us.
Our Turn first serv'd, we grudg'd him the Command,
Witness the Grateful Temper of the Land!
We blame the K--- that he relies too much
On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch;
And seldom does his great Affairs of State
To English Counsellors communicate.
The Fact might very well be answer'd thus;
He has so often been betray'd by us,
He must have been a Madman to rely
On English G---ns Fidelity.
For laying other Arguments aside,
This Thought might mortifie our English Pride,
That Foreigners have faithfully obey'd him,
And none but Englishmen have e'er betray'd him.
They have our Ships and Merchants bought and sold,
And barter'd English Blood for Foreign Gold.
First to the French they sold our Turky-Fleet,
And injur'd Talmash next, at Camaret.
The King himself is shelter'd from their Snares,
Not by the Merit, but the Crown he wears.
Experience tells us 'tis the English way,
Their Benefactors always to betray.
And lest Examples should be too remote,
A Modern Magistrate of Famous Note,
Shall give you his own History by Rote.

I'll make it out, deny it he that can,
His Worship is a True-Born-English-Man,
In all the Latitude that empty Word
By Modern Acceptation's understood.
The Parish-Books his Great Descent record,
And now he hopes e'er long to be a Lord.
And truly as things go, it would be pity
But such as he should represent the City:
While Robb'ry for Burnt-Offering he brings,
And gives to God what he has stole from Kings:
Great Monuments of Charity he raises,
And good St. Magnus whistles out his Praises.
To City-Goals he grants a Jubilee,
And hires Huzza's from his own Mobilee.
Lately he wore the Golden Chain and Gown,
With which equip'd he thus harangu'd the Town.

His Fine Speech, &c.

With Clouted Iron-Shoos, and Sheepskin Breeches,
More Rags than Manners, and more Dirt than Riches:
From driving Cows and Calves to Layton-Market,
While of my Greatness there appear'd no Spark yet,
Behold I come, to let you see the Pride
With which Exalted Beggars always Ride.

Born to the needful Labours of the Plow,
The Cart-whip grac'd me as the Chain does now.
Nature and Fate in doubt what Course to take,
Whether I should a Lord or Plow-boy make;
Kindly at last resolv'd they wou'd promote me,
And first a Knave, and then a Knight they vote me.
What Fate appointed, Nature did prepare,
And furnish'd me with an exceeding Care,
To fit me for what they design'd to have me;
And ev'ry Gift but Honesty they gave me.

And thus equip'd, to this proud Town I came,
In quest of Bread, and not in quest of Fame.

Blind to my future Fate, a humble Boy,
Free from the Guilt and Glory I enjoy.
The hopes which my Ambition entertain'd,
Were in the Name of Foot-Boy all contain'd.
The greatest Heights from small Beginnings rise;
The Gods were Great on Earth, before they reach'd the Skies.

B****well, the Generous Temper of whose Mind,
Was always to be bountiful inclin'd;
Whether by his ill Fate or Fancy led,
First took me up, and furnish'd me with Bread.
The little Services he put me to,
Seem'd Labours, rather than were truly so.
But always my Advancement he design'd;
For 'twas his very Nature to be kind.
Large was his Soul, his Temper ever free;
The best of Masters and of Men to me.
And I who was before decreed by Fate,
To be made Infamous as well as Great,
With an obsequious Diligence obey'd him,
Till trusted with his All, and then betray'd him.

All his past Kindnesses I trampled on,
Ruin'd his Fortunes, to erect my own.
So Vipers in the Bosom bred, begin
To hiss at that Hand first which took them in.
With eager Treach'ry I his Fall pursu'd,
And my first Trophies were Ingratitude.

Ingratitude, the worst of Humane Guilt,
The basest Action Mankind can commit;
Which like the Sin against the Holy Ghost,
Has least of Honour, and of Guilt the most;
Distinguish'd from all other Crimes by this,
That 'tis a Crime which no Man will confess.
That Sin alone, which shou'd not be forgiv'n
On Earth, altho' perhaps it may in Heaven.

Thus my first Benefactor I o'rethrew;
And how shou'd I be to a second true?
The Publick Trust came next into my Care,
And I to use them scurvily prepare:

My needy Sov'reign Lord I play'd upon,
And lent him many a Thousand of his own;
For which great Int'rest I took care to Charge,
And so my ill-got Wealth became so large.
My Predecessor Judas was a Fool,
Fitter to have been whip'd and sent to School,
Than sell a Saviour: Had I been at hand,
His Master had not been so cheap trapann'd;
I wou'd ha' made the eager Jews ha' found,
For Thirty Pieces, Thirty thousand Pound.

My Cousin Ziba, of Immortal Fame,
(Ziba and I shall never want a Name:)
First-born of Treason, Nobly did advance
His Masters Fall, for his Inheritance.
By whose keen Arts old David first began
To break his Sacred Oath to Jonathan:
The good old King 'tis thought was very loth
To break his Word, and therefore broke his Oath.
Ziba's a Traytor of some Quality,
Yet Ziba might ha' been inform'd by me:
Had I been there, he ne'er had been content
With half th'Estate, nor half the Government.

In our late Revolution 'twas thought strange
That I of all Mankind should like the Change:
But they who wonder'd at it, never knew,
That in it I did my old Game pursue;
Nor had they heard of Twenty thousand Pound,
Which never yet was lost, nor ne'er was found.
Thus all things in their turn to Sale I bring,
God and my Master first, and then the King:
Till by successful Villanies made Bold,
I thought to turn the Nation into Gold;
And so to Forg---ry my Hand I bent,
Not doubting I could gull the Government;
But there was ruffl'd by the Parliament.
And if I scap'd th'Unhappy Tree to climb,
'Twas want of Law, and not for want of Crime.

But my Old Friend, who printed in my Face
A needful Competence of English Brass,
Having more Business yet for me to do,
And loth to lose his Trusty Servant so,
Manag'd the Matter with such Art and Skill,
As sav'd his Heroe, and threw out the B---ll.

And now I'm grac'd with unexpected Honours,
For which I'll certainly abuse the Donors:
Knighted, and made a Tribune of the People,
Whose Laws and Properties I'm like to keep well:
The Custos Rotulorum of the City,
And Captain of the Guards of their Banditti.
Surrounded by my Catchpoles, I declare
Against the needy Debtor open War.
I hang poor Thieves for stealing of your Pelf,
And suffer none to rob you but my self.

The King commanded me to help reform ye,
And how and when I'll do't, Miss shall inform ye.
I keep the best Seraglio in the Nation,
And hope in time to bring it into Fashion.
No Brimstone Whore need fear the Lash from me,
That part I'll leave to Brother Jeffery.
Our Gallants need not go abroad to Rome,
I'll keep a Whoring Jubilee at Home.
Whoring's the Darling of my Inclination;
A'n't I a Magistrate for Reformation?
For this my Praise is sung by ev'ry Bard,
For which Bridewell would be a just reward.
In Print my Panegyricks fill the Street,
And hired Goal-Birds their Huzza's repeat.
Some Charities contriv'd to make a Show,
Have taught the needy Rabble to do so;
Whose empty Noise is a Mechanick Fame,
Since for Sir Belzebub they'd do the same.

The Devil.

The Conclusion.

Then let us boast of Ancestors no more,
Or Deeds of Heroes done in Days of Yore,
In latent Records of the Ages past,
Behind the Reer of Time, in long Oblivion plac'd.
For if our Vertues must in Lines descend,
The Merit with the Families would end:
And Intermixtures would most fatal grow;
For Vice would be Hereditary too:
The Painted Blood would of necessity,
In Voluntary Wickedness convey.

Vice, like Ill-Nature, for an Age or two,
May seem a Generation to pursue:
But Vertue seldom does regard the Breed;
Fools do the Wise, and Wise Men Fools succeed.
What is't to us what Ancestors we had?
If Good, what better? Or what worse, if Bad?
Examples are for Imitation set,
Yet all Men follow Vertue with regret.

Cou'd but our Ancestors retrieve their Fate,
And see their Off-spring thus Degenerate;
How we contend for Birth and Names unknown,
And build on their past Actions, not our own;
They'd cancel Records, and their Tombs Deface,
And openly disown the Vile Degenerate Race:
For Fame of Families is all a Cheat,
'Tis Personal Vertue only makes us Great.

FINIS.

ÆSOP at Tunbridge;

or a few Select FABLES in Verse.

Fab. I. Fair Warning.

In Æsop's new-made World of Wit,
Where Beasts could talk, and read, and write,
And say and do as he saw fit;
A certain Fellow thought himself abus'd,
And represented by an Ass:
And Æsop to the Judge accus'd
That he defamed was.
Friend, quoth the Judge, how do you know
Whether you are defam'd or no?

How can you prove that he must mean
You, rather than another Man?
Sir, quoth the Man, it needs must be,
All Circumstances so agree,
And all the Neighbours say 'tis Me.
That's somewhat, quoth the Judge, indeed;
But let this Matter pass,
Since 'twas not Æsop, 'tis agreed,
But Application made the Ass.

Fab. II. The Cock and Pearl.

A dunghil Cock was raking in the Ground,
And flirted up a Pearl;
I would, quoth he, thou hadst been found
By some great Lord or Earl.
My self a single Barley-corn
Would, surely, rather find:
We Creatures that are dull, Earth-born,
Things only useful mind.
Whilst they who are divinely Wise,
And do from Jove proceed,
Thy lovely orient Lustre prize,
And for thy Beauty trade.

Fab. III. Of the Horse and the Ass.

A Horse and Ass were journeying on their way;
The Horse was only harness'd, light, and gay;
The Ass was heavy loaden, and lagg'd behind,
And thus, at length, bespake his Friend.
Companion, take some pity on my State;
And ease me but of half my Weight.
Half will to you no burden be,
And yet a mighty help to me.

The Horse laugh'd loud, and shook his Head,
And wantonly curvetting said;
Seignior, we Horses never chuse
The Burdens that we can refuse;
And should such Jest upon me pass,
Methinks I should be but an Ass.
The Ass quite spent, and vext to be deny'd,
Sunk down beneath his Weight, and dy'd.
The Master coming up, took off the Sack,
And threw it on the Horse's Back:
And having flaid his Ass, he threw
The filthy Hide upon him too.
At which the Horse, thus sadly humbled, cry'd;
(Letting some Tears for Grief and Anger fall)
Whether 'twere Cruelty, or Pride,
That I so fair Request deny'd,
I'm justly serv'd, and made to carry all.

The Asses of the South and East
Desire the Horses of the North and West,
That, as to Parliament they trot,
This Fable may not be forgot.

Fab. IV. Of the Iudgment of the Ape.

A Wolf complain'd that he had lost a Lamb,
And strait impleads a Fox of no good Fame.
(Who had a Lamb) that he had stoln the same.
An Ape was to decide the Cause,
Having some Knowledg in the Laws.
No Council was by either feed,
Each would his Cause, in Person, plead;
And so they did, with mighty heat;
The Judge himself did almost sweat
To hear the Force of their Debate,
How they accuse, and how defend,
How they reply'd, join'd and rejoin'd

At length in pity to the Court,
The Judg was fain to cut them short;
And thus determin'd—Sirs, in troth,
The Lamb belongs to neither of you both.
You, Mr. Wolf, have doubtless lost no Lamb;
And, Reynard, you as surely stole that same,
But not from him. If Justice might prevail,
You should be both condemn'd to Fine and Jail.

So two great Lords for an Estate may fight,
Which does to neither appertain by Right.

Fab. V. Of the Horse and Man.

A fierce wild Boar of monstrous size and force,
Did once, in early days, affront a Horse;
Who meditating Vengeance, found his Will
To hurt much greater than his Power and Skill;
And therefore, chaf'd and resolute, he ran
To the next House, and thus apply'd to Man.
I come, Superior Power, whom Jove hath made
His Substitute on Earth, to seek thy Aid.
Against a sordid Brute, who injures me,
And likewise speaks contemptibly of Thee.
Jove, whom thou nam'st (said Man) was to thee kind,
And sent thee where thou shalt Assistance find.
But this injurious Boar will never meet
Our Arms upon the Plain, but trusts his Feet.
But shall his Feet then his Protection be,
Since Swiftness is the Gift of Jove to thee?
(Mark it, my Friend, this Insolence
Deprives us of our common Sense.)
This doubtless he forgot; so will not we.
You, for Convenience, will a while submit
To be directed with a Bridle and Bit;
And take me on your Back, till we shall see
This your outragious Enemy.

Up, said the Horse then, let us never rest,
Till we have found this cursed Beast.
Away then to the Woods they flew,
The Horse his Haunts and Coverts knew,
And there his Foe, the dext'rous Warrior, slew.
This done, they jocond homewards make,
And thus the Horse the Man bespake.
Now, Sir, accept my Thanks for what is past,
I to my wonted Fields, and Friends must hast.
Hold, quoth the Man, we part not quite so soon;
Your Business is, but Mine is not yet done.
Some Service there remains, due to the Aid
I lent you, which must be repaid.
This said, he light, and ty'd him to a Rack;
Where the poor Creature, thus with Sorrow spake.
Slight was the Injury of the Boar,
And might, perhaps, have been no more:
Bvt now I'm utterly undone,
My Ease and Liberty are gone.

Sweet is Revenge, just in the Taste,
But surely Bitterness at last.
Let other Creatures warning take,
What Bargains they in Passion make.
Let Nations also take good care,
That they with many Hardships bear,
Rather than seek Redress abroad,
Which is but adding to their Load.

Fab. VI. The Bargain.

Two Welchmen Partners in a Cow,
Resolv'd to sell her dear;
And laid their Heads together, how
To do't at Ludlow Fair.
It was a sultry Summers Day,
When out they drove the Beast;

And having got about half way,
They sat them down to rest.
The Cow, a Creature of no Breeding,
(The Place with Grass being stor'd)
Fed by; and whilst she was a feeding,
Let fall a mighty T---.
Roger, quoth Hugh, I tell thee what,
Two Words and I have done;
If thou wilt fairly eat up that,
The Cow is all thy own.
'Tis done, quoth Roger, 'tis agreed,
And to't he went apace;
He seem'd so eager set, 'tis said,
That he forgot his Grace.
He labour'd with his wooden Spoon,
And up he slopt the Stuff;
Till, by the time that half was done,
He felt he had enough.
He felt: but scorning to look back,
Would look as if he wanted more;
And seem'd to make a fresh Attack,
With as much Vigour as before.
But stopping short a while, he cry'd,
How fares it, Neighbour Hugh?
I hope, by this, you're satisfied,
Who's Master of the Cow.
Ay, ay, quoth Hugh (the Devil choke thee,
For nothing else can do't)
I'm satisfy'd that thou hast broke me,
Unless thou wilt give out.
Give out! quoth Roger, thaa were fine;
Why, what have I been doing?
But yet I tell thee, Friend of mine,
I shall not seek thy Ruin.
My Heart now turns against such Gains;
I know th'art piteous poor,
Eat thou the half that still remains,
And 'tis as 'twas before.

God's Blessing on thy Heart, quoth Hugh,
That Proffer none can gainsay;
With that he readily fell to,
And eat his share o'th'Tansie.
Well now, quoth Hodge, w'are ev'n no doubt,
And neither side much Winner:
So had we been, quoth Hugh, without
This damn'd confounded Dinner.

Let this, both to our Wars and Peace
Be honestly apply'd;
France and th'Allies have done no less,
Than what these Welch-men did.

Fab. VII. The Frogs Concern.

Two first young Bulls within the Marshes strove
For the Reward of Empire, and of Love;
Which should the fairest Heifer gain,
And which should govern all the Plain.
This, when a Frog hard by perceiv'd,
He sigh'd, and sob'd, and sorely griev'd,
He hung his Head, and made great moan,
As tho he'd lost his Wife or Son.
At which a neighbouring Frog admir'd,
And kindly of the Cause enquir'd;
Which when he knew, he said in hast,
And Gossip, is this all at last?
If this and that great Loggerhead Bull
Will try the Thickness of each others Skull,
E'en let them do, as fit they see:
But what is that to You and Me?
If that, replied the other, were all indeed,
We should about this Matter be agreed.
I should not care a single Groat,
To see 'em tear each others Throat;

But, Friend, the Creatures of such Might
Can never meet in Field to fight,
But in the Fury of their full Career,
Both you and I endanger'd are;
And all our kindred Tribes below,
In hazard of their Lives must go.
When Bulls rush on, or when retreat for Breath,
They'll tread a hundred of us little Folks to death.

If Kings would fight themselves alone,
Their People still secure,
No mortal Man would part 'em sure,
But let them e'en fight on.
But when the Subjects Blood is spilt,
And their Estates are drain'd,
To justify a Prince's Guilt,
Or have his Vanity maintain'd;
When they must pay for all at last,
Their Lust, Ambition, or Revenge lay wast:
The poorest Man alive may fear,
And pray against the Miseries of War.

Fab. VIII. Of a Man and his Ass.

A wretched Churl was trav'ling with his Ass,
Beneath two Panniers Load opprest;
And hearing noise behind, cry'd to the Beast,
Fly, my Friend Roger, fly apace;
Else I'm undone, and all my Market's naught;
And thou thy self wilt by the Rogues be caught.
Caught? quoth the Beast, what if I be?
What will it signify to me?
My Panniers are so full, they'll hold no more;
I carry two, and cannot carry four.
'Twixt Rogues and You I can no difference make,
They are all Rogues to me, who break my Back.

Fly, fly from France, our Statesmen cry,
And Slavery's cursed Yoke;
Whilst with our Ancient Liberty
Our very Backs are broke.
France is a Thief; but France can do no more,
Than keep the Panniers on we had before.

Fab. IX. Of a Wolf.

A Wolf retiring from Whitehall,
Where he had Statesman been,
Built for himself a Box so small,
That few could be receiv'd within.
The Country all admir'd at this,
And could not at the Reason guess,
Why one so Wealthy and so Great,
Should cage himself at such a rate.
Till at the last a Fox came by,
A Courtier also, sleek and sly,
And thus in earnest and in jest,
His Reason gave among the rest,
Perhaps my Lord Commissioner intends,
Here to receive only his honest Friends.

Fab. X. The Plaintiff and Defendant.

Two Travellers an Oyster found,
Dropt from some Pannier down;
Each stoopt, and took it from the Ground,
And claim'd it as his own.
Since both can't have it all, said one,
E'en let it parted be.
No, says the other, all or none,
But all belongs to me.

One Serjeant Law by chance came by,
And he must end the Strife:
Which thing he did immediately,
With his deciding Knife.
He took the Fish and cut it up,
(This Cause he opened well)
And fairly did the Oyster sup,
And gave to each a Shell.
And if hereafter Causes rise,
Where People can't agree,
I know, quoth he, you'll be so wise
To refer them still to me.
My Name is Law, my Chambers are
At some of th'Inn of Court,
Or Serjeants Inns, or Westminster,
Where all for help resort.
Sir, quo' the Men, trust us for that,
We shall not fail to tell,
'Tis Law that did the Oyster eat,
And left to Us the Shell.

Fab. XI. Of the Pigeons.

The Hawks were once at mortal Jars,
Which came at length to Civil Wars.
The Pigeons they stood looking on,
And, full of Pity, made great moan,
To see how bloodily they fought,
And each the others Ruin sought.
And never would these Creatures cease,
Till they had mediated a Peace.
The Hawks did easily consent,
So Peace was made, and home they went;
Where when they came and wanted Prey,
And how to pass their time away,

They fairly made one general Swoop,
And eat their Mediators up.
Two lucky Pigeons were not there,
And so escap'd the Massacre.
Of which the one to th'other said,
How came our Kindred all so mad?
Parting of Hawks! Hawks ever shou'd
Be gorg'd with one anothers Blood.
The Wicked have a natural Rage,
(A thirst of Violence to asswage)
Which if not on the Wicked spent,
Will fall upon the Innocent.

So the poor Hugonots of France,
And Vaudois full as poor,
Pray'd loudly, in their Innocence,
That God would Peace restore.
Peace was restor'd; but Peace to them
No Safety did restore:
Their Hawks employ'd their Power and Time
Much worse than e'er before.
And thou, O Church of England Dove,
Doat not upon thy Peace,
That may, than War, more fatal prove
Both to thy Wealth and Ease.

Fab. XII. The Farmer and the Hare.

A Hare did once into a Garden get
Belonging to a Farm;
Where she began to throw up Earth, and eat,
And do some little Harm.
The Farmer cours'd her round and round,
But got her not way;
Puss took a liking to the Ground,
And there resolv'd to stay.

Well, quoth the Fellow, in a Fret,
Since you are grown so bold,
I shall some more Assistance get,
And drive you from your Hold.
And strait he sends to a young Squire,
That he, by break of day,
Would with his Pack of Hounds repair,
And sport himself that way.
The Squire, as ask'd, attended came,
With Folks, and Horse, and Hounds,
And in pursuance of the Game,
Rode over all the Grounds.
They leapt the Ditches, broke the Hedges down,
And made most fearful Wast;
They trampl'd all the Garden round,
And kill'd poor Puss at last
At this the Farmer tore his Hair,
And swore most bloodily,
Z---ds! What confounded work is here?
And what a Fool am I?
Not fifty Hares, in fifty Days,
Had so much mischief done,
As this good Sqaire (whom I must praise
And thank) hath wrought in One.

If our Deliverance from the Frights
Of standing Army near,
And silly superstitious Rites,
Worth Forty Millions were;
Then have we wisely broke our Mounds,
That our Defences were,
Wisely call'd in our Neighbours Hounds,
And kill'd the desperate Hare.
But if, with all this vast Expence,
Besides a Sea of Blood
Spilt in the Church and States Defence,
Our Matters stand much as they stood:
Then have we done a World of Ill,
With endless Cost and Pains,

A little hurtful Hare to kill,
And well deserve the Brains.

Fab. XIII. Poetry its Cure.

1

A youth of pregnant Parts and Wit,
And thirsty after Fame,
Was musing long which way to get
An everlasting Name.

2

And having heard of Poetry,
And its immortal Praise;
He thought the way to Fame must ly
By courting of the Bays.

3

He heard how many a noble Town
Laid claim to Homer's Birth,
To purchase from it a Renown
Above the rest of th'Earth.

4

This kindl'd in his generous Mind
A strong and noble Fire:
He seem'd for nothing else design'd,
Could nothing else desire.

5

The Father finding this intent
Ill with his state agreed,
That, living, wanted Six per Cent.
Much more than Fame, when dead:

6

Resolv'd to try to cure his Mind,
And change his vain Designs,
And could no fitter Method find,
Than sending him these Lines:

Seven wealthy Towns contend for Homer Dead,
Through which the Living Homer beg'd.

Several other Fables on State-Affairs.

Fab. I. The Fox and the Poultry.

An aged Fox that ravag'd Woods and Plains,
Dread Fox to Cocks and Hens, and Country Swains;
The most Tyrannick Reynard e'er was known,
Since Beasts bore rule, and hector'd on a Throne.
He neither young nor old, when hungry, spar'd;
Alike the Lamkins and the Henroost far'd.
But Age retards at last his hasty flight,
He plunders not so much by day, nor ravages by night;
Grown weak and feeble, Wit must now supply
His want of Strength—
No kind good natur'd Fox will bring him Food,
He still must share the Fortune of the Wood.
One day as hungry Reynard sat alone,
His empty Guts and Fortune did bemoan;
Said he, I'll try what aged Craft can do,
New Methods find, a new Device pursue:
Hard by a Tarbox lay, some careless Swain
Had left when he kept Sheep upon the Plain.
Projecting Reynard will a diligent care
Bedawbs his Belly, Sides and Back with Tar:
Then to a Ditch he goes, where t'other day
He did a Hen and all her Chickens slay;
Their Feathers still lay scatter'd on the Ground,
In which the Fox did wallow, tumble round;
The Feathers sticking still as he did rowl,
Made him resemble much a larger Fowl.
And thus transform'd into a new disguise,
Into a neighbouring Henroost strait he hies:
And just beneath the Roost his station took,
And looking on the Perch, the Poultry thus bespoke.

Kind gentle Cocks and Hens, I am
No more your Foe:
What once I did, is now my shame,
And for the future I the same
No more will do.
I come not as an Enemy
Your Lives to take,
But would with you in Friendship be,
As you may judge if you but see
The Clothes upon my Back.
Come down then Friends, a lasting Truce
'Twixt you and I;
I'll neither Cocks nor Hens abuse,
Let us shake hands as Lovers use,
Be Friends until we die.
No, quoth the Cock, you will as much devour
As e'er you did, were but it in your power:
Your vain pretence of Kindness we abhor,
And from our Perch we will not downward stir:
You've chang'd your Coat, but have not chang'd your Name;
If that were alter'd too, your Nature is the same.

In vain do those, who heretofore
Our Liberties betray'd
Unto a wild Despotick Pow'r,
And level all our Fences laid:
In vain they talk of Property,
Or think to be believ'd;
Their Actions give their Tongue the lie:
Who can be thus deceiv'd?
Their vain pretence of publick Good
Is for sinister Ends;
And who the Dee'l, when understood,
Wou'd be such Villains friends?

They'd feed the Flock only to steal the Fleece;
When the Fox preaches, then beware the Geese.

Fab. II. The Poor Man and the Devil.

A lab'ring Swain had been at work,
And all his Limbs had tir'd,
By using Shovel, and the Fork,
To rest at Night retir'd.
So sweet's the sleep of Country Swains,
Such undisturb'd Repose
Accompanies their daily pains,
That Peace about them flows.
No dismal Visions do afright,
No Dreams do e'er approach;
Within the Curtains of the Night
They sleep as sound as any Roach.
But now the Swain, in dead of night,
An airy Phantom saw;
A cloven-footed hideous Spright
Him out of Bed did draw:
And led him to an Orchard fair,
Where pointing to a Tree,
Beneath that Stock, he said, is there
A fund of Gold for thee.
But how, reply'd the sleeping Swain,
Shall I this Treasure find,
Or know that self-same Tree again,
No mark being left behind?
Then quoth the Dee'l, shit near the place;
And thus, upon my word,
To morrow when thou view'st the Grass,
Thou't know it by the T---
Thus did the Swain; when he awoke,
And rais'd his drozy Head,
He found not as the Devil spoke,
But found a T--- in Bed.

Thus sleeping Jacks do dream and snore,
And please their foolish mind,
In thinking what they were before,
And what henceforth they'll find.
But if they would right measures take,
And govern'd be by Wit;
When once their Reason do's awake,
They'll find their Cause beshit.

Fab. III. The Farmer and the Badger.

A Badger once did ravage all the Fields
Belonging to a Farm;
Dug up the Earth, and spoil'd all that it yields,
And did a wond'rous harm.
The Farmer haloo'd on his Dog,
Thinking thereby to quell her;
But being bred to hunt the Hog,
He knew not how to kill her.
The Farmer sends for a young Squire
To come with all his Hounds;
His and their Aid he does require,
To beat her from her Mounds.
The Squire came, with all his Hounds
The Badger did pursue.
He ravag'd all the Farmer's Grounds,
And kill'd the Badger too.
Some little mischief true he did,
In beating down the Corn,
And breaking Hedges as he rid:
So small a Loss was born.
For, says the Farmer, now my Sheep
May more securely graze;
My Poultry may the Henroost keep,
I'm better than I was.

If our Deliverance from our Foes,
And Popish Tyranny,
Ben't worth the Mony has been rose,
'Tis pity we are free.
'Tis certain wisely we have done,
To keep the Nation safe,
In giving part as we have done,
To save the better half.

Fab. IV. The Ravens and Crows.

A lusty Horse, not long ago,
Would snuffle, snort and kick,
Curvet and prance, as others do,
Was fallen wondrous sick.
'Twas far from any House or Town,
No Doctor cou'd be got;
So the poor Beast must die alone,
And without burial rot.
He restless lay upon the Ground,
And turn'd from side to side;
His Groans the neighb'ring Woods resound,
Where Birds of Prey reside.
No sooner did they hear the noise.
But from the Woods they flew,
Whole Troops of Ravens, and the Crows,
And round the Horse they drew.
At length a Raven of renown,
Strutting like Prince of Conde,
As black as any Parson's Gown
He wears upon a Sunday;
Gets on a Mole-hill, look'd around,
And thus bespoke the Crows;
We're antient Friends, and without ground
We will not now be Foes.

You know, by Contract, we're to have
The Carrion of this place;
And you the other side did crave,
Such our Agreement was.
No, quoth the Crows, this very place
To us is free as Air;
And how dare you with such a face,
Oppose such Numbers here?
Ay, quoth the Raven, then we'l try
To whom it doth belong:
But first let the poor Creature die,
Then see who's right or wrong.
Both sides resolv'd to fight it out,
Each do's advantage take;
They march, and march, and march about,
And each one whets his Beak.
They view the Ground, and mark the Camp,
And the Approaches form;
Contrive the easiest Methods how
They may the Carcase storm.
Mean time the Horse lies dangerous ill,
Yet shites, and farts, and groans;
Good signs, they say, in Physick skill,
And stretching of the Bones.
The Horse (tho helpless) by degrees
Began to gather strength;
At first he rises on his Knees,
And on his Legs at length.
The Birds of Prey were all surpris'd,
And all away they flew;
The Battel's thus on both sides lost,
And all the Carrion too.

Thus some, whom neither Peace nor Wars
Can satisfy, still hope for Jars;
That by great Princes falling out,
They may their Business bring about.
And Wonders must be done and said,
When once the King of Spain is dead;

But he, like Horse, prevents the Fight,
And is resolv'd to live in spite.

Fab. V. The Summons.

The mighty Puss, not long since rul'd the State,
Beneath a loneson Furzbush purring sat;
Strok'd her long Smellers, and rejoic'd to see
Her awful Picture in her Progeny:
Mean while her Kitlings dance before her face,
And toss, like trembling Mice, the Roots of Grass.
Not one amongst 'em but a Claw dos wear,
Fit a Monarchic Tyrant Rat to tear.
The Good Old Cause inform'd the Mother's Breast,
Darts through their Eyes, is by their Mein exprest.
Such, such the antient Race of Heroes were,
Who did their Rights before their Lives prefer.
She calls one to her of the eldest-brood:
Dost know, said she, how drown'd in native Blood
My Country lies; how the wild Boars invade
The Land, and desert have my Country laid?
'Tis true, I once did ease 'em of their Pain;
But they, like Fools, embrac'd again the Chain;
Wear those dull Fetters I so kindly broke,
And halt like Slaves beneath the servile Yoke.
Once more I'll try, if my Advice may prove
Successful, once exert my antient Love;
Summon the Slaves to meet at W---l Gate,
Beneath the Scaffold where I whileom sate,
And punish'd Tyranny, the worst of Crimes;
A just example unto future Times.
Young Puss the Message takes, and bids fair Warning
To all the Slaves t'appear on the next morning.

Fab. VI. The Interview.

The Morning come, the Slaves await,
And flock like Bees 'bout W---l Gate.
Some yok'd, like Country Hogs appear;
Others confounded Fetters wear,
And some most horrid Burdens bear.
Thus loaded, thus enslav'd, opprest;
Nature, 'tis strange, don't call for rest:
Tho Legs are gall'd, and Shoulders sore,
The bulky Slaves still crave for more:
And not an Ideot of the Town
Has Sense to lay his Burden down.
Strait Puss in Majesty appears,
Mounting the Scaffold, pricks her Ears,
Shakes her Majestick Head, aloud
She thus bespoke the num'rous Crowd.

I have deserted long the nauseous Town,
Mourning my Country's Ruin, and my own,
Expos'd to Tyranny, whilst Beasts of prey
Ravage my Fields, and steal my Lambs away.
My Free-born Subjects now are forc'd to bear
Loads, which more fit for backs of Camels are;
You well deserve the Fetters you do wear.
You under heavy Iron Shackles pine,
Whose Fathers did in glorious Armor shine,
Thro' fields of Blood to Freedom cut their way,
And taught the proudest Tyrants to obey;
By me supported, potent Tyrants sell
A Sacrifice to their just Cause and Hell.
No more, no more their sacred Lineage stain,
No more their Names in your curst Race profane.
Let not their Off-spring such Alliance have,
Shackles were ne'er the Trophies of the Brave;

They could wide Conquests, and just Honors boast,
But you, dull Slaves! have all your Freedom lost.
Where 'ere a Tyrant rais'd his impious Head,
Strait their bold Hands strook the damn'd Monster dead.
Had you a spark of antient Honor left,
You should not long be of my Aid bereft;
My Claws are hard and sharp as e'er they were,
As fit a Tyrant and his Rats to tear.
The Villains that support a Tyrant Crown,
This angry Tail will horridly sweep down;
Shake off your Fetters once, and you shall see,
I'll once more save you from curst Slavery.

She said, and away she gallop'd amain,
But in hopes they their Sense would recover again;
For a Doctor will never the Fatigue endure,
To heal such dull Blockheads, that don't love the Cure.

Fab. VII. The Frogs Concern.

A generous Race of croking Frogs,
Which lay intrench't betwixt two Bogs,
Who as the Morning Sun did shine,
Daily encreas'd their Stock Divine;
Just as the Solar Influence burn'd,
Prolifick Spawn to Life was turn'd,
Until the young ones had at length
An equal Vigor, equal Strength.
So numerous at length they prove,
They supplicate to mighty Jove;
A King and Governour they crave,
As other Beasts and Insects have;
But Jove allow'd all Mortal Elves,
To chuse a Monarch for themselves
The Croking Elders now consult
About a King, and the Result

Was, that a neighb'ring Log should be
Executor of Monarchy.
About the Log their Heads they raise,
In sounds uncouth they croke his Praise:
At length some crawl upon his Top,
And frisk about, and croke and hop:
Says one Frog, Here's fine business done,
Was e'er a King thus trampl'd on?
Troth, says another antient Frog,
We'll ne'er be govern'd by a Log.
The Heat at length so far arose,
They did the Loggerhead depose.
To new Election they proceed,
And to their Hearts content succeed:
A neighb'ring Stork at length they chose,
Which shou'd their Heats and Feuds compose;
He took upon him the Command
Of all the People in Frogland;
But he, as t'other 'fore had done,
Made it an Arbitrary Throne;
Up from the Mud the Frogs would pick,
And squeeze their Corps within his Beak.
One Frog much wiser than the rest,
To those about him thus addrest:
Good Friends this is confounded work,
Shall we be govern'd by a Stork;
To have our Bones in pieces torn,
Our young ones eat just as they're born?
As if Kings only had a Power
To ruin Subjects and devour;
I think 'tis just to chuse agen:
The Brood of Frogs all crok'd, Amen.
The next they chose was a dull Ass,
Which prov'd as bad as t'other was;
For tho he was not so malicious,
His Folly made him as pernicious;
Stumbling on Empire, oft he stood
Upon his Subjects chokd in Mud:

Whole beds of Spawn he did destroy,
At every flounce did Frogs annoy.
The Devil's in't, said one, for we
In chusing Kings still wretched be,

Thus often we have chose a K---,
And still have found it the same thing.

Fab. VIII. The Lion and Fox.

A youthful Lion in the Wood,
Of Bulk and Nature strong;
Still us'd to Rav'ning and to Blood,
And came to Empire young:
He too, as other Monarchs use,
New Methods did pursue:
His Father's Fav'rites did refuse,
And chose a set of new.
He having lov'd, and us'd to gore;
An arbitrary Sway,
A base, a wild Despotick Pow'r
His Subjects must obey.
But want of Brains do's still attend
Unlimited Command,
And therefore he would have some Friend
Might Business understand.
There was a cunning Fox liv'd near,
For many years had kill'd
The neighb'ring Lambs and Poultry there,
With Bones his Kennel fill'd.
He summon'd Reynard to appear,
Next Night, at Council Board;
Which Reynard did, and when was there,
Look'd grave as any Lord.
The Lion told him, he must be
The chief Support of State;

At which kind Reynard bow'd his Knee,
And wish'd him better Fate.
O, says the Lion, thou art skill'd
In Arbitrary Sway:
Thou many Beasts and Fowls hast kill'd,
To govern know'st the way.
Ask, and I'll give Thee any thing,
Is in my Pow'r to give,
Thou shalt be next unto the King
As long as I do live.
Quoth Reynard, make me then the Priest,
I'll make all Beasts your Slaves:
The Body You, I Soul at least,
We'll tyrannize by halves.

Thus Fate did Men to Thraldom bring,
Opprest just like a Beast;
Rode, spur'd, and whip'd by such a King,
And eke so lewd a Priest.

Fab. IX. The Weesil, Rats and Mice.

A mighty Weesil of renown,
Well vers'd in things of State,
Was chosen King all o'er the Town,
Of all the Mice and Rats.
His Coronation Day was come,
And all the Grandees meet
The Weesil in a gaudy Room,
And bow beneath his Feet.
His Chair of State was Rind of Cheese,
And o'er his Royal Head
Some Bacon swerd in goodly guise,
Like Canopy was spread.
At length he walks and struts about,
Like any Lord or Duke;

Sometimes he does one Subject flout,
And sometimes one rebuke.
He calls an aged Rat aside,
And ask'd him his advice,
Whether a Project mayn't be try'd
To eat up all the Mice.
Ay quoth the Rat, your Majesty
May be well satisfy'd,
Mice haters are of Monarchy,
And Regal State deride.
The Rats and Weesils now devour
The Mice in piteous sort.
They dye the Cellars with their Gore,
And with their Bones they sport.
At length the Mice are all destroy'd,
The Weesils and the Rats
Would other Food find out abroad,
But that they fear'd the Cats.
The Weesils now together plot,
How they the Rats may eat;
Provision must be daily got,
Kings must have sumptuous Meat.
The Rats now all do go to pot:
Some bak'd, some boil'd, some roasted;
'Tis hop'd they had not then forgot
How they the Mice accosted.

Thus some Men oft by Tyrant Power,
Their Kindred Subject-Slaves devour,
Do all the Villanies are done
To prop a beastly Tyrant Throne;
Tho others Blood the Tyrant fill'd,
They must at length to's Fury yield;
Nought stops a Tyrant's Course but Decollation,
Or else a modern Abdication.

Fab. X. Lubberland.

A land there is, as Maps do tell,
(Tho they describe it not right well)
Nor near the Hot nor Frigid Zone,
But Latitude of fifty one;
In Nature's Plenty do's abound,
With Fruits and Flocks is amply crown'd:
The Natives never are content
But with Tyrannick Government;
They Men resemble by their Faces,
But by their Backs resemble Asses:
For each is born with a great Pack,
A warlike Saddle on his Back,
Which do's adorn the Parts are upper,
On nether Parts they wear a Crupper.
Their Kings, as 'tis decreed by Jove,
Do always jump down from above:
Arm'd Cap-a-pee with Boots and Spurs,
Just fit to mount such servile Curs:
With Hunting-whips they daily maul 'em,
And with long rowled Spurs do gall 'em.
He only is the great Bravado,
Has most the Regal Bastinado.
They leap and jump, and frisk and skip,
And sing the Praises of the Whip:
They bear the Lash without once bogging,
Extol the Royal Art of flogging.
With Blanket-Coat and Wooden-Shoes,
The Man the Camel scarce outdoes.
Whilst Freemen feed on Dainties fine,
These do on Bread and Garlick dine;
And if they spend a Soulx in Wine,

The Health drank round must always be,
Their King's applauded Tyranny:
Still let 'em be curs'd Slaves for me.

Fab. XI. The Hawk and Birds.

I

A Hawk, that of Yore
Had long welter'd in Gore,
And many a Sparrow had kill'd;
By the Birds he was told,
Now he was grown old,
He his number of Sins had fulfill'd.

II

Now said the old Hawk,
My Actions to balk,
If you shall but once thus combino,
The Gods will me avenge,
My Cause will revenge,
I may murder ye Jure Divino.

III

The Gods, said the Birds,
We'll not take their words;
If they've gi'n you an Absolute Power,
They've gi'n us a part
Is not worth a Fart,
While you have a Right to devour.

IV

The Birds all agreed,
And thus 'twas decreed,
That Slaves they no longer would be;
They throttl'd their King,
Then sweetly did sing
The Praises of free Liberty.

Fab. XII. The Asylum.

The Princes once did all combine,
The Peoples Liberty to mine;
Would make them right or wrong obey
An absolute Despotick Sway.
One Method, was to make us poor,
By loading Taxes more and more;
For when to Poverty Men fall,
They easily are brought to thrall:
And when their Spirit's sunk and gone,
Tyrants may lay vast Burdens on.
This did in some, in all it cou'd
Not do: Some Men had better Blood,
And tho they could not mend their Fate,
They murmur'd at the Tyrant's hate;
Which so incens'd the Tyrant's Ire,
Some were condemn'd to rav'nous Fire;
Some were to slavish Gallies sent,
Others in Fetters did lament.
Some Men were strangl'd in their Beds,
Others were hang'd, some lost their Heads;
Some whipt, till bleeding Backs were kill'd,
The Lands with Tyranny were fill'd.
But those whom better luck and hap
Did favour with a wish'd escape,
A City on Batavian Shoar
Did shelter from the Isles before;
Where native Liberty do's thrive,
And no curst Tyranny can live.
Long live great City, Favorite of Heav'n,
And never want those Blessings thou hast giv'n.

Fab. XIII. Of the other Members conspiring against the Belly.

Once on a Time the Hands and Feet
With Back, and Loins, and Bum, did meet
In a Rebellious Consult, where
The B---ch as Speaker took the Chair,
And with an uncouth hollow sound
The following Treason did propound:
Brethren, quoth he, you know the Head
Makes us to toil and sweat for Bread,
Yet nothing to our Lot doth fall,
But idle Gut consumes it all.
My Friends, if you'l be rul'd by me,
We will shake off this Tyranny.
If Head and Belly will have Meat,
Let them toil for't with Hands and Feet.
Agreed, says Back, I vow and swear,
For them I'll no more Burdens bear.
Content, says Bum, if't be your Will;
For I love dearly to sit still.
Says Feet, I'll no more Errands run.
The Loins say, Brethren, it is done.
The Hands vow they would work no more,
And wish they'd been as wise before.
The Members thus in Holy League,
Did bless themselves for this Intrigue.
But suddenly the Hands grew weak,
The Feet grew numb, the Loins did shake,
The Back was feeble, the Bum grew poor,
And Breech the Chair-man loud did roar,
Pray cram the Gut, and we'll rebel no more.

It's hop'd this will not be forgot
By those who form'd the Tunbridge Plot.
Old Æsop was a man of Sense,
Such Doctrines never did dispense,
That People should refuse Support,
And pine themselves to starve the Court.

Fab. XIV. The Fable of the Spunge.

A certain Brewer, whose Liquor of Life
Did frequently amongst his Servants raise strife,
Resolv'd to abridg them, giving each Man his share,
Enough to suffice, but nothing to spare:
But the Servants resolving they would not be stinted,
Put their Wits on the Rack, and this Device minted.
They got Gloves of Spunge which they thrust in the Liquor,
And squeezing them often spent their Masters Stock quicker:
Which the Brewer understanding, he seiz'd on the Spunges;
Made his Servants repay him, and with Actions them swinges;
Till he squeez'd back his own, and taught them to be true,
To leave off their sly Cheats, and be content with their Due.

Those that misapply the Treasure of the Nation,
Ought thus to be squeez'd till they make reparation:
We may Tax, and pay on, and the King still be poor,
If the Hands of his Servants be pitch'd as before.
It's the Interest of the Nation, our Senate understands,
That those who touch Cash should have clean washen hands.

Fab. XV. Esop sent to Bedlam.

Æsop o'ercome with Wind and Spleen,
At Tunbridge sought relief;
In hopes that change of Air, and Scene,
Might ease him of his Grief.
But there such Shoals of Fools he met,
And Knaves twice dipt in Grain;
Not the fam'd Waters they were at,
Cou'd e'er take out the Stain.
In vain a Friend among the Youth
He sought all Tunbridge round;
Till sneaking Solitary Truth
He in a Corner found.
Thus met, they readily agree,
And did strange Tales devise
Lab'ring to make those Coxcombs see,
That would put out their Eyes.
Till nettled at their just Reproof,
The Knaves and Fools combine;
And him and his Companion both
To a dark room confine.
Next Stage, they knew not why or how,
For London they were bound;
Where both of 'em together now,
In Bedlam may be found.

In vain we strive Mens Errors to correct,
Or point out Follies which themselves neglect.
Fools are a stubborn Race and hard to break,
Wisdom's the only Gift they scorn to take;
And he that shews his Brains to such a Rout,
Takes a fair way to have 'em beaten out.
Wise Men in them alone mistake their Tools,
Knaves only have the Skill to manage Fools.

Let empty Fops be proud of their Mishap,
For he that takes it off, deserves the Cap.

Fab. XVI. The Priest and Pears.

A wanton Sloven of a Priest,
Invited to a Bridal Feast,
Under a Hedg upon the Ground,
A Hoard of Mellow Pears had found.
These were, quoth he, to hungry Sinner,
That had no hopes of Wedding-Dinner,
Brave tempting Morsels, a rich Prize,
Which at this juncture I despise,
Now to more Rarities engag'd,
Than e'er in Noah's Ark were cag'd,
Fish, Fowl, Fruit, Sweet-meats, to excite
And rouse a founder'd Appetite;
Therefore sweet Pears this time adieu,
My Stomach will not stoop to you.
Yet e'er we part, we'll have a Jest,
Then scornfully he on 'em pist,
And cry'd, Who e'er these Pears shall eat,
He shall have Sauce as well as Meat.
This done, impatient of delay,
He jocundly persu'd his Way,
Most happy in Imagination,
Chewing the Cud of Expectation.
Till to a Brook approaching nigh,
By Rains late fallen swell'd so high,
That 'twas impossible to pass;
His grumbling Stomach call'd him Ass,
And bid him ford, or swim the Flood,
And make his vap'ring Promise good,
Or, spite of all his Scoffs and Jeers,
He, Sauce and all, should eat the Pears.

The Priest, who Belly dearly lov'd,
At this Reproach was strangely mov'd;
Yet his unhappy case was such,
He hated Danger full as much.
At Disappointment sore dejected,
He sadly on the Pears reflected:
He was by Word and Honour bound
To stand to't, and maintain his Ground.
And now the Pears so lovely grew,
That Water from both ends they drew.
He therefore all his cunning bent
To find out some Expedient,
To prove himself this once mistaken,
And save his Credit and his Bacon.
Inward he turn'd his sullen Looks,
And romaging o'er all his Books,
He met an antient Convocation,
That furnish'd him with an Evasion.
Quoth he, they cou'd not be my due,
Nor might I seize 'em till I knew,
And Providence had time to prove,
This heap of Pears was Treasure trouve:
But now I plainly understand,
They truly are a Deodand;
And he that Abdicates 'em here,
Has lost all Title to one Pear.
And I should be a Fool no Doubt,
Shou'd I stand any longer out.
As for the Stain I cast on these,
My self can wipe it off with ease.

Fab. XVII. The Owl and the Bat.

A fierce Dispute 'twixt Birds of Night
Arose about their Gifts, and Light;

The Owl and Bat aloud contended,
Which was by Nature best befriended,
Wrangling with clamorous Contest
Which saw the clearest, and the best;
Till from high Words, and angry Speeches,
They came to Personal Reproaches.

Quoth Madge, insulting o'er the Bat,
What wou'd this Flitter-Mouse be at?
Thou Mungrel Vermine art at most,
And but half Bird thy self canst boast.

The Bat reply'd with Indignation,
Make to your self the Application;
You're some Beast's Bastard it appears,
As I'll demonstrate by your Ears.
But what this is to our Dispute;
If I am Vermine, you're a Brute.

Then let's agree, the Owl reply'd,
And by the Sun our Cause be try'd.
A Nightingale that hard by sate,
Thus undertook to Arbitrate:
How shall the Sun decide your Case,
When neither can endure his Face?
You've said enough of Bats and Owls,
To prove both purblind Knaves and Fools.

The Bats, and Owls of Pinners-Hall,
This Fable may apply;
These Night-Birds representing all
The Pastors and their Fry.
If any wou'd know whom they fit,
Their Controversies read;
And see how oft the Sticks are split,
To break each other's Head.
But let 'em not the Truth come near,
Nor venture into Light;
For he that does bare-fac'd appear,
Will shew a Hypocrite.

While they against each other bawl,
They the whole World convince,
And plainly shew their want to all
Of Faith, as well as Sense.

Fab. XVIII. The Sharpers and Cullies.

Two Sharpers once to Gaming fell,
In a large Company;
And manag'd their Intrigue so well,
They drew in Standers by.
They wrangled, quarrel'd, and call'd names;
And play'd with so much heat;
That no one jealous of a sham,
Suspected 'twas a Cheat.
But when the Gamesters num'rous grew,
And store of Cullies came;
Each from the other took his Cue,
To manage right his Game.
A long time doubtful was the Scale,
The Odds uncertain were;
For they do all by turns prevail,
And none great Losers are.
Till e'ery one at length was dipt,
And mighty Sums were laid;
The wink one of the Jugglers tipt,
And so the Cheat betray'd.
But this Discovery came to late,
For now the Game was won;
An empty Pocket was their Fate,
And all the Fools undone.

Ex***quer, B*nk, and the Exchange,
East-Indians Old, and New,
And all the World this very Game,
Too busily pursue.

Notes, Bills and Stock, and Actions fall,
Or without Reason rise;
Just as the Jugglers at Wh***hall,
Or M**cer's Chappel please.
The Great Ones have Sham-fallings out,
To draw the Lesser in;
But the true Quarrel is, not who,
But how much each shall win.
And when the small Ones give their Voice,
Who shall be most Empowr'd;
They have but Liberty of Choice,
By whom they'l be devour'd.

Fab. XIX. The Wolf and Dog.

A Half famisht Wolf met a jolly fat Dog,
That was let out for Air, and freed from the Clog.
Quoth Isgrim, Friend Towzer, thou hast what I lack,
How com'st thou by all this good Flesh on thy back?
Says Towzer, I lodg, and am fed at Wh***hall;
I live like a Prince, and do nothing but bawl.
You live like a Felon, by paltry Sheep-stealing;
But if you'l be rul'd, and use double-dealing,
I'l help you to mighty Preferment at C**rt,
And you shall pay nothing but Flattery for't.
Quoth Isgrim, I like the Conditions so well,
I long till I'm there, for I soon shou'd excel;
I can cringe like a Beau, and humour My Lord,
And praise e'ery foppish Nonsensical word.
'Tis enough says the Cur; so onward they jog'd,
Till Towzer, who often was collar'd and clog'd,
Like a Cur of good Manners in bowing betray'd
The Ring on his Neck, which the Collar had made.

Says the crafty sly Wolf, in that Circle some Spell
I suppose is contain'd, by which you live well.
'Tis only, says Towzer, ne'er mind it I pray,
Some loose hair my Collar has fretted away.
Says Isgrim, I owe you, Sir, thanks for this grace;
But if there's a Collar, that alters the case.
I'll purchase my Place by no such submission,
But forage the Woods, and not alter Condition.

The Wealth, and the Power of great Places please all,
Who wou'd shun the Fatigue they're encumber'd withal.
They wou'd have the Profit without the Attendance,
And shift off the burden of slavish dependance.
But here they may see by the Wolf, and the Dog,
They that will have the Fat, must submit to the Clog.

Fab. XX. Of the Apple and the Horse-Turd.

An Apple falling from a Tree
Which near a River stood,
With Horse-Turd in his Company
Was sailing down the Flood:
When Turd, ambitious to discourse
A thing so much above it,
Would into Conversation force,
As down the River drove it.
Lord! Madam, what a pleasant Stream
Is this in which we ride?
Sister! How we two Apples swim?
The foul Sirrev'rence cry'd.

A Thredbare Writer, who perchance
Has not one Farthing paid,
To carry on the War with France,
Towards the Royal Aid;

Crys, Damn this curs'd confounded Peace,
It Forty Millions cost,
And we could not procure our Ease
Till all our Wealth was lost.

Fab. XXI. The Pump.

A Welsh-man (from his Hills come down)
Saw a strange Engine near a Town;
A high erected Post there stood,
Crown'd with a Janus head of Wood;
One of whose Faces look'd to th'Country,
T'other Phyz o'er the Town was Centry.
A Clown close by gave 't many a thump,
And told admiring Taffy 'twas a Pump:
With this side I my Cellar drain and dry,
With t'other I my Waters want supply,
Here's all I have which in this Bowl stands by.
Sot, quoth the Briton, why dost toil?
Here's not a drop comes all this while.
T'other strait pours the dish of Water
Into the Pump. Thou mendst the matter,
Cry'd Taffy laughing; why dost wast
The Water thou already hast?
Vext with his Ignorance, the Clown
Replied, If ever thou hadst known
How wiser Men can use a Tool,
Thou wouldst not prate so like a Fool:
I threw this Dishful in, thou silly Lout,
Because I'm sure to get a Tubful out.

No wonder some profusely give their Coin,
'Tis easie being liberal on design.
Mony well plac'd at time of need we know,
Tho sprinkled but by P---, makes M--- flow.

Fab. XXII. Of the Bear and the Bees.

Cold Muscovy (as story tells)
Fam'd is for store of Bears;
That it in Honey too excels,
From the same Books appears.
There's scarce a hollow Tree that grows,
When cut, but Honey from it flows.
A plundering Bear about did roam,
To many a hollow Oak he troop'd,
Greedy he was, oft chang'd his home,
As oft the pillag'd Trees he scoop'd:
The Witless Bees saw him devour
Their Summers toils, and Winter-store;
Call'd it perhaps Protecting too,
Lest other Beasts the like should do,

And seem'd to be content.
At length when he enlarg'd his rounds,
(For Rapine scarce knows any bounds)

To a Farm-house he went.
The Bear his wonted raving drives,
To run a muck at all the Hives.
The Bees who had with patience born
The rifling of the Forest round;
Enrag'd, their All was from them torn,
And that their last retreat he found;
With Indignation rose in swarms,
With one consent all flew to Arms,

And all assail'd the Bear:
In numerous clusters round they hung;
Never was prowling Beast so stung,

As he was every where.
Vast Numbers gor'd his tender Snout,
Some his two shining Favourite Eyes:

He rages, storms, and cuffs about,
Both mad and blind to shun them trys:
Among the rest there's none attack'd him more
Than e'en those Drones who snack'd with him before.

In vain for Aid he roars and bawls.
In vain his kindred Cubs he calls;
The Floods and Woods that interpose,
Keep all things from him but his Foes.
Till torn, and bloody, thro the Bogs he flys,
And by those Insects he cou'd once despise,
Raving, and venom'd, for his Rapine dies.

Whoever D 'Alva like essays
To use oppressing Means and Ways
Will find the Consequence but bad;
Oppression all things overrules,
Not only raises swarms of Fools,
But makes a wise Man mad.

Fab. XXIII. The Devil and the Priest.

There was a Monarch, whose Imperial Sway
Nations far distant did as Slaves obey:
Kingdoms he govern'd, which he never saw,
And made 'em stoop to his extended Law.
Some Crowns by right of Birth he held, and some
Beneath his Sway by right of Conquest come:
So large his Awful Monarchy was grown,
His Slaves at all times did behold the Sun.

But Ah how weak is Pow'r and humane Sway!
When we Eternal Orders must obey?
That mighty King can ravish'd Kingdoms seize,
Becomes a Slave to Sickness and Disease,
And wasts in Bady, as his Crowns increase.

Just were the Gods this Monarch to oppress,
Who ruin'd Lands, and Nations did distress.
Millions of murder'd Ghosts surround his Throne,
Whose Lands by Blood he'ad vilely made his own:
Nature by day his drooping Soul afrights,
And murder'd Ghosts disturb his Peace anights.

Thus some vile Usurer of London Town,
Who has whole Familys and Tribes undone,
Widows and Orphans cramm'd into his Bags,
Expos'd to cold in tatter'd Clothes and Rags;
Whilst the vile Wretch Damnation worketh out,
Upon his Couch tormented with the Gout.

From Drugs this King could no assistance have,
Nature nor Art could not the Monarch save
From the cold Palace of a noisome Grave;
By Heaven accurst, no Issue left to reign,
He long had rul'd alas! but rul'd in vain:
His wealthy Kingdoms now disown'd by Fate,
Their Regal Line must meanly terminate:
Gasping they lie to every neighb'ring Power,
For every King is a Competitor;
Each claims his Right to the extinguish'd Throne,
Some would have part, but others all or none:
One claims by Marriage what by t'other's given,
But Father Pope claims by Decree of Heav'n.
Thus mighty Feuds thro the Horizon spread,
And promise Wars when the sick Monarch's dead.

What must be done in so deplor'd a case,
When Fate appears with such an angry face?
The Swords are whetting, and prepar'd's the Shield,
And bloody Troops are entering the Field;
When the whole World's just kindling in a Flame,
E'en in the Nick the Priest and Devil came;
Two great Composers of Intestine Jars,
Who fill both Hell and Mony-Chests by Wars;
Still leave the Slain confus'dly in the lurch,
Whilst Hell gets all the Vot'ries of the Church:

But such their fate, the Priesthood and Old Nick
Approach the Royal Mansions of the Sick.
They do not viler Words to Eve express,
The first Queen Regent of the Universe,
When their Advice she freely did embrace,
And by it damn'd her self and all her Race,
Than to the dying Monarch now they utter,
And in his Ears Infernal Accents mutter.

‘Sir, says the Priest, you're ready to bequeath
‘The Lamp of Life unto the puff of Death;
‘Your Kingdoms totter, as your Life declines,
‘You are the last of all the Regal Lines.
‘I am by Heaven, and by the Pope design'd
‘T'instruct with Rules of Faith your Royal Mind.
‘If you expect in t'other World some ease,
‘Pray leave your Kingdoms in a settled Peace:
‘Such vast Pretensions to your Thrones are made,
‘As will the Earth with grizly Wars invade.

Here did the dying King erect his head,
And faintly to his Confessor thus said:
‘Thou knowest my Kingdoms do belong to one,
‘Who hath by Birth a Title to my Throne;
‘Tho not descended from these Loins of mine,
‘His Title is as good, as much Divine.

‘Ah! says the Priest, that Title can't be good,
‘Which is supported by the loss of Blood:
‘That Prince can never his just Rights maintain,
‘He is too weak, too poor for such a Reign.
‘He who by Marriage does a Right pretend,
‘Was still your sure and ever-faithful Friend.
‘Tho he his Right renounc'd, I do declare
‘You may by Will appoint him lawful Heir.
And here the Devil whisp'ring in his Ear,

The Priest proceeds:
‘If you my sacred Counsels now shall shun,
‘I'll tell your Majesty you are undone:
‘Your Sins are many, and must be forgiven
‘Before you can approach the Throne of Heaven;

‘And if you do not my Advice pursue,
‘I'll pardon none, and Hell shall be your due;
‘No extreme Unction, no anointing Oil
‘To save your Skin where wretched Sinners broil
‘In the hot Confines of the Stygian Lake,
‘Because they Priestly Counsels did forsake!
‘Where in large Bowls is liquid Sulphur quaff'd
(At which damn'd Words the very Devil laugh'd.)
‘There you must lie tormented and forlorn,
‘No King in Tophet shall like you be torn:
‘I will more Torments on your Head denounce
‘Than you, when living, Scepters had and Crowns.

‘But if you will my Counsels now pursue,
‘No King in Heav'n shall be more blest than you,
‘With Treasures greater than those of Peru.
‘Nay when from earthly Body you are loose,
‘You shall not stop at the old half-way House,
‘Where Sinners take a Pot of Stygian Liquor
‘To make their sense of Torment far more quicker;
‘Where on hard Benches those dejected Elves
‘Do for vast Ages sit to louse themselves.
‘But you, when e'er your Majesty shall die,
‘Presto shall mount the Regions of the Sky,
‘And view your Kingdoms lessening as you fly.

He said. The Prince afrighted at his words,
To the vile Dictates of the Priest accords:
He makes his Will, and gives those Crowns away,
Which he, much envy'd, did so weakly sway,
Unto a Prince, who could no Title have,
But what Ambition and his Envy gave.

Thus Kings are bubbl'd, who on Priests rely,
They live in scandal, and unpitied die;
Condemn'd to Bondage and base Fame below,
And when they die, the Lord knows where they go.
For Heaven is kind, if e'er a Fool it saves,
Who trusts his Soul within the hands of Knaves.

Spain henceforth of the Priests may have a care,
And of their vile deluding Tricks beware.
If Heav'n be just, as sure in time it will,
Porto Carero shall his Crimes fulfil;
He who embroils the World with Scenes of Wars,
And Europe hurries in intestine Jars,
Shall by the hand of Fate a Victim fall,
And slip to Hell from off the Earthly Ball.

Let England, Holland, Germany alone,
See on the Wretch condign Justice done;
Mean while let France go on to play its pranks,
Whilst its vast River overflows its Banks.
Glutted with Empire may all Tyrants die,
And groveling in their Pride and Ruin lie:
She may in time her dear Ambition mourn;
Anjou, like Conti, may again return.
And may no King from henceforth e'er be blest,
Who trusts a Devil or a crafty Priest.

Fab. XXIV. The Courtier.

A milk-white Rogue Immortal and unhang'd,
By Fate and Parliaments severely bang'd,
Without a Saint, a Devil was within;
He sought all Dangers, for he knew all Sin;
Resolv'd for Grandure, and t'acquire Wealth,
Rob'd some by force, and others trick'd by stealth;
A wheedling, fawning, parsimonious Knave,
The Prince's Favour he resolv'd to have.
The only means by which he thought to rise,
He shuffl'd Cards, and slily cog'd his Dice;
A true State-Juggler, could make things appear
Such as would please his Prince's Eyes or Ear;
Produc'd false Lights his Monarch to mislead,
Which made him from his Paths of Int'rest tread.

He skreen'd all Villains from due course of Laws,
And from his Prince his truest Subjects draws;
Till angry Senates the vile Monster took,
And from the Root the upstart Cedar shook,
Squeez'd the curs'd Spunge had suck'd the Notion's Coin,
And made him cast up what he did purloin:
Then on a Gibbet did the Monster die,
A Just Example to Posterity.

Let Favorites beware how they abuse
Their Princes Goodness, or the Peoples Laws;
How they clandestine Methods ever use
To propagate a base unrighteous Cause.
The Prince's Favour, like a Horse untam'd,
Dos often break the giddy Rider's Neck:
On him who for Preferment's so much fam'd,
The People oft their bloody Vengeance wreak.
Let these beware how they mislead their Prince,
Or rob the Treasure of a potent Nation,
Or multiply enormous Crimes; for hence
Comes Hanging oft, or noble Decollation.

Fab. XXV. The Pilgrims.

Religion is a thing, if understood,
Would make men righteous and their Actions good
For Piety alone of all things can
Correct the Manners, and reform the Man:
But Ah! how much is the blest Name abus'd,
And by unhallow'd Lips profanely us'd!
But none so much their Lewdness evidence,
As those who to it make the most pretence.

A Brace of Pilgrims, of a Sect severe,
As e'er usurp'd a Place in Moses Chair,
Men skill'd and read in Moses sacred Laws,
Yet well instructed for an impious Cause.

They brought up Pilgrims in their pious Schools,
Where Men were hoodwink'd & transform'd to Fools.
They taught 'em Doctrines did e'en Sense deceive,
And made 'em many holy Cheats believe;
Passive Obedience taught in a free Nation,
More foolish far than Transubstantiation.
These pious Ramblers trudg'd from Post to Pillow,
Got sacred Oak and consecrated Willow,
Chips of our Saviour's Cross, which where they came
Still got 'em Mony, Provender and Fame;
Each holy Hocus Pocus had a trick
Would cheat the wisest Subject of Old Nick.
They wrought such Miracles in every Nation,
As did inhance their holy Reputation.
From Spain unto Aleppo they embark'd,
As Beasts in Noah's wooden House were ark'd;
From thence o'er sandy Desert they did travel,
Where Men by Winds are buried oft in Gravel,
Where Camels foundring in the sandy way,
Are mummied up for ever and for ay;
Where Men are thrust so far beneath the Ground,
They scarce will hear the final Trumpet sound;
Till thro the scorching Sand's impetuous Heat,
They got safe to Jerusalem's beauteous Gate;
Where when they came, just at the very entry,
They saw a Brother Pilgrim standing Sentry,
With meagre Looks, as if he'd been half roasted;
But yet in Pilgrim Cant he them accosted:
Says he, ‘You're welcome Brethren to this Place,
‘Of other Lands, and of our Church the Grace
‘Step you but in I'll show our Saviour's Tomb,
‘So much ador'd by all that hither come;
‘With all the holy Relicks of the Saints,
‘Which he who has not seen, true Fervour wants.
‘But e'er you enter, Brethren, I must tell ye,
‘We have got no Provision for the Belly.
At which one Pilgrim said, ‘We need not that,
‘We without Victuals can grow plump and fat.

Then putting Hand within his sacred Hood,
Pull'd out a Piece of most ill-favour'd Wood.
Said he, ‘Whoever bears this sacred Chip,
‘Needs not with Liquor ever wet his Lip,
‘Or cram his Guts as other Mortals do:
‘This is both Meat and Drink, and Clothing too.
‘We from Aleppo came, and all the way
‘Have neither eat nor drank by night or day,
‘Whilst others fainting, perish'd on the Road,
‘And Camels sunk beneath the Heat and Load.
‘Who e'er to Battel goes, that carries this,
‘Him shall the poyson'd Arrows ever miss:
‘He may in Tempests thro the largest Seas
‘Undrowned pass whenever he shall please.
‘This sacred Chip is of our Saviour's Cross,
‘Which who has got, can ne'er sustain a Loss.

A Pilgrim Merchant standing by, o'er-heard
What the Impostor said, and much afraid
To pass the Deserts, but with needful Prop
To keep his drooping Limbs and Spirits up;
Offers the Pilgrims Mony for the VVood,
VVho pond'ring seriously, a long time stood;
Then in the Offer they were very nice,
Not out of Zeal, but to inhance the Price:
At length, which being rais'd ('tis very odd)
They took the Mony, and they sold their God.
The Merchant thus equipp'd, away he ran,
He need not stay now for the Caravan;
But in the Deserts was the Sot mistaken,
Where he did broil and fry like any Bacon;
He would have given in this very matter
A Load of Timber for a draught of VVater:
There in the Sands did unassisted roast,
He curst the Pilgrims, and gave up the Ghost.

To English Jacobites, beware
How you this Merchant's paths do tread:

If you are caught in such a Snare,
And by Non-juring Priests misled,
You may like him be famish'd quite,
And die in Ditches like a Dog:
When you are poor, they'l say good night;
They get the Gold, and you the Log.
For if you run into Extremes,
And against Faith believe and hope,
You are bedevil'd by King James,
As he's bedevil'd by the Pope.
For take my word, and to it I'll be sworn,
Monmouth shall rise when James shall e'er return.

Fab. XXVI. The Confederacy.

1.

There was an Eagle built his Nest
Upon a lofty Oak,
Tho not above
Th'avenging Stroke
And Thunder of Almighty Jove;
Of Jove, who sometimes thinks it best,
For Reasons yet unknown,
To let the vilest Men alone,
To ravage all their Neighbours Lands,
And murder Innocents with bloody hands.
So he thought good
To let this mighty ravenous Tyrant of the Wood
Perch on his Boughs secure from Fate,
And all the little winged Mortals eat.

2.

Long there he liv'd, and every day descry'd
From his exalted Boughs,
All the low Underwood beside
Beneath his Shadow grows.
When e'er he saw the Flocks upon the wing,
Or heard in Bushes the plum'd Creatures sing,

His Eaglets he sent out
To seize the Prey,
Who fierce as Lightning flew about:
Swifter than they
No Arrow flies,
Or Star from Azure Skies;
No Tyger in the Forest tears
The trembling Hind with greater rage
To Pieces with his sharpen'd Paws,
Than these the harmless Birds engage,
And home return with bloody Beaks and Claws.

3.

In vain the Birds did build their Nest,
In vain did young ones breed,
When Old and Young were but a Prey at best
To this curs'd Eagle's Seed.
Hopeless of better fate
They pensive sate,
And did the dangers of their Tribes relate.
Till one much wiser than the rest,
To th'harmonious Croud in Notes himself exprest:
‘See, Brethren dear,
‘We who are born as free as Air,
‘Confin'd by nothing but the Sky
‘When we aloft do fly,
‘And when we downwards go
‘By nothing but the mighty Earth below.
‘But vain our Freedoms are,
‘Our native Birthright to the spacious Air,
‘If this Tyrannic Eagle be empower'd
‘By Fate to kill,
‘And make us Captives at his Will;
‘And we are born by him to be devour'd.
‘'Tis true (tho not to our disgrace)
‘We are the weakest of the feather'd Race:
‘The Gods have us no Talons giv'n,
‘Such the Decree of Heaven.
‘We can't contend with mighty Powers,
‘Our business is to sit in Bow'rs,

‘And in our natural Accents sing
‘The Glories of the Spring.
‘We are but Cantons of the Air,
‘Some mighty Emp'rors are;
‘If we with these are in Alliance join'd,
‘The Eagle soon will find
‘Himself o'ermatch'd,
‘And we shall have our Young in safety hatch'd.
‘Therefore let us persuade
‘These Potentates unto our Aid:
‘We'll get Provision from the Wood
‘Their Forces to maintain,
‘Whilst they upon the Plain
‘Do combat for the Common good.

4.

He said, and to his wise Intent
The feather'd Company
Did all agree;
They clapt their Wings, and chirping gave consent.
The Hawks of every kind
In the Alliance join'd,
The Ravens, Crows, and all the Breed
That do on slaughter'd Bodies feed;
Each one who did a Talon wear,
His sharpen'd Weapon did prepare,
He whet his Beak, and hasten'd to the War.
Which when the Eagle understood,
He armed all his Bands,
And to the Field commands
His vet'rane Troops long since inur'd to Blood.
Such Preparations ne'er were known,
Such mighty Actions ne'er were done
By the Inhabitants of the Air,
Or such a bloody War.

5.

For now the fatal Day is come,
Little inferiour to the Day of Doom,
Over a spacious Plain,
On which below
Small Furz and Fern did grow:

Now Death and vast Destruction reign:
Here in the Air
The Combatants begin the War;
Who as they in Battalia fly,
Put out the very Candle of the Sky:
Such sparring Blows they gave, the very Sound
Echo'd from hollow Caverns of the Ground;
At e'ery Stroke
Was some strong Talon broke,
Some Beak was spoil'd,
Or Hawk or Eagle kill'd:
The Feathers fell like Showers of Snow
Upon the Plain below,
The Battel was uncertain, still
They both did one another kill,
Until the Eagles Forces broke,
Retreated to the Fortress of their Oak.

6.

The Eagle thus distrest,
His Warriors spoil'd both in their Beak and Crest,
His Fortunes growing worse and worse,
To Policy he has recourse;
This firm Alliance he must break,
Or else his Oaken Throne must crack.
First from the common Cause
He the fierce Vultur draws,
Which was by Wedding done;
A Young Hen-Vultur of a comely Grace,
The only Princess of the Race,
To a Cock-Grandson-Eagle of his own.
Then with his other Foes he gets a Peace,
And thus all Feuds and Discord cease.
No sooner were his Pinions grown,
And Claws made sharp, but from his Throne
He War proclaims,
And all the little Flocks of Birds he damns,
And all Alliances he scorns,
And a true Tyrant Eagle turns.

100

If e'er Confederates agen
Shall the French Eagle overcome,
Ne'er let him rise to fight, but then
Give him his ne plus ultra Doom.
In him no Faith nor Honesty they'l find,
Whom neither Gods nor human Laws can bind.

Fab. XXVII. The Lions Treaty of Partition.

A mighty Lion heretofore,
Of monstrous Paws, and dreadful Roar,
Was bent upon a Chase:
Inviting Friends, and near Allies,
Frankly to share the Sport and Prize.
During the hunting Space,
The Lynx, and Royal Panther came,
The Boar and Wolf of Wolfingham,
The Articles were these:
Share and share like, whate'er they got,
The Dividend upon the spot,
And so depart in peace.
A Royal Hart, delicious Meat!
Destin'd by inauspicious Fate,
Was started for the Game;
The Hunters run him one and all,
The Chase was long, and at the fall
Each enter'd with his Claim.
One lov'd a Hanch, and one a Side,
This eat it powder'd, t'other dry'd,
Each for his share alone:
Old Grey-beard then began to roar,
His Whiskers twirl'd, bully'd and swore,
The Hart was all his own.
And thus I prove my Title good,
My Friend deceas'd sprung from our Blood,
Half's mine as we're ally'd:

101

My Valour claims the other part;
In short I love a hunted Hart,
And now who dares divide?
The bilk'd Confederates they stare,
And cry'd, Old Gentleman deal fair,
For once be Just and True.
Quoth he, and looking wondrous grum,
Behold my Paws, the word is Mum,
And so Messieurs adieu.

Tyrants can only be restrain'd by Might,
Power's their Conscience, and the Sword their Right:
Allies their Court to compass private ends,
But at the Dividend disclaim their Friends,
Yet boast not France of thy successful Fraud,
Maintain'd by Blood, a Torment whiist enjoy'd:
Imperial Cæsar drives the Storm along,
And Nassau's Arms avenge the publick Wrong.

Fab. XXVIII. The Blind Woman and her Doctors.

A wealthy Matron now grown old
Was weak in e'ery part;
Afflicted sore with Rhumes and Cold,
Yet pretty sound at Heart.
But most her Eyes began to fail,
Depriv'd of needful light:
Nor cou'd her Spectacles avail
To rectify their Sight.
Receipts she try'd, she Doctors fee'd,
And spar'd for no Advice
Of Men of Skill, or Quacks for need
That practise on sore Eyes.
Salves they dawb'd on, and Plaisters both,
And this, and that was done:

102

Then Flannels, and a Forehead-cloth,
To bind and keep them on.
Her House, tho small, was furnish'd neat,
And e'ery Room did shine
With Pictures, Tapestry, and Plate,
All Rich, and wondrous fine.
Whilst they kept blind the silly Soul,
Their hands found work enough,
They pilfer'd Plate, and Goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.
When they undamm'd their Patients Eyes,
And now pray how's your Sight?
Crys t'other, this was my advice,
I knew 'twou'd set you right.
Like a stuck Pig the Woman star'd,
And up and down she run:
With naked House, and Walls, quite scar'd,
She found her self undone.
Doctors, quoth she, your Cure's my pain,
For what are Eyes to me?
Bring Salves and Forehead-Cloths again,
I've nothing left to see.

See injur'd Britain thy unhappy Case,
Thou Patient with distemper'd Eyes:
State Quacks but nourish the Disease,
And thrive by Treacherous Advice.
If fond of the Expensive Pain,
When eighteen Millions run on Score:
Let them clap Mufflers on again,
And physick Thee of Eighteen more.

Fab. XXIX. The Satyrs Address.

Five Satyrs of the Woodland Sort,
Thought Politicians then:

103

Their Ears prick'd up, their Noses short,
And Brows adorn'd like Aldermen;
With Asses Hoofs, great gogle Eyes,
And ample Chins of Be---ms Size:
To Jove tript up with an Address,
In favour of the Plains:
That it wou'd please him to suppress
All Heats and Colds, his Winds and Rains;
The Sun that he'd extinguish too,
And in the Skies hang something new.
My wise reforming Friends, quoth Jove,
Our Elements are good!
We manage for the best above,
Tho not so rightly understood;
But since such profound Squires are sent,
We'l treat you like the Cream of Kent.
Then Jove brought out Æthereal Fire
In a gilt Chafindish:
The sparkling Flame they all admire,
'Twas fine, they vow'd, as Heart cou'd wish;
They gap'd, they grin'd, they jump'd about;
Jove give us that, the Sun put out!
The charming Flames they all embrace,
Which urg'd by Nature's Laws,
Their shaggy Hides set in a blaze,
And soundly sing'd their Paws;
In Corners then they sneak, with Terror dumb,
And o'er th'Immortal Pavements scud it home.

How senseless are our Modern Whiggish Tools,
Beneath the dignity of British Fools!
With Beef resolv'd, and fortify'd with Ale,
They censure Monarchs, and at Senates rail;
So eagerly to Publick Mischief run,
That they prevent the Hands which loo them on.
O true Machines; and Heads devoid of Brains!
Affront that Senate which your Rights maintains!

104

Thus Ideots sport with Power, and Flames embrace,
Till smarting Folly glares them in the Face.

Fab. XXX. The Farmer and his Dog.

There dwelt a Farmer in the West,
As we're in story told;
Whose Herds were large, and Flocks the best
That ever lin'd a Fold.
Arm'd with a Staff, his Russet Coat,
And Towser by his side;
Early and late he tun'd his Throat,
And every Wolf defi'd.
Lov'd Towser was his Heart's delight,
In Cringe and Fawning skill'd:
Entrusted with the Flocks by Night,
And Guardian of the Field.
Towser, quoth he, I'm for a Fair,
Be Regent in my Room:
Pray of my tender Flocks take care,
And keep all safe at home.
I know thee Watchful, Just, and Brave,
Right worthy such a place:
No wily Fox shall thee deceive,
Nor Wolf dare show his face.
But ne'er did Wolves a Fold infest,
At Regent Towser's rate:
He din'd and sup'd upon the best,
And frequent Breakfasts eat.
The Farmer oft receiv'd advice,
And laugh'd at the Report:
But coming on him by surprise,
Just found him at the sport.
Ungrateful Beast, quoth he, what means
That bloody Mouth and Paws?
I know the Base, the Treacherons Stains,
Thy breach of Trust and Laws.

105

The Fruits of my past Love I see,
Roger the Halter bring:
E'en truss him on that Pippin Tree,
And let Friend Towser swing.
I'll spare the famish'd Wolf and Fox,
That ne'er my Bounty knew:
But as the Guardian of my Flocks,
This Neckcloth is your due.

When Ministers their Prince abuse,
And on the Subjects prey:
With antient Monarchs 'twas in use,
To send them Towser's way.

A Copy of Verses written in the Year 1623.

relating to many things that would happen to the Government of England.

And since Men wandring in a Wood by Night,
When they shall through a Glade behold some Light,
Take thereby Courage to walk chearly on,
In hope their Fears and Toils are nearly gone;
I'll from a Cloud flash out a little Gleam
Of Lightning, and disclose a little Beam,
Whereby on you a Glimmering shall be cast
Of what you may attain to at the last.
For I will shew you by what Pedegree
That Government to you deriv'd shall be,
Which will at last the British Islands bless
With Inward Peace and Outward Happiness:
It was of late a brief Presage of his
Who oft hath Truth foretold, and it is this.

106

When here a Scot shall think his Throne to set
Above the Circle of a British King,
He shall a Dateless Parliament beget,
From whence a Dreadful Armed Brood shall spring.
This Offspring shall beget a wild Confusion;
Confusion shall an Anarchy beget,
That Anarchy shall bring forth in Conclusion
A Creature that you have no Name for yet.
This Creature shall conceive a sickly State,
Which will an Aristocracy produce:
The many-headed Beast, not liking that,
To raise Democracy shall rather choose.
And then Democracy's Production shall
A Moon-calf be, which some a Mole do call;
A false Conception of imperfect Nature,
And of a shapeless and a brutish Feature.
For these Descents shall live and reign together,
So acting for a while, that few should know
Which of them has the Sov'reignty, or whether
There be among them a Supreme or no.
When they with Jars and Janglings have defac'd
Your Triple Building, and themselves nigh worn
Into Contempt, they of one Cup shall tast,
And into their first Elements return.
Five of them shall subdue the other Five;
And then those Five shall, in a doubtful Strife,
Each others Death so happily contrive,
That they shall die to live a better Life;
And out of their Corruption rise there shall
A true Supreme, acknowledged by all:
In whom the Power of all the Five shall be,
With Unity, made visible in Three.

107

Prince, People, Parliament, with Priests and Peers,
Shall be a while your emulous Grandees,
Make a confused Pentarchy some Years,
And leave off their distinct Claims by degrees.
And then shall Righteousness ascend the Throne,
Then Truth and Love and Peace re-enter shall,
Then Faith and Reason shall agree in one,
And all the Virtues to their Council call.
And timely out of all these shall arise
That Kingdom and that happy Government,
Which is the Scope of all those Prophecies
That future Truths obscurely represent.
But how this done shall be, few Men shall see;
For wrought in Clouds and Darkness it will be:
And e'er it come to pass to publick View,
Most of these following Signs must first ensue.

A King shall willingly himself unking,
And thereby grow far greater than before,
The Priests their Priesthood to Contempt shall bring,
And Piety thereby shall thrive the more.
A Parliament it self shall overthrow,
And thereby shall a better Being gain.
The Peers, by setting of themselves below,
A more ennobling Honour shall obtain.
The People for a time shall be enslav'd;
But that shall make them for the future free,
By private Loss the Publick shall be sav'd.
An Army shall, by yielding, Victor be.
The Cities Wealth her Poverty shall cause.
The Laws Corruption shall reform the Laws.
And Bullocks of the largest Northern Breed
Shall fatted be where now scarce Sheep can feed.
You may perhaps deride what's here recited,
As heretofore you other Truths have slighted;
But some of my Presage you have beheld
Already in obscurity fulfill'd:
The rest shall in its time appointed come,
And sooner than will pleasing be to some.

108

The last nine Signs or Symptoms of the ten,
Which should precede them, shall appear to men
Of all Conditions; but our Author saith,
The first is but in Hope, not yet in Faith,
And may be, or not be; for so or so
That King shall have his Lot as he shall do.
If all his Sins he heartily repent,
God will remit e'en all his Punishment,
And him unto his Peoples Hearts restore,
With greater Honour than he had before.
If he remain impenitent like Saul,
God from the Throne shall cast both him and all
His whole Descent, and leave him not a Man
To fill it, though he had a Jonathan.
If Ahab-like his Mourning has respects
To temporary Losses or Effects,
Like Ahab then it therewithal shall carry
Some Benefit, which is but temporary.
A real Penitence, tho somewhat late,
The Rigor of his Doom may much abate,
By leaving him a part of what he had,
When he a Forfeiture of all hath made;
Or else by rooting out those who in Sin
With him have actually Partakers been;
And placing in their steads a Branch of his,
Whose Innocency no way question'd is.

K. Charles I.

The long Parliament.

The Army.

K. Charles's Death.

Ol. Cromwel L. Protector.

When Rich. Cromwel was deposed.

The Committee of Safety.

Government of King, Lords, and Commons.

K. Charles the Second.

Another Copy of Verses by the same Author, written in 1628.

God hath a Controversy with our Land,
And in an evil plight Affairs do stand:
And tho we always smart for doing ill,
Yet God's Almighty Hand afflicts us still;
And many see it not, for many be
So wilful that his Hand they will not see.

109

Some plainly view the same, but nothing care.
Some at the sight thereof amazed are,
Like Belteshazzar have a trembling Heart,
But will not from their Wickedness depart.
Some dream that all things do by Chance succeed,
And that I prate more of them than I need.
But Heaven and Earth to witness I invoke,
That nothing causelesly I here have spoke.

If this, O sickly Island! thou believe,
And for thy great Infirmities shalt grieve,
And knowing of thy Follies, make Confessions,
And then bewail thine infinite Transgressions,
And then amend those Errors; God shall then
Thy manifold Distempers cure again,
Make all thy Scarlet Sins as white as Snow,
And cast thy threatned Judgment on thy Foe.
But if thou, fondly thinking thou art well,
Shalt slight this Message which my Muse doth tell,
And scorn her Counsel; if thou shalt not rue
Thy former ways, but frowardly pursue
Thy wilful Course, then hark what I am bold
(In spite of all thy Madness) to unfold:
For I will tell thy Fortune, which when they
That are unborn shall read another day,
They shall believe God's Mercy did infuse
Thy Poet's Breast with a Prophetick Muse;
And know that he this Author did prefer,
To be, from him, this Isle's Remembrancer.
—This Land shall breed a nasty Generation,
Unworthy either of the Reputation
Or Name of Men; for they, as Lice, shall feed
E'en on the Body whence they did proceed.
There shall moreover Swarms of divers Flies
Engendred be in thy Prosperities,
To be a Plague, and still are humming so,
As if they meant some weighty Work to do;
Whereas upon the common Stock they spend,
And nought perform of what they do pretend.

110

Then shall a Darkness follow, far more black
Than when the Light Corporeal thou dost lack.
For grossest Ignorance, o'ershadowing all,
Shall in so thick a Darkness thee enthral,
That thou a blockish People shalt be made,
Still wandring on in a deceiving Shade;
Mistrusting those that safest Paths are shewing,
Most trusting them who counsel thy undoing;
And aye tormented be with Doubts and Fears,
As one who Outcries in dark places hears.

Nor shall the Hand of God from thee return,
Till he hath also smote thine Eldest Born;
That is, till he hath taken from thee quite
Ev'n that whereon thou sett'st thy whole delight;
And filled every House throughout the Nation,
With Deaths unlooked for, and Lamentation.

So great shall be thy Ruin and thy Shame,
That when thy Neighbouring Kingdoms hear the same,
Their Ears shall tingle; and when that Day comes,
In which thy Follies must receive their Dooms;
A day of Clouds, a day of Gloominess,
A day of black Despair and Heaviness
It will appear; and then thy Vanities,
Thy Gold and Silver, thy Confederacies,
And all those Reeds on which thou hast depended,
Will fail thy Trust, and leave thee unbefriended.

Thy King, thy Priests, and Prophets then shall mourn,
And peradventure feignedly return,
To beg of God to succour them; but they
Who will not hearken to his Voice to day,
Shall cry unheeded, and he will despise
Their Vows, their Prayers, and their Sacrifice.

A Sea of Troubles all thy Hopes shall swallow;
As Wave on Wave, so Plague on Plague shall follow
And every thing that was a Blessing to thee,
Shall turn to be a Curse to help undo thee.

111

And when thy Sin is fully ripe in thee,
Thy Prince and People then alike shall be;
Thou shalt have Babes to be thy Kings, or worse,
Those Tyrants who by Cruelty and Force
Shall take away the antient Charters quite
From all their Subjects, yea, themselves delight
In their Vexation; and all those that are
Made Slaves thereby shall murmur, yet not dare
To stir against them. By degrees they shall
Deprive thee of thy Patrimonials all;
Compel thee, as in other Lands this day,
For thine own Meat and thine own Drink to pay;
And at the last begin to exercise
Upon thy Sons all Heathenish Tyrannies,
As just Prerogatives: To these Intents
Thy Nobles shall become their Instruments.
For they who had their Births from noble Races,
Shall some and some be brought into Disgraces;
From Offices they shall excluded stand,
And all their virtuous Offspring from the Land
Shall quite be worn: Instead of whom shall rise
A Brood advanced by Impieties,
That seek how they more great and strong may grow,
By compassing the Publick Overthrow.
These shall abuse thy Kings with Tales and Lies,
With seeming Love and servile Flatteries;
They shall persuade them, they have Power to make
Their Wills their Law, and as they please to take
Their Peoples Goods, their Children and their Lives,
Ev'n by their just and due Prerogatives.
When thus much they have made them to believe,
Then they shall teach them Practices to grieve
Their Subjects by, and Instruments become
To help the screwing up by some and some
Of Monarchies to Tyrannies: They shall
Abuse Religion, Honesty and all;
To compass their Designs they shall devise
Strange Projects, and with Impudence and Lies

112

Proceed in setling them; they shall forget
Those reverend Usages which do befit
The Majesty of State, and rail and storm,
When they pretend Disorders to reform
In their High Councils; and where Men should have
Kind Admonitions, and Reprovings grave;
When they offend they shall be threatned there,
And scoft and taunted, tho no Cause appear.

Whatever from thy People they can tear,
Or borrow, they shall keep, as if it were
A Prize which had been taken from the Foe,
And they shall make no Conscience what they do
To prejudice Posterity; for they,
To gain their Lusts but for the present day,
Shall with such Love unto themselves endeavour,
That tho they know it will undo for ever
Their own Posterity, it shall not make
These Monsters any better Course to take.
Nay God shall give them up, for their Offences,
To such uncomely reprobated Senses,
And blind them so, that when the Ax they see
E'en hewing at the Root of their own Tree,
By their own handy Strokes, they shall not grieve
For their approaching Fall; no, nor believe
Their Fall approacheth, nor assume that heed
Which might prevent it, till they fall indeed.

Mark well, O Britain! what I now shall say,
And do not slightly pass these Words away;
But be assured, that when God begins
To bring this Vengeance on thee for thy Sins,
Which hazard will thy total Overthrow,
Thy Prophets and thy Priests shall slily sow
The Seeds of that Dissension and Sedition,
Which Time will ripen for thy sad Perdition;
But not unless the Priests thereto consent:
For in those days shall few Men innocent
Be griev'd through any Quarter of the Land,
In which thy Clergy shall not have some hand.

113

Thy Cities and thy Palaces, wherein
Most Neatness and Magnificence hath been,
Shall heaps of Rubbish be.—
Instead of Lions Tyrants thou shalt breed,
Who nor of Law nor Conscience shall take heed;
But on the weak Man's Portion lay their Paw,
And make their Pleasures to become their Law.
Thy Judges wilfully shall wrest the Laws,
And, to the Ruin of the common Cause,
Shall misinterpret them, in hope of Grace
From those who might despoil them of their Place.
Yea, that whereto they are obliged both
By Conscience, by their Calling, and their Oath,
To put in Execution they shall fear,
And leave them helpless who oppressed are.

Popery.

A Panegyrick upon Oates.

Of all the Grain our Nation yields
In Orchards, Gardens, or in Fields,
There is a Grain, which, tho 'tis common,
Its Worth till now was known to no man.
Not Ceres Sickle e'er did crop
A Grain with Ears of greater hope:
And yet this Grain (as all must own)
To Grooms, and Hostlers well is known;
And often has without disdain
In musty Barn and Manger lain:
As if it had been only good
To be for Birds, and Beasts the Food.
But now by new inspired Force
It keeps alive both Man, and Horse.

Then speak my Muse, for now I guess
E'en what it is thou wouldst express:
It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat,
That can pretend to do the Feat:

114

Tis Oates, bare Oates, that is become
The Health of England, Bane of Rome,
And Wonder of all Christendom.
And therefore Oates has well deserv'd
To be from musty Barn prefer'd,
And now in Royal Court preserv'd.
That like Hesperian Fruit Oates may
Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day,
Which is but just retaliation
For having guarded a whole Nation.
Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands
'Twixt Berwick Walls, and Dover Sands,
The Oak it self (which well we stile
The Pride, and Glory of our Isle)
Must strike and wave its lofty Head,
And now salute an Oaten Reed.
For surely Oates deserves to be,
Exalted far 'bove any Tree.
Th'Ægyptians once (tho it seems odd)
Did worship Onions for their God:
And poor Peelgarlic was with them
Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem.
What would they then have done, think ye,
Had they but had such Oates as we,
Oates of such known Divinity?
Since then such good by Oates we find,
Let Oates at least be now enshrin'd;
Or in some Sacred Press inclos'd,
Be only kept to be expos'd;
And all fond Relicks else shall be
Deem'd Objects of Idolatry.
Popelings may tell us how they saw
Their Garnet pictur'd on a Straw.
'Twas a great Miracle we know,
To see him drawn in little so:
But on an Oaten Stalk there is,
A greater Miracle than this;

115

A Visage which, with comly Grace,
Did twenty Garnets now outface:
Nay, to the Wonder to add more,
Declares unheard-of things before;
And thousand Myst'ries does unfold,
As plain as Oracles of old:
By which we steer Affairs of State,
And stave off Britain's sullen Fate.
Let's then in Honour of the Name
Of OATES, enact some Solemn Game,
Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire
Beyond the Charms of Orpheus Lyre.
Stones, Stocks, and e'ery senseless thing
To Oates shall dance, to Oates shall sing,
Whilst Woods amaz'd to th'Ecchoes ring.
And that this Hero's Name may not,
When they are rotten, be forgot,
W'll hang Atchievements o'er their Dust,
A Debt we owe to Merits just.
So if Deserts of Oates we prize,
Let Oates still hang before our eyes,
Thereby to raise our Contemplation;
Oates being to this happy Nation
A Mystick Emblem of Salvation.

[In Parem imperium habet Par]

Roundhead,

1

In Parem imperium habet Par,
Vi & armis we will bring Peers to the Bar,
For 500 absolute Kings we are.

2

The Speaker Pope-like is servus servorum,
Both make their Electors fall down before 'um,
And pay excessive Fees when they adore 'um,

3

For Papal Power we care not a Louse,
We are the sole infallible House,
Whom God made a Man, we can soon make a Mouse.

116

4

If a Cavalier strikes Jack-Presbyter's Cur
For biting his Heels, we'l hector you Sir;
Seize him Serjeant at Arms. He dares not stir.

5

Know Phillips and Stavell, late Heads of a Jury,
The Commons assembled cannot endure ye
For putting the House in a very great Fury:

6

We've voted you both the Sons of Perdition,
For abhorring the Subjects Right to Petition,
And make you pray and pay for Remission.

Cavalier.

7

I will be loyal to good Charles the Second;
If this amongst my Errors be reckon'd,
Be it known to the House I'll venture my Neck on't.

8

I highly prize the Petition of Right,
And for Magna Charta to Death I will fight,
But not against the King by this Light.

9

A Petition offer'd doth honour the King,
Under God it speaks him the Sovereign Spring;
'Tis the Manner I blame distinct from the Thing.

10

Infallibility, I do declare,
I cannot subscribe to; Wi. William's Chair,
As I will not be rude to't, I'll not worship there.

11

I value Cæsar's Smile and his Nod;
And if he whip me, I'll kiss the Rod,
For Heaven's Vicegerent is an Earthly God.

12

The Commons I grant have a very great Charter,
But not the power to Hang, Draw, and Quarter,
To prevent which St. Charles dy'd a Martyr.

117

13

I confess I never knew till this Hour;
That the Commons had a Satanical Power;
For the Serjeant walks seeking whom to devour.

14

I own the House an Assembly most awful,
But should they vote Alewives to fill Pots but half-full,
Will it presently follow that Cheating is Lawful?

15

Or if they vote a Buzzard no Bird,
Or that a Sirreverence is not a Turd;
I'll acquiesce if it stinks not when stir'd.

16

The King I resolve to venture my Life for,
Against such as seek to make him a Cypher,
And by his leave, my Lawful Right strive for.

17

The Rump-Saints lull us asleep with their Charms,
And make us new Prisons to keep us from harms,
Where Topham's both Jaylor and Serjeant at Arms.

18

If this be the present Commons Intention,
They need not so far to strain their Invention;
All's done by a Bill of Comprehension.

19

When for no crime I great Fees disburse
To the Serjeant at Arms, 'tis no better nor worse
Than the Highway Law, Deliver your Purse.

20

At this rate standing up for Freedom,
The King's Subjects neither value nor need 'um;
'Twere well if they sent a Surgeon to bleed 'um.

21

When Charles commended the state of Tangier,
The House like deaf Adders stopped their Ear;
Because the King mov'd it, they resolv'd not to hear.

118

22

But when a 2d or 3d Message was sent,
They remonstrance at large how things at home went;
And mov'd for a Fast. God grant they repent.

Song.

[What the Priests Gospel call]

1

What the Priests Gospel call
Doth not move us at all,
We Commons will have the Dominion;
Whatsoe'er St. Paul taught
Of Subjection, we vote,
Is but one Doctor's Opinion.

2

Since James does not merit
After Charles to inherit,
And hates the Saints new Reformation;
We'll be rul'd by the Devil,
And do what is Evil,
That Good may thence come to the Nation.

3

We are taught by St. Peter,
To submit; but 'tis sweeter,
To rule as his Successors tell us:
Let the Church and State groan,
We'll give Laws to the Throne,
At least be his Majesty's Fellows.

4

What's Great Charles unto us?
If he lets James undo us,
We owe him no longer Subjection.
Then Hugh doth afford
Us the use of the Word,
And appears for our Protection.

119

5

Let him lay York aside,
Let Jack Presbyter ride,
There's no other way to please us;
Then to Charles we'll be true,
As the Treacherous Jew
To the innocent crucify'd Jesus.

6

Then 'twill quickly appear,
That we value Tangier:
And he need not make any Motion
For Money or Men
On that Score agen,
All we have is at his devotion.

The last Will and Testament of Anthony K. of Poland.

My Tap is run; then Baxter, tell me why
Shou'd not the good, the great Potapsky die?
Grim Death, who lays us all upon our Backs,
Instead of Scythe doth now advance his Ax;
And I who all my Life in Broils hath spent,
Intend at last to make a Settlement.

Imprimis for my Soul (tho I had thought,
To 've left that thing I never minded out)
Some do advise for fear of doing wrong,
To give it him to whom it doth belong.
But I, who all Mankind have cheated, now
Intend likewise to cheat the Devil too:
Therefore I leave my Soul unto my Son,
For he, as wise Men think, as yet has none.

Then for my Polish Crown, that pretty thing,
Let M---mouth take't, who longs to be a King;
His empty Head soft Nature did design
For such a Light and Airy Crown as mine.

120

With my Estate I'll tell you how it stands,
Jack Ketch must have my Clothes, the King my Lands.

Item, I leave the damn'd Association
To all the wise disturbers of the Nation;
Not that I think they'l gain their ends thereby,
But that they may be hang'd as well as I.

A---ng, in Murders, and in Whorings skill'd,
Who twenty Bastards gets for one Man kill'd,
To thee I do bequeath my Brace of Whores,
Long kept to draw the Humours from my Sores;
For you they'l serve as well as Silver Tap,
For Women give and sometimes cure a Clap.

H---rd, my Partner in Captivity,
False to thy God and King, but true to me;
To thee some heinous Legacy I'd give,
But that I think thou hast not long to live:
Besides, thou'st wickedness enough in store
To serve thy self, and twenty Thousand more.

To thee, young G---y, I'll some small Toy present,
For you with any thing can be content;
Then take the Knife with which I cut my Corns,
'Twill serve to pare, and sharp your Lordship's Horns,
That you may rampant M---mouth push, and gore,
'Till he shall leave your House, and change his Whore.

On top of Monument let my Head stand
It self a Monument, where first began
The Flame that has endanger'd all the Land.

But first to Titus let my Ears be thrown,
For he 'tis thought will shortly lose his own.

I leave old Baxter my invenom'd Teeth,
To bite and poyson all the Bishops with.

Item. I leave my Tongue to wise Lord N---th,
To help him bring his what-de-call-ums forth;
'Twill make his Lordship utter Treason clear,
And he in time may speak like Noble Peer.

My squinting Eyes let Ignoramus wear,
That they may this way look, and that way swear.

121

Let the Cits take my Nose, because 'tis said,
That by the Nose I them have always led;
But for their Wives I nothing now can spare,
For all my Life time they have had their share.

Let not my Quarters stand on City Gate,
Lest they new Sects and Factions do create;
For certainly the Presbyterian Wenches,
In Dirt will fall to idolize my Haunches:
But that I may to my old Friend be Civil,
Let some Witch make them Mummy for the Devil.

To good K. Charles I leave (tho faith 'tis pity)
A poison'd Nation, and deluded City;
Seditions, Clamours, Murmurs, Jealousies,
False Oaths, sham Stories, and religious Lies.
There's one thing still which I had quite forgot,
To him I leave the Carcase of my Plot;
In a Consumption the poor thing doth lie,
And when I'm gone 'twill pine away, and die.

Let Jenkins in a Tub my Worth declare,
And let my Life be writ by Harry Care.

And if my Bowels in the Earth find room,
Then let these Lines be writ upon their Tomb.

Epitaph upon his Bowels.

Ye Mortal Whigs, for Death prepare,
For mighty Tapskies Guts lie here.
Will his great Name keep sweet d'ye think?
For certainly his Entrails stink.
Alas! 'tis but a foolish Pride
To outsin all Mankind beside,
When such Illustrious Garbage must
Be mingled with the common Dust.
False Nature! that could thus delude
The Cheater of the Multitude,
That put his Thoughts upon the wing,
And egg'd him on to be a King;

122

See now to what an use she puts
His Noble great and little Guts.
Tapskie, who was a Man of Wit,
Had Guts for other uses fit;
Tho Fiddle-strings they might not be.
(Because he hated Harmony)
Yee for black Puddings they were good,
Their Master did delight in Blood;
Of this they should have drank their fill,
(King Cyrus did not fare so ill)
Poor Guts, could this have been your hap,
Sh. Bethel might have got a Snap:
But now at York his Guts must rumble,
Since you into a hole did tumble.

The Combat.

The Argument.

Nan and Frank, two quondam Friends,
In which they'd both their private ends;
Fell from Love to sudden Wrath,
Much ado is 'twixt 'em both:
Many a Rogue and Whore is call'd;
But O brave Frank! the Whore is maul'd.

Canto.

Of Civil Dudgeon many a Bard
Has sung, and Tales have oft been heard,
Much in Verse and much in Prose,
Of antient Friends grown arrant Foes.
From this Occasion I'm about
To tell you how two Friends fell out,
The dearest Two, the kindest Pair,
That e'er each others Heart did share,
Damsel and Hero fat and fair.

123

The Noble Hero, who not knows,
Order attends where'er he goes;
And in his even-dealing Hand,
He always bears a pow'rful Wand,
The Badg of Office and Command.
Frequent at Lady W---s Door,
'Thas stood upon a well-known Score;
Which the poor Jew Sir John has seen
Full oft, and curs'd the Turk within.
Who not admires the Damsel bright,
That ever traps'd the Mall by Night;
Who that ever had occasion
For any Filthiness in Fashion,
Many a Bed, and Basket full
Has she put off of Trash and Trull.
In short, their Virtues are well known,
Where e'er her Trumpet Fame has blown;
For long has mighty Clamour ran,
Of honest Frank, and modest Nan.
But how these two from harmless Prattle
Came at last to direful Battel:
Butler, couldst thou live agen,
With thy inimitable Pen,
'Twould puzzle e'en thy mighty Verse
The wondrous Actions to rehearse
Of Knight and Damsel, that surpass
Thy Trulla, and thy Hudibrass.

There is a Time (as th'Author has it
That writes the Treatise call'd the Gazette,
In many things by him related)
When Whitehall is evacuated:
That is, when the Court and Prince are
Catching Agues all at Windsor.
For in Greenland, as they do write,
The whole Year's but one Day and Night;
So of late it has been here,
Only Sunshine half the Year.

124

And as evil Spirits venture,
Often in the dark to enter
Hallow'd Roofs, when those that keep
The Place, are absent or asleep:
So factious Vermin, that are driven
From Court for Faults too oft forgiven;
When they have watch'd the King from's House,
Come there to keep their Rendevouz,
Then Crofts and Sun---land Cabal,
Then Ce**l lords it in the Mall,
With all his train of unfledg'd Fools,
Callow as they came from Schools;
G---y, Mord---, Bran---, K---t, and Th---,
Still at worst Follies deepest in.
And Hunting—with his long Tool,
Not as his mark of Man, but Fool:
Whose Tail and Follies make his Life
Useful only to his Wife.
All these with foul Infection tainted,
Long ago had been transplanted
Far from the Court, that so the rest
That yet were sound, might scape the Test.
But as that vile Disease, the Itch,
Does some lewd Natures so bewitch,
That it they'l always choose to catch,
For the meer Lechery to scratch;
So Faction does with some prevail,
For a bare Colour but to rail.
Honest Frank was one of these,
In's heart lov'd them, and their Disease:
Honest Frank, who's but a Noddy,
Yet rails as well as any Body,
And as sacred Libels shew,
Publish'd not many days ago,
A certain Lord was but a Cur,
To which Opinion few demur;
So honest Frank, shou'd I speak mine,
Is something nat'rally canine;

125

For as some Cur his Master owns,
To love, and give him Crusts and Bones,
Tho kindly fed, will yet be running
Abroad, where Carrion lies a sunning:
So Frank, tho he no feeding need,
On rotten Faction loves to feed;
With which when he does back resort,
He stinks intolerably at Court:
And for Occasions of this nature,
Has been of late no lazy Creature.
Tho better, had he minded Duty,
And so escap'd this War with Beauty;
Beauty which shines in Nancies Face,
As much as he does in his place.
Majestick Wrinkles deck her Brow,
And goodly glaring Eyes below,
That still with Maudlin Kindness shine,
The soft effects of Brandy Wine.
Rich Carbuncles adorn her Nose,
The envy of her sober Toes:
And from her Lips Discourses fall,
That make her welcome to Whitehall.
Where one day she enter'd shining,
Just as Frank was come from dining;
But who the Devil could have guest,
To see how they at first caress'd,
How cheek by jowl they kindly walk'd,
And with what tenderness they talk'd?

My dearest Nan, said he, what Whores
Are freshest now? Quoth Nan, my Doors
Heav'n knows ne'er open'd to receive
A Lover since you last took leave;
Whom still to serve, my Love remains,
Tho you ne'er pay me for my pains.
Pay thee, quoth he! Nan pay for wenching!
When e'en our Tables are retrenching.
Says Nancy, O thou falsely fairest!
'Tis Love I want, not Coin, my dearest.

126

'Tis thee I love, 'tis thee I dote on,
More than a Child that puts new Coat on;
To see thee walk, I love thy Trip,
I love the Drops upon thy Lip.
Thy just Crevat, thy regular Wig,
My little Pug, my little Pig.
When with desire of thee I stretch,
I've no Sciatica nor Stitch.
Quoth Frank in rage, Avaunt you Bitch;
Have I for this, through all my Life,
Kept civil distance with my Wife;
Studied new Speeches from Romances,
And in my Age led Country-dances?
Do I for this e'en at this Hour,
Cheat e'ery Creature in my pow'r;
Gripe from the Poor the utmost Farthing
To keep my credit up at Carding?
Do I for this affect a Grace,
And paint my old John-Apple Face,
Only to have a Bawd adore me?
No, I'll have Virgins fall before me.
Virgins! quoth Nan; and then she hung
A Tongue out full two handfuls long,
And with desire of Malice stung,
Lick'd o'er the thickest painted place,
And spoil'd intirely that days Face.
But who can speak the Noise and Din,
The Fury that did then begin;
The Oaths, the Outcries, and the Blows,
When Francis catching Nancy's Nose,
With furious gripe expressing hate,
Squeez'd nine large Insects off of that?
Then with a shock upon her Chest,
So stir'd the Brandy in her Breast,
That an eructive Sigh she sent,
Which as it through the Region went,
Such wondrous Influence did bear,
A soaring Owl dropt headlong there,
Drunk with sophisticated Air.

127

Which Omen much ill luck bespoke,
For the next Tilt the Hero broke:
The famous Wand describ'd above
The Ensign of his Pow'r, and Love,
But at the same time Conquest got,
And doom'd the vanquish'd Bawd to Pot;
To Porters Lodg he sent her jogging,
To purchase Liberty by Flogging.

Thus ended was the Fray that lately rose
Betwixt the Whitestaff Knight and Lady o'th red Nose.

Letter.

Worthy Sir,

Tho wean'd from all those scandalous Delights,
In which I gladly once mispent my Nights,
And lewdly fool'd away my Youthful Days,
When Regent Punk allow'd the use of Plays;
Weak Nature still prevails, and fain I'd hear
What upstart Fops in Julian's Volumes are;
Whether the lisping Lord, who lately writ
With Words so many, and so little Wit,
Has found more work for his correcting Friend,
Who slily laughs at what he seems to mend.
Fain would I know who limes the nauseous Bitch,
Whose filthier Mouth officiates for her Breech;
Whether the Booby, Whelp of Kingly Race,
Or the soft Earl contented with disgrace.
And yet methinks, 'tis strange that any Son
Shou'd rival Rowley there, besides his own.

I'd hear whether the Wight with Antick pace,
Embroider'd Coat, and antiquated Face,
Changing his Hebrew for a Warlike Cant,
Still meets the Queenstreet lewd Inhabitant.

128

But above all I gladly wou'd here tell
Some Passages of that most decent Ball;
Where Irish Squire so cunningly contriv'd,
At his own charge to have his Lady Sw***.

We're told how Virgins bright, and Gallants brave.
Marshal'd by Bawds most infamously grave;
But we don't hear of whose Commodity
The lustful buggering Jew thought fit to buy
Who ogled who, or how the prudent Maid
Cou'd brook the Man her Sister so betray'd.

Rochester's Ghost addressing it self to the Secretary of the Muses.

From the deep-vaulted Den of endless Night,
I've through the Center forc'd my way to Light,
To sing my old Associates vain Designs,
And scourge 'em into Knowledg of their Crimes;
Which I my self by fatal proof may tell,
If justly scan'd, as justly merit Hell.

Thou Julian, who through all thy Life has shown
A love to Scandal equal to my own,
That mutual Friendship to thy mind recal,
And what I tell thee tell again to all.
A Peer shall grace the Van, and so 'tis fit,
The first in Lewdness tho not first in Wit;
Through all the Ills that wait on Man he'as run,
As if like me he long'd to be undone.
There's not a day but like some snarling Antick,
It proves him either peevish, dull or frantick.
Then vainly for to boast of Conquest won,
What Mothers he'as betray'd, what Maids undone,
Is but a snare that draws more mischief on,
'Tis strange that he who has been us'd so ill,
Shou'd spite of Claps continue Cully still,

129

Or fondly with ill Women keep a pother,
First marrying one, now jilted by another.

Nor shall his Buffoon Followers scape my Rage,
Those fam'd Supporters of a Vicious Age,
Lewd in their Lives, unlimited in Nonsense,
Two Beasts that never make an use of Conscience.
Pimping and Scandal are their chief delight,
And yet they never get a Farthing by't.
How often have I laugh'd to hear the Brutes,
Engag'd in hot fantastical disputes;
While all that cou'd be learn'd from the Contest,
When e'er they came to earnest 'twas a jest?
If they have Wit, 'tis neither more nor less
Than Merry Andrew does in Fairs express,
As being cloth'd in the same Clownish dress.

But now 'tis time I shou'd a fourth display,
Much such another Animal as they;
Vain in his Garb, and vicious in his Nature,
All his whole Life's but one continued Satyr
Upon himself: then for his Wit, 'tis such,
He thinks too little, and he prates too much;
Never was such a Flux of words pour'd forth,
Mixt with so little Profit, Grace or Worth.
But as an Apple, tho 'twas sound before,
When once a Maggot seizes on the Core,
Strait the whole Mass insensibly decays,
Just like our Author since he writ his Plays:
Who by the rage of Pox, and Impotence,
Is crampt both in his Judgment, and his Sense;
And forc'd for refuge to a pitch so common,
Of making Songs to please the Fools and Women.

Another wou'd with these in all things sute,
Only in all things he's of less repute;
Baser of Soul than Form, and yet Dame Nature
Ne'er before him made such an aukward Creature.
True, he has Sense they say; but credit me,
True Sense does not consist in Blasphemy:

130

For 'tis the Prophets unsuspected Rule,
That he that owns no God must be a Fool.
Yet were this not of force to make him so,
There's one undoubted proof that needs must do,
And that's the Matrimonial Badg he wears;
For what but such would e'er embrace the Cares
Of wilful Bondage in his waining Years?
Some say the Nuptial Knor was ty'd, t'unty
The Mortgages which on his Land did lie;
But my opinion is, they're in the wrong,
He can't be just wh'as been a Knave so long:
'Tis like expecting Fish to live in Air,
Or thee to leave the Juice of Grapes for Beer.
O Marquis, why didst match thy Blood so ill?
Hadst thou in all things shew'd such want of Skill,
Thou mightest e'en have stuck at Savil still.

A Sixth there is, in all that's ill so nice,
He ever strove t'improve himself in Vice;
It has been long his chief Delight and Care
First to get Bastards, and then make them Heirs,
The only Fruit which her rank Soil will bear,
Or such a Fire deserve; I need not tell,
She's nauseous to the Sight as to the Smell;
I mean to ev'ry Smell but to his own,
For he (happy in nothing else) has none.
E'en Cox's Cully is before him priz'd,
And where's the Man that can be more despis'd?
If these are Wits, or e'er deserv'd that Name,
Let me unpitied go from whence I came,
Plung'd to the bottom of the rolling Flame.

'Tis true, your Laureat well deserves the Bays,
Witness the Genius that adorns his Plays;
But chiefly those he writ in former Days.
Yet if in Death I may at least be free,
As in my Lifetime he has been to me;
To lay the Slave down flat upon his Face,
I use his words, because the Subject's base.

131

So that the Monarch may in Pomp appear;
If not an Ass, you'l read a Villain there;
For 'tis the gen'ral Vote from King to Slave,
Altho the Poet's good, the Man's a Knave.

But let him pass, for here comes stalking on
The awful Majesty of stiff King John;
With Nose cock't up, and Visage like a Fury,
Or Foreman of an Ignoramus Jury.
I'll speak not of his slouching Looby Mien,
Altho it is the worst that e'er was seen,
Because of late his whole Design and Trade is
With those Accomplishments to gain the Ladies;
To whom his Laurel'd Wit has op'd the way,
Witness the late unparallel'd Essay,
A Work which all admire, and well they may.
For what insipid Sot can e'er write ill,
When Waller, Lee, and Dryden guide the Quill?
Faulk---d, and Ell---d, Henningh--- and Wharton,
M---ant, and H---w, all dull as Scotch Dunbarton,
Are such a Medley of conceited Chits,
I wonder who the Devil dub'd 'em Wits;
Their Skill in Poetry we may best discover,
Where their fowl Quills threw dirt at one another.
And here would time permit me, I could tell,
Of Cleveland, Portsmouth, Crofts, and Arundel,
Mol. Howard, Su---x, Lady Grey, and Nell,
Strangers to Good, but bosom Friends to Ill,
As boundless in their Lusts as in their Will.

But see! the Morning breaks, I must away;
Souls damn'd to Night must never see the Day.

132

A Consolatory Epistle to Julian in his Confinement.

Dear Friend,

When those we love are in distress,
Kind Verse may comfort tho it can't redress;
Nor can I think such Zeal you'l discommend,
Since Poetry has been so much thy Friend.
On that thou'st liv'd and flourish'd all thy time,
Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhyme;
And that's a mark which Dryden ne'er cou'd hit,
He lives upon his Pension not his Wit.
E'en gentle George (with Flux in Tongue and Purse)
In shunning one snare runs into a worse.
Want once may be reliev'd in a Man's Life,
But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife?
Otway can hardly Guts from Goal preserve,
For tho he's very fat he's like to starve.
And Sing-Song Durfey (plac'd beneath Abuses)
Lives by his Impudence not by the Muses.
Poor Crown too has his third Days mixt with Gall,
He lives so ill, he hardly lives at all.
Shadwel, and Settle, who pretend to Reason,
Tho paid so well for scribling Doggrel Treason,
Must now expect a very barren Season.
But chiefly he that writ his Recantation,
For Villain thrives best in his own Vocation.
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better days,
Than when applauded for his Bombast Plays.
He knows no Care, he feels sharp Want no more,
And that is what he ne'er cou'd say before.
Thus while our Bards e'en famish by their Wit,
Thou who hadst none at all, didst thrive by it.
Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a penny,
Poets would then grow rich as well as any;

133

For 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate
(The blind effects of Fortune and of Fate)
For oft we see a Coxcomb, dull and vain,
Brim full of Cash, and empty in his Brain.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize
His daggled Gown, but Knavery in disguise,
To pluck down honest Men that he may rise.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman great,
'Tis the Compendious Art to lie, and cheat.
The base-born Strumpet too may roar and rail,
But 'tis not Wit she lives by, 'tis her Tail.
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on
To waste the sweets of Life so quickly gon
In toiling for Estates; then like a Sot
Die, and leave Fools to spend what he has got.
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scrible Satyrs,
No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors;
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging,
That goes no farther than an harmless banging.
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,
That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve?
And what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought
By him that han't the least pretence to Thought;
And he that had no meaning to do wrong,
Can't suffer sure for their no-meaning Song.
And that's the Consolation that I bring,
Thou art too dull to think a treacherous thing;
And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his King.

A Riddle.

No longer blame those on the Banks of Nile,
If they ador'd the rav'nous Crocodile;
Nor think the Indians mad who worship Apes,
Serpents and Idols in such monstrous Shapes;

134

Since all Mankind to me does Homage pay,
More rav'nous, fatal, and deform'd than they:
To me their purest Blood they sacrifice,
Yet all they do ne'er can my Rage suffice.
Infants each day within my Vaults expire,
And Men oft perish by my Altars Fire.
All rough I am, and hideous to the sight,
Yet Man in me has plac'd his chief Delight;
Enough of me he thinks he ne'er can seize,
And yet the less I am the more I please.
Calling my self deform'd, sure I mistake,
Since I the chiefest part of Beauty make.
But I compos'd of Contradictions am,
Th'Original of Impudence and Shame,
'Tis I that kindle and then quench the Flame.
I feel the greatest Pleasure, greatest Pain,
When closest cover'd most expos'd to Rain;
Of the most noble Plant the only Field,
But bear the less the oftner I am till'd.
The last of Nature's numerous Works I am,
Yet first in Power, and wonderful in Frame.
For tho I seem so gentle, weak, and small,
The strongest yield, stoutest before me fall;
Of me th'Extremes none reach, tho ne'er so tall.
My only Friend, my greatest Grief and Joy,
Oft stabs me, and I him as oft destroy.
Between th'Herculean Pillars I am set,
Where all Men have their Ne plus ultra met:
My Name is hid, as I am from your Eyes;
If you ne'er seek me out I'll count you wise.

135

To Julian.

Dear Julian, 'twice or thrice a Year,
I wrire to help thee to some Gear;
For thou by Nonsense liv'st, not Wit,
As Carps thrive best where Cattel shit.
But now that Province I resign,
And for my Successor design
Ell---d, whose Pen as nimbly glides,
As his good Father changes Sides;
His Head's with Thought as little vex'd,
Or taking care what shou'd come next.
But he a Path much safer treads,
Poets live when Statesmen lose their Heads.
Tho Truth in Prose might be a Crime,
'Twas never known in any time
That one was hang'd for writing Rhyme.
But shou'd shome Poets be accus'd
That have the Government abus'd,
They'd scarce be by their Neck-verse freed,
Some Whigs will write that cannot read.

But Charity bids us suppose,
That Mor---t is not one of those;
Besides, that he can write is known
By's making Sucklin's Songs his own;
He to the Bays in time may rise,
If Etherege will but supervise
To make his Verse, more soft, and tame,
Which yet is without Life or Flame;
Like th'Epilogue they jointly writ,
To ridicule the well-horn'd Pit:
A Jest that Mor---t well might spare,
Unless he sat to hear it there.

Jack H---, thy Patron's left the Town,
But first writ something he dare own;

136

A Prologue lawfully begotten,
And full nine Months maturely thought on:
Born with hard Labour and much Pain,
Ouseley was Doctor Chamberlain.
At length from Stuff and Rubbish pick'd,
As Bears-Cubs into shape are lick'd;
When Wh---ton, Etherege, and Soam,
To give it the last strokes were come,
Whose Criticks differ'd in their Doom.
Some were for Embers quench'd with Pages,
And some for mending Servants Wages:
Both ways were try'd, and neither took,
But the Fault's laid on Mrs. Cook;
Yet Swan says he admir'd it scap'd,
Since 'twas Jack H---'s without being clap'd.

Our old Friend C---ts has left the Trade,
His Muse is grown a very Jade;
Phillis did take him at his word,
And h' has his Destiny so spur'd,
Of Love and Verse he's weary grown,
His Pen and Passion both laid down;
And to his Praise it may be said,
No Love nor Songs of late h' has made.

But M---ve will not leave off so,
For to his Industry we owe,
That we the Fate in English see
Of Orpheus, and Euridice.
And 'tis an Honour to the State,
When a Blue Garter will translate:
Who bears the Bell without dispute,
From Durfy, Settle, Creech or Duke.
I thought 'twould puzzle all the Nine
To spoil a Poem so Divine:
But he with Pains and Care doth show,
It may be render'd mean, and low;
So much can one great Blockhead do.
Some say his Lordship had done better
To answer Roger Martin's Letter,

137

Or give Jack H--- his belly full,
Who justly calls him a dull Owl,
For quoting Books he never read,
And basely railing at the Dead.

Of Ladies there's no need to tell,
Since they their own Intrigues reveal,
As Nor---k with her Prince Outlandish,
And Isham with the Beau Lord C---dish;
And Grov'ner with Lord Middleton,
(Not Cholmley, who 'tis said has none.)
How Walcop meets with Cartwright's Spouse,
At Sadlers the Painter's House;
Or how the modest Maid complain'd
That Talbot had her Casement sham'd
For what he had before obtain'd;
How M---ant Grafton's Virtue tries,
More than King John does Osseries.

But yet a Line or two we'll spare,
In gratitude to Lord Kildare;
Whose marrying Lady Betty Jones,
For's killing his first Wife atones:
A Wife shee'l be for him alone,
But a Help-meet to all the Town.

O that kind Fate wou'd order't so,
That Bellingham might do so too,
And with his Folly, and Estate,
Oblige the World, and marry Kate.
How many then full sail would enter,
That in that Port now dare not venture?
But tho he's Fop enough to Woo,
Present, and treat, and keep ado,
When he shou'd Wed he won't come to.

But these Affairs are known to all,
That haunt the Park, Plays, and Whitehall;
Besides, my Labour I may save,
For an account you'l timely have,
Who are made Cuckolds or make Love,
From some oth' Authors nam'd above.

138

A Satyr upon the Poets, being a Translation out of the 7th Satyr of Juvenal.

Et spes, & ratio studiorum, &c.

SIR,

All my Endeavours, all my Hopes depend
On you the Orphans, and the Muses Friend;
The only great good Man, who will declare
Virtue and Verse the object of his Care;
And prove a Patron in the worst of Times,
When hungry Bays forsakes his empty Rhymes,
Beseeching all true Catholicks Charity,
For a poor Prostitute which long did lie
Under the Mortal Sins of Verse and Heresy.

Shadwell, and starving Ta--- I cease to name,
Poets of all Religions are the same:
Recanting Settle brings the tuneful Ware,
Which wiser Smithfield damn'd to Sturbridge-Fair;
Protests his Tragedies and Libels fail
To yield him Paper, Penny-Loaves and Ale,
And bids our Youth by his Example fly
The love of Politicks and Poetry.

And all Retreats except New-Hall refuse
To shelter Durfey and his Jocquey Muse;
There to the Butler, and his Grace's Maid,
He turns, like Homer, Sonneteer for Bread;
Knows his just bounds, nor ever durst aspire
Beyond the swearing Groom and Kitchin Fire.

Is there a Man to these Examples blind,
To clinking Numbers fatally design'd,
Who by his Parts would purchase Meat, and Fame,
And in next Miscellanies plant his Name?
Were my Beard grown, the Wretch I'd thus advise:
Repent fond Mortal, and be timely wise;

139

Take heed, nor be by gilded Hopes betray'd,
Clio's a Jilt, and Pegasus a Jade;
By Verse you'l starve: John Saul cou'd never live,
Unless the Bellman made the Poet thrive;
Go rather in some little shed by Pauls,
Sell Chevy-Chase, or Baxter's Salve for Souls,
Cry Raree-Shows, sell Ballads, transcribe Votes,
Be Care, or Ketch, or any thing but Oates.

Hold Sir, some Bully of the Muses cries,
Methinks you're more Satyrical than Wise;
You rail at Verse indeed, but rail in Rhyme,
At once encourage and condemn the Crime.

True Sir, I write, and have a Patron too,
To whom my Tributary Songs are due;
Yet with your leave I'd honestly disswade
Those wretched Men from Pindus barren shade:
Who tho they fire their Muse, and rack their Brains
With blustering Heroes, and with piping Swains,
Can no great patient giving Man engage
To fill their Pockets, and their Title Page.
Were I, like these, unhappily decreed
By Penny Elegies to get my bread,
Or want a Meal, unless George Croom and I
Could strike a Bargain for my Poetry,
I'd damn my Works to wrap up Soap and Cheese,
Or furnish Squibs for City Prentices
To burn the Pope, and celebrate Queen Bess.

But on your Ruin stubbornly pursue,
Herd with the hungry little chiming Crew,
Obtain the empty Title of a Wit,
And be a free-cost Noisy in the Pit:
Print your dull Poems, and before 'em place
A Crown of Laurel, and a Meager Face.
And may just Heav'n thy hated Life prolong,
Till thou blest Author seest thy deathless Song,
The dusty Lumber of a Smithfield Stall,
And findst thy Picture starch'd 'gainst Suburb Wall,
With Johnny Armstrong and the Prodigal.

140

And to compleat the Curse,
When Age and Poverty comes faster on,
And sad Experience tells thou art undone,
May no kind Country Grammar-School afford
Ten Pounds a Year to pay for Bead and Board;
Till void of any fix'd Employ, and now
Grown useless to the Army and the Plow,
You've no Friend left, but trusting Landlady,
Who stows you on hard Truckle Garret-high,
To dream of Dinner, and curse Poetry.

Sir, I've a Patron, you reply. 'Tis true,
Fortune and Parts you say may get one too:
Why Faith e'en try, Write, Flatter, Dedicate,
My Lord's, and his Forefathers Deeds relate:
Yet know he'll wisely strive ten thousand ways
To shun a needy Poet's fulsom Praise;
Nay to avoid thy Importunity,
Neglect his State, and condescend to be
A Poet, tho perhaps a worse than thee.

Thus from a Patron he becomes a Friend;
Forgetting to reward, learns to commend;
Receives your twelve long Months successess Toil,
And talks of Authors, Energy, and Stile;
Damns the dull Poems of the scribling Town,
Applauds your Writings, and repeats his own;
Whilst thou in Complaisance oblig'd, must sit
T'extol his Judgment and admire his Wit;
And wrapt with his Essay on Poetry,
Swear Horace writ not half so strong as he,
But that we're partial to Antiquity.
Yet this Authentick Peer perhaps scarce knows
With jingling sounds to tag insipid Prose,
And shou'd be by some honest Manly told,
He'd lost his Credit to secure his Gold.

But if thou'rt blest enough to write a Play,
Without the hungry hopes of kind third Day,

141

And he believes that in thy Dedication
Thou'lt fix his Name, not bargain for the Station:
My Lord his useless Kindness then {abiures},
And to the utmost of his pow'r he's yours.
How fine your Plot, how exquisite each Scene!
And play'd at Court wou'd strangely please the Queen.
And you may take his Judgment sure, for he
Knows the true Spirit of good Poetry;
And might with equal judgment have put in
For Poet Laureat as Lord Ch---in.
All this you see and know, yet cease to shun;
And seeing knowing, strive to be undone.
So Kidnapt Dutchess once beyond Gravesend,
Rejects the Counsel of recalling Friend;
Is told the dreadful Bondage she must bear,
And sees, unable to avoid the snare.
So practis'd Thief oft taken, ne'er afraid,
Forgets the Sentence, and pursues the Trade.
Tho yet he almost feels the smoking Brand,
And sad T. R. stands fresh upon his Hand.
The Author then, whose daring hopes would strive
With well built Verse to keep his Fame alive,
And something to Posterity present,
That's very new and very excellent;
Something beyond the uncal'd drudging Tribe,
Beyond what Bays can write or I describe;
Shou'd in substantial happiness abound,
His Mind with Peace, his Board with Plenty crown'd.
No early Duns should break his Learned Rest,
No sawcy Cares his nobler Thoughts molest,
Only the God within should shake his labouring Breast.
In vain we from our Sonneteers require
The height of Cowleys, and Anacreon's Lyre.
In vain we bid 'em fill the Bowl,
Large as their capacious Soul,

142

Who since the King was crown'd ne'er tasted Wine,
But write at sight, and know not where to dine.
In vain we bid dejected Settle hit
The Tragick Flights of Shakespear's towring Wit;
He needs must miss the Mark, who's kept so low,
He has not strength enough to draw the Bow.
Sedley indeed and Rochester might write
For their own credit, and their Friends delight,
Shewing how far they cou'd the rest outdo,
As in their Fortunes, so their Writings too.
But shou'd Drudg Dryden this example take,
And Absaloms for empty Glory make,
He'd soon perceive his Income scarce enough
To feed his Nostril with inspiring Snuff;
Starving for Meat, not surfeiting on Praise,
He'd find his Brains as barren as his Bays.

There was a time when Otway charm'd the Stage,
Otway the Hopes, the Sorrow of our Age;
When the full Pit with pleas'd attention hung,
Wrapt with each accent from Castalio's Tongue.
With what a Laughter was his Soldier read!
How mourn'd they when his Jaffier struck, and bled!
Yet this best Poet, tho with so much ease,
He never drew his Pen but sure to please;
Tho Lightning were less lively than his Wit,
And Thunder-claps less loud than those o'th' Pit
He had of's many Wants much earlier dy'd,
Had not kind Banker Betterton supply'd,
And took for Pawn the Embryo of a Play,
Till he could pay himself the next third Day.
Were Shakespear's self to live again, he'd ne'er
Degen'rate to a Poet from a Player.
Carlile ith' new rais'd Troops we see,
And chattering Mountfort in the Chancery;
Mountfort how fit for Politicks and Law,
That play'd so well Sir Courtly and Jack Daw.
Dance then attendance in slow M---ves Hall,
Read Maps, or court the Sconces till he call;

143

One Actor's Commendation shall do more
Than Patron now, or Merit heretofore.
Some Poets I confess the Stage has fed,
Who for half Crowns are shown, for two Pence read;
But these not envy thou, but imitate,
Much rather starve in Shadwel's silent Fate,
Than new vamp Farces, and be damn'd with Tate.
For now no Sydneys will three hundred give,
That needy Spencer and his Fame may live;
None of our new Nobility will send
To the King's Bench, or to his Bedlam Friend.
Chymists and Whores by Buckingham were fed,
Those by their honest Labours gain'd their Bread;
But he was never so expensive yet,
To keep a Creature merely for his Wit;
And Cowley from all Clifden scarce could have
One grateful Stone to shew the World his Grave.
Pemb--- lov'd Tragedy, and did provide
For Butchers Dogs, and for the whole Bankside;
The Bear was fed, but dedicating Lee
Was thought to have a larger Paunch than he.
More I cou'd say, but care not much to meet
A Crabtree Cudgel in a narrow Street.
Besides, your Yawning prompts me to give o'er:
Your humble Servant, Sir, not one word more.

Letter to C---W.

Here take this W---, spread it up and down,
Thou second scandal Carrier of the Town;
Thy Trapstick Legs, and foolish puny Face,
Look as if Nature meant thee for an Ass.
In this vocation thou'lt grow greater far
Than e'er thou'lt do by Stratagems of War.
Waste not thy Time, nor hurt thy tender Lungs
In going up and down to sing new Songs.

144

But yet in time of Julian's Fate beware;
More secret be, or you may lose an Ear.
I'll tell thee now where Libels may be had,
Who are the Benefactors of the Trade.

Cholm--- has Satyr for his Province chose,
The only way he dares attack his Foes,
Not in smooth Verse but rough ill-natur'd Prose.
Laughing at all, which yet may Justice seem,
For long we know the Town has laugh'd at him.
He oft has aim'd at Love, but ne'er cou'd hit;
And now wou'd put ill Nature off for Wit.
For all his Dressing, and his Foppish Train,
He and his Sister ogle it in vain,
The Ladies he, and she the cruel Men.

And that we may to all due Justice render,
Exeter's Songs most move the Maidens tender;
Yet Lady Bridget does so cruel prove,
Six Songs a day can't her Compassion move.
Never for Women was so bad a time,
Baseness in Men is grown a common Crime,
Which Frazier does lament in tender Rhyme.

Parsons set up for a Pindarick Spark,
Pindar himself did never write more dark;
So rough his Numbers, and such Mystick sense,
Sarsfield himself scarce knows who 'tis he means.

Baber has left the Panegyrick strain,
And now to Ballad-making turns his Brain,
At which Will Wh---on long has strove in vain;
From that dull Fop what could expected be,
The dullest of that senseless Family?

Sackville wants leisure to attend his Muse,
His time's so taken up with these Reviews,
And Skipwith with his Grannam of a Spouse.

Old Griff. once did write, but now has done,
And wisely sets himself to teach his Son
Those Rules by which he grows a Fop compleat,
And when he is as Old will be as Great.

145

His Neighbour Fenw--- with his antick Face,
These 40 Years has studied French Grimace;
In ogling C---wright his Delight does place.
Yet so unhappy does his Passion prove,
She takes it all for Dotage not for Love:
VVhile poor Frank Villers, full of awful Fears,
And tender Love, has follow'd many Years;
Yet no reward his constant Passion claims,
But that he may enjoy her in his Dreams.
His Sister does him Service with his Friend,
But Mrs. Nancy to her cost does find,
Her feeble Charms are by her Friends out-shin'd:
Yet strives by Art her Comrade to outdo,
Counterfeit Beauty must give way to true;
And yet the meanest Beauty claims a part,
E'en Swan can move with her old rotten Heart.

Yarbor--- her Wisdom in young L---er shows,
One fit to make a patient Cuckold chose.

S---th's Conquests are too great to be reveal'd,
And like her Pleasures ought to be conceal'd;
The rest too mean to have in Verse a place,
Here, as at Court, shall unregarded pass.

Next Ishams Wife, now Devonsh--- is gone,
Can boast of senseless Willoug--- alone;
By Nature made for one another fit,
For Beauty is as nauseous as his Wit.

But to Kild--- all Beauty sure must yield,
The Park and Plays are with her Lovers fill'd.
The mighty Roch--- who rules our State,
By Presents shows his Love at no small rate.
Her pimping Father got young Fox's place,
Not by his Merit, but his Daughter's Face.
Devonsh--- Passion all his Actions show;
Because he loves her, Monstross does so too;
Scarf--- and D'Arcy both her Captives prove,
So hard it is to know her and not love.

Disbanded Manch--- when will he go,
And in the Spanish Court his dancing show?

146

He looks already with his formal Air,
More like a Spanish Don than English Peer;
And that he may a well-bred Spark become,
Let him take Denmark in his Journy home.
There's one Peer more we well may wish away,
His own dear Cousin flattering Capt. Gray.

The Powis Daughters now fill up the Court,
Did ever Wales such monstrous things bring forth?
It shows some sense when nauseous Creatures hide:
But that to show themselves should be their Pride,
Tells us their Wit is worse than their Outside.

Twice jilted Co---ry, now thy Fortune try,
The Widow Arran ne'er did Man deny;
Sh---ry and twenty more have found her easy,
This is a Quality will surely please ye.

King John, who Cheating has his business made,
Has bought the Widow o'er Nor---ton's Head;
This Match was ne'er in Heaven made, but Hell;
All wish 'em join'd, for none wish either well.

Methinks I see the Brandy Bowl go round,
The drunken Countess wallowing on the Ground,
With Horns instead of Bays the Hero crown'd.

The Female Laureat.

If Afra's Worth were needful to be shown,
What Pen could do it better than her own?
Thro all her Works a happy Warmth does shine,
That renders e'ery thing she writes Divine.

Witness her Golden Age, so fam'd a Piece,
It has at once outdone both Rome and Greece.
“The Nymphs, she says, were free, no nice Disdain
“Forbad their Joys, or gave their Lovers Pain;
“Ten thousand wanton Cupids you might view,
“That scatter'd lech'rous Darts where'er they flew;

147

“Here you might see expecting Virgins lie,
“And strait young Swains those Virgins Lusts supply.
This Age she paints, and with such great Success,
That all things but her Chastity are less.
Next awful Bajazet's more awful Flame,
Her Wit has plac'd in the first Rank of Fame;
And sure his Passion's fit for her to sing,
Who is a Slave, and would be thought a King.
Go on then, mighty Poetress, go on,
And finish what's so happily begun;
In lofty Language and adventurous Verse,
Your Patron Bajazet's great Worth rehearse;
Bajazet, from Pride and Envy free,
Bajazet, Prince of Humility,
Bajazet, the fittest Theme for thee.
Describe his matchless Loyalty to's Prince,
His great Civility, and greater Sense;
How courteously he to all Men does bend,
And what delight he takes to serve his Friend:
But above all, that dauntless Courage show
With which he flew to quell the Tangier Foe,
And how the Gen'ral after two days stay,
When all the rest were fighting, came away;
But first perform'd all his Commission bid,
Nothing he went to do, and nothing did.
When this thou'st done, who knows but he may prove,
Since Gloriana's Heart's too firm to move,
So good at last, to crown you with his Love?
And sure Jove never join'd a happier Pair,
He kind as lovely, you as good as fair.

Twin'd in his Arms, I wish you happy Days,
While I'm content t'adore thee in thy Plays.
What tho your Heroes are sworn Foes to Sense,
And affect Bombast, Noise, and Insolence?
VVhat tho your loyal Men are lewd and vain,
Ridiculous, impertinent, profane?
VVhat tho your vertuous VVomen Vertue hate,
And your chast Virgins curse their Virgin State?

148

What tho thou bring'st (to please a vicious Age)
Af ar more vicious Widow on the Stage,
Just reaking from a Stallion's rank Embrace
With rifled Garments, and disorder'd Face,
T'acquaint the Audience with her slimy case?
What can the surly Criticks urge from hence,
When thou shalt rise up in thine own defence,
And plead Impenitable Impudence?
Such Impudence! but gentle Muse retire,
And what thou canst not comprehend, admire.

Advice to the Painter,

Upon the defeat of the Rebels in the West, and the Execution of the late D. of Monmouth.

— Pictoribus atque Poetis
Quidlibet —

Since by just Flames the guilty Piece is lost,
The noblest Work thy fruitless Art could boast;
Renew thy faithful Pains a second time,
From the Duke's Ashes raise the Prince of Lime,
And make thy Fame eternal as his Crime.

The Land (if such it may be counted) draw,
Whose Interest is Religion, Treason Law;
Th'ingrateful Land, whose treach'rous Sons are Foes
To the kind Monarchy by which they rose,
And by instinctive Hatred dread that Pow'r,
Join'd in our King and in their Conqueror.

Amidst the Councils of this black Divan,
Draw the misled, aspiring, wretched Man,
His Sword maintaining what his Fraud began.

149

Draw Treason, Sacrilege, and Perfidy,
The curst Achitophel's kind Legacy;
Three direful Engines of a Rebel's hate,
Fit to perform the blackest work of Fate.

But lest their horrid Force too weak shou'd prove,
Add tempting Woman's more destructive Love:
Give the ambitious Fair—
All Nature's Gifts refin'd by subtlest Art,
Too able to betray that easy Heart,
And with more Charms than Helen's to destroy
That other Hope of our mistaken Troy.

The Scene from Dulness, and Dutch Plots bring o'er,
And set the hopeful Parracide ashore,
Fraught with the Blessings of each boorish Friend,
And the kind helps their Pray'rs and Brandy lend,
With those few Crowns—
Some English Jews, and some French Christians send.

Next in thy darkest Colours paint the Town,
For old hereditary Treason known,
Whose Infant Sons in early Mischiefs bred,
Swear to the Cov'nant they can hardly read;
Brought up with too much Charity to hate
Ought but their Bible, and their Magistrate.

Here let the gaudy Banner be display'd,
While the kind Fools invoke their Neighbours Aid
T'adore that Idol they themselves have made,
And Peasants from neglected Fields resort
To fill his Army, and adorn his Court.

Near this, erected on a Drum unbrac'd,
Let Heaven's and James's Enemy be plac'd,
The Wretch that hates, like false Argyle, the Crown,
The Wretch that, like vile Oates, defames the Gown,
And through the Speaking-trumpet of his Nose
Heav'n's Sacred Word profanely does expose,

150

Bidding the large-ear'd Rout with one accord
Stand up and fight the Battel of the Lord.

Then nigh the pageant Prince (alas too nigh!)
Paint G. with a Romantick Constancy,
Resolv'd to conquer, or resolv'd to fly;
And let there in his guilty Face appear
The Rebel's Malice and the Coward's Fear,
That future Ages in thy Face may see
Not his VVife falser to his Bed, than to all Parties he.

Now let the curst Triumvirate prepare
For all the baneful Ills of horrid VVar;
Let zealous Rage the dreadful VVork begin,
Back'd with the sad Variety of Sin;
Let Vice in all its numerous Shapes be shown,
Crimes which to milder Brennus were unknown,
And innocent Cromwel would have blush'd to own.
Their Arms from pillag'd Temples let 'em bring,
And rob the Deity to wound the King.

Excited then by their Camp-Priest's long Pray'r,
Their Country's Curses, and their own Despair,
VVhile Hell combines with its vile Offspring Night,
To hide their Treachery, or secure their Flight,
The watchful Troops with cruel haste come on,
Then shout, look terrible, discharge, and run.
Fal'n from his short-liv'd Pow'r and flatter'd Hopes,
His Friends destroy'd by Hunger, Swords, and Ropes;
To some near Grove the VVestern Monarch flies,
In vain the innocent Grove her Shade denies.
The Juster Trees—
VVho when for refuge Charles and Virtue fled,
By grateful Instinct their glad Branches spread,
And round the Sacred Charge cast their inlarged Head,
Straight when the outcast Absalom comes nigh,
Drop off their fading Leaves, and blasted die.

151

Nor Earth her self will hide her guilty Son,
Tho he for refuge to her Bowels run.
Rebellious Corah to her Arms she took,
VVhen Heav'n, and Israel his old Cause forsook;
But now provok'd by a more just disdain,
She shrinks her frighted Head, and gives our Rebel back again.

Now Artist, let thy juster Pencil draw
The sad effects of necessary Law.
In painted VVords, and speaking Colours tell
The dismal Exit this sham Prince befel;
On the sad Scene the glorious Rebel place,
VVith Pride and Sorrow strugling in his Face;
Describe the Pangs of his distracted Breast
(If by thy Labours Thought can be exprest)
Shew with what difference two vast Passions move,
And how the Hero with the Christian strove.

Then place the Sacred Prelate by his side,
To raise his Sorrow, and confound his Pride,
With the dear dreadful thoughts of a God crucify'd.
Paint, if thou canst, the heav'nly VVords that hung
Upon the Holy Mens perswasive Tongue,
VVords sweet as Moses writ, or Asaph sung;
VVords whose prevailing Influence might have won
All but the haughty harden'd Absalon.

At distance round their weeping Mother, place
The too unmindful Fathers beauteous Race;
But like the Grecian Artist spread a Veil
O'er the sad Beauties of fair Annabel.

No Art, no Muse those Sorrows can express,
VVhich would be render'd by Description less.

Here close the dismal Scene, conceal the rest
That the sad Orphans Eyes will teach us best;
Thy guilty Art might raise our ill-tim'd Grief too high,
And make us, while we pity him, forget our Loyalty.

The Duke's Picture burnt at Cambridg.

Holland.

Lady Harr. Wentworth.

Taunton.

Ferguson.

Taken in a Ditch.

152

Madam Le Croy.

Of all the Plagues Mankind possess,
Defend me from the Sorceress,
Who draws from Lines her Calculations,
Instead of Squares for Demonstrations;
Such as Le Croy imposes on
The credulous deluded Town;
Who tho they know themselves but fool'd,
Bring double Fees for being gull'd.
So Client jilted of his Suit,
Loses his Cause, and pays to boot.

In comes a Duke from mighty Place
And Merit, faln into disgrace;
She views his Hand, and bids him Joy,
Calls him his Excellence Vice-Roy.
With this high Character the Bubble
Is well content, and pays her double:
Nor dreams he's banish'd with his Fleet
A Slave to Pathmos or to Creet.
As Richm--- to the Northern Frost,
And Clarend--- to the Irish Coast,
Blinded with Pride, senseless of Ruin,
So Fools embrace their own undoing.

Graft--- with Jealousy opprest,
She adds a Crescent to his Crest;
No Planet-mount his Brow adorns,
Saturn and Venus turn to Horns:
His Grace is but an Independant,
Whilst Mord--- rules in the Ascendant
Northum--- does next implore
The Stars which Lucy curst before:
And 'twas his Fate, altho he made
A Cloister of the Nuptial Bed,

153

Whence she's return'd with double Charms,
A Vestal to his faithless Arms.

St. Alb--- Duke, who never sought her,
By th'bargain gets N---castles Daughter:
So says Le Croy, but juster Fate
Dooms him a Match at Billinsgate;
Nor will N---castle his hopes place
In a base Bastard Pippin Race.

For So---set, she takes upon her
To sooth him up with Maids of Honour:
Courage, tho Youth and Beauty fail,
Your Grace has Charms that will prevail;
No Virgin but must yield a Martyr
T'an Idol of the Star, and Garter.

These, M---ve, were the pow'rful Charms
Brought Conway Captive to thy Arms;
'Twas not thy Figure, Wit, nor Wealth,
It was the Star that made the Stealth:
Shortly she will repent the Action,
Thy Hopper-arse will cause the Faction.

Northamp---, happier in his choice,
In Virgin-Wedlock plac'd his Joys;
Wisely he shun'd that dire Intrigue,
Doom'd to be thy eternal Plague:
Of all for better or for worse,
In missing her he scap'd the Curse.

Gray's little Hand she next do's prove,
Brimfull of Luck and Heart of Love.
The Fates you need no more importune,
This is the very line of Fortune;
My Lord, you are most sure of Nancy,
If there be truth in Necromancy.

With Elland how shall we demean us?
Bless me! what's here, the Mount of Venus!
The Table thwarted too! this shows,
You'll die a Martyr in the Cause;
If you wou'd shun this dismal Fate,
Go home my Lord, and Salivate.

154

Beware of Mercury and such Foes,
Compound with Venus for your Nose.

With Love and Indignation warm,
Ch---ly begins to huff and storm;
I dress and keep an Equipage
With any Coxcomb of the Age.
Pray tell me then a reason why
Each Tinker has his Trull but I?
Your Hand, you need not be so stout,
My Lord your Line of Love is out.
Learn then, if you would have Success,
More Wit and less Affectedness.

With shoulder Belt and gaudy Feather,
Ten Yards of Crevat ty'd together,
Comes New---gh; by these Lines exprest,
As you'd a narrow Scape i'th' West,
This Demicircle here declares
You'l meet worse Wounds in Venus Wars.
But have a care how you ingage
For a new Coach and Equipage;
Lavish and Love's a double Dart,
That breaks your Back, and this your Heart.
So Hounds and Huntsmen Hare o'erpower,
And what those worry, these devour.

But these are not the only Fools,
Le Croy has choice of female Gulls,
Who puff'd with Pride do flock in vain,
Blown up e'er they discern the Train.

Thus Lucy into Bondage run
For a great Name to be undone;
Deluded with the Name of Dutchess,
She fell into the Lion's Clutches:
This was Le Croy's bewitching Cheat,
Her Sacred Thirst of being great.

Whilst Graf--- in her Duke less blest,
Is of her Buccanier possest;
With Shr---ry whose Love's intent,
And all the Rout that nose the Scent.

155

With wither'd Hand and wrinkled Brow
Cleveland in Rage comes next, to know
What desperate Tatterdemallion
Should next vouchsafe to be her Stallion.
But by the Wrinkles on her Brow,
She's told her Charms quite fail her now;
And since she coupled with a Strowler,
Her next Admirer must be Jowler.

Arran with counterfeited Grace,
And muffled Veil about her Face,
Shews to Le Croy her snowy Fist,
Who cries, six Husbands at the least;
But yet there's none to that lewd Damp,
No second Love dares light a Lamp.

Kildare a Beauty in her Bloom,
In vizor steals to know her Doom.
Ye Gods! A double Line of Life,
Madam you'l make a thund'ring Wife;
Great Jove himself and all the Land
Besides your Lord, at your command:
Devon---, Mul---, Scars---, all
Shall Captives to your Empire fall;
Till for a virtuous Wife renown'd,
Your Wittall Lord at last is crown'd.

Next comes young Fox's barren Bliss,
She reads her Fortune in her Phys!
Besides, I find it in your Hand,
Madam, you must be better man'd;
Your brawny Spouse's gross Infusion
Sutes not your airy Constitution:
If for an Heir you would not want,
Make meagre Darcy your Gallant.

Fine Lady Cartwright in her Chair
To know her Doom does next repair,
Pursu'd by Fenwick, Frank, and Gray,
Who sigh all night, and dodg all day:
As Beggars dream of golden Heaps,
Each longs, but none the Treasure reaps.

156

The next fine Widow Whitmore, she
Is told of gentle Cornb***;
But the sly Wight secur'd the Prey,
And flying bore the Nymph away.

Miss Nancy shall bring up the Reer,
Whose Fortune is to have a Peer;
If 'ten't her harder Fate to be
Confounded with Variety.
So tir'd with Change, some Courtly Nice
She makes the last, and the worst choice.

Why should I tire your Patience out
With Warwick and the wrinkled Rout,
Hinton or Howard? I could tell ye
Of thousands besides Hughes and Nelly,
Who daily crowd upon the Plains,
To find out choice of youthful Swains.

But all those Charms that did kind Warmth infuse,
Worn out of date have chil'd my tired Muse.

The Lover's Session.

In Imitation of Sir John Suckling's Session of Poets.

A session of Lovers was held t'other day,
And Venus her self was present they say.
The best in Christendom long kept in reserve,
Was now to be his who least did deserve.

Therefore the Fools of all Parties came thither,
'Twas strange to see how the Owls flock'd together;
There were Fops by Breeding, and Tonies by Birth,
Damn'd Oafs of all sorts this fat Island brings forth.

Gentle Fools of the Flute, and Fools of the Pen,
Virtuosi thrice married turn'd Bullies agen,
Dancing Fools a vast Crowd, and Fools learn'd in Arts,
Fops furnish'd in France with good Natural Parts.

Familiar dear Hearts who kiss all they salute,
And out of meer Dulness with no Man dispute;

157

Who think themselves welcome wherever they come,
And call all they know Jack, Will, Harry, Tom.

Sour Fanaticks, Christ's wealthy ill-favour'd Breed,
With strong carnal Itches and spiritual Pride;
Popish Priests in the Garb of lewd Lay-Brother,
Still whoring in Couples to absolve one another.

Turn-servers, who hopeful Imployments devour,
Drunken Brutes in the Badges of Absolute Power,
Cits aping Court Fops in Debauchery and Dress,
And proud ignorant Statesmen hard of Access.

Dull Blockheads in Cassocks, Law-Knaves dy'd in Grain,
Physicians in Querpo, and Clowns in Champaign;
Like Bees they came swarming at Venus's Call,
There was Fop of Fop-Corner, and Fop of Fop-Hall.

Song Sackvill with all the new Beaux at his back,
Lewd rakelly Spencer and finical Pack,
Warcup near Newburgh, for they kept no Order,
Montrath and Frank Villers a little further.

Harry Wharton fresh reaking from Norfolk's lewd Moll,
Shamplot-maker Lumly, and Colchester Voll,
Northumberland wrapt in his Mother's lov'd Smock,
And D' Arcy kept lean by old Guy's young Hock.

Harsh favor'd Scarburgh with Scarsdale the stinking,
And Bridges created a Wit for hard drinking.
Soft Whitaker next, Fop Gerards both the Brothers,
Fop Hewit, Fop Baber, and divers others.

Devonsh***, who all his mistaken Life long
Has delighted in Show, publick Meeting and Throng,
And at fifty against all Reason and Rule
Seems resolv'd to persist in playing the Fool.

E'er this strange High Commission Court was well set,
Came and knock'd with a Lover's concern at the Gate,
And cozening the Doorkeeper with his Fop Mien,
Without any Ticket had like t'have got in.

But Venus, who knew him much better than they,
With a Frown like dead Lady Betty, they say,

158

Forbad his Admittance, and told him in short,
'Twas an old fundamental Rule of the Court.

Tho some the best stor'd never any did use,
But liv'd as if Frampton their Business did choose;
Tho others drest high, and half star'd out their Eyes,
Not one who had Sense must pretend to the Prize.

And tho his French Breeding floated at top,
And has tawder'd his Outside over with Fop;
It plainly appear'd to all the World's wonder,
The Man of true Wit, and Worth that lay under.

When Mord--- heard this, he leapt up from the Throng,
And in whimsical Raving full three Hours long,
With gross want of Judgment, for Bedlam more fit,
He daily mistakes for abounding in Wit.

He excus'd his intruding and breaking of Rules,
Protesting he did not know they were Fools;
But took ev'ry Member there by his Mien,
For as hopeful a Wit as his Pupil Gwyn.

This said, he would fain have slipt out of the Crowd.
But Venus recall'd him, and told him aloud,
None there to the Place had a better pretence;
For just talking, not much, was the Mark of good Sense.

That his rambling Vien, for holding out well,
The ablest Fanatick's Light did excel;
Tho no Man could for Wit or Reason approve,
Might pass with young Women for Passion and Love.

But she bid him beware when his Throws did begin,
By his Noise not to call all the Neighbourhood in,
For his Friends Expectation too oft had been bit.
By the loud, but false crying out of his Wit.

For a deal of Love the fair Sex did owe him,
As well as the Good of all who should know him:
She pray'd that the Muses Lucina would deign
To deliver him of his no Jests with less Pain.

While Mort---'s Perfections she thus did display,
She perceiv'd little Falkland sneaking away,

159

And vow'd she admir'd how that frivolous Chit
Ever came to pass on the Town for a Wit.

His Grandfather, honour'd by all, is confest
Was with Wisdom and Riches like Solomon blest,
But he left him nothing, and 'twas his hard Fate
To inherit no more of his Parts than Estate.

A Mimick he is, tho a bad one at best,
Still plagu'd with an impotent Itch to a Jest;
In appurtenant Action he spares no Expence,
He has all the Ingredients of Wit but the Sense.

His Face oft of Laugh and Humour is full,
When his Talk is impertinent, empty and dull:
But if so low buffooning can merit our Praise,
Frank Newport, and Jevon, and Haines must have Bays.

Or if French Memoirs read from Broadstreet to Bow,
Can make a Man wise, then Falkland is so.
And for full confirmation of all she did say,
She produc'd his damn'd Prologue to Otway's last Play.

Some reply'd, What her Majesty said was most true,
Yet to give the ignorant Devil his due,
Tho he made good Judges but indifferent sport,
He was the best Fop of a Statesman at Court.

But Dorington now started up in great Wrath,
What not Falkland a Wit! No Sir by my troth;
Of which for the present clearer proof needs none,
Than his taking the coxcombly Worship for one.

The Sect of Songsters here stir'd up Sedition,
And in shoals prefer'd a tumultuous Petition;
Beseeching the Court not to think them too wise,
To raffle their Time and Estates for the Prize.
Alledging,

They us'd the Muses but as Bawds to Intrigues,
Caring for them no more than Cromwell or Migs;
And that but for their frantick amorous Fits,
They had ne'er took upon them the Business of Wits.

Humbly hoping that Sense would not pass for a Crime,
That was flatten'd to Panegyrical Rhyme;

160

And offering good proof from Maids, Widows and Wives,
Of the inoffensive Dulness of their Lives.

Protesting at last, if the Sex were in fears,
They could e'en use their Fancies as bad as their Ears;
That rather than the Hopes of their Favours they'd quit,
They'd lay by their impudent Title to Wit.

But Venus, who all their Adventures had learn'd,
With a gracious Smile bid them not be concern'd;
For that little they had was so void of all Charm,
As it did them no good, so 'twould do them no harm.

Young Griffin, apparent Son of the Old,
In the same belle Air his booby Father roll'd,
Just Image of the Pride with which he swells,
And in whom the Fulness of his Folly dwells;

Not doubting Success, first of any did rise,
And in arrogant Terms demanded the Prize.
But when told by the Court, which his Carriage did blame,
He a reason must give for his confident Claim;

He pertly reply'd, Truth, Reason, and Wit,
Were three things ne'er ask'd of his Family yet;
And tho he lov'd Whoring because 'twas a Vice,
He ne'er should be able to pay such a Price.

Newburgh was the next who stood up to his Tryal,
Ne'er dreaming that Face could e'er meet with Denial;
That Face which so often i'th Circle was prais'd,
And Dissension among the Q---s Virgins had rais'd.

But the Jewess, who still of his Purse stood in need,
Had privately advis'd the Bench to take heed,
Not to judg by the Outside, howe'er likely and fair,
For tho stiff in the Back he was limber elsewhere.

Harry Henningham thought himself sure of a Grant;
But O foolish, cries out Villain Frank, he's a Cant,
His Mistress ne'er knows, so odd 'tis exprest,
Whether he means to make Love or a Jest.

For he puts on so many several Faces,
Is so full of his frank, familiar Grimaces,

161

They cannot but think he's acting a Part,
And his passionate Speech has gotten by Heart.

Besides, Lady Bellamount had let the Court know,
That his Person was good for just nothing but Show;
That his slim Barbary Back was too long,
His Stomach too weak, and Hectic too strong.

When Kildare's Name was call'd, all thought he would speed,
And sure he was Fool enough to succeed.
But new R---r strait (O how unlike the first!)
In terms of a Treasurer's Insolence burst.

And as Venus was going his Suit to allow,
On the Faith of a cast Politician's Vow,
That of all Men living he needed it least,
For his Wife's he knew well was as good as the best;

Huntington, that his weaking Whey Visage might pass,
Pul'd out the best thing that belongs to an Ass;
But in Love's Court, tho ours might use such a Tool,
They abhor'd an inconstant Weathercock Fool.

Villain Frank, well advis'd by a small Pocket-Glass
Of his damn'd disagreeable Vermin-like Face;
And knowing what juster Pretensions would be,
Brought the Bench a Mandamus subscribed S. P.

The Court on this dangerous Practice reflecting,
Cry'd out, We'll maintain our old Right of Electing;
C---s still have been free, nor can any confine 'em,
Or bring to the Bench their Jus Divinum.

But resolving however to shew some respect
To the State whose Commands they'd good cause to reject,
Like Maudlins they approv'd, to th'Assistants great Joy,
Sir Courtly unfit for the courted Employ.

To his shame and confusion his Friends swore point blank,
No Nun was so spotless a Virgin as Frank;
All thought it unjust, the fair Sex's Pride
Should run any risk with a F---r untry'd.

The Court, tho against the strict Rules of their Laws,
Declar'd, on that Issue they'd put the whole Cause:

162

Had he e'er rem in re, he should now have the best,
But his guilty Silence the Scandal confest.

Here his Exchequer Clerks, e'er they let him retire,
Told the Court 'twas not Virtue but want of Desire;
And tho he was unable, they had very good Proof,
Sister Nancy would for the whole Name do enough.

Montrath was in Foppery conceiv'd another
Of Whitehall true Breed, Sir Nices Twin Brother;
None could tell, so alike all their Follies did seem,
Whether he acted Mumford, or Mumford him.

But all cry'd at the sound of that Irish Name,
His Birth was for ever a bar to his Claim;
No League to make Love could his blockishness shape,
They had only the Gift of Murder, and Rape.

Harry Lumly some thought for an elderly Beau,
By the help of his Dress made a pretty good show;
His Back too was prais'd since he first found the trick,
To make ramish Williams content with one P**.

But he had a blemish by's blighted Look shown,
Which in Beauties Adonis was never yet known:
The Pox that was given him by his own Wife,
Was likely to last him as long as his Life.

When M---ague appear'd, the Court gave him a touch
For affecting the Wit, and the Bully so much;
For the one neither Nature had form'd him nor Art,
And the other was ne'er thought a Gentleman's Part.

He had Faults too that lost him so much with the Fair,
As neither his Face nor his Youth could repair;
They found the raw Temper with half Sense accurst,
Too presuming at last, too bashful at first.

Their Eyes were more kindly on Constable cast,
For judging so ill, and prating so fast;
He slightly skims o'er all that comes in his way,
With as hasty, and shallow a Fathom as they.

But tho his light Humour most Women did hit,
His Parts have a nearer resemblance of Wit;

163

The Court too declar'd they would first be assur'd,
Whether yet the thrust in his Groin were well cur'd.

Little Rowley was miss'd, for the Whigs who did know
His Wit no where else but in Dutchland would go,
Had there sent him Leger with full Deputation,
To make Jests on the Court for the good of the Nation.

But one of his Friends swore he'd leave the Queen's cause,
And turn Rebel to Love's irresistible Laws;
If in all her wide Empire she ever did see
A Coxcomb so fit for a Cully as he.

But Politicks employ'd all his time, and 'twas said,
Our pert offer'd Scholar would ne'er be well bred,
Nor brought (so vain is th'unformable Elf)
To advice, or mind any thing else but himself.

Here the Bench in one Language their Anger exprest,
And told his Whig Friends, they should bid him at least
Get so much good Sense in his magotty Pate,
As to use his Wife well till he got her Estate.

Fe---am in his Sedgemore Star, and Glory,
Proud as the Treasurer, and pettish as Lory,
Forgetting how oft he had wrong took his Aim,
With a French Assurance next put in his Claim.

But Fifty had brought a defect of that sort,
As ne'er found forgiveness in Venus's Court;
He was never in health, as himself would oft own,
But when he did let that Business alone.

M---nt would be thought to have already the best,
But let his Wife's Covetous—be at rest;
In vain his Invention is still on the Tenters,
Don Quixot ne'er went on more luckless Adventures.

The damn'd tedious Lies he tells in's own Praise,
That supreme Adoration he to himself pays,
That contempt of his Friends, and that unsettl'd Head,
An aversion in the most forward has bred.

His babling Tongue at St. James's large Square,
Could punctually tell both the when, and the where,

164

In the middle of all his vain towring Hopes,
He was beaten with his own Ladder of Ropes.

Sir James Hayes here his fluent Flattery display'd
To the Fair, and a Thousand fine Promises made,
If Faulkland might pass a Night with her in bed,
But Dapperwit had a trick worth two on't he said.

The Sodomite Itch his Fancy did sway,
He would fain have us'd his Wife the wrong way;
But the Slattern was resty, and vow'd she would ne'er
Give any Man joy who grudg'd her a share.

Nor---land now to his Trial stood forth,
And pleaded the Preference due to his Birth;
No Fool he did hope, howe'er eminent, wou'd
Presume to compare with a Fool of the Blood.

Appealing besides to his scandalous Marriage,
His beautiful Face, and his dull stupid Carriage,
To a Soul without sense of Truth, Honour, or Wit,
If e'er Man was form'd for Woman so fit.

But his Prince-like Project to kidnap his Wife,
And a Lady so free to make Prisoner for Life,
Was Tyranny to which the Sex ne'r would submit,
And an ill natur'd Fool they lik'd worse than a Wit.

Gr---ton, back'd by his Officers, made an effort
To have the new Venus seen naked in Court;
Urging, whate'er Fame in her favour had spoke,
'Twas unfit Men should buy a Pig in a Poke.

But had she appear'd, D---comb swore by his Life
He had us'd her as once he did Elland's vain Wife;
No sooner was his rude Request disallow'd,
But on the whole Bench he lookt big, and talkt loud.

What his bluff Speech did mean they were all in suspence,
Some say 'twas Tarpaulin Language, and Sense:
But this was e'ery tittle the Court understood,
It began with G***me, and clos'd with G*** Blood.

An old ugly Lawyer at last did appear,
And brought in black Boxes a Thousand a Year:

165

At which all th'Assembly murmur'd, contending
He had long since past the Age of pretending.

But Venus reproving them, bid him come nigher,
And when he was mounted up a little higher,
She openly declar'd that Wealth and Estate
Was to catch Womankind the infallible Bait.

This pow'rful Temptation none e'er cou'd oppose;
It covers all Faults, and all Virtue bestows;
'Tis a lure which the highest flown Jilts can command,
Make 'em stoop, and bring the wild Haggards to hand.

Fifteen it can draw to the Arms of Threescore;
Procure Apsly a Wife, and Clifford a Whore,
It still carries with it, such Philtres are in it,
The Canonical hour, and the Critical minute.

'Twas this Spell the fair Montagues eyes so put out,
She could neither see S---olks Age nor his Gout;
And in spite of his Humour, yet worse than his Face,
Brought long averse Newport to Herberts Embrace.

This, this is the Charm which never did fail
O'er Beauty, Youth, Merit, and Wit to prevail;
And without a Syllable more or less said,
To young Luck she put the old Fumbler to Bed.

Much muttering there was, and some spar'd not the Queen,
In every Man's Face displeasure was seen;
Each thought himself by the strange Sentence ill us'd,
And the partial blindness of Fortune accus'd.

But all cheer'd up at last, not a Sot that was there
But hop'd in his turn with the Lawyer to share,
And that since for twenty good Summers at least
He had left being a Man, she would make him a Beast.

166

Doctor Wild's Ghost, on his Majesty's Declaration for Liberty of Conscience.

How! Liberty of Conscience! That's a change
Balks the Crape Gown, and mortifies L' Estrange.
Two lines of brisk Gazette in pieces tears,
All Crackfarts labour'd Scribles 20 Years.
The Clergy-Guide himself is left ith' lurch,
To which he quailpip'd easy Daughter Church.
So the foul Fiend at Hammeton, they say,
In Fidlers Guise so charmingly did play,
That all the Buxom Youths of that mad Town
Follow'd his charming wheedling up and down,
Till the whole Troop an unseen Gulph did drown.
What's now become of our Informing Crew,
The Browns, the Hiltons? O the Loyals true!
Once Pillars of the Church, the Church by Law,
For more were bug-bear'd to her Church by Aw,
Than all the Sermon-Readers e'er could draw.
Those useful Blades, Instruments Orthodox,
Soon as they found the Church was ith' wrong box,
Fell from her faster than from Whore with Pox.
So Rats by Instinct quit a falling House;
So dying Beggar's left by every Louse.
P*** the Spiritual Dragoon, who made
By Soul-money a pretty thriving Trade,
Gave to Old Nick each refractory Ninny,
And whisk't him back for the repenting Guinny,
Is now grown Bankrupt, weary of his Life,
And almost Wild and Frantick as his Wife.
Those that e'er while no mortal Sin could spy,
So bad, so gross as Nonconformity,
Are now become the only Malecontents,
And each in sullen Sighs his Passion vents.

167

Passive Obedience was all the clutter,
But soon as their own Nails are par'd, they mutter:
Dear Whigs, Dissenting Brethren, pray forbear
To meet, Indulgence is a Royal Snare;
The Declaration is a Trojan Horse;
The Form's illegal, and the Matter worse.
There is a Snake ith' Grass, that's all the Cry:
Which is in short to give their Prince the lie,
And charge the best of Kings with Treachery.
Is this the Church of England's Loyalty?
Sadly they toll their Bells, and wring their hands,
Religion (that's their Tithe Pigs and Glebe Lands)
The Protestant Religion now will fall,
Bell and the Dragon will devour us all.
These Jesuits are cruel cunning Elves,
We would have none to spoil you but our selves.
O tender zealous Spirits! sad condition!
Idolatry will eat up Superstition;
The Calf at Bethel fears the Calf at Dan:
The Grid-Iron grumbles at the Frying-Pan.
And now the Jacks have lost their wonted Prey,
They fear the Sharks will carry all away.
So Conjurers grow tow'rds their end in fear
That their familiar Devil will them tear.
But O ye Champions, bring forth now and shew
The foreskins of the Philistines you slew.
When in your Power, Popery favour found,
And all the Cry was, Knock Dissenters down;
Yet now ye bawl, Tyber the Thames will drown:
But fear not Tribe of Smirk, if Popery must be,
You'l find the Nuns are pretty Company;
And if the fiery Trial should return,
Most of you wet your selves too much to burn:
At worst—
'Tis but conforming t'other step, and then
Jure Divino Whip and Spur again.

168

The Renegado Poet.

Damon the Author of so great Renown,
Whose Muse so long has entertain'd the Town,
Grown old, and almost starv'd by th'jilting Jade,
Resolv'd at last to try some other Trade;
And to maintain the Family at home,
Sets up, and scribbles for the Church of Rome,
Yet e'er the Apostate left the sinking Stage,
He thus broke forth in a Poetick rage.

What sullen Planet rul'd my angry Fate,
And mark'd me out to be unfortunate!
For of all Plagues with which Mankind is curs'd,
That of being doom'd a Poet is the worst.
Despis'd and out at Heels, he spends his days
In Rhyme, to get the name of Poet Bays:
When big with thought to ease the lab'ring Brain,
He vents it in a Panegyrick strain;
Basely he prostitutes his Muses Fame,
To some rich Booby Lord, or Statesman's Name;
Calls him both Wise and Generous, tho he be
Like Dover dull, or Churchill niggardly.
If some good Piece the rhyming Drudg has writ,
He gives the Booby leave to father it;
Then crys it up, and while he wou'd make known
His Patron's Wit, slily commends his own.

To scrible Songs and tender Elegies,
Is what a Man of Credit shou'd despise:
For such small Jobs Ousley alone is fit,
Bob has the great retailing Trade of Wit;
Let him of Lawra's Cruelty complain,
Follow his flying Daphne still in vain.
His Wit and Shape must unsuccessful prove,
For both so heavy are they ne'er can move,
The one to stay, the other Nymph to love.

169

No more than Cholmly's Billets deux have done,
Tho like Quack-bills dispers'd all o'er the Town:
But if at last into a Ballad turn'd,
And by some famous Wooden Cut adorn'd,
Pleas'd with the Tune, and by some thoughts betray'd,
The moving Lines charm some poor Chambermaid;
Well may the Poet triumph in his Wit,
For 'tis the greatest Conquest he can get.

In pointed Satyr to reform the Age,
Who but an hot-brain'd Zealot would ingage?

Let a disbanded Peer kick'd out oth' Court,
And made some upstart Statesman's common sport,
Sneak like a Dog, and beg he may be sent
With a great Character to Banishment.
Since he is pleas'd to be made such a Tool,
What is't to me? why must I call him Fool?
If an aspiring Wretch himself to raise,
Inslaves his Country and his God betrays,
Like a proud Villain: say whate'er you can,
You'l never make him turn an honest Man.
He's still a Villain, but what has been said
At last falls heavy on the Author's Head;
The cudgel'd Poet by experience finds
The tough Bamboon smarts sharplier than his Lines.

Since then with Poetry so ill I've thriven,
I will turn Casuist, and write for Heaven;
Not that I love its Cause, but that I hope
To find a better Patron of the Pope.

The Tribe of Levi.

Since Plagues were order'd for a Scourge to Men,
And Egypt sore was chastned with her Ten;
No greater Plague did any State molest,
Than the severe, the lasting Plague, a Priest.

170

Some Savage Beasts, by Laws of Nature bound,
Only in Woods and desert Lands are found;
No Land, no Climate, can this Monster bind,
But like some Hydra multiplies his Kind,
Through th'extended Orb directs his Course,
And is at best a Universal Curse.

Ah happy Albion, to the Gods most dear!
How bright thy Rocks and fertile Lands appear!
The Oceans glory, and its Nymphs delight,
The Nations Terror by thy Men of Might.
Thrice happy Albion! had there ne'er possest
Thy spacious Kingdoms, the consuming Priest!
Who Locust-like the Nations overspread,
In every place a Priest erects his Head.
These as the Fishes in the Water breed,
And on the Fat of all the Pastures feed.
Nor are they satisfy'd to have a Pow'r
To drain the Nation, and its Fat devour;
But like the Devil always bent on Ill,
They plot new Mischiefs and Devices still;
Their unknown Virtues do the Crowd deceive;
What priestly Knaves report, dull Fools believe.
Nor is a Prince (how great so e'er he be)
From their Deceit and studied Malice free;
Like Fiends ascending from the House of Smoke,
They all around the gilded Palace flock,
And in the Ears of Monarchy they sing,
That had they not been Priests he'ad ne'er been King.
Set off with Titles and a Specious Name,
They quickly set the wondring World on flame.
Methinks I hear its burden'd Axels break,
And of the Priests dead Weight distinctly speak;
The senseless Elements together moan,
And all around the vast Creation groan.
Ye juster Deities, true Friends to Men,
Assist my Muse and guide my fainting Pen;
A generous Passion raise within my Breast,
That may affect the vilest Monster, Priest;

171

Let my Muse lash, the Strokes be bold and good,
As if my Pen were Steel, my Ink were Blood.

Close by those Banks, the Banks where Silver Thames
Still glides along with unpolluted Streams,
A Fabrick stands, no Storm of Fate molests,
From its Foundation was possest by Priests;
Here Levi lives, o'ergrown with Sin and Years,
Good God, what Lewdness lurks in hoary Hairs!
As chief of Priests, Imperial Sway does bear,
For he alone is God's Vicegerent here;
His lesser Villains of the Church are Slaves,
For he that's chief of Priests is chief of Knaves.
'Twas this same Levi did our James enthrone,
And when h' had done, as basely pull'd him down:
The Levites first his Sovereign Will declar'd,
The Levites first his Sovereign Will debar'd.
And thus old Levi, through mistaken fame,
Had got a Patriot's and a Martyr's Name;
Him th'unstable Mob with Praises grac'd,
And thus his Humour for his Conscience past:
Morose and peevish, insolently proud,
Levi would stoop to none but to the Crowd,
Who, e'er the Rabble could his Blessings crave,
His Apostolick Benedictions gave.

Unhappy James! prepostrous was the Fate
That brought on thee the Clergys frown and hate.
Hadst thou our Civil Rights and Charters took,
Not half a word the Clergy then had spoke:
But to molest the Church, was to depose
God's holy Blockheads, and set up his Foes.
Now foreign Troops invited o'er the Main,
Come to disturb the Scenes of thy short Reign.
Grown mad with fear when thou hadst lost the Day,
And in inglorious haste didst run away,
Our pious Levi loyally came down
T'invite our future Monarch to the Town.
How beggarly's the Crown! how mean the State,
That does depend on Bishops love or hate!

172

Nor can Conventions now make him a King,
Till Levi does the Regal Vestments bring:
In vain's your Reasoning, in vain your Toil,
If Levi but keep back th'anointing Oil.
'Twas not for this the Hero was brought o'er,
No, but to settle Church as 'twas before,
To beat his Dad, and call his Mother Whore.
Should he be crown'd, Levi's Designs are crost,
The Juggle too of the Succession lost.
If James be reinthron'd, we must ascribe
His Restoration unto Levi's Tribe:
And thus the Hierarchy of course bears Rule,
And the weak Monarch is the Bishop's Tool;
None but the Church should keep their Civil Rights,
And all Dissenters be but Gibeonites.
So much these Arguments with Levi sway'd,
That he aside his Faith and Conscience laid;
At once the Sanhedrim and God forsook,
And to his own pernicious Counsels took;
Rather than have his Priests left in the lurch,
Would damn himself only to save the Church.
Thus in a fret he to his Cell retires,
To plot new Mischiefs, and blow up new Fires.
Had this Retirement been well design'd,
Only to ease the Plague of Human Kind,
Levi, thy Absence then we ne'er should mourn,
Nor been ambitious of thy loath'd Return.
But since thy Den's become the Lion's Court,
Whither in black the Beasts of Prey resort,
May'st thou from thence thy final Journey take,
And on some Gibbet thy just Exit make.

Nor shalt thou Corah, now my Hand is in,
Escape the justest Censure of my Pen;
Corah, in the lewd List must next take place,
To Man and to Religion a disgrace.

In him, when young, the Priestly Sign appears,
Did promise Mischief in his tender Years,

173

No cost was wanting to provide him Tools,
To pass the learned Drudgery of the Schools,
Where Youth is with the Laws Corruption fed,
Where Priests are form'd, and holy Cheats are bred.
Their slavish Tenents much our Corah lov'd,
And in the Tricks of Priesthood soon improv'd.
He from the Pulpit did his Doctrine breath,
And shed his Venom on the Crowd beneath:
He taught that Kings might govern by their Will,
And like the Gods themselves could ne'er do ill;
That Princes had an arbitrary Power,
And might their Subjects, when they pleas'd, devour;
That God all Reason gave to Kings and Priests,
And that all Men besides were only Beasts.
But when his Lion from the Throne was driven,
Disown'd by all good Men and juster Heaven,
A King set up the Nations all approv'd,
A King that God and all the People lov'd:
Our treacherous Corah had his Faith forgot,
And turn'd his fam'd Obedience to a Plot;
His scruplous Conscience would not let him swear,
Whilst Father liv'd, Obedience to the Heir;
But in the Head of a Rebellious Race,
As void of moral Vertues as of Grace,
Corah the new-made Monarch did disown,
And since the other went, each Action done;
Until King William's Fate resounds from far,
His great Success and Enterprize in War,
And Fame aloud does of his Fortunes tell,
How by his hand the Sons of Corah fell.
Now Corah is become a milder Priest,
And swears as well as any of the rest.
Priests are like Spaniels ne'er inclin'd to good,
No longer than they see or feel the Rod.
Ah William, had I but thy Scepter Royal!
By Heaven I'd beat the Dogs till they were Loyal.

Ungrateful Corah! I'll bid thee adieu;
Since God hath left thee, I will leave thee too:

174

Nor shall my Satyr e'er disturb thy Life,
Since thou hast got a Satyr in a Wife.

Dathan must next be from Oblivion freed,
Who in the Field obtain'd the Bishops Meed;
Was bred a Soldier, now by Trade a Priest,
Tho not so wise or learn'd as are the rest.
He seldom does to preaching make pretence,
But does excuse it by his want of Sense.
Yet Dathan never like his Tribe was mad,
Nor were his Crimes so great or half so bad;
Dathan did never question his Belief,
But pinn'd his Faith upon his Father's Sleeve;
Sometimes was in the right, but vary'd soon,
And chang'd his loose Opinion with the Moon.
Dathan did with King William's Interest close,
Yet like a Sot encourag'd all his Foes.
Who but wise Dathan would his Sense prefer,
And take the part of a Petitioner?
Favour the City Mob, so lately fam'd,
For Murderers and Evidences nam'd?
Yet Dathan, though thy Crimes too far exceed,
I'll pardon all thy Faults for one good Deed.

But damn'd Abiram must my Anger feel,
Whose Lewdness is as deep, as black as Hell,
Such as a Muse, scarce as Old Nick, can tell.
Abiram did late Jemmy's Will controul,
And made a Seventh in the famous Roll:
Abiram with 'em enter'd his Protest,
And grew as saucy as did all the rest;
But now his Conscience does by Levi's square,
And his leud Thoughts with Levi's Notes compare.
Levi to God nor to the Kingdom true,
The elder Brother of the factious Crew;
He chose Abiram out of all the Tribe,
To be his Secretary and his Scribe,
Who best to Mr. Redding might present
The Strength and Weakness of the Government;

175

How stiff the Levites to his Interest stood,
As true as Steel and firm as Oaken Wood.
But poor Abiram does the Toil endure,
Whilst Levi in his Cell does sit secure:
Levi of Freedom knew the worth and price,
And therefore sent the Fools to break the Ice.
Tho some in forming Plots may well agree,
Yet few think good to hang for Company:
But poor Abiram! it would vex a Stone,
To plot in Numbers, and to hang alone.
Yet never at thy Destiny repine,
Hanging's the fittest Death for a D---ne;
For who does ever at the Gallows swing,
But e'er he's turned off a Psalm does sing?
And tho thou art a dire Example made,
Thou'lt leave the World in thy own way of Trade.

Nor must Abiatbar be here forgot,
For he that well can write can make a Plot:
Of any Faith he never maketh doubt,
But like the Wind his Conscience veers about.
In lofty Strains he Tyrant Noll did praise,
And to his Fame a lasting Statue raise;
Who in Usurper's praise employ their Pens,
Have no Affection to their lawful Prince.
Whate'er pretence to Priesthood may belong,
Gold is their God, and Glory guides their Tongue;
These even Beelzebub have quite outdone,
In Priest thy Athens Plagues are cram'd in one.

But now my Muse another Story tells;
Pray hear the Sound of pious Aaron's Bells,
Whose Strength of Zeal suppresses that of Sense,
Where Flesh does fail, Devotion does commence:
Tir'd with Age, of youthful Vigor free,
He is devout of meer Necessity;
His great Austerity his Tribe does sute,
He sometimes rides, but oftner walks on foot:
Such pageant Zeal attendeth Bishopricks,
He well may walk, where follows Coach and Six.

176

Nor can he pray, but where his Pictures stand,
To fix his Zeal, and wandring Thoughts command.
These Images do pious Heats confer,
And raise Devotion up the Lord knows where;
He soars so high, and to the Clouds does grow,
He quite forgets all Loyalty below,
Can take no Oath nor swallow any Test,
But must be stubborn as are all the rest.

Let lasting Infamy curst Zadoc damn,
Who maketh all Religion but a Sham:
Zadoc who boasts of Fighting, Drinking, Roaring,
And above all his mighty Strength in Whoring;
Yet to debauch his Conscience now is loth,
And swears by God he cannot take the Oath:
Let Zadoc to his Sins stand firm and stiff,
Till Triple Tree shall take the Triple F---

Next in the List must Eleazar come,
A Foe to England, and a Friend to Rome.
Priests in Divinity take little Pains,
And with Religion seldom crack their Brains.
This want of Sense made Eleazar run
The first to worship the arising Sun.
When Brother Priests arrived here from Rome,
Good Eleazar did invite them home:
He took his Coach, and mighty Stir he made
To be assistant at the Cavalcade;
But yet thy Coachman, as the Act exprest,
By most was thought the better sort of Priest;
He would not drive, nor Rome's black Friends adore,
When thou were but Postilion to the Whore;
Whilst honest Slash did for his Freedom strive,
Thou like the Devil unto Rome didst drive:
Thy Brethren banish'd by the present Reign,
Thou long'st to view and welcome here again.
Not the lewd Levites which arrive from Rome,
Are greater Villains than our Priests at home:
The Church's Warriors of thy py-bald Band,
That plague the Natives of this wretched Land,

177

That blow the Coals and warmer Blood ferment,
To cause a Fever in the Government.

I'll mention but one more and then have done,
'Tis fighting Josuah the Son of Nun:
Though he to Men of Sense is a Buffoon,
He serves to make a Spiritual Dragoon.
What tho he cannot preach, or pray or write,
He 'gainst his Country and his King can fight.
He's strongly armed with a double Sword,
To fight God's Battels and to preach his Word.
What Wonders in the Field were lately done,
By fighting Josuah the Son of Nun?
He bravely Monmouth and his Force withstood,
And made the Western Land a Field of Blood;
There Josuah did his reaking Heat asswage,
On every Sign-post gibbet up his Rage;
Glutted with Blood like some most Christian Turk,
And scarce out-done by Jefferies or Kirk:
Yet now the Priest is grown a Rebel too,
And what Monmouthians did, himself can do.
Since thou like them art equally to blame,
Their Fate was to be hang'd, be thine the same.

Should I of all the lesser Villains tell,
It would a great, a bulky Volume fill,
Fit for the Devil's Library in Hell.
Should I their Lewdness and their Crimes relate,
Their Lusts, their Perjuries, their Envy, Hate,
Their filthy Drunkenness, their height of Pride,
Their Avarice, yet Luxury beside,
Their want of Goodness and their want of Sense,
And their Repentance in the future Tense,
Their new-coin'd Tenets which the Pulpits fill,
Would tire out Pelling's Passive Lungs to tell.
Hophnie of old laid down his rampant Whore,
And thump'd her Carcase at the Temple-Door:
But who can tell what Tricks our Priests do use
Behind the Altar and within the Pews?

178

The antient Levites (as the times then stood)
Were Men of Cruelty and Men of Blood;
The far more harmless Bulls they did surprize,
And near the Altar slew the Sacrifice.
Altho the Butcher now does not take place,
The Cruelty's entail'd upon the Race;
Our Priests are all descended from that Stem,
Nero and Aretine are Saints to them;
They oft the Blood of War in Peace have spill'd,
How many Prisons has their Malice fill'd?
How many Widows have they made a Prey?
What Goods the holy Guzmans stole away!
Well may they grieve now, having lost the Power
By which they Widows Houses did devour:
That Land's accurst, hath reason to lament,
Where Priests are made a piece of Government;
They damn our Souls and lead us weary Lives,
Mislead our Daughters and debauch our Wives:
Whatever shew of Zeal the Priesthood paints,
They are at best but cuckoldizing Saints,
The pious Vermin that molest a State,
The Source of all Disorder and Debate;
The Bane of Princes, a tumultuous Crew,
Not satisfy'd with what is old or new.
For James they underwent a wondrous Toil,
And greas'd his Head with their anointing Oil;
But when he to the Jesuits tack'd about.
They as the Devil with Pray'r cast him out.
Nor are they with their new-made Monarch glad,
(The Priests have still a Privilege to be mad)
Tho easy, gentle, and averse to Blood,
His only Crime, he's to his Foes too good;
Well may he have the Priests to be his Foes,
That even God Almighty would depose.

179

CLITO:

A Poem on the Force of Eloquence.

By Mr. Toland.

Clito the Wise, the Generous, and Good,
Better than whom none ever understood
Or Things Or Words, would yet distinctly know
How far the Force of Eloquence could go
To teach Mankind those Truths which they mistake,
And who the noble Task durst undertake.
To him ADEISIDÆMON thus replies:
O thou, whose Age my younger Years supplies
With Virtue's Precepts, and my Country's Love,
What Laws below, or Pow'rs there be above,
Made bold by thy Example, and the Fame
Of antient Heroes (whose immortal Name
Might serve alone all Errors to reform)
I shall the welcome Labour thus perform.

In common Words I vulgar things will tell,
And in Discourse not finely speak, but well.
My Phrase shall clear, short, unaffected be,
And all my Speech shall like my Thoughts be free;
Not grave enough to fright the Young away,
Nor yet for elder Company too gay.

But when the Crowd I'm chosen to persuade
By long Orations for the purpose made;
Or by, what reaches more with more success,
The labour'd Compositions of the Press:
Then shall my fertile Brain new Terms produce,
Or old Expressions bring again in use,
Make all Ideas with their Signs agree,
And sooner things than Words shall wanting be.

180

Harmonious Sounds th'attentive Ear shall please,
While artful Numbers Passions lay or raise;
Commanding Vigor shall my Thoughts convey,
And Softness seal the Truth of all I say:
I'll sooth the raging Mob with mildest Words,
Or sluggish Cowards rouse to use their Swords.
As furious Winds sweep down whate'er resists,
So shall my Tongue perform whate'er it lists,
With large impetuous Floods of Eloquence
Tickle the Fancy and bewitch the Sense;
Make what it will the justest Cause appear,
And what's perplex'd or dark look bright and clear.
Not that I would the wrongful Side defend;
He best protects who's ablest to offend:
As the same Force which serves to curb our Foes,
Can hurt those Friends who on our Love repose,
And for whose sake we would our Lives expose.

Thus arm'd, thus strong, thus fitted to perswade,
I'll Truth protect, and Error strait invade,
Dispel those Clouds that darken human Sight,
And bless the World with Everlasting Light.
A noble Fury does possess my Soul,
Which all may forward, nothing can controul;
The fate of Beings, and the hopes of Men,
Shall be what pleases my creating Pen.

Who form'd the Universe, and when and why,
Or if all things were from Eternity;
What Laws to Nature were prescrib'd by Jove;
Where lies his chiefest Residence above;
Or if he's only but the World's great Soul;
Or Parts the Creatures are, and God the Whole
From whence all Beings their Existence have,
And into which resolv'd they find a Grave;
How nothing's lost, tho all things change their Form,
As that's a Fly which was but now a Worm;
And Death is only to begin to be
Some other thing, which endless change shall see;

181

(Then why should Men to die have so great fear?
Tho nought's Immortal, all Eternal are.)
Whether the Stars be numerous Suns, or no,
And what's their Use above, or Pow'r below;
What Planets are inhabited, what not;
How many new emerg'd, what old forgot;
If the dull Earth does turn about the Sun,
Or that bright Phebus round this Globe does run;
Whence the Magnetic Force; how VVinds can blow;
What makes the Ocean duly ebb and flow;
How come th'alternate Seasons of the Year,
And why the VVeather's warm, cold, dull or clear;
How Animals and Plants increase their Kind;
And what's the Source of Life, of Soul or Mind;
How Stones and Metals, Sands or Shells are fram'd,
Shall only after me be rightly nam'd.
Thus quick as Thought I unconfin'd will fly
Thro boundless Space and vast Eternity;
Nature to me appears in no disguize,
Nor can one Atom scape my prying Eyes.

O Glorious Liberty! for thee I'll prove
The firmest Patron that e'er Tongue did move;
I'll always execute what you decree,
And be the fatal Scourge of Slavery.
Ambitious Tyrants, proud and useless Drones,
I'll first expose, then tumble from their Thrones:
Some their foul Crimes shall expiate by Death,
And some in Exile draw their hated Breath.
Their warlike Troops I shall with ease disband,
And conquer those who all besides command;
I've known a Senate with some magic Words
To Forks and Spades transform their bloody Swords,
Those hect'ring Braves, who vaunt their Force so loud,
A Patriot's Tongue can humble with the Crowd.
Our fearless Youth (if these are at an end)
Will their own Rights by their own Arms defend,
And punish Nations when they dare offend.

182

But, by the Soul of him who Julius kill'd,
When I perceive that Oracle fulfill'd,
Which was to me pronounc'd by Men Divine,
That All goes well when Whigs and Tories join;
I'll sing the Triumphs of the Good Old Cause,
Establish Justice, reinthrone the Laws,
Restore the Nation to its perfect health,
Then Pow'r usurp'd destroy, and form a Common-wealth.

But what in faint Ideas I conceive,
A matchless Hero will by Facts atchieve;
That Freedom he restor'd he will maintain,
Incourage Merit, and leud Vice restrain.
Our Laws, Religion, Arms, our Coin and Trade,
All flourish under him, before decay'd;
In this more safe, more mighty and renown'd,
Than if ten thousand Successors he crown'd:
For oft a just and valiant Prince's Name
Degenerate Sons by horrid Crimes defame.
Her Brutus Rome had not so long ador'd,
If he had made himself her Sov'reign Lord.
O Godlike Brutus! for thy Country's good
Thou didst not shrink to shed thy Childrens Blood!
And sure at home if thou wer't so severe,
Thou'dst never labour for a foreign Heir.
But more than Tongues can speak, or Pens improve,
The World and I expect from William's Love,
His People's Darling, Heav'ns peculiar Care,
The Branch of Peace, and Thunderbolt of War.

Thrice happy they who see thy Youth renew'd,
O potent Britain! thy worst Foes subdu'd,
The proudest Kingdoms for thy Friendship sue,
And all free States their Safety place in you.
Their Products East and West shall send to thee,
Both Indies gladly will thy Handmaids be;
The North unlocks her adamantin Door,
And what the South conceals thou shalt explore.
Thy mighty Fleets our Honours will regain,
And the Flag's Triumph e'ery where maintain.

183

Thy Sons shall reap fresh Laurels near and far,
Umpires of Peace and Leaders still in War.
High Heaven alone shall o'er thy Buildings sway,
And that alone be fairer thought than they.
Submissive Kings shall on thy Senate wait,
While Nations thence expect to hear their Fate.
Let Learning then and Manners be thy care,
The Proud to humble, the Distress'd to spare,
And to free those who slavish Fetters wear.

But what if Tyrants ne'er were heard of more?
What serves it equal Freedom to restore,
So long as other Monsters worse than they,
Rule all Mankind with a despotic Sway?
These are fit Objects of a Hero's rage;
But where's the Herc'les to redeem the Age?

No longer thus the World shall be misled
By him that's falsly call'd th'unerring Head.
His Triple Crown I scornfully will spurn,
And his proud Seat to heaps of Rubbish turn,
Fright all his Vassals into Dens and Caves,
Then smoke to Death the sacrilegious Slaves.
The swarming Herds of crafty Priests and Monks,
The female Orders of Religious Punks,
Cardinals, Patriarchs, Metropolitans,
Franciscans, Jesuits, Dominicans,
And such like barbarous Names Ecclesiastic,
Such superstitious, villanous, fantastic,
Coz'ning Rogues I'll evermore disturb,
Sense shall their Doctrines, Force their Malice curb.
Nor will I here desist; all Holy Cheats
Of all Religions shall partake my Threats,
Whether with sable Gowns they show their Pride,
Or under Clokes their Knavery they hide,
Or whatso'er disguise they choose to wear
To gull the People while their Spoils they share.
As much as we revere those worthy Men,
Whe teach what's peaceful, necessary, plain;

184

So much we should such Hypocrites impeach,
As only Jargon, Strife, and Empire preach.
Religion's safe, with Priestcraft is the War;
All Friends to Priestcraft, Foes of Mankind are.
Their impious Fanes and Altars I'll o'erthrow,
And the whole Farce of their feign'd Saintship show;
Their pious Tricks disclose; their murd'ring Zeal,
And all their awful Mysteries reveal;
Their lying Prophets, and their jugling Thieves
Discredit quite; their foolish Books (as Leaves
From Trees in Autumn fall) I'll scatter wide,
And show those Fables which they fain would hide.

When I've perform'd these Feats, new Danger calls;
From Earth I'll soar, and scale high Heaven's Walls
To pull false Gods from thence, that Men may see
There's but One, True, All-perfect Deity.
Sound Reason is the Law that likes him best,
Of Good and Ill the never-erring Test.
His Sacred Temple's e'ery good Man's Heart,
Where his choice Gifts he freely does impart;
But they deserve and share his first Applause,
Who stake their Lives in their dear Country's Cause.
An honest Mind is the best Pray'r he needs;
Paid with good Works, for him no Victim bleeds.
With Forms and Postures he is never pleas'd.
Nor is his Wrath with Bribes to be appeas'd:
But, happy in himself, he neither wants
Ought we can give; nor greater Blessings grants
Than solid Sense, and an industrious Pain,
Riches with this, Wisdom with that to gain.

From this high Steep with hasty flight I'll bend,
And to the Bosom of the Earth descend;
To those dark Shades I'll introduce the Day,
And the vain Terrors of Hell's Court display.
But wicked Deeds shall not unpunish'd go,
Tho not as Priests and Poets falsly show.

185

Those Old-Wives Tales, imaginary Fears,
The Cause of Horror, and the Source of Tears,
I'll soon destroy; extinguish all their Flames,
Dry up their Rivers, break their ratling Chains,
Poison their Serpents, fright each hideous Form,
Cerberus choke, and Pluto's Castle storm.
Legions of Fiends to Atoms I'll reduce,
And leave bad Men no Tempter for excuse,
But such leud Thoughts as their vain Fancy draws,
Rebels to Reason's just and easy Laws.
The best Repentance is to sin no more,
And to the Owners what they've lost restore.
Hell's always flaming in a Villain's Mind,
Who's self-condemn'd, abhor'd of all Mankind,
And still suspicious of a Fo behind.
Virtue's its own Reward; nor Rage of Foes,
Nor Frowns of Friends can Virtue discompose.
Tho Malice, Fraud, and Envy may combine,
Spite of their Fury Innocence will shine.
An honest man, when thousands treat him ill,
His conscious Virtue will support him still;
Till undeceiv'd, the World repairs his Fame,
Life yields him Honour, Death a glorious Name.

Thus pow'rful Eloquence shall teach the Wise
Vile and absurd Inventions to despise;
And Fools will mend when abler men exhort,
Or by strict Laws are kept from doing hurt.
But as no Rule without exception is,
So Fools in Learning come not under this:
For neither Brains nor Books make them improve,
Nor Laws restrain, so much they Mischief love.
The easiest things they speak in Terms uncouth,
And empty Notions hug for solid Truth.
Sworn Foes to Reason, whose resistless Light
Condemns their Pride and Ignorance to Night:
Slaves to Authority, the Bane of Schools,
Because all Times have Precedents for Fools.

186

If in right ways I cannot such direct,
I'll spoil their Trade, their Vanity detect.
As sick men order'd by their Doctors Bills
To breath that Air which quickly cures or kills;
So shall my Words like Thunderbolts be hurl'd,
And will confound or mend the erring World.

But when from Cares and publick Business free,
Bright Victorina my lov'd Theme shall be;
The softest Words the sweetest Things will tell,
And all I write or speak be fine and well.
When she inspires, I must great things pursue;
If she approv'd, what Wonders cou'd I do?
I shou'd than all to come discover more,
And would eclipse those Lights which shin'd before.
But her dear Image calms my raging Breast,
All should be still to lodg so fair a Guest,
Who hating me, I'm curst; or loving, ever blest.

Thus far I spoke; and Clito all approv'd,
Except what last was said of her I lov'd.
He did not blame my Passion, and allow'd
A virtuous Woman's Heart might well be woo'd;
But that her Hate (like other Ills) the Wise
Shou'd soften first, or missing that, despise:
For Cowards lose by a too quick Despair
What's gain'd by nobler Souls who persevere,
And in Success or Merit Victors are.
We part; and each went where he wish'd to be,
I to my Study, to his Garden He.

187

Some Verses sent by a Friend to one who twice ventur'd his Carcase in Marriage.

The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean,
He always in danger, she always in motion;
And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase,
Twice ventures the Drowning, and Faith that's a hard case.
Even at our own Weapons the Females defeat us,
And Death, only Death can sign our Quietus.
Not to tell you sad Stories of Liberty lost,
Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost;
That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station,
Sutes no other State or Degree in the Nation.
The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty,
For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty?
The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble,
And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double.
'Twas invented they tell you to keep us from falling,
O the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwawling!
How it palls in your Gain; but pray how do you know Sir.
How often your Neighbour breaks in your Inclosure?
For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage,
You must eat tho a hundred have spit in your Porridg.
If at night you're unactive, or fail in performing,
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed next Morning;
Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner,
This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.
Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally,
And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gally;

188

And still you must charge, O blessed Condition!
Tho you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition:
Till at last the poor Tool of a mortified Man
Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan.
Fire, Flood, and Female begin with a Letter,
But for all the World's not a Farthing the better.
Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble,
If into the Flames Store of Water you tumble;
But to cure the damn'd Lust of your Wife's Titillation,
You may use all the Engins and Pumps in the Nation,
As well you may piss out the last Conflagration.
And thus I have sent you my Thoughts of the matter,
You may judg as you please, I scorn for to flatter;
I could say much more, but here ends the Chapter.

Signior Dildoe

by the E. of Rochester, 1678.

1

You Ladies all of merry England,
Who have been to kiss the Dutchess's Hand,
Pray did you not lately observe in the Show
A noble Italian, call'd Signior Dildoe?

2

This Signior was of her Dutchesses Train,
And help'd to conduct her over the Main;
But now she cries out to the Duke, I will go,
I have no more need for Signior Dildoe.

3

At the Sign of the Cross in St. James's Street,
When next you go thither to make your selves sweet,
By buying of Powder, Gloves, Essence or so,
You may chance to get sight of Signior Dildoe.

189

4

You would take him at first for no Person of note,
Because he appears in a plain Leather Coat;
But when you his vertuous Abilities know,
You would fall down and worship Signior Dildoe.

5

My Lady Southesk, Heaven prosper her for't,
First cloth'd him in Sattin, then brought him to Court;
But his Head in the Circle he scarcely durst show,
So modest a Youth was Signior Dildoe.

6

The good Lady Suffolk thinking no harm,
Had got this poor Stranger hid under her Arm:
Lady Betty by chance came the Secret to know,
And from her own Mother stole Signior Dildoe.

7

The Countess of Falmouth, of whom People tell,
Her Footmen wore Shirts of a Guinea an Ell,
Might save that Expence, if she did but know,
How lusty a Swinger is Signior Dildoe.

8

By the help of this Gallant the Countess of Rafe,
Against the fierce Harris preserv'd her self safe;
She stifled him almost beneath her Pillow,
So closely she embraced Signior Dildoe.

9

That Pattern of Vertue her Grace of Cl---land
Has swallow'd more P---s than the Nation has Land;
But by rubbing and scrubbing so wide it does grow,
It is fit for just nothing but Signior Dildoe.

10

Our dainty fine Dutchess having got a Trick,
To dote on a Fool for the sake of his—
The Fops were undone, did their Graces but know
The Discretion and Vigour of Signior Dildoe.

11

The Dutchess of M---na tho she looks high,
With such a Gallant is contented to lie;

190

And lest the English her Secrets should know,
For her Gentleman Usher took Signior Dildoe.

12

The Countess of the Cockpit (who knows not her Name?)
She's famous in Story for a killing Dame;
When all her old Lovers forsake her, I trow,
She'l then be contented with Signior Dildoe.

13

Red Howard, red Sheldon, and Temple so tall,
Complain of his Absence so long from Whitehall;
Signior Barnard has promis'd a Journy to go,
And bring back his Country-man Signior Dildoe.

14

Moll. Howard no longer with his Highness must range,
And therefore is proffered this civil Exchange;
Her Teeth being rotten, she smells best below,
And needs must be fitted for Signior Dildoe.

15

St. Albans with Wrinkles and Smiles in his Face,
Whose Kindness to Strangers becomes his high Place,
In his Coach and six Horses is gone to pergo,
To take the fresh Air with Signior Dildoe.

16

Were this Signior but known to the Citizen Fops,
He'd keep their fine Wives from the Foremen of their Shops;
But the Rascals deserve their Horns should still grow,
For burning the Pope and his Nephew Dildoe.

17

Tom. Killigrew's Wife, that Holland's fine Flower,
At the sight of this Signior did fart and belch sour;
And her Dutch Breeding further to show,
Says, Welcome to England Myne Heer Van Dildoe.

18

He civilly came to the Cockpit one night,
And proffer'd his Service to fair Madam Knight;
Quoth she, I intreague with Captain Cazzo,
Your Nose in mine A—good Signior Dildoe.

191

19

This Signior is sound, safe, ready and dumb,
As ever was Candle, Carrot, or your Thumb;
Then away with these nasty Devices, and show
How you rate the just Merit of Signior Dildoe.

20

Count Cazzo, who carries his Nose very high,
In Passion he swore his Rival should die,
Then shut himself up to let the World know,
Flesh and Blood could not bear it from Signior Dildoe.

21

A Rabble of P---s who were welcome before,
Now finding the Porter denied them the Door,
Maliciously waited his coming below,
And inhumanly fell on Signior Dildoe.

22

Nigh wearied out, the poor Stranger did fly,
And along the Pall Mall they followed full Cry;
The Women concern'd, from every Window
Cry'd, O for Heaven's sake save Signior Dildoe.

23

The good Lady Sands burst into a Laughter,
To see how the B---ks came wobbling after;
And had not their Weight retarded the Foe,
Indeed it had gone hard with Signior Dildoe.

The Encouragement

by the E. of Rochester.

'Tis the Arabian Bird alone
Lives chast, because there is but one;
But had Dame Nature made them two,
They would like Birds and Sparrows do.

192

[In all Humility we crave]

The Commons Petition to the King,

by the E. of Rochester.

In all Humility we crave
Our Sovereign may be our Slave,
And humbly beg that he may be
Betray'd to us most loyally;
And if he pleases to lay down
His Scepter, Dignity, and Crown,
We'l make him for the time to come
The greatest Prince in Christendom.

King's Answer.

Charles at this time having no need,
Thanks you as much as if he did.

A Satyr by the Lord Rochester, which King Charles took out of his Pocket.

Preserv'd by Wonder in the Oak, O Charles,
And then brought in by the Duke of Albemarle;
The first by Providence, the next all Devil,
Shews th'art a Compound made of Good and Evil:
The Bad we've too long known, the Good's to come,
But not expected till the day of Doom.
Was ever Prince's Soul so meanly poor,
To be a Slave to every little Whore?
The Seaman's Needle nimbly points the Pole,
But thine still points to every craving Hole;
Which Wolf-like in that Breast raw Flesh devours,
And must be fed all Seasons and all Hours.

193

C--- is the Mansion House where thou dost dwell,
But thou art fix'd as Tortoise to her Shell,
Whose Head peeps out a little now and then
To take the Air, and then creeps in agen.
Strong is thy Lust, in C--- thou'rt always diving,
And I dare swear thou pray'st to die a S---.
How poorly squanderst thou thy Seed away,
Who should get Kings for Nations to obey?
But thou poor Prince so uselesly hast sown it,
That the Creation is asham'd to own it;
Witness the Royal Lives sprung from the Belly
Of thy anointed Princess Madam Nelly,
Whose first Employment was with open Throat
To cry fresh Herrings, even Ten a Groat:
Then was by Madam Ross expos'd to Town,
I mean to those who would give half a Crown:
Next in the Play-house she took her Degree,
As Men commence at University.
No Doctors till they've Masters been before,
So no Players till they've been a Whore.
Look back and see the People mad with Rage,
To see the Bitch in such an Equipage;
And every day that they the Monster see,
They let 10000 Curses fly at thee:
Allow'd in publick Streets they use thee thus,
And none dare check them they're so numerous,

Stopping the Bank in thee was only great,
But in a Subject it had been a Cheat.
To pay thy Debts what Sum canst thou advance,
Now thy Exchequer is remov'd to France,
T'inrich a Harlot all made up of French,
Not worthy to be call'd a Whore, but Wench?
Cl---land indeed deserves that noble Name,
Whose monstrous Lechery exceeds all Fame;
The Empress Messaline was cloy'd with Lust at last,
But you could never satisfy this Beast:
Cl---land, I say, is much to be admir'd,
Altho she ne'er was satisfi'd or tir'd.

194

Full 40 Men a day provided for this Whore,
Yet, like a Bitch, she wags her Tail for more.
Where are the Bishops now? Where are their Bawdy Court;
Instead of Penance, they indulge the Sport;
For standing in white Sheets their Penance cools,
And's only fit for Frenchmen and for Fools.
O Heavens! wert thou for this loose Life preserv'd?
Are there no Gods nor Laws to be observ'd?
Nineveh repented after forty Days;
Be yet a King, and wear the Royal Bays:
But Jonas Threats will ne'er awaken thee,
Repentance is too mean for Majesty.
Go practise Heliogabalus his Sin,
Forget to be a Man, and learn to spin;
Go dally with the Women on their Wheels,
Till Nero-like they pull thee out by th'Heels:
Go read what Mahomet did (that was a thing
Did well become the Grandeur of a King)
Who all transported with his Mistress Charms,
And never pleas'd but in her lovely Arms;
Yet when his Janizaries wish'd her dead,
With his own Hand cut off Irene's Head:
Make such a Practice with thy self as this,
Then thou mayst once more tast of Happiness;
Each one will love thee, and the Parliament
Will their unkind and stubborn Votes repent,
And at your Feet lay open all their Purses,
And give you all their Prayers unmix'd with Curses.
All this I wish, altho I'm not your Friend,
Till like a Child you promise to amend;
If not, you'l find your Subjects rugged Stuff,
But now I think on't, I have said enough.

195

An Epitaph upon a Stumbling-Horse.

Here lies a Horse beneath this Stone,
Who living oft hath lain on one:
A noble Steed, who as he went
Proclaimed still his great Descent.
A proudly headed Nag he was,
And hence it often came to pass
That he his Feet not valued,
But still stood much upon his Head.
He was no War-Horse, yet he knew
The Art to squot and lie perdeu.
Yet many a Horse long train'd in Wars
Had never half so many Scars;
There's only this small difference in't,
Theirs were of Steel, and his of Flint.
He was no Hunter, nor did care
To follow Chase of Fox or Hare;
Yet had this property of Hound,
He still was smelling on the Ground.
And tho Dame Nature did not frame
Him for a finder of the Game,
Yet were it lost, none certainly
Would sooner stumble on't than he.
He was no Racer, as some say,
Tho some conclude the other way,
And say for swiftness he might run
Against the Horses of the Sun:
For though full swift Don Phæbus be,
This would be sooner down than he.
For his Opinion, Critick Wit
Does very much in guessing it.
Some say he was Conformist Breed,
He bow'd so low: but some this Steed
Think may for Nonconformist go,
At every thing he stumbles so.

196

Some think him Presbyter, 'cause he
Brings Rider down to Parity.
But some say no; for by this knack
He still throws Jockey from his back.
Some think him Papist, 'cause so prone
He was to worshipping of Stone.
Some think again, that tripping he
Confutes Infallibility;
But most allow him, which is worse,
No more Religion than a Horse.
Well now he's dead, no wonder is't,
For Mother Earth long since he kist;
And what it was, full well did know
To turn his heels up long ago.
If any to inquire shall please
What caus'd his death, 'twas a Disease
Call'd Epilepse by learned Leech,
But Falling-sickness in plain speech.
And now good Coroner, since he hath
By his own stumbling caus'd his death,
In Kings High-way pray let him rest,
With this Inscription on his Breast.

Despise me not ye passing Steeds,
Nor toss in scorn your lofty Heads:
What mine is now, may be your lot;
For where's the Horse that stumbles not?
But since my Charity does enjoin
To wish you milder fates than mine;
When e'er it is your hap to stumble,
Oh may you trip, but never tumble.

197

Ad Populum Phaleræ:

or the Twin-Shams.

Of all the Cheats and Shams that have of late
Shock'd our Religion, and embroil'd our State,
None more abuse and leave us in the Lurch,
Than those false Cries of Monarchy and Church:
To these bewitching Sounds, these mighty Charms,
We chiefly owe the Miseries and Harms
That fill'd the two last Reigns: and tho at last
Kind Heav'n an Eye upon our Bondage cast,
And opportunely to our Rescue sent,
These plague us still, and clog our Settlement.
So when the Hebrew Chief, on Egypt's Strand,
Such Wonders wrought by the Almighty's Hand,
That the wish'd Freedom was almost obtain'd,
Two Sham Magicians set it back again.

I.

For Monarchy; it is by all confess'd
Our antient Government, that sutes us best;
Our Legal Form, to which our Statutes bind,
By Laws supported, and by Laws defin'd.
And more what can be ask'd? But when this Name
Shall sore an Heav'nly Pitch, and Kindred claim
With Jove himself: when boundless Rule and free,
Contemning Laws, shall fetch its Pedigree
From sacred Writ, and be impos'd upon
The World, on pain of dire Damnation;
The Filmer's Tribe, with their Paternal Farce,
Into one House shall cramp the Universe;
That Noah's Heirs despoticly might rule,
Altho a Cobler, Mad-man, Knave or Fool:
When Hodge and Parker's Doctrines do revive,
Which God Almighty's Pow'r to Monarchs give,

198

To rule the World with such a perfect Sway,
That they the Potters are, and we the Clay:
We rub our Eyes, and quickly are aware
What the Result of such wild Maxims are.
For then our Laws are Mockery and Sport,
Our Judges are but Heraulds to the Court.
Our Antient Rolls, grown useless to preserve
Our Rights, may then for Taylors Measures serve,
Or Childrens Drums; our Property and Claims
Are all but blustering Sounds and empty Names:
Our Charters too are void, tho sworn and sign'd,
For no Concessions Right Divine can bind.
Who strives to limit such a Sov'reign Head,
Fetters Levi'than with a single Thread:
Heav'ns darling, he was only made to sport,
And take his pastime in the Watry Court,
Where all th'inferiour Mutes, and lesser Fry,
Are but his Chattels, Goods and Property.
Then talk of nat'ral Liberty no more,
Equality of Souls is out of door,
All, but of Kings, were stamp'd for Slaves and Poor.
And were they visible, you might descry
The native Badges of Servility:
As Camels shew they were design'd for Packs,
By nat'ral Pack-saddles upon their Backs.
Such Notions well might sute the former Reigns,
When French and Turkish Models fill'd our Brains,
But under one who Champion comes to be
Of England's, and of Europe's Liberty,
Such Language needs must grate upon our Ears,
And 'midst our Joys and Hopes, must whisper Fears.
When such for Patriots pass, who t'other Day
Were the known Tools of Arbitrary Sway;
And those that English Laws and Freedoms plead,
Republicans are presently decreed,
Altho the Men that Crown'd our Prince's Head.
When such Discourses fill the Town, what less,
Can be design'd than James's Re-access?

199

By blackning those who have so plainly shown
Themselves the best Supporters of the Throne.
Or else they fain would tempt the Royal Breast
To more desire of Rule, than will consist
With English Laws, or with his Oath and Word,
That of his Subjects he might be abhorr'd;
And so might pave the absent Prince's Way,
And fall the Gallick Tyrant's easy Prey.
But Heav'n, that at the Boyne its Power did shew,
We hope will save him from these Flatt'rers too,
More dangerous than grazing Ball that flew.

II.

But, O the Church! that, that's the second Cry,
As very a Sham as that of Monarchy:
For while the Letters in our Ears do ring,
The Cabala is quite another thing.
Some mean by Church down-right Debauchery;
For tho our Church abhors such Villany,
Yet when a Sot or Bully, reeking from
Tavern or Brothel, to a Church doth come,
Mumbling his Orisons without Regard,
To charm his Conscience, more than to be heard,
That he might sin a-fresh with greater Gust,
(As Turks with Opium fortify their Lust)
Then, Ah the Church! the Church! that sacred Name
Must serve to hallow his impurer Flame;
Cancel old Sins, and qualify for new,
Give Absolution, and a Licence too.
So when he hugs the Sanctuary-Walls,
Himself a Saint, the Malefactor falls;
Christens his Fears, and from the sacred Stone
Hath turn'd his Flight into Devotion.
So Temples were by Heathens made their Stews,
And Dens of Thieves and Robbers by the Jews.
So Eli's Sons, who at the very Doors
Of the Assembly made the Women Whores,
Were Church-men too, but to the Church's Cost;
For by such Church-men soon the Ark was lost.

200

With others, Name of Church doth signify
A mere misplaced Zeal and Bigotry
For Rites and Ceremonies, and these too
The very worst and meanest of the Crew;
Such as perhaps the Church might better spare,
And more her Blemish than her Beauty are.
Live as you list, this Man doth not regard;
Infringe her Doctrines too, he is not stirr'd:
But touch a Surplice, or an Eastern Nod,
You wound his Darling, and blaspheme his God.
Ask him but whence unlighted Candles came?
And straight the Man himself is in a Flame:
Speak but against the Cross, he'l read your doom,
That you deserve to hang in Gismas Room:
He'd rather have two Easters in a Year,
Than to disturb the sacred Calendar.
What most is scrupled, that he values most;
And rather would have all Dissenters lost,
Than old Translation should be refitted,
Or Tobit and his Dog should be omitted.
He joys when Service in the Chancel's read,
Tho half the People hear not what is said.
Adores an Organ, tho he needs must know
That when the Heav'nly Boreas doth blow,
The Sense too oft is murder'd by the Sound,
And many a Psalm feloniously is drown'd.
And if you do but lisp of Alteration,
Then straight Vox Cleri must alarm the Nation:
You're then Phanatick, Neuter, Half-way-man,
Or mungrel Latitudinarian;
You pull the Church down; for 'twill surely fall,
If you but pick one Pebble from the Wall:
Or tho you never move the smallest Stone,
'Tis Sacrilege to pull the Ivy down.
So Pedants count themselves the best Orators,
And Fops and Beaus the only Courtiers,
So Dancing Masters walk the Fields by Rules,
Whilst all the World proclaims them formal Fools.

201

A third, by Church, mean Persecution,
A right Church-militant with Sword and Gun:
A Church that governs more by Fear than Love,
And more hath of the Eagle than the Dove:
A Church that into Swords doth beat her Shares,
And all her Pruning-books converts to Spears.
“Ah could we but these Vermin hunt to Death
“By five and thirtieth of Elizabeth;
“Or plague them by Imprisonment or Fine,
“Until we had compell'd them to come in,
“'Twere brave indeed! but since that's laid asleep,
“And (which is still a Wound more wide and deep)
“A free and legal Toleration
“Is gain'd for all that do our Doctrines own;
“What help remains, the Church doth gasping lie,
“And all is lost beyond Recovery!

But hold Sir! Is't impossible to save
The Church's Life, and keep her from the Grave,
Unless these Steel Prescriptions we have?
Pray tell me how in Ages Primitive
She made a shift to keep herself alive,
And flourish'd too? Or else resolve me how
All pious Pastors hold up Churches now
By Preaching and good Life? and so may you.
The way is open, imitate your Lord,
And that alone will Followers afford:
Most Men are not so giddy as to scorn
Good Sermons more at Church than in a Barn,
Or think an Heav'nly Life less fair doth look
Under a Gown and Cassock than a Cloke.
But if you rather choose to prop your Cause
By violent and compulsory Laws,
Which is Dragooning in the best Edition,
(Or younger Brother to an Inquisition)
Your Church will meet the Fate of Tyranny,
Hated to live, and soon unpitied, die.

The last of those pretended Cheats and Shams,
Doth [by the Church] at bottom mean King James:

202

Let one that's true to William's Interest
(Altho as good a Churchman as the best)
Attempt to stand at an Election,
Straight he's a Whig: the Church is quite undone!
But for a trusty Spark, that secretly
Drinks James's Health, when knows his Company,
They'l rend the Welkin with their bellowing Cry.
There needs no Oedipus t'unriddle this;
Church is the Apologue, and James the Moral is.
But if you think indeed King James your Friend,
And that your Church he'l mightily defend;
Then pray, to do King Lewis Right, remember
Give him the Stile too, of your Great Defender;
Who list'ning to the Groans of the Oppress'd,
In pure Compassion sent his Fleet from Brest.
This would resolve the Question, whether France
Came hither by Agreement or by Chance?
Or if the last abortive Letter-Plot
Was to be finish'd by French Force or not?
And who must pay him his expended Pelf?
Or if he wou'd not wisely pay himself?
And ballancing the Charge against the Gains,
Rescue the Church, and take it for his Pains?
But whatsoever Int'rest was intended
By French Invasion to be befriended,
'Tis all a Case, the Treason is the same,
Whoe'er the Authors are; and if the Name
Of Church must shelter ev'ry Plotting Knave,
(As once the Ark did Toads and Vipers save)
Both Church and State, so late at Ruin's Brink,
Sav'd in a Storm, will in the Harbour sink.

203

The CAMPAIGN.

1692.

When People find their Money spent,
They recollect which way it went,
The like in order to prevent
for th'Future.

That Money's spent I need not tell,
For what I know not very well,
Unless to make Folks to Rebel
or Tutor.

But lest you think it spent in vain,
And of our Hero's Acts complain,
I will describe this last Campaign
in Flanders.

With Treasure, Ships, and Arms good store,
To make the French (as we be) poor,
He did embark with many more
Commanders.

While Cares were fighting in his Breast,
And nothing left (but Wife) unprest,
He took, not staying to be bless'd,
his Ark Sir.

Hastning to make some work for Verse,
Fit for dull Dutchmen to rehearse,
Where Wit and Courage are so scarce;
d'ye mark Sir.

He was no sooner set on shore,
When News came Post that Luxembur'
Had actually besieg'd Namur,
nigh Liege Sir.

204

This Action put him in amaze
Fearing if he should make delays,
It would be difficult to raise
the Siege Sir.

With that he muster'd all his Force,
Full fourscore thousand Foot and Horse,
That never flinch'd or hung an Arse
when fighting.

And march'd away with Noble Train;
But all Endeavours prov'd in vain,
There were such Storms of Thunder, Rain
and Lightning.

The filthy Season made him fret;
Not that he fear'd the French a bit;
But that it was such plaguy wet
raw Weather.

We boldly view'd their dirty Passes,
And strong Retrenchments where no Grass is,
And so retir'd like driven Asses
together.

For not attempting once to fight,
Namur was taken in our sight,
Though from the Town we lay not quite
a Mile, Sir.

The strength of Flanders so was won,
And W--- bravely saw it done,
And unconcernedly lookt on
the while, Sir.

The Dutch, who better knew the Land,
Found it too slippery to stand,
And therefore would not be trapann'd,
as we were.

For so to Fight at any rate,
Without Assurance of their Fate,
Or a respect to Future State,
is not fair.

205

Low Country Courage thus express'd,
His Highness thought it time to rest,
And full three Months he took at least
to do it.

When so refresh'd, in hast he rose,
And swore, (for 'twas his turn t'oppose)
He'd be reveng'd, and make his Foes
to rue it.

To carry on this great Design,
Early one Morning very fine,
He did resolve to force their Line
and Trenches.

With Swords, and Guns, and Hand-Granadoes,
He made his way through Ambuscadoes,
And beat down some o'th Palisadoes
of the Frenches.

So there began a warm Dispute,
The French were strong and held him to't;
For Æsop order'd all his Foot
to draw forth.

When Two Fight, one must always beat,
'Tis said; but that's a meer deceit;
For W--- only did retreat,
and so forth.

He left indeed Six Thousand Dead,
At least they were despirited,
Twelve hundred, some say, were Pris'ners made,
but I won't.

The French did soon decamp we find,
As if to Fight no more inclin'd,
Leaving the Lord knows what behind,
for I don't.

What if this great Attempt did fail?
He had another to prevail,
That Monsieur might his Stars bewail
with sorrow.

206

Louis in hopes was made to fly,
His Conquests left to W--- to buy;
To th'Commonwealth his Tyranny
to borrow.

'Twas a Descent, you understand,
On the French Coasts some Men to land,
To rescue Traytors from the hand
of Lewis.

Old Laws of France there to restore,
As England's he had done before;
But some will ha't to break 'em more,
most true is.

Suppose all Kings alike for ease,
And the Name only not to please,
(Old Things with us are a Disease)
'twere madness.

While Lewis's Glory does commence,
T'exchange him for a creeping Prince,
'Twould be a vile Affront to Sense
in sadness.

The Ladies would forbid those Arts,
To give away their King of Hearts,
For one of less performing parts
than le Grand.

For One that ha'nt to show, God knows,
So much to please 'em, as a Nose;
Tho it may serve to spight his Foes,
how ere't stand.

But while our Champion was abroad,
Mind how he kept the very Road
He to his Cabinet had show'd,
and went in.

To drag our Landmen out to Sea,
To use them ill, and keep their Pay,
Strict Orders coming ev'ry Day
from B---ting.

207

With fifteen Thousand Men, and more,
Five hundred Ships to waft them o'er,
With sixty Cannons that would roar
like Thunder.

Some fifty Mortars great and small,
Bombs, Carcases, the Devil and all,
And bloody Threats sent from Whitehall,
you'd wonder.

Spades, Shovels, Pioneers they got,
Guns, Swords, sav'd all since Oates's Plot,
At Bilboa made, if I am not
mistaken.

Bridles and Saddles not a few,
With Harnesses for Mankind too,
To shew the French what they must do,
if taken.

The forty thousand Bills from Spain,
Which ne'er till then saw Sun or Rain,
But have in Hugger Mugger lain,
fourteen year;

The Pilgrims too, fly Voluntiers,
Expected just so many years,
If you'll believe't, t'increase French Fears,
were seen there:

But above all they were supplied
With six Months powdred Beef beside,
For fear the French should not provide
enough, Sir.

And armed with a pious Zeal
For holy Kirk, and Commonweal,
And Courage true as any Steel,
or Buff, Sir.

This grand Design was deeply laid,
If it be true that People said,
That Rochel was to be betray'd,
or Dunkirk;

208

Tho others said they were to go
In dusk of Night to St. Malo,
To burn the Ships and mall the Foe
with Dungfork.

But some a wiser thing did say,
'Twas farther off into a Bay,
Not far from Bayonne, call'd Biscay
nigh Spaniard.

To stop our Search an Order came,
That none the destin'd Place should name,
But he should strait be hang'd for th'same
at Main-yard.

All thus equipt, Wind sitting Right,
They hoisted Sail with all their Might,
And safely past the Isle of Wight
as can be.

Strange Hopes and Fears did us possess,
To know what would be the Success,
When suddenly came an Express
to Danby;

Which brought Advice that Russel, he
With L---ster's Duke could not agree;
So was our Project utterly
defeated.

To get in order this Descent
Four hundred thousand Pounds were spent;
So you, and not the Government
were cheated.

Thus between French that us do beat,
And Dutch that daily do us cheat,
Our Grief and Ruins must be great,
I fear it.

Issachar's Arms may ours be made,
An Ass between two Burdens laid,
To both for being Jews betray'd
you'll swear it.

Namur we saw to France submit,
At Steinkirk flush'd into a Net,

209

And the Descent proved beshit
all over.

His Conquests thus at once you view,
And how he did his Foes subdue;
His Triumphs next I will to you
discover.

But first observe how he return'd!
Some Paltry Ships that you thought burn'd,
And Bart, with whom to fight he scorn'd,
no wonder,

Met him: But Kings, whose Honour lies
As his, be not to fight a Prize
With Folks concern'd in Robberies
and Plunder.

So to escape a Bloody Bout,
He did take down his Royal Clout,
Or Flag, on which it did fall out,
Gaff. Momus.

Our King of Bees then did not fail,
Altho he wears no Sting in's Tail,
And without shifting Hive to sail
safe Home to's.

The Tower Guns were all prepar'd,
And Fireworks on Lighters rear'd;
But what came on 'em I ne'er heard
a Verbum.

In Windows most Folks set up Lights,
Excepting saucy Jacobites,
That had their Glazing broke to rights,
to curb 'em.

First came some Guards to clear the way;
And next a Squire with Boots of Hay,
And on a Nag most miserably
Bejaded.

Two Men came next, who cring'd and bow'd,
And humbly did beseech the Crowd,
To make a noise, and baul aloud
as they did.

210

Then came a Coach, in which there sate
Four Lords, who went, as People prate,
His Highness to congratulate
and flatter.

Next twenty Mob, the Chief o'th Town,
In left Hand Club, in right Hand Stone,
Those Windows which had Candles none
to batter.

Four Horses next a Chariot drew,
In which of Dutch-men there sate two,
Whose very Looks would make one spew
as I did.

At last the fierce Life-guards appear'd,
Who at the Candles gap'd and star'd:
And thus his Triumphs you have heard
described.

Now judg if he's so fit a Pin
For th'wounded Hole that he is in;
Or have we cause to chuse again
or no, Sir;

If we to Slavery are born;
Yet 'tis a Case that's too forlorn,
To serve them that our Servants scorn,
I trow Sir.

But after all it must be said,
His Conquests were not quite so bad,
But he those Triumphs merited,
and more, Sir:

For sure no Emperor of Rome,
Nor British King was, I presume,
With Farthing Candles lighted home
before, Sir.

211

A Satyr written when the K--- went to Flanders, and left nine Lords Justices.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A thin ill-natur'd Ghost that haunts the King,
Till him and us he does to Ruin bring,
Impeach'd and pardon'd, impudently rides
The Council, and the Parliament bestrides;
Where some bought Members, like his Serving-Men,
To all his Lies devoutly say Amen.
This brazen'd Liar, this known cursed K---
Is now the Man that Church and State must save.

Room for the Pink of starch'd Civility,
The Emptiness of Old Nobility:
This Fop without distinction does apply
His Bows and Smiles to all promiscuously;
With an affected Careless waves his Wand,
And tottering on, does neither go nor stand.
So humbly proud, and so genteely dull,
Too weak for Counsel, and too old for Trull;
That to conclude with this bilk'd stately thing,
He's a meer costly piece of Garnishing.

A drowsy Wittal drawn down to the last,
Dead before's time for having liv'd too fast,
Lives now upon the Wit that's long since gone,
Nothing but Bulk remains, the Soul is flown;
The little Good that's sometimes of him said,
Is because Men will speak well of the Dead;
For when all's done, this honest worthy Man
Has no Remorse for taking all he can.

A Grave Eye, and an Overthinking Face
Seem to distinguish him from all his Race;
But Nature's proud, and scorning all Restraint,
By sudden Starts shews there's a mortal Taint;
Which to a good Observer makes it plain
The Frenzy will e'er long return again:

212

But after all, to do him right, 'tis said
The best of all the Nine should be stark mad.

A good Attorny spoil'd, when his ill Fate
And ours did make him Secretar' of State;
For if his part had been to give a Charge
At Country Sessions where he might enlarge,
He'as a rare Method to display a thing
With mighty Sense, not worth the mentioning:
But the fine gilded Bead is much too weak
To bear the weight he's under, so must break.

Next, Painter, draw a Jackanapes of State,
A Monkey turn'd into a Magistrate,
A sawcy Wight born up with Heat and Noise,
Fit only for a Ring-leader of Boys;
To untile Neighbours Houses, and to play
Such uncouth Gambols on a Holy-day.
Strange! that so young a Government should dote,
So as to let a Whirlwind rule the Boat.

Ungrateful Toad-stool, despicable thing!
Thus to desert thy Master and thy King;
He was thy Maker too, and from the Dust
Rais'd thee, tho 'twas to all Mankind's Disgust.
William with all his Courage must be afraid
To trust the Villain who has James betray'd;
For sure no thing can e'er redeem thy Crime,
But the same brutal Trick a second time.

As rich in Words as he is poor in Sense,
An empty piece of misplac'd Eloquence:
With a soft Voice and a Moss Trooper's Smile,
The Widgeon fain the Commons would beguile;
But he is known, and 'tis hard to express
How they deride his Northern Gentleness,
While he lets loose the dull insipid Stream
Of his set Speeches made up of whipt Cream.

'Tis here alone you'l find, where'er you seek,
A profound Statesman with a cherry Cheek:
He has a quick Eye and a sprightly Glance,
His Face a Map of jolly Ignorance;

213

The Lilies and the Roses so dispos'd,
Should not by Care or Thought be discompos'd:
Pity that fat, round, pretty, blushing thing
Should e'er be thus condemn'd to Counselling.

A Prophecy which hath been in a Manuscript in the Lord Powis's Family above sixty Years.

About shall be

1647.

Joined unto two times Three,
And four times Ten with four times Two,

1648.

Amongst us shall be great ado;
An Eagle's Head that time shall fall,
Scatter'd will be the young ones all.

Then shall a Cypher swell so great,

O.C.

His Name 100 takes the Seat,
And shall do mighty things before
He is removed off the Shore;
But ten times Four, with three times Six,

1658.

Doth in another World him fix.

Then quickly after you shall spy
The Eagle back again to fly,
And shall himself bedeck again
With Feathers of his Father's Train;
Then heavy Times shall make Men say
Oft-times, Alas and Well-a-day,
And wish that they a Death might find,
For something troubles sore their Mind.
Then after all a Cloud shall come,
And almost darken quite the Sun;
And in that time Actions shall be
Chiefly carried on by Three:
The Cross, the Surplice, and the Crown,
Strive who shall put each other down;
Great Treachery and Blood-shed then
Shall sweep away great Store of Men.

214

The Lion and blew Flower shall seek
Quite to destroy the Heretick Sheep,
And England shall be hard bested
Before the Miter hence be rid.
False Ireland continues our Woe,
But zealous Scotland doth not so.

Begin again at One and Six,

Pop. Plot broke out, 1677.

And ten times Seven begins these Tricks;
And for a time shall last full sore,
Till you may number One and Four.

1682.

And for Four more it shall abate
To return in a happy State.

Then better every day will be,
But no more—in England see.

When 8 times eight and four times Three
With Six and two shall joined be,

1684.

Then shall be sacrificed C.

In Dust shall lie that errant Whore,
Disdain'd of all like to J--- S---
And all her Brats turn'd out of door.

J. R. shall into Saddle slide,
And furiously to Rome shall ride,
His Principles no longer hide.

The Pope shall have a fatal Fall
And never trouble more Whitehall,
Nor England's People more inthral.

And he that chanceth to survive
Until the Year of Eighty five,
Shall see this Land begin to thrive.

O England's Wonder, which hath never been,
Three Queens in England shortly shall be seen.
Two Dukes shall highly for the Crown contend,
Each shall bring England's Monarchy to end.
B--- shall fall into Contempt and Scorn,
And Gospel-Angels shall our Church adorn.
If any ask how this shall come to pass,
The Fox shall ride the Goose, the Goose the Ass.

215

An Epitaph upon the E. of Ro---ster's being dismist from the Treasury in 1687,

by Mr. Dryden.

Here lies a Creature of indulgent Fate,
From Tory H**de rais'd to a Chit of State;
In Chariot now Elisha like he's hurl'd
To th'upper empty Regions of the World;
The Airy thing cuts thro the yielding Sky,
And as it goes does into Atoms fly:
While we on Earth see, with no small Delight,
The Bird of Prey turn'd to a Paper-Kite.
With drunken Pride and Rage he did so swell,
The hated thing without Compassion fell;
By powerful Force of universal Prayer,
The ill-blown Bubble is now turn'd to Air;
To his first less than Nothing he is gone,
By his preposterous Transaction.

King James to himself,

by Mr. D---n.

Unhappy I, who once ordain'd did bear
God's Justice Sword, and his Vicegerent here,
Am now depos'd, 'gainst me my Children rise,
My Life must be their only Sacrifice.
Highly they me accuse, but nothing prove,
But this is out of Tenderness and Love:
They seek to spill my Blood, 'tis that alone
Must for the Nation's crying Sins atone.
But careful Heaven forewarn'd me in a Dream,
And shew'd me that my Dangers were extreme;
The Heavenly Vision spoke and bid me flee,
Th'ungrateful Wretches were not worthy me.

216

Alarm'd I fled at the appointed time,
Thus meer Necessity was made my Crime.

On the Duke of Bucks,

by Mr. Dr---n.

1

I sing the Praise of a worthy Knight,
Whose King James (that never could fight)
For his but more for his A--- made a Knight.

2

This Knight soon after a Duke became,
And got at the Island of Rhee such Fame,
That since all English men curse his Name.

3

This Idol Duke to that Greatness did swell,
That Honours and Riches before him fell,
Till Felton the Brave sent his Soul to Hell.

4

And now you shall hear how his mighty Son
With the very small Sin of Incest begun,
And to Treason and B---ry went on.

5

For first, old Richmond can tell when and where,
For the Treasons the Papers of old Oliver,
And Keniston's A--- knows the B---r.

6

Now he who nobly and bravely begins,
Must afterwards know when such Glory he wins;
Adultery and Murder are but trivial Sins.

7

I come to his Farce, which must needs be well done,
For Troy was not longer before it was won,
Since 'tis more than ten Years since this Farce was begun.

8

With Help of Pimps, Plays, and Table Chat,
And the Advice of his own Canonical Sprat,
And his Family Scribe, Antichristian Mat.

217

9

With transcribing of these, and transversing those,
With transmitting of Rhyme, and transversing Prose,
He hath drest up his Farce with other Mens Clothes.

10

His abusing the Living and robbing the Dead,
His inserting fine things which other Men said,
Makes this new way of writing without Tail or Head.

11

But where the Devil his own Wit doth lie,
They must have very good Eyes that espy,
Unless in the Dances and Mimiquery.

12

I confess the Dances are very well writ,
And the Time and the Tune by Hains are well set,
And Littleton's Motion and Dress has much Wit.

13

But when his Poet John Bays did appear,
'Twas known to more than half that were there,
That the greatest part was his Grace's Character.

14

For he many Years plagu'd his Friends for their Crimes,
Repeating his Verses in other Mens Rhymes,
To the very same Person ten thousand times.

15

But his Grace has tormented the Players more
Than the Howards or Flocknoes, or all the Store
Of damned dull Rogues that e'er plagu'd them before.

16

When in France and in Spain, and in Holland, 'tis known
What Wonders our mighty Statesman has done,
'Twill make them all tremble to hear his Renown.

17

For he that can libel the Poets, and knows
How to mimick the Players in Gestures and Clothes,
With ease may destroy all his Majesty's Foes.

218

18

Now the Church he contemns as much as a Quaker,
The Kingdom he'l ruin if the Parliament forsake her,
For he serves his King as bad as his Maker.

19

For he that forsook him in all his Distress,
Kill'd the Husband, and kept the Adulteress,
Like Judah would sell him, and sell him for less.

20

He hath mimick'd the King and Duke o'er and o'er,
That merciful King that hath pardoned more
Than all our Kings e'er pardon'd before;

21

That King that if e'er he committed a Crime,
That to Church and to State may prove fatal in time,
It was in extending his Mercy to him.

22

Now God grant his Majesty never may find,
What's fatal, to be to a Buckingham kind,
For his Father was ruin'd by the first of the Line.

Prologue for Sir John Falstaff, rising slowly to soft Musick.

See Britains, see one half before your Eyes
Of the old Falstaff labouring to arise.
Curse on these straitlac'd Traps and French Machines,
None but a Genius can ascend these Scenes.
Once more my English Air I breath agen,
And smooth my double Ruff, and double Chin.
Now let me see what Beauties gild the Sphere;
Body O me! the Ladies still are fair:
The Boxes shine, and Gallerys are full,
Such were our Bona Robas at the Bull.

219

But Supreme Jove, what washy Rogues are here?
Are these the Sons of Beef and English Beer?
Old Pharaoh never dreamt of Kine so lean,
This comes of meagre Soop and sour Champaign.
Degenerate Race! Let your old Sire advise,
If you desire to fill the fair Ones Eyes,
Drink unctious Stck, and emulate my Size.
Your half-flown Strains aspire to humble Bliss,
And proudly aim no lower than a Kiss,
Till quite worn out with acting Beaux and Wits,
You're all sent crawling to the Gravel-Pits:
Pretending Claps, there languishing you lie,
And let the Maids of the Green-sickness die.
The Case was other when we rul'd the Roast,
We rob'd and ravish'd, but you sigh and toast.

But here I see a Side-box better lin'd,
Where old plump Jack in Miniature I find,
Tho they're but Turnspits of the Mastiff kind.
Half bred they seem, mark'd with the Mungrels Curse,
Oons! which among you dares attempt a Purse?
If you'd appear my Sons, defend my Cause,
And let my Wit and Humour find applause;
Shew your Disdain those nauseous Scenes to taste,
Where French Buffoon like leanest Switzer drest,
Turns all good Politicks to Farce and Jest.
Banish such Apes, and save the sinking Stage;
Let Mimes and squeaking Eunuchs fill your Rage;
On such let your descending Curse be try'd,
Preserve plump Jack, and banish all beside.

220

To the Lords assembled in Council; The Petition of Tho. Brown.

Humbly Sheweth,

Should you order Tom Brown
To be Whipt thro the Town
For Scurvy Lampoon,
Tate, Southern, and Crown,
Their Pens will lay down.
E'en Durfy himself, and such merry Fellows,
That put their whole trust in Tunes and Trangdillos,
May hang up themselves, and their Harps on the Willows.
For if Poets are punish'd for Libelling Trash,
Jo. Dryden, at sixty, may yet fear the Lash.

No Pension nor Praise,
All Birch and no Bays;
These are not right ways
Our Fancies to raise
To the writing of Plays,
And Prologues so witty,
That jerk at the City;
And now and then hit
Some Friend in the Pit,
So hard, and so pat,
Till he hides with his Hat
His monstrous Crevat.
The Pulpits alone
Can never preach down
The Fops of the Town:
Then pardon Tom Brown,
And let him write on.
But if you had rather convert the poor Sinner,
His foul railing Mouth may be stopt with a Dinner,

221

Give him Clothes to his back, some Meat and much Drink,
Then clap him close Prisoner without Pen and Ink.

And your Petitioner shall ever pray, &c.

To Mr. Dryden, upon his declaring himself a Roman Catholick.

Great Truckling Soul! whose stubborn Honesty
Does with all Revolutions still comply.
Thy Youthful Muse gilt an Usurper's Bays,
And for King-killing smoothly sang his Praise;
Nay, valiantly and wisely fawn'd on's Herse,
And strove 't embalm his Name in Loyal Verse.
And then Reformers were not call'd prick-ear'd,
But plain Religion Primitive appear'd,
Because, like its first Master, all its Charms
Were Truth and Peace, not jugling Shews nor Arms.
When Heav'n was pleas'd our Princes to restore,
Thou with the first didst servilely adore
Those Earthly Gods thou hadst Blasphem'd before.
In High Weak Verse then fulsomely didst load
With Titles due only to th'Heavenly God,
By thee as much unknown, as are his Ways untrod.
The Mitre, which meer Priest-Craft, and Priest-Pride
With Gordian Knots have to the Crown fast ty'd,
As if one Empire could not stand by Law,
But by another within to keep't in Aw,
Receiv'd thy Homage too, and then our Creed
Seem'd only some weak Christian's feeble Reed;
And true Religion, which must save Mankind,
T'Indifferent necessary Rites confin'd.
So like thou thought'st thine and the Churches Scene,
That Poet Squab would fain have been a Dean:

222

But thy lewd Life, and publick Blasphemys
Made a Loose Clergy such gross Vice despise.

Being thus deny'd the Loaves, thou didst decry
The Miracles as a meer Forgery.
No Sect nor Clergy could secure their Fame,
All Priests and all Religions were the same.
E'en Holy Church was lug'd into thy Farce,
And Ghostly Fry'r made Pimp to Bully's Tarse;
A meer Almanzor grewst in e'ery Sin,
In Atheism didst outvie thy Maximin;
Lampoon'st our God, thy Patrons, e'en the Great
And Sacred David's self, who gave thee Meat.
No Vice which thy lewd Thought and Poverty
Could reach, but was us'd, and disgrac'd by thee.
Thus by bad Men deipis'd, abhor'd by Good,
Thou bungled'st out a Life like a loath'd Toad,
Impatiently then waiting a new Wind
Of Doctrine fit for thy licentious Mind,
Till a curst Western blast of Popery came;
Pop'ry, of Christendom the Plague and Shame,
The Yoke of Princes, the true Politick Cheat,
To cramp the Honest, and to make Knaves Great.
Thou suckd'st th'Infection in the very Nick,
And pliant Conscience veer'd to Catholick;
Thy Zeal e'en nimble Harry Hills outran,
And Turn-coat Nich. Butler the Publican.
Should Mahomet this Antichrist o'erthrow,
Thy Crucifix would to the Crescent bow.
At thy Conversion, Jack, thus Whigs rejoice,
Who see not through the Prudence of thy Choice.
What so fit refuge for thee as New Rome,
Which, like the Old, receives all Nations Scum?
Or what so fit retirement couldst thou choose
For an old Bawdy, Prophane, Thieving Muse,
When all her Stock of purloin'd Wit was gone,
As making the dry fumbling Jade a Nun?
Now she may translate Legends for our Land,
According to his Majesty's Command;

223

And drivel out her dregs of Poetry
In Hymns on all the Sacred Trumpery
Of Reverend Relicks, pretty Miracles,
Which the Monk forges, then devoutly sells:
How Mary's Image weeps for sinning Souls,
Though with dry Eyes she bore the Carvers Tools,
When through her Trunk he drill'd the Squirting holes:
How the Milk which from her Paps did distil,
Is grown a Flood enough to drive a Mill;
How the curst Cross, at first but one man's Weight,
Is now encreased to a Navy's Freight,
(And 'tis but fit they multiply the Wood,
Who so oft make and crucify the God.)
Such lofty Themes I leave thee to pursue;
So Jack of all Faiths, and of none, Adieu.

Upon Mr. Neal's projecting new Taxes.

In vain the harass'd People strive
To keep their gasping Trade alive,
If Bankrupt Neal, whom all Stars curse,
Has the disposal of their Purse;
He Ante manum will advance
Our future Rents for present Chance,
And leave our Children like his own
To gnaw upon a Naked Bone,
And we our selves this Year shall be
Turn'd to a Million Lottery,
Where for two Thousand that get Plums
Ninety eight thousand suck their Thumbs.
Then rouze your selves, ye Men of Lands,
Of English Hearts and unbrib'd Hands,
And rescue us from being Slaves
To Home-bred Fools or Foreign Knaves;

224

And if abroad we must be kickt,
Yet let us not at home be nickt.

Doctor Hannes Dissected, in a Familiar Epistle, by way of Nosce Teipsum.

Some say a Physician of late
That always lov'd to serve the Great,
Met a Disease outmatch'd his Skill,
And some pretend to say so still:
Tho learnedly he'as told the Mob,
The Lungs were tainted ev'ry Lobe,
And how th'Abdomen was affected,
So nicely well it was dissected.
As who should say, that Dr. Hannes,
If any one would take the Pains,
Wanted either Lungs or Brains.
I know not what the Vulgar think,
Or how some Men at Noon-day wink;
But thus it is, may't please you all,
To raise a P*mp a Prince must fall.

Thus when grave Sages are neglected,
And beardless Boys so much respected;
When Oracles, that us'd of old
Mighty Mysteries to unfold,
Are like Stories still untold:
When solid Truth and solid Gold,
Are for Noise and Gingle sold;
Then Notion may for Knowledg pass,
But Æsculapius for an Ass.
Thistles and Logick chop together,
As Baro---men do Wind and Weather;
Both hit alike, and both prove good,
One for the Mind, the other Food.
Had not Mens Wits eclipsed been,
'Tis Ten to one we had foreseen,

225

And then we'd needed no Dissections,
No Consultations, no Inspections,
Nor any need of these Reflections;
But when mens Eyes are grown so bad,
They canot see what once they had,
'Tis time to let 'em feel the smart,
And clear their Eyes by rules of Art.
When that falls short, 'tis some content,
Tho the Mark was miss'd it was well meant.
And thus poor Mortals seek for Ease,
When the Physician's the Disease;
As Learned Heathens use to tell,
Where such Men live does Sorrow dwell.
But sure a Nation must be blind,
Or else they wear their Eyes behind,
That cannot tell a Man of Sense,
From one that's all Impertinence,
All Guts and Meseraick Veins,
Lungs, Liver, Spleen and rotten Reins,
But little Head, and much less Brains;
Joints stiff, Inflexible as Stones,
No Juice or Marrow in his Bones,
Nor Flesh nor Fat is to be seen,
But Muscles shrivled, dry and lean.
This is the Wondrous piece of Nature,
That picks the Bones of every Creature:
And yet you'd swear, to look upon him,
He knows no more than what comes from him,
But how so great a Man of Art,
Should let a Royal Heir depart,
And never tell the reason why,
He shou'd not live, or he shou'd die.
Tho some time after, as they say,
He cou'd have told a certain Way,
How to have got the Poison out,
That lurk'd in th'Heart or thereabout.
But then his Thoughts were so perplext,
Just as a Priest that takes a Text,

226

And has forgot what he design'd
When first the Text was in his mind:
Ev'n so our learn'd Apollo did,
Not thinking what Heaven had forbid.
But had the People thought on't then,
They might have been great Friends to Spain,
And sav'd them many a needless Shilling,
That they bestow'd on their King's Killing,
By sending for a Neapolitan,
When we have much a quicker Man,
And far more dextrous at the Parts,
At shewing livid Lungs or Hearts,
Or any Secret of that Nature,
For this is but the smallest matter;
He can in few years practice show,
How he has serv'd a thousand so.
And wou'd you wonder at his Skill,
Whose Business 'tis he shows to Kill;
Spaniards, dull Souls, preserv'd their King,
By Chocolate or some such thing:
When Hannes has Arts, as yet unknown,
Where 'tis but Presto, and they're gone.
I wonder any one then dare
With this Philosopher compare;
Gibbons and Ratclife, he'd prove Fools,
If laid in's Anatomick Schools.
He'd so dissect both their Abdomens,
You'd swear they were but nasty Omens:
Then tell you 'tis but common Matter,
Such as is found in every Creature,
As wise in Brutes as human Nature.
For my part, I believe it true,
Since, Hannes, I see no more in you.

227

A Poem on the Death of his Highness the Duke of Gloucester.

With the sad Tydings of the Day opprest,
I laid me down to seek Relief from Rest;
When lo! Britannia's Genius wrapt in Night,
But op'ning wide the Intellectual Sight,
Before me stood, and with a dismal Mien
Renew'd my Grief and gave me back to Spleen:
His weighty Sorrows I cou'd well divine,
Sprung from the same too cruel Cause with mine.
Old England's Weal was his peculiar Care,
And mine the fatal Loss of England's Heir.
But having now the opportunity
To know the secret Counsels of the Sky,
Led on by Princely Love and Loyal Fear,
Thus to the Genius I addrest my Prayer.

Great Guardian Angel of this happy Isle,
On which till now the Gods did ever smile,
Instruct me in the Mystery of Fate,
That thus perplexes and disjoints the State.
Since all the Kingly Race our Annals shew
Have had a Royal Issue still in view,
How comes it now (by a severe Decree)
That Blessing's wanting for Posterity?
Long on the Throne may Glorious William shine;
But Gloucester's gone!—the Promise of the Line!

I spoke, and thus the Gracious Form reply'd:
From you I'll not the Gods Intentions hide.
Things Sacred heretofore, are now profan'd;
Monarchs of old for publick Good ordain'd,
In lawless Rage and Lust of Pow'r have reign'd.
Lewis contemns Divine and Human Laws,
And on himself his Peoples Curses draws;

228

Nulls his own Compacts, and with raging Might,
By wilful Sway invades the Subjects Right:
Tyrant o'er Souls! he would usurp the Throne
Of Conscience, sacred to the Gods alone;
While by his impious Rage expell'd from home,
Distrest, from Pole to Pole his Vassals roam.
The strong Contagion of this Gallick Pest
Invades the Northern Air; and Denmark, blest
With King-restraining Rights of antient Date,
Shares with her Sister France an equal Fate.
From hence Great Ericson attempts in vain
The Liberties of Sweden to maintain:
And James, by the same ill Example led,
Thro furious Zeal his Kingdoms forfeited.
Cease then to wonder that a pious Prince,
The Darling, and the Care of Providence,
Just lent us for the Vision of a Day,
From wide Infection should be snatcht away!
The Weight of Empire, and the Cares of State
Should not depend upon a single Fate.
For tho in Antient Story we may find,
How some few Neighbouring Families combin'd
To chuse a Chief, by whose Paternal Care
They might be govern'd both in Peace and War;
Yet since the Scene is alter'd, and of late
Whole Nations join'd make but one common State,
What finite Person can sustain the Load,
Alone sufficient for the Common Good?
Thus when the scatter'd Swains of Alban Race,
For publick Safety sought the Sacred Place
Which the Twin-Brothers piously design'd
The Seat of Empire (should the Gods be kind);
One Chief was thought sufficient to command
Their new-born Empire, and small Tract of Land:
But when th'Auspicious Arms of rising Rome
Inlarg'd her Sway to Regions far from Home,
Her Discipline soon alter'd with her Fate;
Her Lords grew many, as her Empire great.

229

And since the Gods with Pleasure have survey'd
Albion's Increase in People, Pow'r and Trade;
And that Ierne's rich and fruitful Soil
Pays yearly Tribute to our British Isle;
That she extends her propagated Sway,
And either Indies her Commands obey;
Since none but Mighty William's awful Hand
The Reins of Power so justly can command,
No more lament your Prince's early Fate,
To Heav'nly Glory took from Earthly State;
He loses Life, but is of that secure
That louder sounds and longer will endure,
A faultless Name! when more the Fates deny,
The second Lot is happily to die.
Then happy He! who from the Task retires
Which all that Nassau can perform, requires.
And as the Attick Realm of old decreed
No Prince the Godlike Codrus should succeed;
Striving to build, by that new way to Fame,
Their last and best of Kings a Deathless Name;
So may the grateful Tribes of Britain's Race
This Handle, offer'd by the Gods, embrace;
And by their last Effort of Loyalty,
Th'Athenians Honour to their King decree.

A Description of Mr. Dryden's Funeral.

Of Kings Renown'd and Mighty Bards I write,
Some kill'd by Whores, and others slain in Fight;
Some starving liv'd, whilst others were prefer'd;
But all, when dead, are in one place inter'd.
A Fabrick stands by Antient Heroes built,
Design'd for Holy Use t'atone their Guilt;
Here Sacred Urns of Majesty they keep,
Here Kings and Poets most profoundly sleep;

230

Here Choristers in Hymns their Voices raise,
And charm the dreadful Goblins from the Place.
Tho throng'd with Tombs, no Specter here is found,
They sing the very Devil off the ground:
No Night-mare dances 'mongst the antient Tombs,
Nor sulphurous Incubus dispenses Fumes;
Nor let no subterranean Hag affright
My Muse, whilst of the FUNERAL I write.

A Bard there was, who whilome did command,
And held the Laurel in his potent Hand;
He o'er Parnassus bore Imperial Sway,
Him all the little Tribes of Bards obey:
But Bards and Kings, howe'er approv'd and great,
Must stoop at last to the Decrees of Fate.
Fate bid him for the Stroke of Death prepare,
And then remov'd him to the Lord knows where.
If to the Living we such Tributes owe,
We on the Dead must pious Rites bestow;
To our Assistance all the Wits must call,
To grace the Glory of the Funeral.

Who is the first appears unto our View,
But haughty, proud, imperious M---ue?
Who cocks his Chin, and scarce affords a Word,
But looks as big as any Belgick Lord;
In the best Dairies fed, grown sleek and fat,
The creeping Mouse is turn'd into a Rat:
Of others Brows he licks the toilsom Sweat,
And by our Sins grows impudently great:
As chief of Wits he does himself prefer,
And with our Gold bribes ev'ry Flatterer;
But Men of Sense and Honour does despise,
And crushes such as would by Virtue rise,
Whilst each leud Rakehel of the nauseous Town
He fills with Coin, and does with Honours crown.
The Nation's Wealth he most profusely spends,
But not on such as are the Nation's Friends;
But such as wrote our Country to inslave,
His Kindness follows even to the Grave.

231

He the great Bard at his own Charge inters,
And dying Vice to living Worth prefers.
Some others too in the Affair are join'd,
Alike in Morals, and alike in Mind;
But these my Muse must here forbear to name,
Scarce worthy Honour or deserving Fame.

The Day is come, and all the Wits must meet
From Covent-Garden down to Watling-street;
They all repair to the Physicians Dome,
There lies the Corps, and there the Eagles come:
No Corps an Entrance has within this Gate,
None are admitted here to lie in State,
But such as Fate a noted Death has carv'd,
A Cutpurse hang'd, or a poor Poet starv'd;
One is anatomiz'd when he is dead,
The other in his Life for want of Bread.

A Troop of Stationers at first appear'd,
And Jacob T---n Captain of the Guard;
Jacob the Muses Midwife, who well knows
To ease a lab'ring Muse of Pangs and Throws;
He oft has kept the Infant-Poet warm,
Oft lick'd th'unweildy Monster into Form;
Oft do they in high Flights and Raptures swell,
Drunk with the Waters of our Jacob's Well.

Next these the Playhouse Sparks do take their turn,
With such as under Mercury are born,
As Poets, Fidlers, Cut-purses, and Whores,
Drabs of the Play-house, and of Common-shores;
Pimps, Panders, Bullies, and Eternal Beaux,
Fam'd for short Wits, long Wigs, and gaudy Clothes;
All Sons of Meter tune the Voice in praise,
From lofty Strains, to humble Ekes and Ayes:
The Singing-men and Clerks who charm the Soul,
And all the Traders in fa la fa sol:
All these the Funeral Obsequies do aid,
As younger Brothers of the Rhyming Trade.

The tuneful Rabble now together come,
They fill with dolesome Sighs the sable Room

232

Some groan'd, some sob'd, and some I think there wept,
And some got drunk, loll'd down, and snor'd and slept.
Around the Corps in State they wildly press;
In Notes unequal, like Pindarick Verse,
Each one does his sad Sentiments express.
The Player says, My Friends we are undone,
See here, the Muses best and darling Son
Is from us to the blest Elyzium gone:
What other Poet for us will engage
To be the Prop of the declining Stage?
All other Poets are not worth a Louse,
There fell the Prop of our once glorious House:
But now from us by Fate untimely torn,
Leaves the dull Stage a Desert and forlorn.
A dismal Sadness in each Face appears;
And such as could not speak, burst out in Tears;
His Death, alas! affected ev'ry body,
And fetch'd deep Sighs and Tears from ev'ry Noddy:
It much affected every tuneful Ringer,
But most of all the jolly Ballad-singer,
Who now at a Street's Corner must no more
A Play-house Song in equal Numbers roar.
Nay, I am told, when he his last Gasp groan'd,
The Bell-rope trembled, and the Organ ton'd:
And as great things affect a little thing,
This was the Death of many a Fiddle-string.
No Chronicles I read of do relate
Such a sad Hurricane in Church and State.
The charming Songsters at our great St. Paul's
Cou'd scarce sing Pray'rs to save their very Souls;
The Boys were dumb, the Singingmen were wounded,
All the whole Choir disabled and confounded:
And when the Prayers were ended, alas then
The Clerk could hardly sob out an Amen.
Not a Crowdero at a Bawdy-house,
Who us'd in racy Liquors to carouse,
But with sad haste unto the Burial ran,
Forgets his Tipple, and neglects his Can.

233

With Tag-rag, Bob-tail was the Room full fill'd,
You'd think another Babel to be built;
Not more Confusion at St. Bat's fam'd Fair,
Or at Guildhall for choice of a Lord Mayor.

But stay my Muse, the learned G---th appears,
He sighing comes, and is half drown'd in Tears;
The famous G---th, whom learned Poets call
Knight of the Order of the Urinal.
He of Apollo learnt his wondrous Skill,
He taught him how to sing and how to kill;
For all he sends unto the darksome Grave,
He honours also with an Epitaph.
He entertain'd the Audience with Oration,
Tho very new, yet something out of fashion:
But 'cause the Hearers were with Learning blest,
He said it in the Language of the Beast:
But so pronounc'd, the Sound and Sense agrees,
A Country-mouse talks better in a Cheese,
Or Jack-at-a-pinch, when reeling he repairs
To neighb'ring Church to mumble o'er his Prayers.
The Sense and Wit they say was very good,
Tho neither seen, felt, heard, nor understood.
Thus we must all, as common Rumour saith,
Believe the Doctor by implicit Faith.

Next him the Sons of Musick pass along,
And murder Horace in confounded Song;
Whose Monument more durable than Brass,
Is now defac'd by every chanting Ass.
No Man at Tyburn doom'd to take a swinging,
Would stay to hear such miserable singing,
Where all the Beasts of Musick try their Throats,
And different Species use their different Notes:
Here the Ox bellows, there the Satyr howls;
The Puppies whine, and the bold Mastiff growls;
The Magpys chatter, and the Night-Owls screek;
The old Pigs grunt, and all the young ones squeek:
Yet all together make melodious Songs,
As Bumpkin Trols to rusty pair of Tongs.

234

Now, now the time is come, the Parson says,
And for their Exeunt to the Grave he prays:
The Way is long, and Folk the Streets are clogging,
Therefore my Friends away, come let's be jogging.

Assist me Thou, who, clad in Sun-beam Weeds,
Driv'st round the Orb each day with fiery Steeds;
Who neither art with Heat nor Cold opprest,
Art never weary, tho thou tak'st no rest:
Assist me to describe the Cavalcade,
What mighty Figure thro the Streets they made.

Before the Herse the mourning Hautboys go,
And screech a dismal sound of Grief and Wo;
More dismal Notes from Bogtrotters may fall,
More dismal Plaints at Irish Funeral.
But no such Flood of Tears e'er stopt our Tide
Since Charles the Martyr and the Monarch dy'd.
The Decency and Order first describe,
Without regard to either Sex or Tribe.
The sable Coaches lead the dismal Van,
But by their sides I think few Footmen ran:
Nor needed these, the Rable fill the Streets,
And Mob with Mob in great Disorder meets.
See next the Coaches how they are accouter'd
Both in the Inside, eke and on the Outward:
One pocky Spark, one sound as any Roach,
One Poet and two Fidlers in a Coach;
The Play-house Drab, that beats the Beggars Bush,
And Bawdy talks would make an old Whore blush,
By every Bully kiss'd, good Truth, but such is
Now her good Fate to ride with Mrs. Dutchess.
Was e'er Immortal Poet thus buffoon'd?
In a long Line of Coaches thus lampoon'd?
A Man with Gout and Stone quite wearied,
Would rather live than thus be buried.
What greater Plague can Heaven on Man bestow,
Who must with Knaves on Life's dull Journy go?
And when on t'other Shoar he's landed safe,
A Crowd of Fools attend him to the Grave,

235

A Crowd so nauseous, so profusely leud,
With all the Vices of the Times endu'd,
That Cowley's Marble wept to see the Throng,
Old Chaucer laugh'd at their unpolish'd Song,
And Spencer thought he once again had seen
The Imps attending on his Fairy Queen.
Her little Tib, and Tom, and Mib, and Mab,
Come to lament the Death of Poet Squab.

But Burying is not all the Rites we owe,
Some other Obsequies we must bestow:
Must so Religious, so profound a Wit,
Be toss'd like common Dust into the Pit?
The Fates forbid! We'll surely fill the Plains
And neighb'ring Woods with Elegiack Strains:
E'en Newgate's Chaplain, who in's Office fell,
Instructing Villains in the way to Hell;
He had the Muses Pass-port on his Herse,
His Praises sung in everlasting Verse.
Nay, a Dutch Mastiff late in state did lie;
My Lady's Lap-dog had an Elegy;
And shall not Dryden have one O Fy, Fy!
Yes, say the Oxford and the Cambridg Sparks,
We'll sing his Death as sweet as any Larks;
Oxford and Cambridg, the renowned Schools,
Fam'd for a Breed of wise Men and of Fools,
Where Infant Wits with Water-gruel fed,
And little puny sucking Priests are bred;
Where Conjurers employ their Time in Vision,
Whence many a Learned Saffold has his Mission?
These always march in Verse in rank and file,
In Company pursue Poetick Toil;
Here a Battalion does in English lead,
While one in Latin does the Troopers head:
But such the Wit and Sense, you'd think the Elves
Did only write but just to please themselves:
Playford laments that he their Lines bespoke,
And swears the Bookseller is almost broke.

236

A Melancholy Theme on a dismal Disaster,
In a Grubstreet Poem, by Grubstreet Poetaster.

Quos Deus vult perdere, bos dementat.

Whom Jove reserves to Fate, he doth infatuate.

Mundus vult decipi;
Qui enim vult decipi decipiatur.

The World will be deceiv'd, because they love it,
Why should they not, when 'tis Deceit they covet?

Three Doctors of late
Held a learned Debate
On a desperate Case of a Lamb o' the State;

Where each shot his Bolt,
And on the Result
Did declare they opin'd the Distemper occult.

Tho my Story be late,
And thought out of date,
We cannot too often great Actions repeat.

Beau H---s fresh from School,
A new sharpen'd Tool,
Was summoned first to be on the Roll.

H---s active and great,
Ad omne parate,
Had κατ' εξοκην the Dispensing of Fate.

So he led the Dance,
A la mode of France,
And (without ever thinking) directed the Lance:

But hand over head,
Did attempt and proceed
(At all peradventure) this Lamb for to bleed.

237

By which sage Advice
He was bled in a trice,
To shew the Dispatch of an expert Novice.

Now the Deed being done,
The grim Fact to atone,
Our great Æsculape did fall in a Swoon.

Who by sympathick Touch,
Having acted too much,
Was strangely affected, his Sense it was such.

And being put to Bed,
As one almost dead,
Did order himself forthwith to be bled.

Which shew'd he would do
As he'd be done unto,
To bleed, as he bled, whether needed or no.

As Erostrate's great Name
Is still living in Fame,
Who did put the Temple-Diana in Flame.

H---s only desir'd
(By Ambition fir'd)
To gain some Repute before he expir'd.

Next G---bb---s tho muddy,
And always in Study,
His Thoughts being quicken'd with a thing that is ruddy,

Did stir up his Muse
To Action and Use,
And approv'd all H---s had done at fast and loose:

Yet added his Mite,
By Directions to write,
Did Clysters and Cupping and Cordials endite.

But acting too fast,
Growing qualmish at last,
He was forc'd to retire for needful Repast.

So R---t---ff was next,
And (tho formerly vext)
Was persuaded his Science to spend on the Text;

238

Having Wine first to drink,
It whet him to think,
Especially being well sweetned with Chink.

But the Fever malignant
Did puzzle Skill pregnant,
'Twas-so very putrid and super-regnant:

That off o' the Hooks,
You might guess by their Looks,
They found nought cou'd prevail that was in their Books.

So these Magi's next part
Boldly was to assert,
That (since he must die) 'twas according to Art.

But now to find out
And bring it about,
The Mob to persuade and the Plebeian Rout;

He must be dissected,
And with care inspected,
To report all Parts were with Matter infected.

And avouch no Mistake
Such Learning cou'd make,
Three famous Epistles for these Doctors sake,

Must be publish'd in Print,
Up and down to be sent,
Composed of Words, without Argument.

That he died of a Rash
With eating of Trash,
Which is a sufficient Account for your Cash.

But such frail Excuse
Is of no force or use,
(The Mischief once done) Folk to disabuse.

If the Counsel were good
In such case to let Blood;
What needed feign'd Words, ne'er before understood?

For Rash is a Name
No Author does claim,
But is true modern Cant to cover a Shame.

239

By common Instinct,
Almost all Men do think,
The stirring this matter has made it to stink.

And Silence were better,
Than from each a Letter,
To make an O yes to smother the matter.

To do Penance in Sheet,
In some cases is meet,
And by Civil Law still esteemed discreet.

But why our Physicians
On different Conditions,
In a Sheet should appear to take off Suspicions,

No Man can divine,
But their Thoughts do incline
To believe it was Ignorance, Madness or Wine.

Some to get a Name,
Do publish their Shame,
And by vain Excuses their Errors proclaim.

Qui ante non cavet, post dolebit.
Felix quem faciunt aliena Pericula cautum.
Whoso improves not his Spring, may be forc'd to repent it in Autumn.

Men hold that Man in high Veneration,
Whose Name is rais'd up by a just Reputation.
Whose Name is proclaim'd without Desert or Honor,
Not Fame, but Infame, is the Author and Donor.

A Comparison betwixt Lewis XIV. and Prince Eugene.

Now Lewis, all thy numerous Trophies boast,
Recount the Blood and Treasure they have cost,
Tell of Towns storm'd, and Countries over-run,
And all by thy victorious Armies won.

240

O had but Fate, indulgent to thy Fame,
When Europe trembled at thy mighty Name,
Compell'd thee hence—
In all her List she never could have shewn
A happier Hero, or more darling Son.

Yet now thy Brows not only wrinkled show,
But Age has made their Laurels wither too.
Thus Hannibal, his many Conquests past,
Found Fabius to grapple with at last;
Fabius more great, with wiser Conduct blest,
Vanquish'd the Victor, and his Pride represt:
Sure means he found to make the Tyrians yield,
And by declining Battel won the Field.

An Epitaph on the Late King of Spain.

Cy gist icy Charles Roy d' Espagne,
Qui en ses jours ne sist Campagne,
Ny Enfans Males, ny Femelles,
Laissant ses deux Femmes pucelles.
Qu' 'at il donc fait ce vaillant Prince,
Qui possedoit tont de Provinces,
A vous le dire Franchement,
Rien, pas mesme son Testament.

Here lies the last King Charles of Spain,
Who all his Life ne'er made Campagn;
He made no Children, Girl nor Boy,
Nor gave two Wives one nuptial Joy.
What has this valiant Prince then done,
Who long possess'd so vast a Throne?
E'en nothing neither Good nor Ill,
Nay not so much as made his Will.

241

A Fable.

In Æsop's Tales an honest Wretch we find,
Whose Years and Comforts equally declin'd;
He in two Wives had two domestick Ills,
For different Age they had, and different Wills;
One pluckt his black Hairs out, and one his grey,
The Man for Quietness did both obey,
Till all his Parish saw his Head quite bare,
And thought he wanted Brains as well as Hair.

The Moral.

The Parties, hen-peckt W---m, are thy Wives,
The Hairs they pluck are thy Prerogatives;
Tories thy Person hate, the Whigs thy Power,
Tho much thou yieldest, still they tug for more,
Till this poor Man and thou alike are shown,
He without Hair, and thou without a Crown.

The Patriots.

Writ about the Year 1700.

1

Ye Patriots go on
To heal the Nation's Sores,
Find all Mens Faults out but your own,
Begin good Laws, but finish none,
And then shut up your Doors.

2

Fail not our Freedom to secure,
And all our Friends disband,
And send those Men to t'other Shore
Who were such Fools as to come o'er
To help this grateful Land.

242

3

And may the next that hear us pray,
And in Distress relieve us,
Go home like those without their Pay,
And with Contempt be sent away
For having once believ'd us.

4

And if the French should e'er attempt
This Nation to invade,
May they be damn'd that list again,
But lead the fam'd Militia on,
To be like us betray'd.

5

As for the Crown you have bestow'd,
With all its Limitations,
The meanest Prince in Christendom
Would never stir a Mile from home
To govern three such Nations.

6

The King himself, whom you have call'd
Your Saviour in Distress,
You in his first Suit have deny'd,
And then his Royal Patience try'd,
With a canting sham Address.

7

Ye are the Men that to be chose
Would be at no Expences,
Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes,
Have ways and means that no Man knows
To mortify your Senses.

8

Ye are the Men that can condemn
By Laws made ex post facto,
Who can make Knaves of honest Men,
And married Women turn again
To be Virgo and Intacta.

243

9

Go on to purify the Court,
And damn the Men of Places,
Till decently you send them home,
And get your selves put in their room,
And then you'l change your Faces.

10

Go on for to establish Trade,
And mend our Navigation,
Let India India invade,
And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid,
And bankrupt all the Nation.

11

'Tis you that calculate our Gold,
And with a senseless Tone
Vote what you never understood,
That we might take them if we wou'd,
Or let them all alone.

12

Your Missives you send round about
With Mr. Speaker's Letter,
To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out,
Which Fools believe without dispute,
Because they know no better.

13

With borrow'd Ships, and hir'd Men
The Irish to reduce,
Who will be paid the Lord knows when;
'Tis hop'd when e'er you want again,
You'l think of that Abuse.

14

Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt,
On Salt, on Glass, and Leather,
To wheedle Coxcombs in to lend;
And like true Cheats you dropt that Fund,
And sunk them all together.

244

15

And now y'are piously enclin'd
The Needy to employ,
You'd better much your time bestow
To pay neglected Debts you owe,
Which makes them multiply.

16

Against Profaneness you declar'd,
And then the Bill rejected;
And when the Arguments appear'd,
They were the worst that e'er were heard,
And best that we expected.

17

'Twas voted once, that for the Sin
Of Whoring Men should die all;
But then 'twas wisely thought again,
The House would quickly grow so thin,
They durst not stand the Tryal.

18

King Charles the Second knew your aim,
And Places gave and Pensions;
And had King William's Money flown,
His Majesty would soon have known
Your Consciences Dimensions.

19

But he hath wisely given you up
To work your own Desires,
And laying Arguments aside,
As things that have in vain been try'd,
To Fasting calls and Prayers.

Chorus.

Your Hours are choicely employ'd,
Your Petitions lie all on the Table,
With Funds insufficient,
And Taxes Deficient,
And Deponents innumerable.

245

For shame leave this wicked Employment,
Reform both your Manners and Lives;
Tou were never sent out
To make such a Rout,
Go home and look after your W---s.

On Squire Neal's Projects.

You M---ves, Cl---is, H---lys, F---y's, Lowthers,
Who in the House are wont to make great Pothers,
And squander Taxes time in long Debates,
To save those foolish Trifles, our Estates,
Be silent now; and for the publick Weal,
Give ear to learned Barebone, prudent Neal,
Those Oracles rais'd by relenting Fate,
Both to direct and prop the puzled State:
As once the hungry Geese in Capitol,
Sav'd Rome from the same direful Foe, the Gaul.
And ne'er did Fate, or human Wisdom yet,
More proper Tools to the Employment fit:
For who can help so well at a dead Lift,
As those who always live by shark and shift?
Most Members in Vacation take their pleasure,
Or wast their time upon their private Treasure;
Whilst these Great Publick Souls, humbly content
With the bare Privilege of being pent,
And safe ensconc'd within their Forts at home
Against th'Assaults of Dun and dreadful Bum,
Lay out their hireling Thoughts how to reduce
The French, by bringing us to wooden Shoos.

As the old Monky who his Tail had lost,
Did the Convenience of bare Buttocks boast,
Advise his Friends to the same Amputation,
As the most useful and becoming Fashion;

246

So Neal, who long since threw his Lands away,
His Wife's Exchequer, Princes Boons at all,
Has been his own Executor and Heir,
And sunk his desp'rate Ruins past Repair,
Whose Life all parts of Fortune's Wheel hath seen,
And a meer Bubble in all Senses been;
To level the whole Nation to his Size,
Cries up th'Advantages of Blank and Prize;
Loudly proclaims the only way to baffle
The French, is to put all Estates in Raffle,
Trust Chance with what you have already got,
Draw Lots whether you shall eat Bread or not;
Whilst he like State-Groom-Porter holds the Stakes,
And out of all Events a Living makes:
So drunken Vintner meeting with Mishap,
Shrinks into Drawer, and still lives by th'Tap.

Th'amphibious Doctor, who more Years hath spent
In making Mortar than Medicament,
Many fair Palaces and Fields defac'd,
And stately Nothings on the same Spots plac'd,
Has made the Suburbs to outswell the Town,
Yet ha'nt a Hut which he dares call his own;
In new Foundations has the Ruins laid
Of many Artists whom he never paid;
Stuff'd the Kings-Bench, the Fleet, Mint and White-Fryars
With broken building Knights, Alsatia Squires;
T'avoid which Fate himself was forc'd to tamper
For a dear Bargain with the Men of Bramber.
He weary grown of ruining by Retail,
Gravely prescribes Destruction by Wholesale.
As if the cursed Spirit of your Pool
Had in a double share inform'd this Tool,
Would lay our new-erected Fences wast,
And th'Glory of the Revolution blast;
Revive damn'd Chimney-Mony, and impose
Gabels on Childrens warming Hands and Toes;
If Doctor-like the Builder would advise,
Close-stools and Urinals should pay Excise.

247

Unhappy sure must be that Nation's Fate,
Where Quacks and Cullies do direct the State.

Britannia listned at the Senate-house,
And groaning spake thus, with contracted Brows:
This House, once my stout Guard of Property,
Now harbours sniveling Pimps to Beggary;
A pack of senseless Fools, as well as Knaves,
Who take a Bribe, and sell themselves for Slaves:
But thus it must be (letting fall a Tear)
Whilst Officers and Pensioners sit here,
Whilst by self-ended Knaves deluded Kings
Make England's Int'rest and their own two things.

On some Votes against the Lord S.

When Envy does at Athens rise,
And swells the Town with Murmurs loud,
Not Aristides, Just and Wise,
Can scape the moody factious Crowd.

Each Vote augments the common Cry,
While he that holds the fatal Shell,
Can give no Cause, or Reason why,
But being Great, and doing Well.

248

The Confederates:

or the first Happy Day of the Island Princess.

Ye vile Traducers of the Female Kind,
Who think the Fair to Cruelty inclin'd,
Recant your Error, and with Shame confess,
Their tender Care of Skipwith in Distress.
For now to vindicate this Monarch's Right,
The Scotch and English equal Charms unite;
In solemn Leagues contending Nations join,
And Britain labours with the vast Design:
An Opera with loud Applause is play'd,
Which fam'd Motteux in soft Heroicks made,
And all the sworn Confederates resort
To view the Triumph of their Sov'reigns Court;
In bright Array the well-train'd Host appears,
Supreme Command brave Darentwater bears.
And next in Front George Howard's Bride does shine,
The living Honour of that antient Line.
The Wings are led by Chiefs of matchless Worth,
Great Hamilton, the Glory of the North,
Commands the left; and England's dear Delight,
The bold F---ter, charges on the Right.
The Prince to welcome his propitious Friends,
A Throne erected on the Stage ascends.

He said: Blest Angels for great Ends design'd,
The best (and sure the fairest) of your Kind,
How shall I praise, or in what Numbers sing
Your just Compassion of an injur'd King?
Till you appear'd no Prospect did remain
My Crown and falling Scepter to maintain,

249

No noisy Beaux in all my Realm were found,
No beauteous Nymphs my empty Boxes crown'd.
But still I saw (O dire heart-breaking Wo!)
My own sad Consort in the foremost Row:
But this Auspicious Day new Empire gives,
And if by your Support my Nation lives,
For you my Bards shall tune the sweetest Lays,
Norton and Henly shall resound your Praise;
And I, not last of the Harmonious Train,
Will give a loose to my Poetick Vein.

To him Great Darentwater thus replied:
Thou Mighty Prince in many Dangers try'd,
Born to dispute severe Decrees of Fate,
The nursing Father of a sickly State;
Behold the Pillars of thy lawful Reign,
Thy Regal Rights we promise to maintain;
Our brightest Nymphs shall thy Dominions grace
With all the Beauties of the Highland Race;
The Beaux shall make thee their peculiar Care,
(For Beaux will always wait upon the Fair)
For thee kind Bereton and bold Web shall fight,
Lord Scot shall ogle, and my Spouse shall write:
Thus shall thy Court our English Youth engross,
And all the Scotch from Drummond down to Ross.

Now in his Throne the King securely sate,
But O! this Change alarm'd the Rival State;
Besides he lately brib'd in breach of Laws,
The fair Deserter of her Uncle's Cause.
This rouz'd the Monarch of the neighbouring Crown,
A drowsy Prince too careless of Renown,
Yet prompt to Vengeance and untaught to yield,
Great Scarsdale challeng'd Skipwith to the Field.
Whole Shoals of Poets for this Chief declare,
And Vassal Players attend him to the War.
Skipwith with Joy the dreadful Summons took,
And brought an equal Force: Then Scarsdale spoke;

Thou Bane of Empire, Fo to Human kind,
Whom neither Leagues nor Laws of Nations bind,

250

For Cares of high Poetick Sway unfit,
Thou Shame of Learning and Reproach of Wit;
Restore bright Helen to my longing Sight,
Or now my Signal shall begin the Fight.

Hold, said the Fo, thy warlike Host remove,
Nor let our Bard the Chance of Battel prove;
Shou'd Death deprive us of their shining Parts,
What would become of all the Liberal Arts?
Should Dennis fall, whose high Majestick Wit
And awful Judgment like to Tallies fit,
Adiue strong Odes and every lofty Strain,
The Tragick Rant, and proud Pindarick Vein.
Shou'd tuneful Durfey now resign his Breath,
The Lyrick Muse would scarce survive his Death:
But should Divine Motteux untimely die,
The gasping Nine would in Convulsions lie.
For these bold Champions safer Arms provide,
And let their Pens the double Strife decide.

The King consents, and urg'd by publick Good,
Wisely retreats to save his Peoples Blood.
The moving Legions leave the dusty Plain,
And safe at home Poetick Wars maintain.

251

A Dialogue between Poet Motteux and Patron Henningham.

Poet.
Enter
I told you, Sir, it would not pass;
Why wou'd you make me such an Ass,
To own, for sake of piteous Pelf,
Your Dedication to your self?
The Cheat is out; for all the Town
Full forty years your Stile has known.

Patron.
Pray Brother Motteux, hold your Tongue,
Some Coxcomb has inform'd you wrong;
For ten years since, a Wager lost,
Prov'd me but Forty six at most:
And Stile like mine was never seen
In full Perfection at Sixteen.
Which Argument does plainly show
It was not known so long ago.
Besides, how can you think me old,
Who now my Air and Dress behold;
Who hear me sing, and see me caper?
Godz—you take me sure for Napper.

Poet.
Forgive me Sir, but Dryden swore
To me, you were at least threescore;
And 'tis but just I should depend
On him who does my Works commend:
Oft have I been inform'd by him,
That you two flourish'd at a time;

252

That he in Verse, and you in Prose,
By equal steps to Glory rose,
When to a Dame wry-facd and old,
You did the Place of Stallion hold.

Patron.
The Dotard lies, for Ladies know
That stil my Veins with Vigor flow;
With Joy their tender Limbs I press,
And thrice a day some Beauty bless;
Wasting my Spirits without measure,
To give intolerable Pleasure.
But how, Dear Brother, was it known
That I should write what you did own?

Poet
Alas the thing, Sir, is too plain,
And all your Oaths and mine are vain.
What Pen, but yours, cou'd e'er express
Such Care of Beauty in Distress?
Such Honourable Hands prepare,
And Hospitable Walls for her?
What Author, but your self, can tell,
That you divide your Time so well,
Between the Witty, Wise, and Fair,
And to 'em all so grateful are?
Form'd to improve, to cheer, to charm,
To touch their Souls, their Hearts to warm;
To tast their Sweets, their Graces rifle,
And so agreeably to trifle:
But above all the Proof's point blank,
That none could tell the warlike Prank
Play'd in the Plains of Judah, when
The Henningham and Saracen,
The Turks and Christians to delight,
With Heads alike engag'd in Fight.

253

Patron.
I must confess I was to blame,
That one Particular to name;
The rest could never have been known,
I made the Stile so like thy own.

Poet.
I beg your Pardon, Sir, for that.

Patron.
Why, d--- me, what would you be at?
I writ below my self, you Sot,
Avoiding Figures, Tropes, what not:
For fear I should my Fancy raise
Above the Level of thy Plays.

Poet.
There was no Danger, Sir, alas!
But 'tis not matter, let that pass:
From some I can expect no less;
Uninterrupted good Success
My Works to Envy does expose,
And shining Merit makes me Foes.
But while the Learned World admires
The little Flight my Muse inspires,
I'll calmly let Detractors lie
In their deserv'd Obscurity;
And for their Malice I defy 'em,
'Tis shewn to better Pens than I am.

Patron.
Nay now thy self thou usest ill,
What art thou dwindled to a Quill?

Poet.
Why there's the thing; let us express
Our Thoughts above the vulgar Dress;

254

Strait those that never read Longinus,
To lower Phrases would confine us;
But better Judges know my Merit,
And would be ready to declare it,
Were not Words wanting to commend
So great a Poet, good a Friend.
But since you criticize me so,
Equip me pray, and let me go.

Patron.
Here, Sirrah, here's five Guineas then.

Poet.
What do you mean? you promis'd ten;
And Norton gave a hundred Pieces,
To own a better thing than this is,
Even to Southern, whom you see
Dryden commended, less than me.

Patron.
Lord! Peter, what a stir you keep here?
Tom Dufey woul dhave done it cheaper.
Nay Gildon told me, he was willing
To own the thing for forty Shilling.

Poet.
Nay Gad, if you despise the matter,
Morbleu I'll take it out in Satyr.
There was an antient Grecian Poet
(Tho I suppose you hardly know it)
That made a Trade of writing Fellows
With keen lambicks to the Gallows.

Patron.
How now, you Puppy, do you threaten?
God d--- my Bl---, I'll have you beaten.
Here—where are all those Sons of Whores?
Go—kick that Rascal out of doors.

Exit Poet.

255

A Letter from J. P. to Colonel H. occasion'd by the Colonel's two late Letters.

O Harry, canst thou find no Subject fit,
But thy best Friend, to exercise thy Wit;
No Order but the Toast to ridicule?
Why with things sacred dost thou play the Fool?
Sadly condemn'd (the Poets common Curse)
Still to be writing, and still writing worse.
Thy first Essay was with some Fancy fir'd,
Thy last was by some Grubstreet Muse inspir'd;
So harsh the Numbers, Raillery so gross,
Sure 'twas translated out of Scotch by Ross.
Is this thy Gratitude for all the Wine
The Knight's bestow'd, who never tasted thine?
And dost thou thus our Mysteries disclose,
And in rude Rhime our President expose?
How oft hast thou with awful Silence heard
The midnight Lectures of that Reverend Bard,
When with his Glass in Hand he doth unfold
What Faith the Priests of all Religions hold;
What old Socinus, and Molinos teach,
And what the modern Philadelphians preach;
What nice Remark's each different Tongue affords,
And curious Etymologies of Words?
Then he goes on to search Decrees of Fate,
And give strong Proofs about a future State:
Not old Silenus so divinely spoke
Of hidden Truths in Virgil's sacred Book,
When with a load of Wine and Knowledg fraught,
The drunken God the listning Satyrs taught;

256

And dost thou thus his Care and Pains requite,
To make thee learned in thy own Despite?
Hard Fate of Greatness! tho a Man should be
As wise as Ashly, or refin'd like thee,
Like Fletcher should for England's Glory toil,
And plot as deep as Monmouth, or as Moyle,
Yet Barber, B---y, and such Wits as those,
Would find out something in him to expose.
Thrice happy B---, who alike does prove
Successful in Affairs of State and Love;
Grave as Sir Harry in a Council-Chair,
Yet smart as Archer to engage the Fair.
Such are his Mien, his Person, and his Parts,
He sems by Nature form'd to gain their Hearts;
And such his Prudence to protect their Fame,
Safe are his Darts, and innocent his Flame:
None e'er for him provok'd her Husband's Rage,
Nor stood recorded yet in Walker's Page.
The Jealous trust him with their Wives alone,
Who guards them from all Arrows but his own.
Bold to attack, yet skilful to defend,
He plays at once the Lover and the Friend;
But he's a Theme too lofty for thy Pitch,
Aim not at things that are above thy reach
Mildmay seems fitting for a Stile like thine,
And William Pawlet in thy Works would shine;
Lord Ratcliff's Poems might thy Satyr fit,
But what hast thou to do with Men of Wit?
Resign the Task to some sublimer Muse,
To tell what Beauties Burl---n pursues,
What powerful Charms did Angelesea recal,
And who now warms the Heart of gentle Maule;
What lovely Youth Boyle fondly doth caress,
Or strowling Punk does brawny Granvile bless;
What new Swivante Manwaring will clap,
And who by Walsh is destin'd to a Rape;
How Therrold still for Mazareen doth burn,
And Lady Mary does lost Kingston mourn.

257

Well it becomes wise William's rightful Heir
To fix his serious Inclinations there.
Where solid Prudence the fit Choice commends,
And from the Mother Chastity descends.
But groundless Fears oblig'd him to desist,
And no bold Man will venture to be blest,
Till Heaven provides, the Family to grace,
Some daring Hero of the Regal Race.

But these are Subjects that surpass thy Rhimes,
Draw thou the Fops or Husbands of the Times,
Or if to charge the fair thy Fancy moves,
Write Popham's Life or Madam Griffin's Loves.
One Labour too to Ranelagh is due,
Who with false Beauty does deface the true;
And may arrive with Diligence and Care
In time to rival Darentwater's Heir,
On such as these thy Doggrel Numbers try,
And fresh Memoirs Lord Edward will supply.
But all whose Beauty and whose Vertue shine,
Should be protected from such Pens as thine:
From them, dear Harry, modestly abstain,
Nor ever more Immortal Charms profane.
More I could say, but Business must not wait,
And I to day must open a Debate.
If after all the Criticks tell us right,
Who say some other did those Rhymes indite,
And set thy Name to what thou didst not write;
Then pardon this Impertinence in me,
Who am thy most assured Friend J. P.

258

A Satyr upon the French King.

VVrit after the Peace was concluded at Reswick, Anno 1697. by a Non-swearing Parson, and said to be drop'd out of his Pocket at Sam's Coffee-House.

And hast thou left old Jemmy in the Lurch!
A Plague confound the Doctors of thy Church:
Then to abandon poor Italian Molly;
That I'ad the firking of thy Bum with Holly.
Next to discard the virtuous Prince of Wales;
How sutes this with the Honour of Versailes?
Fourthly and lastly, to renounce the Turks;
Why this is the Devil, the Devil and all his Works.
Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,
Dost think that I'd allow thee any Quarter?
No—Thou shouldst find what 'tis to be a Starter.
Lord! with what monstrous Lies and sensless Shams
Have we been cullied all along at Sams?
Who could have e'er believ'd, unless in spite,
Lewis le Grand would turn rank Williamite?
Thou that hast look'd so fierce, and talk'd so big,
In thy old Age to dwindle to a Whig;
By Heaven, I see thou'rt in thy Heart a Prig.
I'd not not be for a Million in thy Jerkin,
'Fore George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin.
Hast thou for this spent so much ready Rhino?
Now what the plague will become of Jure Divino?
A Change so monstrous I cou'd ne'er have thought,
Tho Partridg all his Stars to vouch it brought;
'S life I'll not take thy Honour for a Groat.

259

Even Oaths with thee are only things of Course,
Thou Z---, thou art a Monarch for a Horse.
Of Kings distress'd thou art a fine Securer,
Thou mak'st me swear, that am a known Non-Juror.
But tho I swear thus, as I said before,
Know, King, I'll place it all upon thy Score.
Were Job alive, and barter'd by such Shufflers,
He'd outrail Oates, and curse both thee and Boufflers.
For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scan 'em,
Two Livings worth full eightscore Pound per Annum,
Bonæ & legalis Angliæ Monetæ,
But now I'm clearly routed by the Treaty.
Then Geese and Pigs my Table ne'er did fail,
And Tithe-eggs merrily flew in like Hail,
My Barns with Corn, my Cellars cram'd with Ale.
The Dice are chang'd; for now, as I'm a Sinner,
The Devil, for me, knows where to buy a Dinner:
I might as soon, tho I were ne'er so willing,
Raise a whole Troop of Horse, as one poor Shilling.
My Spouse alas, must slant in Silks no more;
Pray Heaven, for Sustenance, she turn not Whore:
And Daughter Peggy too, in time, I fear,
Wiill learn to take a Stone up in her Ear.
My Friend have basely left me with my Place;
What's worse, my very Pimples bilk my Face:
And frankly my Condition to disclose,
I most resent th'Ingratitude of my Nose,
On which tho I have spent on Wine such store,
It now looks paler than my Tavern Score.
My double Chin's dismantled, and my Coat is
Past its best days in Verbo Sacerdotis.
My Breeches too this Morning, to my wonder,
I found grown Schismaticks, and fal'n asunder.
When first I came to Town with Houshold Clog,
Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for Prog.
The antient Fathers next, in whom I boasted,
Were soon exchang'd for Primitive Boil'd and Roasted,

260

Since 'tis no Sin of Books to be a Glutton,
I truck'd St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton;
Old Jerom's Volumes next I made a Rape on,
And melted down that Father for a Capon.
When these were gone, my Bowels not to balk,
I trespass'd most enormously in Chalk;
But long I had not quarter'd upon tick,
E'er Christian Faith, I found, grew monstrous sick;
And now alas, when my starv'd Entrails croke,
At Partner How's I dine and sup on Smoke:
In fine, the Government may do its Will,
But I'm afraid my Guts will grumble still.
Dennis of Sicily, as Books relate, Sir,
When he was tumbl'd from the Regal State, Sir,
(Which by the by I hope will be your Fate, Sir)
And his good Subjects left him in the Lurch,
Turn'd Pedagogue, and tyranniz'd in Birch.
Tho thus the Spark was taken a Peg lower,
Some feeble Signs of his old State he bore,
And reign'd o'er Boys, that govern'd Men before.
For thee I wish some Punishment that worse is;
Since then thou'st spoil'd my Prayers, now hear my Curses.

May thy Affairs (for so I wish by Heavens)
All the World o'er at Sixes lie and Sevens;
May Conti be impos'd on by the Primate,
And forc'd in hast to leave the Northern Climate;
May he rely upon their Faith and try it,
And have his Belly full of Polish Dyet;
May Maintenon, tho thou so long hast kept her,
With Brand-venereal singe thy Royal Scepter;
May all the Poets that thy Fame have scatter'd,
Un-god thee now, and damn what once they flatter'd;
The Pope and thou be never Cater-Cousins,
And Fistula's thy Arse-hole seize by Dozens.

Thus far in Jest; but now to pin the Basket,
May'st thou to England come, of Jove I ask it,

261

Thy wretched Fortune, Lewis there to prop,
I hope thou'lt in the Fryars take a Shop;
Turn puny Barber there, bleed louzy Carmen,
Cut Corns for Chimny-sweepers and such Vermin;
Be forc'd to trim (for such I'm sure thy Fate is)
Thy own poor Hugonots, and us Non-Jurors gratis.
May Savoy likewise with thee hither pack,
And carry a Raree-show upon his back.
May all this happen, as I've put my Pen to't,
And may all Christian People say Amen to't.

On Madam Mohun and Mr. Congreve's Sickness.

One fatal Day a Sympathetick Fire,
Seiz'd Him that writ, and Her that inspire.
Mohun the Muses Theme, their Master Congreve,
Beauty and Wit had like to've lain in one Grave.

262

Engrav'd on a Medal of the French King's.

Second to Jove alone, in whom unite
Unbounded Virtue with unbounded Might;
Whether to succour Innocents opprest,
Or quell those Monsters which the World infest.
In vain the Titans against Heaven combine,
In vain th'embattl'd Squadrons pass the Rhine,
Theirs is the Eagle, but the Thunder's thine.

On Fortune,

by the Duke of Buckingham.

Fortune made up of Toys and Impudence,
That common Jade that has not common Sense;
But fond of Business, insolently dares
Pretend to rule, yet spoil the World's Affairs.
She fluttering up and down, her Favours throws
On the next Man, not minding what she does,
Nor why nor whom she helps or injures knows.
Sometimes she smiles, then like a Fury raves,
And seldom truly loves but Fools and Knaves.
Let her love whom she please, I scorn to woo her,
While she stays with me I'll be civil to her.
But if she offers once to move her Wings,
I'll throw her back all her vain Gewgaw things;
And arm'd with Virtue will more glorious stand,
Than if the Bitch still bent at my Command:

263

I'll marry Honesty, tho ne'er so poor,
Rather than follow such a dull blind Whore.

On Madam Behn.

1.

The Gods are not more blest than he,
Who fixing his glad Eyes on thee,
With thy bright Rays his Senses cheers,
And drinks with ever-thirsty Ears:
The charming Musick of thy Tongue
Does ever here and ever long,
That sees with more than human Grace,
Sweet Smiles adore thy Angel Face.

2.

But when with kinder Beams you shine,
And so appear much more Divine,
My feebled Sense and dazled Sight
No more support the glorious Light,
And the fierce Torrent of Delight.
O then I feel my Life decay,
My ravish'd Soul then flies away;
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize,
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.

3.

Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
The liquid Drops in Silence flow;
Then wandring Fire runs thro my Blood,
Then Cold binds up the languid Flood;
All pale and breathless then I lie,
I sigh, I tremble, and I die.

264

A Song on the Taxes,

1696.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

Good People, what will you of all be bereft?
Will you never learn Wit while a Penny is left?
You are all like the Dog in the Fable betray'd,
To let go the Substance and snatch at the Shade:
Your specious Pretences and foreign Expences,
We war for Religion and wast all our Chink,
'Tis nipt and 'tis clipt, 'tis lent and 'tis spent,
Till 'tis gone, till 'tis gone to the Devil I think.

2

We pay for our New-born, we pay for our Dead,
We pay if we're single, we pay if we're wed,
To show that our merciful Senate don't fail
To begin at the Head and tax down to the Tail.
We pay thro the Nose by subjecting Foes,
Yet for all our Expences get nothing but Blows;
At home we are cheated, abroad we're defeated,
But the end on't, the end on't the Lord above knows.

3

We parted with all our old Mony, to shew
We foolishly hope for a Plenty of new;
But might have remember'd, when we came to the push,
That a Bird in the Hand is worth two in the Bush.
We now like poor Wretches are kept under Hatches,
At Rack and at Manger like Beasts in the Ark;
Since our Burgesses and Knights make us pay for our Lights,
Why should we, why should we be kept in the dark?

265

Regulus's Death by Carthage two VVays.

1

When the bold Carthaginian
Fought with Rome for Dominion,
Little Reg. was ta'en in the Quarrel;
They led him up a Hill,
And sore against his Will
They tumbled him down in a Barrel.

2

When the bold Carthaginian
Fought with Rome for Dominion,
Little Reg. was ta'en in the Strife;
When his Eye-lids they par'd,
Good Lord how he star'd,
And could not go to sleep for his Life.

To King WILLIAM.

In Council wise, in War so great a Man,
What Age did e'er produce, or ever can?
Brutus himself this best of Kings would love,
The wise Fabricius would to Court remove;
And Cato too, whom Cæsar could not tame,
Would now a Subject live with greater Fame.

266

Martial. Lib 1. Epig. 58.

Would you know, if I should change my Life,
What kind of Girl I'd chuse to make my Wife;
I would not have her be so fond to say
Yes at first dash, nor dwell too long on Nay;
These two Extremes I hate, then let her be
'Twixt both, not too hard-hearted, nor too free.

Cure for Green Sickness,

1702.

As fair Olinda sat beneath a shady Tree,
Much Love I did profer to her, and she the like to me;
But when I kiss'd her lovely Lips, and press'd her to be kind,
She cry'd O no, but I remember, Womens words are Wind.
I hug'd her till her Breath grew short, then farther did intrude,
She scratch'd and struggl'd modestly, and told me I was rude.
I beg'd her Pardon 20 times, and some Concern did feign,
But like a bold presumptuous Sinner did the same again.
At last I did by Dalliance raise the pretty Nymph's Desire,
Our Inclinations equal were, and mutual was our Fire.
Then in the height of Joy she cry'd, O I'm undone I fear
O kill me, stick me; stick me, kill me; kill me quite my Dear.

267

Found on the Church-Door at Whitehall, January 30. 1696.

What, fast and pray
For the horrid Murder of the Day!
And at the same time drive the Son away,
The Royal Father and the Royal Son?
While by your Praying you their Rights do own.
Go ask your Learned Bishop and your Dean,
What these strange Contradictions mean;
And cease to fast and pray and trouble Heaven,
Sins, whilst unrepented, cannot be forgiven.

Epitaph on King WILLIAM,

1702.

William the Third lies here, th'Almighty's Friend,
A Scourge to France, a Check t'Imperious Rome,
Who did our Rights and Liberties defend,
And rescu'd England from its threaten'd Doom;
Heav'n snatch'd him from us whom our Hearts caress'd,
And now he's King in Heaven among the Blest,
Grief stops my Pen; Reader pray weep the rest.

268

On the Lord Lovelace's coming to Oxford from Glocester Gaol in Decem. 1688.

1

A late Expedition to Oxford was made
By a Protestant Peer and his Brother o'th blade,
Who in Triumph his Lordship from Glocester convey'd,
Which no body can deny.

2

Had you seen all his Mirmidons when they came to us,
Equipt in their thred-bare grey Coats and high Shoos,
You'd have sworn not the Goal, but Hell was broke loose,
Which, &c.

3

In rank and in file there rode many a Man,
Some march'd in the Rear and some in the Van,
And for want of their Hats they had Head-pieces on,
Which, &c.

4

Tho Arms were not plenty, yet armed they come
With stout oaken Plants and Crabtree Sticks some,
To cudgel the Pope and the bald Pate of Rome,
Which, &c.

5

Some had two able Legs, but never a Boot,
And on their Tits mounted they stood stoutly to't,
But for the Name of a Horse they'd as good went on foot,
Which, &c.

6

In all these gay Troops, 'mongst twenty scarce one
Had Halbert or Pistol, Sword, Carabine or Gun;
A Sign they did mean no great harm should be done,
Which, &c.

269

7

One Horse wore a Halter among the rest,
Nor had the dull Wight half the Sense of his Beast,
And he of the two did deserve the Rope best,
Which, &c.

8

Here were many Gallants I warrant you that
Had Ribbons of Orange and Seamans Cravat,
The Defect of their Arms was made up in State,
VVhich, &c.

9

Here Mordant and G--- on their pamper'd Steeds prance,
D--- Brab---, G--- next, and J. Willis advance,
Who phyz'd at the Switzer that can'd him in France,
VVhich, &c.

10

In this Cavalcade, for the Grace of the matter,
Lord Lovelace rode first, and the next follow'd after,
They gallopt up Town first, and then down to Water,
VVhich, &c.

11

The Mayor and his Brethren in courteous Fashion,
Bid him welcome to Town in a fine pen'd Oration,
And thank'd him for taking such Care of the Nation,
VVhich, &c.

12

His Honour the next day in Courtship exceeding,
Return'd a smart Speech to shew them his Breeding,
Which when 'tis in print will be well worth the reading,
VVhich, &c.

13

Having thus far proceeded to secure the Town,
The Guards were strait set, and the Bridges beat down,
And tho no great Courage, yet his Conduct was shown,
VVhich, &c.

270

14

Next Night's Alarum our Warriours surprize,
Drums beat, Trumpets sound, and at Midnight all rise
To fight the King's Army that came in disguise,
Which, &c.

15

The Cits were strait armed, expert Men and able,
With Prongs and with Coal-staffs march'd next whooping Rabble,
In as great a Confusion as ever was Babel,
Which, &c.

16

In the midst of the Mob two fat Draymen appear,
To guard Mr. Ensign a huge nasty Tar,
Who flourish'd a Blanket for Colours of War,
Which, &c.

17

Since England was England, no People e'er scarce
So pleasantly burlesq'd the angry God Mars,
Or of Affairs warlike e'er made such a Farce,
Which, &c.

18

At the foot of the Colours blith Craudon did go,
Who play'd a new Tune you very well know,
His Bagpipes squeak'd nothing but Lero, Lero,
Which, &c.

19

And had the Dear Joys now but come in the nick,
I fancy they had shown them a slippery Trick,
And march'd more nimbly without their Musick,
Which no Body can deny.

271

A Song.

[Talk Strephon no more of what's honest and just]

Talk Strephon no more of what's honest and just,
For Friendship is Int'rest, and Love is but Lust;
To the Purse and no farther the one does extend,
And after Enjoyment your Love's at an end.
Then no longer maintain what your Actions deny,
Your oft-broken Vows your Assertions bely:
When I once see your Words with your Patience agree,
I'll believe you the Man that you now seem to be.
That you once have deceiv'd me I do not complain,
But 'tis my own Fault if you cheat me again;
For none will the Fate of that Pilot deplore,
Who racks on that Shelf where he stranded before.

Another.

[In a dark silent shady Grove]

1

In a dark silent shady Grove
Fit for the Delights of Love,
As on Corinna's Breast I panting lay,
My right Hand playing with & cætera.

2

A thousand Words and amorous Kisses
Prepar'd us both for more substantial Blisses;
And thus the hasty Moments slipt away,
Lost in the Transport of & cætera.

272

3

She blush'd to see her Innocence betray'd,
And the small Opposition she had made,
Yet hug'd me close, and with a Sigh did say,
Once more, my Dear, once more & cætera.

4

But O the Power to please this Nymph was past,
Too violent a Flame can never last;
So we remitted to another Day
The prosecution of & cætera.

On the Divorces by Parliament,

1701.

Woman, thou worst of all Church-plagues, Farewel,
Bad at the best, but at the worst a Hell;
Thou Truss of Wormwood, bitter Tease of Life,
Thou Nursery of humane Cares, a Wife;
Thou Apple-eating Traytor, who began
The Wrath of Heaven, and Miseries of Man;
And hast with never-failing Diligence
Improv'd the Curse to Human Race e'er since.
Farewel Church-Juggle that enslav'd my Life,
But bless that Power that rid me of my Wife:
And now the Laws once more have set me free,
If Woman can again prevail with me,
My Flesh and Bones shall make my Wedding Feast,
And none shall be invited as my Guest,
But my good Bride, the Devil and a Priest.

273

Some Verses found in the Ruins of the Privy Garden, which were carried to the Gentleman Usher, written in a Scroll of Parchment.

When a Knight of the North is lop'd in Ax-yard,
By a biting Peer's trick having play'd a wrong Card;
When at the Green Cloth a Gray does preside,
And a Wolf in a Chain thro the City does ride;
When Chalk pays for Cheese, Gold dwindles to Wood,
And Banks rather let in, than keep out the Flood;
When Grocers-Hall fears to be sent to the Counter,
And Faith Publick's so light that a Feather will mount her;
When the Coin scarcer grows as the Mints do increase,
And we're maul'd with a War without hope of a Peace;
When the Ocean's so Frenchifi'd few Ships do ride in't,
And is rul'd by a Shovel instead of a Trident;
When Justice is forc'd to abandon the Land,
Tho most People are seen with Scales in their Hand;
When a pack of Brib'd Knaves does a Chappel disgrace,
Who deserve the same Fate with the Saint of the Place;
When London's great Wit is shewn in a C---ddon,
And a Man with a Nose does things that he shoud'nt;
Then England, I tell you, you are cursedly sham'd,
It's too late to repent, sin on and be damn'd.

274

The Life and Actions of that Valiant Hero Robert Blake Esq;

General of the Fleets of the Commonwealth of England, from the Year 1649. to 1657. when he died in Plimouth Sound much lamented.

An Historical Poem.

Renowned Blake, what Trumpet may be found,
That can thy matchless Praises duly sound;
Or what Seraphick Pen, that can set forth,
In fitting Measures thy transcendent Worth?
And justly warble forth in saddest Strains,
Thy Death, and Loss thereby the Land sustains?
Is that Sidneian Spirit, with his Dust,
Extinct? or for this mournful Subject must
Heroick Spencer, and that sweet Divine
Dubartas, rais'd be from their resting Shrine,
Thy signal unexampled Acts to sing,
Of which the whole World doth already ring?
Which if in order we must needs recount,
Our mean unpolish'd Quill they far surmount,
That to thy Merit we shall in debt remain,
So great a Sum not able to attain:
Leaving a richer Pen the same to pay,
Whilst in the common Stock our Mite we lay.

When first Bellona did fair Albion greet
With dreadful Larums in the open Street;
And when that high and Roman-like Dispute
Of the Militia, did in Field recruit
Two Armies, 'twixt the late unhappy King
And Parliament, from whence, as from a Spring,

275

Ran Seas of Blood throughout this Isle, which had
Drown'd all, but that Jehovah it forbad:
Commissions of Array are issu'd out,
Which do disturb the trembling Land throughout.
Blake now stands up without Delay or Fear,
'Gainst the Tyrannick Levies doth appear;
And with those noble Patriots of the West,
A Captain of stout Foot, himself addrest
With their associate Troops to march, and face
The Royal Forces, who with nimble pace
Quitting the Field, to Sherborne do retreat,
That antient Castle, Digby's stately Seat:
From thence are forc'd with tedious March to fly
To the Cornubian Mountains strong and high;
And there divided, some away do post,
Through swelling Severn to the Cambrian Coast,
And fenced Hills of Wales for shelter, where
Th'old Britains by the Romans chased were.

So after many signal Proofs shewn forth
Of his Heroick Prowess and true Worth,
At Bodmyn, Bristol, and at Lansdown Fight,
And at Bridgewater (where he first saw Light)
Tho by just Providence and Heaven's Decree,
We were deny'd a Conquest yet to see;
And Royal Charles did subjugate the West,
And two full Winters had the same possest.
He now arriveth to the Council great,
Thereof a Member, to consult and treat
Of State-Concernments (where sometimes did vote
His grave Progenitors, there to promote
The Common Good) and so with great Applause,
'Mongst other Worthies, he that Publick Cause,
'Twixt Prince and People then in high Debate,
Is call'd with Dint of Sword to vindicate:
And speedily on Neptune's Chariot sent,
Commander of a valiant Regiment,

276

Rais'd by stout Popham of illustrious Rank,
And timely landing on the Western Bank.

Born there, 1598.

I.

Lyme to relieve, that old Maritime Seat
By faithful Celey kept with hazard great,
Near gasping, as beleaguer'd strongly by
A Rhenish Prince's Army strong and high,
Form'd of all Nations, who like ravenous Bears,
Thirst after English Blood; whilst he prepares
Himself for Sallies, and thro Help Divine
The bold Assailants slays like Herds of Swine;
Prince Maurice still recruits, still is repel'd
With Loss of Thousands, and at last compel'd
To quit the Leaguer with his Princely Train,
Not daring fiery Lyme to face again.

II.

He having now paid to Jehovah High

1644.

His Vows and Thanks for his first Victory,
In Triumph hence doth march, bent to set free
The neighbouring Places that in Thraldom be,
(Assisted by stout Pye from Essex sent,
That Peer renown'd, in Arms so eminent)
To that strong Castle founded by King Ine,
Of Saxon Race, seated as 'twere on Rhine,
Or rather Eden sweet, a Land so blest,
Call'd vulgarly, the Garden of the West.
And herein yet more happy, that brave Blake,
His first Breath in this fertile Soil did take;
'Gainst this strong Hold, call'd Taunton, that fair Town,
(By high born Stawel kept) he sitteth down,
Soon forcing the Besieged to submit
To his Conditions; They forthwith do quit
A Princely Garison, stor'd plenteously
With all Provisions, here he worthily
Is now ordained Governour; but he,
As born to high Atchievements, will not be
Embas'd with Rest and Sloth, but prudently
Foresees approaching Storms; for suddenly

277

Great Forces under Wyndham are drawn out,
This growing Garison to quell and rout:
Whilst with few Men, but by him spirited,
And by his Fortitude and Wisdom led,
With Sallies strong, the potent Foe he plies,
That with great Loss, and greater Shame he flies.

III.

Yet here the Royal Party will not rest,
But fresh Alarums do him still infest:
On sudden, lo, a formidable Host,
Commanded by the Chieftains, and the most
Stout Greenvil, Goring, Hopton, breathing out
Nought else but Fire and Sword the Camp throughout.
Here might you hear the Irish Tories thunder
More hideous Threats than Cannon, that asunder
The Castle seem'd to rend: Lo like a Flood,
Great Multitudes have broke the Line, now Blood
Is like to dye fair Tone, or rather make
New Rivers in the Streets, all lies at stake;
Women and Children, nought but ghastly Death
Beholding, and half dead do gasp for Breath.
Yet here great Wonders wrought by those

May 1645.

Tauntonian Blades, the overflowing Foes
Are bravely check'd, and stopped at a Bay,
And forc'd to fight at Pistol-shot by day
And night, from house to house, until the Foe
Repuls'd, such Fury could not undergo.
Now are made good the words sometimes he spake,
By Inches they their bloody way should make;
And yet poor Souls, have lost their way at last,
As into Darkness and Confusion cast.

And when that Goring sent to him in scorn
A tatter'd Drum (best suting their forlorn
Condition) for exchange of Pris'ners, he
Them kindly treats, and quickly sets them free;
And like himself, or like that Grecian Prince,
The falling Foe with Kindness doth convince:

278

This one Exchange doth to the other add,
Returns the Nuncio with new Raiment clad.

Yea to their great astonishment, upon
Their taking of a neighbouring Garison,
Insulting proudly with great Threats and Jeers,
The Church's Bells he ringeth in their Ears,
And thereby quickly checks their Pride and Rage,
Of their ensuing Fall a sad Presage.

Redoubted Weldon lo, that Man of Kent,
With seasonable Succour hither sent,
From th'Hills appears: The harass'd Foe again
Doth raise the Siege, and fairly leaves his Slain
By thousands to their Mother Earth, to feed
The hungry Worms, which look'd before indeed
For other Flesh, whilst Mercy with strong Hands,
Out of the raging Fire pulls us as Brands.

IV.

The Kingly Forces never rest nor cease
From their implacate Wrath, which doth increase,
Still hotly thirsting for the Blood of those,
Who merely in their own Defence arose.
Fresh Armies now are levied, to pull down
The haughty Courage of the sturdy Town,
By a third Siege more dreadful than the rest,
Which kindles Flames of Valour in the Breast
Of this stout Hector, made for Dangers great,
Like that great Greek that did Darius beat.
Here Goring chief Commander vows to lay
His Bones, or not retreat or march away,
Till that proud Castle were reduc'd, just then
When Naseby Battel wavering stood, and when
He straitly summon'd was by Royal Call
To aid his King on that Day Vertical.
The gallant Governour well knowing all
These Passages, together he doth call
His Captains, cheers his warlike Boys, who like
Lions fall on, and with Amazement strike

279

The Royalists, whose stout Heart will not yield,
Till master'd by a stouter in the Field.

Here now that joyful Sound of Naseby-fight
Was heard, like sweetest Musick for delight:
After sad Thunder-cracks let England sing
Still that appealing Victory, and bring
Fresh Laurels to adorn that glorious Field,
Whilst to th'Almighty we due Praises yield.
Now Noble Fairfax doth victoriously
March to relieve the Western Parts, that lie
Opprest; the same at once relieves, and meets
Another Conquest in brave Taunton Streets,
Atchiev'd by Blake, who solemn Thanks ordains
Unto the Highest, who for ever reigns.

V.

And now to march forthwith he doth prepare
To Dunster, that strong towring Castle, where
The wasting Pestilence of late did rage,

April 1646.

Which God was pleas'd on his approach t'asswage.
The Foes great Obstinacy did him move
To spring a Mine; the lofty Walls above
Mount in the Air, some dead, some living are
In those great Heaps blown up, the Fruits of War;
At length dear Blake to thee they did resign
This Castle, by Rendition now made thine.

Thro Heav'ns fair Aspect now, auspicious Peace
Begins to spring, and flagrant Arms to cease;
To that great Senate he from bloody Fights
Returns, there to assert the Peoples Rights:
And he that was a Warriour stout of late,
Doth now consult of arduous things of State;
Well hoping in the end the Sword to see
Into a pruning Hook might turned be.

VI.

But lo, sad Rumours from the British Main,
Our Fleet revolted is, which doth a Train

1649.

Of Troubles new, and great Combustions breed;
For our great Sins a just vindictive Meed:

280

Now this Brave Senator must once again
Harness himself, more Honour yet to gain,
For his great Merit elected General:
And as the first Fruits of this publick Call,
Those Princely Pirates from Kingsale doth rout,
Rupert and Maurice both, two Princes stout;

July.

From thence he to th'Herculean Straits do's chase
These German Exiles, who from place to place
Pursu'd within th'Hetrurian Seas (which do
The Worlds Terrestrial Globe divide in two)
Are forced with their winged Fleet to fly
Unto the Caribean Isles, to lie
At Mercy of the Deep, and on that Coast
The greatest part of those great Ships, yea most
Of those seduced Souls with Maurice sink,
As Lead in mighty Waters (sad to think!)

VII.

He now for Tagus Banks do's steer his Fleet,

1650.

And with his thundring Squadrons Lisbon greet,
Which did the English so much wrong of late,
And for it must account unto the State.
Mean while those rich Brasilian Ships arrive,
Which with nine others outward bound do strive
Him to escape in vain, near all made Prize
By his successful Fleet, who like a wise
As well as gallant Captain, by his Care
For this great Spoil a Convoy doth prepare.
With this mellifluous Trophy from Brazil,
Which with its sweetness did all England fill,
In Triumph homewards he his Course doth bend,
Where Publick Service doth him still attend.
Yea to his Praise this may recorded be,
That as the End of War is Peace, so he
(After full Reparation by them made
To th'English) did restore both Peace and Trade.

281

VIII.

A famous Island, and of great Import
To England, startled with the loud Report
Of his amazing Actions, trembling stands:
To this strong Isle begirt with Rocks and Sands
He sails, and Greenvil summons (that stout Knight,
Then Chief Commander there) the State to right
By his Surrender, or he must be sure
The Fury of his valiant Arm endure.
Whilst Trump then hovering with his Fleet in vain
Solicits with vast Sums the same to gain;
At length upon Blake's sight he doth retreat,
Or rather fly: By this Commander great,
Now Scilly is reduced to the State,
And Joy of English Merchants, who of late
Could not for fear of this new Dunkirk trade,
So rich and high by warlike Plundrings made.

IX.

Impregnate Dunkirk once our Friend, but now
Our Foe, if Noble, will with Homage bow
To him, as 'twere once holding in his Hands
The Scales of France and Spain on either Sands:
As Umpire he decides and weighs the Town
Freely to Spain, for England's great Renown.
Tho that Ledean Marquiss did him treat,
And him caress'd in vain with Presents great:
Yet not without a rich and glorious Prize
As unto them, so to himself, whose wise
And gallant Conduct six stout Ships did seize,
No less than Princes stile we two of these;
Great Neptune with his triple Scepter dread,
Princess Maria eke with Crowned Head,
All captive led by this great Admiral,
Which did the Conquer'd French so much appal.

282

X.

Nor can we Jersey Isle in Silence pass,
So near a Hostile Coast that seated was,
And by a mighty Monarch then protected,
From his black Storms, yet was by him subjected:
Which France beholding from her lofty Strand,
At such portentous Acts doth trembling stand,
And seeing Holland since in humble wise
Strike to our Flag, her Peace of England buys.

XI.

He yet engag'd is in more dreadful Fights,

1652.

Which all the World on every Coast afrights:
New Fires of War betwixt two Protestant
And Neighbour Nations kindled are, which want
Not Rome's Fomenters; which the British, French,
And the Batavian Seas could hardly quench:
That Thunder-striking and Dutch Admiral,
Which Scilly late did court; that Hannibal,
With fair Pretexts, attempteth to surprize
Our Royal Downs, a Sore unto his Eyes.
Our watchful Scipio, now in the Great James,
By him made greater soon appears, and tames
The Belgick Lion, with his roaring Whelps.
Tho three to one, the Lord of Hosts still helps
Such as on him in just Appeals depend,
And to that righteous Judg their Cause commend.

XII.

Our new made Foe now beaten hence we see,

1652.

Whose Fate pursues them, humbled more to be:
The boundless Love of Trade, transports on post
These famous Merchants to th'Orcadian Coast,
To force our Caledonian Fishes there,
Of whose Bones, as they bruit, first founded were
The Walls of Amsterdam, that Magazine
On Texel Banks, which to their Fleet hath been.
He with his Eagle Fleet soon them pursues,
Their num'rous Men of War sinks and subdues,

283

The Busses takes; the one his Justice feels,
The other tasts his Mercy: hence he wheels
His winged Frigots, when our antient Right
He had restor'd by his unconquer'd Might,
And so with Shoutings homeward sails, where lo
More dismal Actions he must undergo.

XIII.

And shall we Portland name, a Portland Fight,

Febr. 1652.

Where mortal Wound first seiz'd this noble Wight?
Yet to his Glory; where behold, the High
And Mighty States brought low, he gallantly
Triumphing sails thro Seas of Belgick Blood,
Tho wounded, whilst the Sun eclipsed stood;
Thro that black Storm, and that tempestuous Fight
Three Winters days (like a continual Night)
Which lasted, whilst that he the Day to gain,
Doth in his grisly Wounds on Deck remain,
As in Triumphal Chair, would not retire
For his more speedy Cure; but is on fire,
And thereby with new Courage doth inflame
His English Trojans, to their lasting Fame,
But terror of the Foe, who now o'erthrown
Post homewards, there this fatal Blow to moan.
But stay, my Muse, here Noble Monk we must
And Gallant Dean salute with Honour just,
His brave Compeers, whose Gallantry shown here,
Posterity in Leaves of Fame may hear.

XIV.

And after some small Interval of Rest,

June 1653.

Scarce cur'd he buckles for the last Contest
Against the Dutch, tho much impaired by
His Martial Hurts received formerly;
Inducing him to say, he was more fit
For some sick Hospital than brave De Wit
And valiant Trump to fight: yet he again,
With Mind above his Strength, and not in vain,

284

Takes Neptune's Field, and on the Flemish Flood
Relieves Brave Dean and Monk engag'd in Blood;
Whose valiant Acts and high Atchievements then
In that sharp Fight, deserve a golden Pen.
The English Standard then by Blake display'd
In Laureate Essex, finds the Foe dismay'd.

Here now in Sight of both the Nations, you
Great Earthquakes on each Shore might sadly view,
Made by those horrid Thunders which did quell
Their Navy, where their chiefest Pillar fell;
With whose dear Blood the greatest Victory
Was gained by our Fleet, for that hereby
'Twixt antient Friends is wrought a lasting Peace,
For mutual Commerce, and their Joys encrease:
His former Wish he now fulfill'd doth see,
So often by him mention'd, that as he
The Tragick Prologue of this War hath seen,
So might a happy Period, which hath been
Accomplish'd in his Eyes: Let Spain and Rome
Hence read with Grief and Rage their fatal Doom.

Old Van Trump kill'd.

XV.

And now we see the Seat of ghastly War

Decemb. 1654.

Remov'd from home to foreign Countries far,
Unto a wrathful Foe inveterate,
Whose Character in bloody Lines bear date
From Eighty eight; and so unwearied Blake
Plows up the Southern Seas, his way to make,
And in those boistrous Floods to him well known
Before proud Cadiz Strand, as on on his own,
One Winter full did ride, which Drake did never,
Nor Hawkins, or brave Forbisher endeavour,
Nor yet the hardy Dutch, (whose proper Seat
And Element is in the Waters great)
Did e'er assay, tho all the World abroad,
And both the Indies be their common Road.

285

XVI.

Prroud Malaga, how was thy roaring Mouth

1655.

Muzled by him, the Terror of the South,
When thy strong Mould was seiz'd, thy thundring Guns
Speekt up, and all the Town afrighted runs?
Thy warlike Fleet, tho scaping Storms and Winds
Abroad, no Harbour in thy Harbours finds;
But are destroy'd all in thy smoking Bay,
Unto his fiery Engines made a Prey.

XVII.

How suddenly doth Vigo now bemoan
The like Disaster with a howling Tone?
When Vulcan, Mars, and Neptune all conspire
Her Merchants and her Men of War by Fire
And Sword to spoil: Whilst he doth leave the Port
And Ships all flaming in prodigious sort.

XVIII.

Yea Tunis, that old punick City, quakes,

1655.

And at great distance strong Alarum takes,
As tho the Roman Legions on their Shoar
Appear'd: The Turks are summon'd to restore
Our English Goods and Captives, but refuse,
And therefore must expect no other News
Than Cannon Peals, whilst he doth seize their Port,
And charge the Infidels up to their Fort.
Twelve stately Ships of War behold in Flames
Consuming are, whereby he quickly tames
Their Cham-like Spirit by his unconquer'd Power,
Whilst raging Fires the Vessels do devour.

The poor Mahometans do trembling fly
From their strong Holds to Mountains that were nigh;
Whence like so many Fiends of blackest hue,
(With scaring horrid Faces) they might view,
In those sulphureous fiery Streams below,
A new Gehenna, to their greater woe.
A Day so dark, the Ottomanian fear'd
A fall, and th'horned Moon in Blood appear'd,

286

That old Republick, and brave Virgin City,
Ne'er ravish'd yet by warlike Foe, tho pity
So Romanized; that Virago stout,
Which at Lepanto Fight the Turks did rout;
Fair Venice now with Shouts doth gratulate
The English African, who now in State
From his late Conquest saileth by their Shoar,
Where loudest Trumpets sound, where Cannons roar;
(Leading his ransom'd ones, the Christian Slaves,
From Turkish Yoke rescu'd as from their Graves)
As if Triumphant Cæsar were in Sight,
Returning now from the Pharsalian Fight.

He leaving these poor Caitiffs to lament
This doleful Loss, for more Exploits is bent.

XIX.

But where was now the Iberian God, that should

1656.

Protect those Galleons huge, so fraught with Gold?
That the Peruvian Mines exhaust were near,
The golden Age again seem'd to appear.
Was Baal journying then or else asleep,
So great a Treasure could no better keep?
Or did that Babylonish Prince now hope
To be install'd fifth Monarch by the Pope?
And build a new Escurial for so high
A Majesty? Lo all triumphantly,
In Streams of Spanish Blood near Cadiz Sands,
Doth flow into those still victorious Hands
Of him, and Noble Montague, his dear
Collegue, now honour'd to convoy and steer
This Princely Prize, and Treasure so immense
Bound for th'Elysian Thames, design'd from thence
A Present only for a Sovereign meet,
A Conqueror of Kings, whom now we greet;
A greater than that Macedonian Prince,
Or any Hero that hath e'er been since;
For he did mostly barbarous Foes defeat,
This the most civil, warlike, truly great,

287

With greatest joy uniting Nations three
By threefold Cord, not ever like to be
Dissolv'd, ne'er yet so firm in any Age,
One Law, one Faith, one Blood, which may presage
Fair Halcion days; our British Annals may
Cromwel the Great we'll stile him from this day.
The midland Seas which many Years him knew,
And Tribute to him paid, bids now adieu
To this European Ajax; ne'er again
The like to see, while Sun and Moon remain.

XX.

The Islands falsly called Fortunate,
Do trembling gaze at their approaching Fate.
And where's a Homer now, that fully may
His last stupendious Act to life pourtray?
A Theme as Noble as the Trojan Story,
Which fill'd all Pens and Ages with its Glory.

He now against this Scarlet Whore of Rome,
As born to execute the Written Doom,
And as inspir'd (from all Fear exempt)
The grand Canarian Cross he doth attempt,
Which had the Indian Mines some few days past
Near drain'd, and now possest those Treasures vast:
Twice eight great warlike Ships he doth assail,
And up unto the Castle Walls doth sail;
All that great Fleet, those mighty Galleons, he
With golden Argos burneth (sad to see)
In those huge Bonfires made a Sacrifice
Unto the Bacchanalian God: Whose Eyes
Dim waxed to behold the Ocean wide
By those Ætnean Fires almost dry'd,
To see such Flames, and unheard Thunders hear,
That Sancta Cruz, and all the Isle did fear
On that black Day the World would be dissolv'd,
And in another Chaos be involv'd.
The Dolphins by those flashy clatterings scar'd,
From their own proper Region are debar'd,

288

And forc'd to fall into a watry Hell,
Their sad Exile there to bewail and tell.

The frighted Foot, which from the lined Strand
Saw Seas of Blood, now will no longer stand,
But from those fenced Walls and Bulwarks strong,
To lofty Teneriff did run, among
The craggy Rocks and Caves themselves to hide,
Such blasting Storms not able to abide.
What ailed thee, great Mountain and proud Peek,
That shelter for thy self thou now didst seek?
Who to thy forlorn Fugitives should be
A Sanctuary, when they fled to thee.
Why didst thou quake, sky-daring Mount, so high,
That into Heaven thou presum'st to pry?
From the Creation, seeming to be fixt
Above the middle Region, and there mixt
Amongst the Stars, from fiery Meteors free.
Or didst thou fear, that now fulfill'd should be
That sacred Prophecy? That by the Power
Of Faith remov'd, the Seas should thee devour?
Those Indian Silver-Mines, and Wealth so vast
For Spanish Cræsus hither sent, are fast
In durance kept, and like to perish here,
Made useless to their Masters, or in fear
Of English Frigots, that perhaps may seize
Those Golden Heaps, if they appear on Seas.

XXI.

Hence fully fraught with Glory, now he steers
His course for Sally (where he soon appears)
That little Egypt, and most doleful Cell,
Which held some of our English Israel
In Bonds; he maketh there a Noble Peace,
And freely doth the Christian Slaves release:
Whence gone, he takes another glorious Spoil,
Still Providence on his Designs doth smile.

289

XXII.

A little Army of Canarian Dons,

1657.

From th'Indies come, he taketh, now in Bonds
Attending this great Victor, to perform
Their Obsequies to him in solemn Form;
Who, after thousand Storms, to which enur'd
He was, and noble Wounds by him endur'd,
Of which he languish'd, now return'd in Peace
To English Port, did there alas decease,
Yet gloriously, where he did sacrifice
For us his dearest Blood, Death's great Prize;
When many hundreds he had ta'ne of late,
Now to a Royal Chappel brought in State,
For his Devotion ye'rst to him well known,
Amongst the Kings inter'd, and near to one,
That Prince of Peace, which join'd in Hymen's Band
The two divided Houses of our Land.

If now some British Plutarch, kindly prest
With Love of Vertue sparkling in his Breast,
Should in Historick Stile limm out this Brave
And English Aristides, and from Grave
Redeem his Memory; for his Renown,
This one thing more (his worthy Deeds to crown)
May added be, the Glory of them all,
That during those long Wars, wherein the fall
Of thousands he beheld, as many rise
To Fortunes high, (true Valours Meed and Prize)
Yet he postponing with Heroick Zeal,
His private Interest to the publick Weal,
Himself would not advance by those vast Spoils,
Still him attending from those bloody Broils,
(Tho Millions seiz'd by his Conduct, so skill'd
In Arms and Counsel, the English Coffers fill'd)
Who with his Native portion well content,
For his dear Countrys good was gladly spent.

What Marble Pile, what Monument for thee,
Great Britain's Shield, Spain's Scourge, now rais'd shall be?

290

That may our English Heroes animate,
Thy matchless Worth (brave Blake) to emulate;
And to succeeding Times eternize may
Thy Name, and thee entitle from this day
A Saint devout, for Learning Socrates,
A Cato Just, for Valour Hercules.

And thou Great Oliver, thy Sword gird on:
Ride forth and prosper, Truth's great Champion,
Against that Romish Beast; Jehovah send
Such Leaders still, thy high Designs t'attend:
That so that Glorious Work, advanc'd so far
Against proud Babel, by a Holy War,
Under thy Conduct may yet farther thrive,
And to perfection in the end arrive;
Yea crowned with this Epinicion be,
Great Babylon is fall'n, and that by Thee.

291

THE Mock Mourners.

A Satyr, By way of Elegy on King William.

To the QUEEN.

293

Such has been this Ill-Natur'd Nation's Fate,
Always to see their Friends and Foes too late;
By Native Pride, and want of Temper led,
Never to value Merit till 'tis Dead:
And then Immortal Monuments they raise,
And damn their former Follies by their Praise;
With just Reproaches rail at their own Vice,
And mourn for those they did before despise:
So they who Moses Government defi'd,
Sincerely sorrow'd for him when he Di'd.

And so when Britain's Genius fainting lay,
Summon'd by Death, which Monarchs must obey;
Trembling and Soul-less half the Nation stood,
Upbraided by their own Ingratitude.

They, who with true-born Honesty before,
Grudg'd him the Trophies he so justly wore,
Were, with his Fate, more than himself dismay'd,
Not for their King, but for themselves afraid.
He had their Rights and Liberties restor'd,
In Battel purchas'd, and by Peace secur'd:
And they with English Gratitude began
To feel the Favour, and despise the Man.
But when they saw that his Protection ceas'd,
And Death had their Deliverer possest;
How Thunderstruck they stood! What cries they rais'd!
They look'd like Men distracted and amaz'd;
Their Terror did their Conscious Guilt explain,
And wish'd their injur'd Prince Alive again.

294

They dream't of Halters, Gibbets, and of Jails,
French Armies, Popery, and Prince of Wales,
Descents, Invasions, Uproars in the State,
Mobs, Irish Massacres, and God knows what:
Imaginary Enemies appear'd,
And all they knew they Merited, they Fear'd.

'Tis strange that Pride and Envy should prevail,
To make Mens Sense as well as Vertue fail:
That where they must depend they should abuse,
And slight the Man they were afraid to lose.

But William had not govern'd Fourteen Year,
To be an unconcern'd Spectator here:
His Works, like Providence, were all Compleat,
Which made a Harmony we wonder'd at.
The Legislative Power he set Free,
And led them step by step to Liberty,
'Twas not his Fault if they cou'd not Agree.
Impartial Justice He protected so,
The Laws did in their Native Channels flow,
From whence our sure Establishment begun,
And William laid the first Foundation Stone,
On which the stately Fabrick soon appear'd;
How cou'd they sink when such a Pilot steer'd?
He taught them due Defences to prepare,
And make their future Peace their present care:
By him directed, wisely they decreed,
What Lines shou'd be expel'd, and what succeed;
That now he's Dead, there's nothing to be done,
But to take up the Scepter he laid down.

The Circle of this Order is so round,
So Regular as nothing can confound:
In Truth and Justice all the Lines commence,
And Reason is the vast Circumference:
William's the moving Centre of the Whole,
'T had else a Body been without a Soul:
Fenc'd with just Laws, impregnable it stands,
And will for ever last in honest Hands;

295

For Truth and Justice are th'Immortal Springs,
Give Life to Constitutions and to Kings:
In either Case, if one of these decay,
These can no more command than those obey.
Right is the only Fountain of Command,
The Rock on which Authority must stand.
And if Executive Power steps awry
On either hand, it splits on Tyranny.
Oppression is a Plague on Mankind sent,
T'infect the Vitals of a Government.
Convulsions follow, and such Vapours rise,
The Constitution suffocates and dies.
Law is the grand Specifick to restore,
And unobstructed, never fails to cure:
All other Remedies compar'd to that,
Are tampering and quacking with the State.
The Constitution's like a vast Machine,
That's full of curious Workmanship within:
Where tho the Parts unwieldy may appear,
It may be put in motion with a Hair.
The Wheels are Officers and Magistrates,
By which the whole Contrivance operates:
Laws are the Weights and Springs which make it move,
Wound up by Kings as Managers above;
And if they'r screw'd too high, or down too low,
The Movement goes too fast, or else too slow.
The Legislators are the Engineers,
Who when 'tis out of Order make Repairs:
The People are the Owners, 'twas for them
The first Inventer drew the antient Scheme.
'Tis for their Benefit it works, and they
The Charges of maintaining it defray:
And if their Governours unfaithful prove,
They, Engineers or Managers remove.
Unkind Contention sometimes there appears
Between the Managers and Engineers:
Such Strife is always to the Owners wrong,
And once it made the Work stand still too long;

296

Till William came, and loos'd the Fatal Chain,
And set the Engineers to work again:
And having made the wondrous thing compleat,
To Anne's unerring Hand he left the Helm of State.

Anne, like Elisha, when Just William went,
Receiv'd the Mantle of his Government:
And by Divine Concession does inherit
A Double Portion of his Ruling Spirit.
The Dying Hero, loaded with Renown,
Gave her the Nations Blessing with the Crown,
From God, the People, and the Laws her own:
Told her that he had Orders from on High,
To lay aside the Government and Dye:
What he had Fought for, gave her up in Peace,
And chear'd her Royal Heart with Prospect of Success.
While he, who Death in all its Shapes had seen,
With full Composure, quiet and serene,
Passive and undisorder'd at his Fate,
Quitted the English Throne without Regret.
No Conscious Guilt disturb'd his Royal Breast,
Calm as the Region of Eternal Rest:
Before his Life went out, his Heaven came in,
For all was bright without and clear within.
The blest Rewards did to his sight appear,
The Passage easie, and the Prospect near;
His parting Eye the gladsom Regions spy'd,
Just so, before his Dear Maria Dy'd.
His High concern for England he exprest,
England, the Darling of his Royal Breast:
The Transports of his parting Soul he spent,
Her dis-united Parties to lament;
His Wishes then supplied his want of Power,
And Pray'd for them, for whom he Fought before.

Speak Envy, if you can, inform us what
Cou'd this unthankful Nation murmur at?
But Discontent was always our Disease,
For English-men what Government can please?

297

We always had our Sons of Belial here,
Who knew no God nor Government to fear:
No wonder these dislik'd his Gentle Sway,
Unwilling Homage to his Scepter pay,
And only did for want of Power, obey.

Some soft excuse for them we might contrive,
Had he not been the Gentlest Prince Alive;
Had he not born with an exalted Mind
All that was disobliging and unkind.
Peaceful and Tender Thoughts his Mind possest,
And high Superior Love conceal'd the rest:
Our Discontents wou'd oft his Pity move,
But all his Anger was supprest by Love.
That Heaven-born Passion had subdu'd his Soul,
Possest the greatest part, and Rul'd the whole:
This made him strive his People to possess,
Which he had done, had he oblig'd them less.
He knew that Titles are but empty things,
And Hearts of Subjects are the Strength of Kings:
Justice and Kindness were his constant care,
He scorn'd to govern Mankind by their Fear.

Their Universal Love he strove to gain,
'Twas hard that we should make him strive in vain:
That he should here our English Humours find,
And we, whom he had sav'd, shou'd be unkind.
By all endearing stratagems he strove,
To draw us by the secret springs of Love:
And when he could not cure our Discontent,
It always was below him to Resent.
Nature was never seen in such excess,
All Fury when Abroad, at Home all Peace:
In War all Fire and Blood, in Peace enclin'd
To all that's Sweet and Gentle, Soft and Kind.
Ingratitude for this must needs commence
In want of Honesty, or want of Sense.

When Kings to Luxury and Ease resign'd,
Their Native Countries just Defence declin'd;

298

This High pretending Nation us'd to plead,
What they'd perform had they a King to lead;
What Wondrous Actions had by them been done,
When they had Martial Monarchs to lead on;
And if their Prince would but with France make War,
What Troops of English Heroes wou'd appear.

William the bottom of their Courage found,
False like themselves, mere emptiness and sound:
For call'd by Fate to fight for Christendom,
They sent their King abroad, and stay'd themselves at home;
Wisely declin'd the Hazards of the War,
To nourish Faction and Disorders here.
Wrapt in Luxurious plenty, they Debauch,
And load their Active Monarch with Reproach;
Backward in Deeds, but of their Censures free,
And slight the Actions which they dare not see.
At home they bravely teach him to Command,
And judg of what they are afraid to mend:
Against the Hand that saves them they exclaim,
And curse the Strangers, tho they fight for them.
Tho some who wou'd excuse the matter say,
They did not grudg their Service; but their Pay.
Where are the Royal Bands that now advance,
To spread his dreadful Banners into France?
Britannia's Noble Sons her Interest fly,
And Foreign Heroes must their place supply;
Much for the Fame of our Nobility.
Posterity will be asham'd to hear,
Great Britain's Monarch did in Arms appear,
And scarce an English Nobleman was there.
Our Ancestors had never conquer'd France,
(For Kingdoms seldom are subdu'd by Chance)
Had Talbot, Vere, and Montacute withheld
The Glory, for the Danger of the Field.
Had English Honesty been kept alive,
The antient English Glory would survive;

299

But Gallantry and Courage will decline,
Where Pride and all Confederate Vices join.
Had we kept up the fame of former Years,
Landen had been as Famous as Poictiers.
Ormond and Essex had not fought alone,
The only English Lords our Verse can own:
The only Peers of whom the World can say,
That they for Honour fought, and not for Pay.

A Regimented Few we had indeed,
Who serv'd for neither Pride nor Fame, but Bread:
Some Bully L---s, Protection P---s, and some
Went out because they dare not stay at Home.
Loaded with Noxious Vices they appear,
A scandal to the Nation and the War;
Heroes in Midnight scuffles with the Watch,
And Lewd enough an Army to Debauch.
Flesh'd with cold Murders, and from Justice fled,
Pursu'd by Blood in drunken Quarrels shed:
In vain they strive with Bravery to appear,
For where there's Guilt, there always will be Fear.
These are the Pillars of the English Fame,
Such Peers as History must blush to name.

When future Records to the World relate
Marsaglia's Field, and Gallant Schomberg's Fate:
W--- was Captive made, it was severe,
Fate took the Honest Man, and left the Peer.
The World owes Fame for Ages long before,
To the Great Stile of W--- which he bore:
But when we come the Branches to compare,
'Ts a Hero Ancestor, a Bully Heir:
The Vertues the Posterity forsake,
And all their Gallant Blood is dwindl'd to a Rake.
More might be said, but Satyr stay thy Rhimes,
And mix not his Misfortune with his Crimes:
We need not rake the Ashes of the Dead,
There's living Characters enough to read.

How cou'd this Nation ever think of Peace?
Or how look up to Heaven for Success?

300

While lawless Vice in Fleets and Camps appear'd,
And Oaths were louder than their Cannon heard:
No wonder English Israel has been said
Before the French Philistines Fleet t'ha' fled;
While T--- Embrac'd with Whores appear'd,
And Vice it self the Royal Navy Steer'd.

William oppos'd their Crimes with steddy hand,
By his Example first, and then Command;
Prompted the Laws their Vices to suppress,
For which no doubt the Guilty lov'd him less.

Ye Sons of Envy, Railers at the Times,
Be bold like English-Men and own your Crimes:
For shame put on no black, but let us see
Your Habits always, and your Tongues agree.
Envy ne'er blushes, Let it not be said,
You Hate him Living, and you Mourn him Dead:
No Sorrow show where you no Love profess,
There are no Hypocrites in Wickedness.
Great Bonfires make, and tell the World y' are glad
Y' have lost the greatest Blessing e'er you had.
So Mad-men sing in Nakedness and Chains,
For when the Sense is gone, the Song remains.
So Thankless Israel, when they were set free,
Reproach'd the Author of their Liberty,
And wish'd themselves in Egypt back again:
What Pity 'twas they wish'd, or wish'd in vain?

Stop Satyr, let Britannia now relate
Her William's Character, and her own Fate;
Let her to him a grateful Trophy raise,
She best can sigh his Loss that best could sing his Praise.

BRITANNIA.

Of all my Sons by Tyranny bereft,
A Widow desolate and Childless left,
By Violence and Injury opprest,
To Heaven I cast my Eyes, and sigh'd the rest.

301

I need but sigh, for I was always heard,
And William on my welcome Shores appear'd.
With Wings of speed to rescue me he came,
And all my Sorrows vanish'd into Flame.
New Joys sprung up, new Triumphs now abound,
And all my Virgin Daughters hear the Sound:
Eternal Dances move upon my Plains,
And Youthful Blood springs in my antient Veins.
With open Arms I yielded my Embrace,
And William saw the Beauties of my Face.
He had before the knowledge of my Charms,
For he had my Maria in his Arms.
While he remain'd, I gave eternal Spring,
Made him my Son, my Darling, and my King;
While all the wondring World my Choice approve,
Congratulate his Fate, and justify my Love.

Of British Blood in Belgian Plains he liv'd,
My only Foreign Off-spring that surviv'd.
Batavian Climates nourish'd him a while,
Too great a Genius for so damp a Soil:
And freely then surrendred him to me,
For wise Men freely will the Fates obey.
Yet in my William they had equal Share,
And he defended them with equal Care.
They were the early Trophies of his Sword,
His Infant Hand their Liberty restor'd.
His Nurse, that Belgick Lion, roar'd for Aid,
And planted early Lawrels on his Head.
His easy Victories amaz'd Mankind;
We wonder'd what the dreadful Youth design'd.
Fearless he fought his Country to set free,
And with his Sword cut out their Liberty.
The Journals of his Actions always seem'd
So wonderful, as if the World had dream'd:
So swift, so full of Terrour he went on,
He was a Conquerour before a Man.

The Bourbon Sword, tho it was brighter far,
Yet drawn for Conquest, and oppressive War,

302

Had all the Triumphs of the World engrost,
But quickly all those Triumphs to him lost.
Justice to William early Trophies brought;
William for Truth and Justice always fought.

He was the very Mystery of War,
He gain'd by't when he was not Conquerour.
And if his Enemies a Battel won,
He might be beaten, they would be undone.
Antæus like from every fall he rose,
Strengthen'd with double Vigour to oppose;
Those Actions Mankind judg'd Unfortunate,
Serv'd but as secret Steps to make him Great.
Then let them boast their Glory at Landen,
In vain th'Embattl'd Squadrons crowded in,
Theirs was the Victory, the Conquest mine.

Of all the Heroes Ages past adore,
Back to the first Great Man, and long before;
Tho Virtue has sometimes with Valour join'd,
The Barren World no Parallel can find.

If back to Israel's Tents I shou'd retire,
And of the Hebrew Heroes there enquire,
I find no Hand did Judah's Scepter wear,
Comes up to William's Modern Character.
Namure's Gygantick Towers he o'erthrew;
David did less when he Goliah slew.
Here's no Uriah's for Adult'ry slain,
Nor Oaths forgot to faithful Jonathan.
And if to Jesse's Grandson we've recourse,
William his Wisdom had without his Whores.

Joshua might still have staid on Jordan Shore,
Must he, as William did the Boyne, pass o'er.
Almighty Power was forc'd to interpose,
And frighted both the Water and his Foes:
But had my William been to pass that Stream,
God needed not to part the Waves for him.
Not Forty Thousand Canaanites cou'd stand,
In spight of Waves or Canaanites he'd land:

303

Such Streams ne'er stemm'd his Tide of Victory;
No, not the Stream; no, nor the Enemy.

His Bombs and Cannon wou'd ha' made the Wall,
Without the Help of Jewish Rams-Horns, fall.
When his dear Israel from their Foes had fled,
Because of stoln Spoils by Achan hid;
He'd ne'er, like Joshua, on the Ground ha' laid,
He'd certainly ha' fought as well as pray'd.

The Sun would rather ha' been thought to stay,
Amaz'd to see how soon he'ad won the Day,
Than to give time the Canaanites to slay.
The greatest Captains of the Ages past,
Debauch'd their Fame with Cruelty at last:
William did only Tyrants subdue;
These conquer'd Kings, and then the People too:
The Subjects reap'd no Profit for their Pains,
And only chang'd their Masters, not their Chains;
Their Victories did for themselves appear,
And made their Peace as dreadful as the War:
But William fought Oppression to destroy,
That Mankind might in Peace the World enjoy.

The Pompeys, Cæsars, Scipio's, Alexanders,
Who crowd the World with Fame, were great Commanders.
These too brought Blood and Ruin with their Arms,
But William always fought on other Terms.
Terrour indeed might in his Front appear,
But Peace and Plenty follow'd in his Rear:
And if Oppression forc'd him to contend,
Calmness was all his Temper, Peace his End:
He was the only Man we e'er saw fit
To regulate the World or conquer it.
Who can his Skill in Government gainsay,
He that can England's brittle Scepter sway,
Where Parties too much rule, and Kings obey?
He always reign'd by Gentleness and Love,
An Emblem of the Government above.

304

Vote me not Childless then in Christendom,
I yet have Sons in my suspended Womb:
And till just Fate such due Provision makes,
A Daughter my Protection undertakes.
Crowns know no Sexes, and my Government
To either Kind admits a just Descent.
Queens have to me been always fortunate,
E'er since my English Phœnix rul'd the State;
Who made my People rich, my Country great.
Satyr be just, and when we lash their Crimes,
Mingle some Tears for William with our Rhimes.
Tho Baseness and Ingratitude appear,
Thank Heaven that we ha' weeping Millions here:
Then speak our hearty Sorrows if you can,
Superior Grief in feeling Words explain:
Accents that wound, and all the Senses numb,
And while they speak may strike the Hearer dumb:
Such Grief as never was for King before,
And such as never, never shall be more.

See how Authority comes weeping on,
And view the Queen lamenting on his Throne.
With just Regret she takes the Sword of State,
Not by her Choice directed, but his Fate;
Accepts the sad Necessity with Tears,
And mournfully for Government prepares.
The Peoples Acclamations she receives
With sadn'd Joy, and a Content that grieves.

View next the sad Assemblies that appear,
To tell their Grief for him, and Joy for her.
The first confounds the last with such Excess,
They hardly can their noble Thoughts express.
The Illustrious Troop address her to condole,
And speak such Grief as wounds her to the Soul:
They lodg their Sorrows in the Royal Breast,
The Harbour where the Nation looks for Rest.

Next these, the Representatives arise,
With all the Nations Sorrow in their Eyes.

305

The Epithets they righteously apply
To the Restorer of their Liberty,
Are Tokens of their Sense and Honesty.
For as a Body we were always true,
But 'tis our Parties that our Peace undo.
Who can like them the Peoples Grief express?
They shew her all the Tokens of Excess:
O'erwhelm'd with Sorrow, and supprest with Care,
They place the Nation's Refuge now in her:
Nothing but her Succession cou'd abate
The Nation's Sorrow for their Monarch's Fate:
And nothing but his Fate cou'd their true Joy
For her Succession lessen or destroy.

The Civil Sword to her, as Heaven saw fit,
With general Satisfaction they commit:
How can it in a Hand like hers miscarry?
But who shall for us weild the Military?
Who shall the jarring Generals unite;
First teach them to agree, and then to fight?
Who shall renew'd Alliances contrive,
And keep the vast Confederacies alive?
Who shall the growing Gallick Force subdue?
'Twas more than all the World, but him, cou'd do.

Sighs for departed Friends are sensless things,
But 'tis not so when Nations mourn for Kings:
When wounded Kingdoms such a Loss complain,
As Nature never can repair again;
The Tyrant Grief, like Love, obeys no Laws,
But blindly views th'Effect, and not the Cause.

Dark are the Works of Sovereign Providence,
And often clash with our contracted Sense:
But if we might with Heaven's Decrees debate,
And of our Maker's Works expostulate;
Why shou'd he form a Mind supremely great,
And to his Charge commit the Reins of Fate,
And at one hasty Blow the Work defeat?
A Blow so sudden, so severe and swift,
We had no time for Supplication left:

306

As if Almighty Power had been afraid,
Such Pray'rs wou'd by such Multitudes be made;
Such Moses's wou'd to his Altars go,
To whom he never did, or wou'd say no;
He hardly cou'd know how to strike the Blow.

For Prayer so much the Sovereign Power commands,
Ev'n God himself sometimes as conquer'd stands,
And calls for Quarter at the Wrestler's Hands.

How strenuous then had been the Sacred Strife,
While all the kneeling World had begg'd his Life,
With all that Earnestness of Zeal, and more
Than ever Nation begg'd for King before?
See how the neighbouring Lands his Fame improve,
And by their Sorrows testify their Love;
Sprinkle his Memory with grateful Tears,
And hand his Glory to succeeding Years.

With what Contempt will English Men appear,
When future Ages read his Character?
They'll never bear to hear in time to come,
How he was lov'd abroad, and scorn'd at home.
The World will scarce believe it cou'd be true,
And Vengeance must such Insolence pursue.
Our Nation will by all Men be abhor'd,
And William's juster Fame be so restor'd.

Posterity, when Histories relate
His Glorious Deeds, will ask, What Giant's that?
For common Vertues may Mens Fame advance,
But an immoderate Glory turns Romance.
Its real Merit does it self undo,
Men talk it up so high, it can't be true:
So William's Life, encreas'd by doubling Fame,
Will drown his Actions to preserve his Name.
The Annals of his Conduct they'll revise,
As Legends of Impossibilities.
'Twill all a Life of Miracles appear,
Too great for Him to do, or Them to hear.
And if some faithful Writer shou'd set down
With what uneasiness he wore the Crown;

307

What thankless Devil had the Land possest;
This will be more prodigious than the rest.
With Indignation 'twill their Minds inspire,
And raise the Glory of his Actions higher.
The Records of their Fathers they'll deface,
And blush to think they sprung from such a Race.
They'll be asham'd their Ancestors to own,
And strive their Fathers Follies to atone.
New Monuments of Gratitude they'll raise,
And Crown his Memory with Thanks and Praise.

Thou, Satyr, shalt the grateful Few rehearse,
And solve the Nation's Credit in thy Verse;
Embalm his Name with Characters of Praise,
His Fame's beyond the Power of Time to rase.

From him let future Monarchs learn to Rule,
And make his lasting Character their School.
For he who wou'd in time to come be Great,
His nothing now to do but Imitate.
Let dying Parents when they come to bless,
Wish to their Children only his Success.
Here their Instructions very well may end,
William's Example only recommend,
And leave the Youth his History to attend.

But we have here an Ignominious Croud,
That boast their Native Birth and English Blood,
Whose Breasts with Envy and Contention burn,
And now rejoice when all the Nations mourn:
Their aukward Triumphs openly they sing;
Insult the Ashes of their injur'd King:
Rejoice at the Disasters of his Crown,
And drink the Horse's Health that threw him down.

Blush, Satyr, when such Crimes we must reveal,
And draw a silent Curtain to conceal.
Actions so vile shall ne'er debauch our Song;
Let Heaven alone: tho Justice suffers long,
Her Leaden Wings, and Iron Hands, may show
That she is certain, tho she may be slow.

308

His Foreign Birth was made the Fam'd Pretence,
Which gave our Home-born Englishmen Offence.
But Discontent's the antient English Fashion,
The Universal Blemish of the Nation.
And 'tis a Question, whether God cou'd make
That King whom every Englishman wou'd like?
Nor is it any Paradox to say,
William had more of English Blood than they;
The Royal Life flow'd in his sprightly Veins,
The same that in the Noble Stock remains;
The same which now his Glorious Scepter weilds,
To whom Three Nations Just Obedience yields.

ANNE, the remaining Glory of our Isle,
Well she becomes the Royal English Stile:
In William's Steps sedately she proceeds,
William's a Pattern to Immortal Deeds.
Preserves his Memory with generous Care;
Forgetting him is disobliging her;
Where shall the murmuring Party then appear!
Where wou'd the Nation, but for her, ha' found
So safe a Cure for such a sudden Wound?
And cou'd she but as well the Camp supply,
The World the sooner wou'd their Grief lay by:
But there the Fatal Breach is made so wide,
That Loss can never, never be supply'd.
Ye Men of Arms, and English Sons of War,
Now learn from him how you may fight for her;
Your Grief for him express upon her Foes,
For William lov'd such Funeral Tears as those.
'Tis William's Glorious Scepter which she bears,
Like William she for Liberty appears.
She mounts to Honour by the Steps of Truth,
And his Example imitates in Both.
'Tis you must make her blooming Fame increase,
'Tis you must bring her Honour, Wealth and Peace;
And let it once more to the World be seen,
Nothing can make us Greater than a Queen.

309

The Whim,

Dedicated to two Kings, that of Madrid and that of St. Germains.

Midst pretty Tricks, and quaint Device
Of tiny Child when void of Vice;
(When Soul, that Particle Divine,
Does but like Farthing-Candle shine:
While Maid does hold the silly Taper,
Enwrap'd in Lanthorn made of Paper,
Which too but just Discernment brings,
Nor shews the Difference of things.
So glimmers the young dawning Soul
Of Nature's pretty little Fool:
Therefore, as Cassocks say, 'tis thought
Whate'er it does can be no Fault)
I say, midst Pleasantries of Child,
Little Machines, and Actions wild;
Of Cards I've seen the Bauble take
A Superannuated Pack;
The Diamond's sully'd, and the Spade
By often use now dirty made;
And only fit to entertain
Pretty Conceit of Infant Brain.
VVhich yet is scarce come into Scull,
Not half so much as Sawcer full.
VVhen Card by Card the Oaf does take,
Father, look here what I can make!
And then to work he strait does fall,
To frame some small Escurial,
Some Minor Pauls, or tiny Coloss,
(But O the dismal Fate that follows!)

310

First then he for Foundation lays
A Row of Kings, a Royal Race.
By them the Sex that's fair and tender,
Their Spouses of the Feminine Gender.
(The Queen of Hearts the brightest shone)
And now the Edifice goes on:
The Mob with Clubs and Spades are laid,
Those dy'd the others into Red:
But highest of all a Pack of Knaves,
The Babe too naturally heaves,
Just as in Fortune's Scale we see,
Rogues mounted to Supremacy.
There many Pams win all, each takes
The Coin, and sweeps away the Stakes.
Well now the Structure rises, and
In gay sublimity does stand,
Emblem of Artificial Hand.
But Fates! When just at the Roof,
Behind comes a malicious Puff,
And down the Gugaw Pile does fall,
As future Paul's e'er Dooms-day shall.
E'en so (with small Things great compare)
Lewis the Proud is nought but Air:
With those that form'd his Grand Design,
So close, so exquisitely fine,
Richliess the Leader, Mazarine,
Louvois and Croissy, and Fourbin.
None with the nicest Subtlety,
Could ought that was mislaid decry,
Yet all their mighty Projects die.
'Twas, tho a fine, yet airy Web,
The Torrent now begins to ebb,
And now the Louvre, and Versailes,
Th'Escurial too, that Spanish Paul's,
Shake at great Eugene's Name and Sword,
Who's sending 'em another Lord:

311

Who's like to puff that Babel down;
The little Boy that wears the Crown,
With his Grand Pa-Pa are pushing on.
But see the Spanish Phaeton,
That dwells i'th Regions of the Sun,
Has got his Leave of Gallic Sire,
To go and set the World on fire.
Well, drive on Coachman, and take care,
To set down, not bring back your Fare:
The Don Monsieur, the Spanish Beau,
When he comes near the fatal Po,
May curse old Dady's Allez vous.

312

On the Descent of the Germans from the Alps to Verona, and their Ascent from the Aqueduct into Cremona.

From parting Clouds, the German Eagle brings
Vindictive Thunder on Imperial VVings.
The Gallick VVarrior from beneath descries
VVith wonder, while o'er Alps and Rocks he flies,
And levels at him from the neighb'ring Skies.
But see arm'd Numbers, rising from below!
Cremona trembles while the Germans flow,
From opening Cavern on th'astonish'd Foe.
Believe me, France, your Lilly faintly grows;
Nature ne'er fram'd it for th'Italian Snows;
'Twill never thrive, since Heaven and Earth oppose.

A Prologue design'd for Tamerlane, but never spoke.

Written by Dr. G**th.

To day a mighty Hero comes to warm
Your curdling Blood, and bid you, Britains, arm.
To Valour much he owes, to Vertue more;
He fights to save, and conquers to restore.
He strains no Texts, nor makes Dragoons perswade;
He likes Religion, but he hates the Trade.
Born for Mankind, they by his Labours live;
Their Property is his Prerogative.
His Sword destroys less than his Mercy saves,
And none, except his Passions, are his Slaves.

313

Such, Britains, is the Prince that you possess,
In Council greatest, and in Camps no less:
Brave, but not Cruel; VVise without Deceit;
Born for an Age curs'd with a Bajazet.
But you, disdaining to be too secure,
Ask his Protection, and yet grudg his Power.
VVith you a Monarch's Right is in dispute;
VVho give Supplies, are only Absolute.
Britain, for shame your factious Feuds decline,
Too long you've labour'd for the Bourbon Line:
Assert lost Rights, an Austrian Prince alone
Is born to nod upon a Spanish Throne.
A Cause no less cou'd on Great Eugene call,
Steep Alpine Rocks require an Hannibal:
He shows you your lost Honour to retrieve;
Our Troops will fight, when once the Senate give.
Quit your Cabals and Factions, and in spite
Of Whig and Tory in this Cause unite.
One Vote will then send Anjou back to France,
There let the Meteor end his airy Dance:
Else to the Mantuan Soil he may repair,
(E'en Abdicated Gods were Latium's Care)
At worst, he'll find some Cornish Borough here.

To the French King.

See, thou Disturber of the World's Repose,
Your rotting Brother warns you of your Close.
Your British Friend too moulders in his Tomb,
And wasted Armies call you to your Doom.
VVhat Shoals of Gallick Ghosts from Eugene's Sword,
(Eugene, by whom our dying Hope's restor'd)
Fled thro th'Italian Air, and curs'd their Lord?

314

But you must go, the Leveller of Kings
Draws nigh Versailes, and the late Summons brings:
While Worms, unkinder than your Maintenon,
Wait for that Head swell'd with a double Crown;
Impatiently expect the destin'd Skull
Of Schemes and Thrones, and injur'd Treaties full.
Methinks I see 'em revel in his Brain,
Where midnight Projects of dire Conclaves reign;
Mazes of Mischiefs to involve the Earth
In Blood and Woe, which thence derive their Birth.
Methinks I see 'em skirmish for Le Grand,
Each Royal Vein's by eager Reptiles drain'd,
Confus'dly roving, like his Soldiers Flight
Thro their Cremona in the German Night.
But O! This Scene creates a Sacred Awe,
Makes the Muse tremble, while she strives to draw
Our Nature levell'd to that dreaded Law.
But if that Grand Destroyer would make haste,
And spight of Fagon, make him breath his last,
The World from thence would find a time to breath,
That's only hop'd for from that Stroke of Death.
Nations would thank him for that grateful Blow,
And rescu'd Armies with their Standards bow:
The British, Belgic, Neapolitan,
The German, Spaniard, and the Mantuan.
Cou'd we but see him safe within his Tomb,
And France in Mourning for their Monarch's Doom,
The Sight would please beyond the Pomp of Rome:
While Groves of Cypress, and the Baneful Yew
Europe would send, its Sentiments to shew,
And heap 'em on him for a Grand Adieu.

315

On King William.

How long must the Restorer of our State,
That Royal Engine of designing Fate,
Toil, the Concerns of Heaven to compleat?
In whose close Breast their Councils brood secure,
And Europe's Welfare waits the mighty Hour;
Where Lewis Ruin yet in Embryo lies,
And whence kind Peace intends her sacred Rise.
Th'alluring Dictates of soft Ease he slights,
With Jove in Flame and Thunder he delights.
The Dooms of Nations He and Fate dispose,
The One decrees but what the Other does.
His Arms the Briny Empire late maintain'd,
And British Waves with French Dishonour stain.
'Tis true, yet Conquest holds the question'd Ball,
As loth to let the mighty Laurel fall;
Yet certain to adorn the English Brow,
Proceeds in Blood before she does bestow,
Like Heaven and Fate in great Donations slow.
This won, then NASSAU, readorn your Crown,
Can you forgo MARIA for Renown?
So keen for Fame? Awhile the World delay,
After a Pause in Albion's Arms, convey
Your Sword as far as the Retreat of Day.
With British Shields affright the Eastern Moon,
And rob the Indians of their God the Sun.
Methinks I see already on the Loom
Revolving Years of the Third Edward come.
I see the Martial'd Britains in a Line,
In English Helmets quaff the conquer'd Seine,
While William's Health goes round in tributary Wine.

316

I see his Pow'r thro the won Realm diffuse,
Now Gallia yields, and Boileau damns his Muse.
He now on Lewis pleads an Irony,
To you, NASSAU, the transfer'd Praises fly.
No trivial Statue shall thy Fame suffice,
VVe'll raise Colossi to th'endanger'd Skies,
And shew the Gods how Nassau's Vertues rise:
Beyond where'er the Roman Eagles flew,
A Pitch the lingring Cæsars never knew.
Bless'd be the Day when the long forming Years
Disclos'd the Hero to the wond'ring Spheres;
VVhen first the Ocean knew its Infant Lord,
The Albion Genius shook, the Belgic Lions roar'd.
Europe took notice of the mighty Throw,
And Rev'rend Nature did with Homage bow.
So fares the VVorld when a NASSAU appears,
NASSAU! the noblest Favour of the Stars.
Nor a less Triumph signaliz'd the Time
VVhen first MARIA grac'd the English Clime.
Fair at her Birth the Royal Beauty shone;
As when the President of Light, the Sun,
VVith Infant Lustre, and with new-born Ray,
Had shook off Chaos, and began the Day.
The Conscious Planets join'd the mighty Pair,
Decreed by Fate the parted Globe to share.
VVisely the Gods, for Virtues like their own,
Preventing Censure did provide a Throne;
The Justice equal, and the Plea's the same,
As they their Altars, these their Scepters claim.
Yet what a Loss of Power had each sustain'd,
Had distant MARY from her WILLIAM reign'd?
Less had their Grandeur, less their Empire grown,
He'd wanted th'English, she the Gallick Crown.
So two fair Planets that adorn the Sphere,
VVith a less Splendor, if apart, appear:
But when their dazling Glories kindly join,
VVith fiercer Vigour, greater State they shine.

317

Nor can their native Bounds their Rays contain,
But o'er the subject World with mingl'd Beams they reign.

*The Ghost of K. C*****ll.*

Written about the Year 1692.

As in a Dream our thinking Monarch lay,
E'er Night gave place to the approaching Day,
A Ghastly Phantom at his Pillow reer'd,
And with wide Mouth, broad Eyes, thin Cheeks appear'd;
Which in a Flash of Lightning crown'd with Smoke,
Thus his Bat---an Successor bespoke.

Hail my blest Nephew, whom the Fates ordain
To fill the Measure of the St---rts Reign;
That all the Ills by our whole Race design'd,
In thee their full Accomplishment might find:
'Tis thou that art decreed this Point to clear,
Which we have labour'd for these fourscore Year:
Lest then thou fail'st in this high Enterprize,
I'm come to steel thee with my best Advice.

First cast all idle Thoughts of Heaven away,
Those pious Clogs to Arbitrary Sway,
Which serve to sink a Subject to a Slave,
But must not check the Actions of the Brave.
Kings are free Agents, and their Wills are Laws,
Which they may break or keep as they see cause,
And claim a Share in the Almighty Power
Which Heaven assumes, to nourish or devour.
And when thy Fear of God abates its Force,
Thy Gratitude to Man will fail of course:

318

And these must be subdu'd e'er thou obtain
The pleasing Fruits of Arbitrary Reign.
Yet still the Church must be thy chiefest Care,
For Kings (you know) their nursing Fathers are:
That Set of Blockheads are the Monarch's Tools,
To keep the Knaves in awe, and banter Fools.
Keep them but under, Spaniel-like, and tame,
They'l be of use to point thee out thy Game;
Make 'em believe thou'rt theirs, but trust them not,
More than to serve thy Lust, or hunt a Plot.
If thy dull Father had these Measures ta'en,
Thy Attempt to th'English Throne had been in vain.

Next, let thy Ministers consist of those
Who either are thy own or England's Foes:
Take them of Men impeach'd of former Crimes,
Or else obnoxious to the present Times.
Such as thy Father rais'd, and him betray'd,
Must be the Objects of thy Favour made;
Or that oppos'd thy coming to the Throne,
Take these into thy Bosom, they're thy own:
While such as have thy Int'rest truly serv'd,
May thank their own Estates they are not starv'd.
Avoid the Wise and Honest all you can,
For Monarchy will bear no Virtuous Man.
In all Employs be careful to select
Those that will give from those that do expect:
Mankind's alike, Distinction's hard to make;
The Mony then must guide you whom to take.

Another piece of Kingly Craft occurs,
Which is to manage right Intestine Stirs.
Of this I will but one short instance give,
To shew you how this Nail of State to drive.
A Race of Men, unknown in former Story,
Had split this Kingdom into Whig and Tory;
Both Factions grew in Country and in Court,
And both to me did mutually resort;
To whom I gave a subalternate Power
T'enable them each other to devour.

319

This Artifice of State, had I liv'd on,
Would in short time have fix'd the Imperial Throne:
But when I fell, that Abdicated Goose,
Thy Father, left the Game at fast and loose;
And vent'ring to pluck off the Mask too soon,
United them, and was himself undone.
This Game revive again, pursue it close,
And thou the Fate of England may'st dispose.

Lastly, to crown the Work, keep fair and even
With the Enchanted Chappel of St. Stephen;
That Politick Ware-house, whence a King may draw
Fit Tools to overturn both Right and Law.
Fail not to bait the Trap, these Gulls to please
With Hopes of Pensions, Gifts, and Offices:
Keep there the Poison strong, supply the Spring
With fresh Corruptions, and be ever King.

More might be said, but I am call'd away
By a shrill Voice which ushers in the Day;
Speak quickly, if thou'ast any thing to say.

The Pensive Prince, not given to Replies,
Upon his Bed a while revolving lies;
Then starting up, to's Cabinet he went,
And shew'd the Ghost his Scheme of Government:
Which when he'ad seen, away the Goblin spun,
Frighted to see himself so much out done.

320

The Mourners:

Found in the Streets, 1702.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In Sable Weeds your Beaux and Bells appear,
And cloud the coming Beauties of the Year.
Mourn on, you foolish fashionable things,
Mourn for your own Misfortunes, not the King's;
Mourn for the mighty Mass of Coin mis-spent,
That prodigally given, and idly spent;
Mourn your Tapestry and Statutes too,
And Windsor gutted, to adorn your Loo;
Mourn for the Miter long from Scotland gone,
And much more mourn your Union coming on;
Mourn for a ten Years War, and dismal Weather,
And Taxes, strung like Necklaces together,
On Salt, Malt, Paper, Syder, Lights and Leather.
Much for the Civil List need not be said,
They truly mourn who're fifteen Months unpaid.
Well then, my Friends, since things you see are so,
Let's e'en mourn on, 'twould lessen much our Wo,
Had Sorrel stumbled thirteen Years ago.

The Counterpart.

Ye English Nations, put your Mourning on;
Mourn not the King's Misfortune, but your own.
For Realms of Light and of Eternal Day
He lately chang'd his Temporary Sway,
And left you blundring in the tractless Way.

321

He was the Star by which all Europe steer'd,
The Compass shew'd us how its Councils veer'd.
When e'er you are on raging Billows tost,
Think of the skilful Pilot you have lost;
Think on the Dangers he did for you prove,
The Storms and Thunder of Almighty Jove:
How midst fork'd Lightning, show'rs of Shot and Blood,
Divinely bold our Mighty William stood,
Not for his own, but for our Country's Good.
Our Native Land was not his only Care,
Nations far distant did his Bounty share;
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ganges, with their Streams,
Do mourn in Consort with our groaning Thames.

On Sir John Fenwick.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

Here lie the Relicks of a martyr'd Knight,
Whose Loyalty unspotted as the Light,
Seal'd with his Blood his injur'd So---gn's Right.

2

The State his Head did from his Body sever,
Because when living 'twas his chief Endeavour
To set the Nation and its Head together.

3

He boldly fell, girt round with weeping Soldiers,
Imploring Heaven for the good o' the Beholders,
So to cut H---d's Head from England's Shoulders.

322

An Allusion to the 7th Epode of Horace,

1690.

Quo, quo Scelesti ruitis, &c.

1.

Whither, ye impious Britons, do ye run,
As if already not enough undone?
Your Sea has oft run Purple to the Shore,
And Flanders is manur'd with English Gore;
Yet still you arm, and still prepare to fight
Against your K---, his Country, and his Right.

2.

If you must arm, unite the British Powers,
Destroy your Rival Holland's lofty Towers,
And be her Ruin as she has been yours.
Holland deserv'd to be this Nation's Curse,
Bad as a Foe, but as a Friend much worse:
See the Batavians with a grinning Pride
Your present Ills and future Hopes deride.

3.

And well they may, for they can only boast,
Because your Credit, Wealth, and Traffick's lost;
Theirs is the Gain, and they may triumph most.
Pleas'd with a selfish, dull, malicious Joy,
To see your selves none but your selves destroy;
'Tis obvious, but infatuated you
Still court your Ruin, and contrive it too.

4.

Tell me, Is't Madness this, or Hopes of Gain,
Or do the Sons the Fathers Crimes sustain?
Why are you pale and speechless? Why appears
This Trembling? and why flow these guilty Tears?

323

Since there's a Cause, a monstrous Cause indeed,
You fain wou'd hide, too horrid to be hid.

5.

Yes, Britons, yes, you groan beneath the Weight
Of Charles the Martyr's undeserved Fate;
Too well you know his unrepented Fall
Entails this Curse, and will confound you all.

*On S*****l.*

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Illustrious Steed, who should the Zodiack grace,
To thee the Lion and the Bull give place:
Blest be the Dam that fed thee, blest the Earth,
Which first receiv'd thee, and first gave thee Birth.
Did wrong'd Hibernia to revenge her Slain
Produce thee, or else murder'd Fenwick's Strain,
Or barbarously massacred Glencoes Clan?
Whence e'er thou art, be thou for ever blest,
And spend the Remnant of thy Days in rest;
No servile Use thy Noble Limbs profane,
No Weight thy Back, no Curb thy Mouth restrain;
No more be thou, no more Mankind a Slave,
But both enjoy that Liberty you gave.

324

A Song,

1696.

[Last Year in the Spring, the Life of the King]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

Last Year in the Spring, the Life of the King
Was intended by Assassination;
But now they'll pull down the Life of the Kingdom
By a cursed Capitation.

2

France and En---d combin'd, and were plainly join'd
Thus singly his Death to procure;
But En---d alone does to all the World own,
That none but her self shall undo her.

3

When a Nation submits to be govern'd by Chits,
If you look for wise Acts you're mistaken;
Since the P---t-House is rul'd by a Mouse,
Who the Devil can save his Bacon?

4

New Projects they advance, to serve as in France;
But can France have more equal, Sir?
If Affairs must be done, I think 'tis all one
Into what Lion's Paws we fall, Sir.

5

O J---s, were thy Party as wise as they're hearty,
And thou thy self fit to be trusted;
What a blessed Occasion is this Capitation
For matters to be adjusted?

6

But since thou art he whom we took thee to be,
Neither Age nor Experience has mended;
Let us look but once more to some foreign Shore
For a Prince that never offended.

325

The House of NASSAU.

A Pindarick Ode.

I.

Goddess of Numbers, and of Thoughts sublime!
Celestial Muse! whose charming Song
Can fix Heroick Acts, that glide along
Down the vast Sea of perishing Time,
And all the gilded Images can stay
Till Time's vast Sea it self be roll'd away:
O now assist with consecrated Strains!
Let Art and Nature join to raise
A living Monument of Praise
O'er William's Great Remains.
While Thames majestically sad, and slow,
Seems by that Reverend Dome to flow,
Which new-inter'd his Sacred Urn contains.
If thou, O Muse, wou'dst e'er Immortal be,
This Song bequeaths thee Immortality;
For William's Praise can ne'er expire,
Tho Nature's Self at last must die,
And all this fair erected Sky
Must sink, with Earth and Sea, and melt away in Fire.

II.

Begin—the Spring of Vertue trace,
That, from afar descending, flow'd
Thro the rich Veins of all the Godlike Race,
And fair Renown on all the Godlike Race bestow'd.
This Antient Source of Noble Blood
Thro thee, Germania, wandring wide,
Like thy own Rhine's enriching Tide,
In num'rous Branches long diffus'd its Flood.

326

Rhine, scarce more antient, never grac'd thee more,
Tho mantling Vines his comely Head surround,
And all along his Sunny Shore
Eternal Plenty's found.

III.

From Heaven it self th'Illustrious Line began;
Ten Ages in Descent it ran,
In each Descent encreas'd with Honours new.
Never did Heaven's Supreme inspire
In mortal Breasts a nobler Fire,
Nor his own Image livelier drew.
Of pure Ætherial Flame their Souls he made;
And as beneath his forming Hands they grew,
He bless'd the Master-Work, and said,
Go forth, my honour'd Champions, go
To vindicate my Cause below!
Awful in Pow'r, defend for Me
Religion, Justice, Liberty,
And at Aspiring Tyranny
My Delegated Thunder throw!
For this the Great Nassovian Name I raise,
And still this Character Divine
Distinguish'd thro the Race shall shine,
Zeal for their Country's Good, and Thirst of Virtuous Praise.

IV.

Now look, Britannia, look and see
Thro the clear Glass of History,
From whom thy mighty Sov'reign came,
And take a large Review of far-extended Fame.
See, Crouds of Heroes rise to Sight!
ADOLPHUS , with Imperial Splendor gay.
Brave PHILIBERT, unmatch'd in Fight,
Who led the German Eagle to his Prey;
Thro Lombardy he mark'd his conquer'd Way,
And made proud Rome and Naples own his unresisted Might.

327

His gallant Nephew next appears,
And on his Brows the Wreaths of Conquest wears.
Tho streaming Wounds the martial Finger stain,
For thee, Great Charles, in Battel slain,
Slain in all a Soldier's Pride,
He fell triumphant by thy side,
And falling fought, and fighting dy'd,
And lay, a manly Corps, extended on the Plain.

V.

See next, Majestically Great,
The Founder of the Belgick State!
The Sun of Glory which so bright
Beam'd on all the Darling Line,
Did from its golden Urn of Light
On WILLIAM's Head redoubled shine.
His youthful Looks diffus'd an Awe;
Charles, who had try'd the Race before,
And knew great Merits to explore,
When he this rising Vertue saw,
He put in Friendship's Noble Claim;
To his Imperial Court the Hero brought,
And there by early Honours sought
Alliance with his future Fame.
O generous Sympathy, that binds
In Chains unseen the Bravest Minds!
O Love to worthy Deeds, in all great Souls the same!

VI.

But Time at last brought forth th'amazing Day,
When Charles resolv'd to disingage
From Empire's Toils his weary Age,
Gave with each Hand a Crown away.
Philip, his haughty Son, afraid
Of William's Vertues, basely chose
His Father's Favorite to depose;
His Tyrant Reign requir'd far other Aid,
And Alva's fiery Duke, his Scourge of Vengeance, rose;

328

With Flames of Inquisition rose from Hell,
Of Slaughter proud, and insolent in Blood.
What Hand can paint the Scenes of tragic Woes?
What Tongue, sad Belgia, can thy Story tell,
When with her lifted Ax proud Murder stood,
And thy Brave Sons in Crouds unnumber'd fell?
The Sun, with Horror of the Sight,
Withdraws his sickly Beams, and shrouds
His muffl'd Face in sullen Clouds,
And on the Scaffolds faintly sheds a pale malignant Light.

VII.

Thus Belgia's Liberty expiring lay,
And almost gasp'd her gen'rous Life away,
Till ORANGE hears her moving Cries;
He hears, and marching from afar,
Brings to her Aid the sprightly War.
At his Approach, reviv'd with fresh Supplies
Of gather'd Strength, she on her Murd'rers flies.
But Heaven, at first, resolv'd to try
By Proofs adverse his Constancy.
Four Armies lost, two Gallant Brothers slain,
Will he the desperate War maintain?
Tho rolling Tempests darken all the Sky,
And Thunder breaks around his Head,
Will he again the faithless Sea explore,
And oft driv'n back, still quit the Shore?
He will—his Soul, averse to Dread,
Unweary'd still the Spight of Fortune braves,
Superior, and Serene amidst the Stormy Waves.

VIII.

Such was the Man, so vast his Mind!
The steddy Instrument of Fate
To fix the Basis of a rising State.
My Muse with Horror views the Scene behind,
And fain would draw a Shade, and fain
Wou'd hide his destin'd End, nor tell

329

How he—the dreaded Foe of Spain,
More fear'd than Thousands on the Plain,
By the vile Hand of a bold Ruffian fell.
No more—th'ungrateful Prospect let us leave!
And in his Room behold arise,
Bright as th'Immortal Twins that grace the Skies,
A Noble Pair his Absence to retrieve!
In these the Hero's Soul survives,
And William doubly in his Offspring lives.

IX.

MAURICE, for Martial Greatness, far
His Father's Glorious Fame exceeds:
HENRY alone can match his Brother's Deeds;
Both were, like Scipio's Sons, the Thunderbolts of War.
None e'er than Maurice better knew
Camps, Sieges, Battels to ordain;
None e'er than Henry fiercer did pursue
The flying Foe, or earlier Conquests gain:
For scarce Sixteen revolving Years he told,
When eager for the Fight, and Bold,
Enflam'd by Glory's sprightly Charms,
His Brother brought him to the Field;
Taught his young Hand the Truncheon well to weild,
And practis'd him betimes to Arms.

X.

Let Flandrian Newport tell of Wonders wrought
Before her Walls, that memorable Day,
When the Victorious Youths in Concert fought,
And matchless Valour did display!
How, e'er the Battel join'd, they strove
With emulous Honour, and with mutual Love;
How Maurice, touch'd with tender Care
Of Henry's Safety, beg'd him to remove;
Henry refus'd his blooming Youth to spare,
But with his much-lov'd Maurice vow'd to prove
Th'Extremes of War, and equal Dangers share.

330

O generous Strife! and worthy such a Pair!
How dear did Albert this Contention pay!
Witness the Floods of streaming Gore,
Witness the trampl'd Heaps that choak'd the Plain,
And stop'd the Victors in their way.
Witness the neighb'ring Sea, and sandy Shore,
Drunk with the Purple Life of twice three Thousand slain.

XI.

Fortune, that on her Wheel capricious stands,
And waves her painted Wings, Inconstant, Proud,
Hood-wink'd, and shaking from her Hands
Promiscuous Gifts among the Croud;
Restless of Place, and still prepar'd to Flight,
Was constant here, and seem'd restor'd to Sight.
Won by their Merit, and resolv'd to bless
The happy Brothers with a long Success—
Maurice, the first resign'd to Fate.
The Youngest had a longer Date,
And liv'd the Space appointed to compleat
The great Republick, rais'd so high before;
Finish'd by him, the stately Fabrick bore
Its lofty Top aspiring to the Sky:
In vain the Winds and Rains around it beat,
In vain below, the Waves tempestuous roar,
They dash themselves, and break, and backward fly,
Dispers'd and murm'ring at its Feet.
Insulting Spain the fruitless Strife gives o'er,
And claims Dominion there no more.
Then Henry, ripe for Immortality,
His Flight to Heaven eternal springs,
And o'er his quiet Grave Peace spreads her downy Wings.

XII.

His Son, a second WILLIAM, fills his Place,
And climbs to Manhood with so swift a Pace,
As if he knew he had not long to stay:
Such young Marcellus was, the hopeful Grace
Of antient Rome, but quickly snatch'd away.

331

Breda beheld th'advent'rous Boy,
His tender Limbs in shining Armour dress'd,
Where with his Father the hot Siege he press'd.
His Father saw with pleasing Joy
His own reflected Worth, and youthful Charms express'd.
But when his Country breath'd from War's Alarms,
His martial Virtues lay obscure;
Nor cou'd a Warriour, form'd for Arms,
Th'inglorious Rest endure;
But sicken'd soon, and sudden dy'd,
And left in Tears his pregnant Bride,
His Bride, the Daughter of Britannia's King;
Nor saw th'auspicious Pledg of Nuptial Love,
VVhich from that happy Marriage was to spring;
But with his Great Forefathers gain'd a blissful Seat above.

XIII.

Here pause, my Muse, and wind up higher
The Strings of thy Pindarick Lyre!
Then with bold Strains the lofty Song pursue;
And bid Britannia once again review
The numerous Worthies of the Line,
See, like Immortals, how they shine!
Each Life a History alone!
And last, to crown the great Design,
Look forward, and behold them all in One;
Look, but spare thy fruitless Tears—
'Tis thy own William next appears.
Advance Cælestial Form! Let Britain see
Th'accomplish'd Glory of thy Race in Thee;

XIV.

So when some splendid Triumph was to come
In long Procession thro the Streets of Rome,
The Crowd beheld with vast Surprize
The glittering Train in awful Order move
To the bright Temple of Feretrian Jove,
And Trophies born along imploy'd their dazl'd Eyes.

332

But when the laurel'd Emperor, mounted high
Above the rest, appear'd to sight,
In his proud Car of Victory
Shining with Rays excessive bright,
He put the long preceding Pomp to Flight.
Their Wonder cou'd no higher rise,
With Joy they throng his Chariot Wheels, and rend with Shouts the Skies.

XV.

To thee, Great Prince! to thy extensive Mind,
Not by thy Country's narrow Bounds confin'd,
The Fates an ample Scene afford;
And injur'd Nations claim the Succour of thy Sword.
No Respite to thy Toils is giv'n,
Till thou ascend thy native Heav'n:
One Hydra-Head cut off, still more abound,
And Twins sprout up to fill the Wound.
So endless is the Task that Heroes find
To tame the Monster Vice, and to reform Mankind.
For this Alcides heretofore,
And mighty Theseus travel'd o'er
Vast Tracts of Sea and Land, and slew
Wild Beasts, and Serpents gorg'd with Human Prey,
From stony Dens fierce lurking Robbers drew,
And bid the cheerful Traveller pass on his peaceful Way.
Yet tho the toilsom Work they long pursue,
To rid the World's wild pathless Field;
Still pois'nous Weeds, and Thorns in Clusters grew,
And large unwholesom Crops did yield,
To exercise their Hands with Labours ever new.

XVI.

Thou, like Alcides, early didst begin,
And, ev'n a Child, didst Laurel win.
Two snaky Plagues around his Cradle twin'd,

333

Sent by the jealous Wife of Jove,
In speckl'd Wreaths of Death they strove
The mighty Babe to bind.
And twisted Faction in thy Infancy
Darted her forky Tongue at Thee.
But as Jove's Offspring slew his hissing Foes;
So thou, descended from a Line
Of Patriots no less Divine,
Didst quench the brutal Rage of those
Who durst thy dawning Worth oppose.
The Viper Spight, crush'd by thy Virtue, shed
Its yellow Juice, and at thy Feet lay dead.
Thus, like the Sun, did thy great Genius rise,
With Clouds around his sacred Head,
Yet soon dispell'd the dropping Mists, and gilded all the Skies.

XVII.

Great Julius, who with generous Anger view'd
The Statue of Brave Philip's braver Son,
And wept to think what such a Youth subdu'd,
While more in Age himself had yet so little done,
Had wept much more, if he had liv'd to see
The mighty Deeds atchiev'd by Thee;
To see Thee at a beardless Age,
Stand arm'd against th'Invader's Rage,
And bravely fighting for thy Country's Liberty;
While he inglorious Laurels sought,
And not to save his Country fought.
While He—O Stain upon the greatest Name
That e'er before was known to Fame!—
When Rome, his awful Mother, did demand
The Sword from his unruly Hand,
The Sword she gave before,
Enrag'd, he spurn'd at her Command,
Hurl'd at her breast the impious Steel, and bath'd it in her Gore.

334

XVIII.

Far other Battels thou hast won,
Thy Standard still the Publick Good:
Lavish of thine to save thy People's Blood:
And when the hardy Task of War was done,
With what a vast well-temper'd Mind
(A Mind unknown to Rome's ambitious Son)
Thy pow'rful Armies were resign'd?
This Vict'ry o'er thy self was more
Than all thy Conquests gain'd before.
'Twas more than Philip's Son could do,
When for new Worlds the Madman cry'd;
Nor in his own wild Breast had spy'd
Tow'rs of Ambition, Hills of boundless Pride,
Too great for Armies to subdue.

XIX.

O savage Lust of Arbitrary Sway!
Insatiate Fury which in Man we find,
In barbarous Man, to prey upon his Kind,
And make the World, enslav'd, his vicious Will obey!
How has this Fiend, Ambition, long defac'd
Heav'ns Works, and laid the vast Creation waste!
Ask Silver Rhine, with springing Rushes crown'd,
As to the Sea his Waters flow,
Where are the numerous Cities now
That once he saw his honour'd Banks around?
Scarce are their silent Ruins found;
But in th'ensuing Age
Trampl'd into common Ground,
Will hide the horrid Monuments of Gaul's destroying Rage.
All Europe too had shar'd this wretched Fate,
And mourn'd her heavy Woes too late,
Had not Britannia's Chief withstood
The threaten'd Deluge, and repell'd
To its forsaken Banks th'unwilling Flood,
And in his Hand the Scales of balanc'd Kingdoms held.

335

Well was this mighty Trust repos'd in Thee,
Whose faithful Soul from private Int'rests free,
(Int'rests, which vulgar Princes know)
O'er all its Passions sate exalted high,
As Ten'riff's Top enjoys a purer Sky,
And sees the moving Clouds at distance fly below.

XX.

Whoe'er thy warlike Annals reads,
Beholds reviv'd our valiant Edward's Deeds.
Great Edward and his Glorious Son
Will own themselves in Thee outdone,
Tho Crecy's desperate Fight eternal Honours won.
Tho the Fifth Henry too does claim
A shining Place among Britannia's Kings,
And Agencourt has rais'd his Lofty Name;
Yet the loud Voice of Ever-living Fame
Of Thee more numerous Triumphs sings.
But tho no Chief contends with Thee
In all the long Records of History,
Thy own Great Deeds together strive
Which shall the fairest Light derive
On thy Immortal Memory.
Whether Seneffe's amazing Field
To celebrated Mons shall yield?
Or both give place to more amazing Boyn?
Or if Namure's prodigious Siege must all the rest outshine?

XXI.

While in Hibernia's Fields the labouring Swain
Shall pass the Plough o'er Skulls of Warriors slain,
And turn up Bones, and broken Spears,
Amaz'd he'll shew his Fellows of the Plain
The Reliques of victorious Years,
And tell how swift thy Arms that Kingdom did regain.

336

Flandria, a longer Witness to thy Glory,
With Wonder too repeats thy Story;
How oft the Foes thy lifted Sword have seen
In the hot Battel, when it bled
At all its open Veins, and oft have fled
As if their evil Genius thou hadst been.
How when the blooming Spring began t'appear,
And with new Life restor'd the Year,
Confederate Princes us'd to cry,
Call Britain's King—the sprightly Trumpet sound
And spread the joyful Summons round!
Call Britain's King, and Victory!
So when the Flow'r of Greece to Battel led
In Beauty's Cause, just Vengeance swore
Upon the foul Adult'rer's Head,
That from her Royal Lord the ravish'd Helen bore,
The Grecian Chiefs of mighty Fame
Impatient for the Son of Thetis wait:
At last the Son of Thetis came;
Troy shook her nodding Tow'rs, and mourn'd th' impending Fate

XXII.

O sacred Peace! Goddess serene!
Adorn'd with Robes of spotless White,
Fairer than Silver Floods of Light;
How short has thy mild Empire been;
When pregnant Time brought forth this new-born Age,
At first we saw thee gently smile
On the young Birth, and thy sweet Voice awhile
Sung a soft Charm to martial Rage.
But soon the Lion wak'd again,
And stretch'd his opening Claws, and shook his grisly Mane.
Soon was the Year of Triumphs past,
And Janus, ushering in a New,
With backward Look did pompous Scenes review
But his Fore-Face with Frowns was overcast;
He saw the gath'ring Storms of War,
And bid his Priests aloud his Iron Gates unbar.

337

XXIII.

But Heav'n its Hero can no longer spare,
To mix in our tumultuous Broils below;
Yet suffer'd his foreseeing Care
Those Bolts of Vengeance to prepare,
Which other Hands shall throw;
That Glory to a mighty Queen remains,
To triumph o'er th'extinguish'd Foe.
She shall supply the Thunderer's Place;
As Pallas from th'Ætherial Plains
Warr'd on the Giants impious Race,
And laid their huge demolish'd Works in smoaky Ruins low.
Then Anne's shall rival Great Eliza's Reign,
And William's Genius with a grateful Smile
Look down, and bless this happy Isle,
And Peace restor'd shall wear her Olive Crown again.

Adolphus, the Emperor, of the House of Nassau.

Renè of Nassau.

Charles 5th.

He was then in Germany.

The Counts Lodowick and Henry.

Savis tranquillus in undis, The Prince his Motto.

Maurice and Henry.

Edward III. and the Black Prince.

Vicem gerit illa Tonantis, The Motto on her Majesty's Coronation Medals.

338

Reformation of Manners,

A SATYR.

340

I. [PART I.]

How long may Heaven be banter'd by a Nation,
With broken Vows, and Shams of Reformation,
And yet forbear to shew its Indignation?

Tell me ye Sages, who the Conscience guide,
And Ecclesiastick Oracles divide,
Where do the Bounds of Sovereign Patience end,
How long may People undestroy'd offend?
What Limits has Almighty Power prepar'd,
When Mercy shall be deaf and Justice heard?

If there's a Being Immortal and Immense,
Who does Rewards and Punishments dispense;
Why is he Passive when his Power's defy'd,
And his Eternal Government's deny'd?
Tell us why he that sits above the Sky,
Unreins no Vengeance, lets no Thunders fly,
When Villains prosper, and successful Vice
Shall human Power controul, and heavenly Power despise?

If 'tis because the Sins of such a Nation
Are yet too small to conquer his Compassion,
Then tell us to what height Mankind may sin,
Before Celestial Fury must begin?
How their extended Crimes may reach so high,
Vengeance must follow and of course destroy;
And by the common Chain of Providence,
Destruction come like Cause and Consequence.

Then search the dark Arcana of the Skies,
And if ye can, unfold these Mysteries:

341

His clashing Providences reconcile
The partial Frown, and the unequal Smile.
Tell us why some have been destroy'd betimes,
While Albion's glittering Shores grow black with Crimes?
Why some for early Errors are undone,
Some longer still, and longer still sin on?
England with all her blackening Guilt is spar'd,
And Sodom's lesser Crimes receiv'd a swift Reward:
And yet all this be reconcil'd to both,
Impartial Justice, and unerring Truth.

Why Ostia stands, and no revenging Hand
Has yet dismist her from the burden'd Land:
No Plague, no sulphurous Shower her exit makes,
And turns her Silver Thames to Stygian Lakes,
Whose uninhabitable Banks might flow
With Streams as black as her that made 'em so:
And as a Monument to future Times,
Should send forth Vapours nauseous as her Crimes.

Tell us why Carthage fell a Prey to Rome,
And mourn the Fate of bright Byzantium;
Why antient Troy's embrac'd by Destiny,
And Rome, Immortal Rome, to Fate gives way,
Yet Ostia stands, more impious far than they?

Where are the Golden Gates of Palestine,
Where High Superior Glory us'd to shine?
The mighty City Millions dwelt within,
Where Heaven's Epitome was to be seen.
God's Habitation sacred to his Name,
Magnificent beyond the Voice of Fame:
Those loftly Pinnacles which once were seen,
Bright like the Majesty that dwelt within.
In which Seraphick Glory cou'd reside,
Too great for humane Vision to abide;
Whose glittering Fabrick, God the Architect,
The Sun's less Glorious Light, did once reject.

These all ha' felt the Iron hands of Fate,
And Heaven's dear Darling City's desolate.

342

No more the sacred Place commands our Awe,
But all become a Curse, a Golgotha.
The Reverend Pile can scarce its Ruins show,
Forsook by him whose Glory made it so.

Yet Ostia stands, her impious Towers defy
The threatning Comets of the blazing Sky,
Foreboding Signs of Ruin she despises,
And all her teaching Saviour's Sacrifices;
The Jews are Fools, Jerusalem's out-done,
We crucify the Father, they the Son.
Within her Reprobate Gates there are allow'd
Worse Jews than those who crucified their God:
They kill'd a Man, for they suppos'd him so;
These boldly sacrifice the God they know;
His Incarnation, Miracles deny,
And vilely Banter his Divinity;
Their old Impostor, Socinus, prefer,
And the long Voyage of Heaven without a Pilot steer.

Yet Ostia boasts of her Regeneration,
And tells us wondrous Tales of Reformation:
How against Vice she has been so severe,
That none but Men of Quality may swear:
How publick Lewdness is expell'd the Nation,
That Private Whoring may be more in fashion:
How Parish Magistrates, like pious Elves,
Let none be Drunk a Sundays, but themselves:
And Hackney Coach-men durst not ply the Street
In Sermon-time, till they had paid the State.

These, Ostia, are the Shams of Reformation,
With which thou mock'st thy Maker, and the Nation;
While in thy Streets unpunish'd there remain
Crimes which have yet insulted Heaven in vain,
Crimes which our Satyr blushes to review,
And Sins thy Sister Sodom never knew:
Superior Lewdness crowns thy Magistrates,
And Vice grown grey usurps the Reverend Seats;
Eternal Blasphemies, and Oaths abound,
And Bribes among thy Senators are found.

343

Old Venerable Jeph, with trembling Air,
Antient in Sin, and Father of the Chair,
Forsook by Vices he had lov'd so long,
Can now be vicious only with his Tongue;
Yet talks of antient Lewdness with delight,
And loves to be the Justice of the Night:
On Baudy Tales with pleasure he reflects,
And leudly smiles at Vices he corrects.
The feeble tottering Magistrate appears
Willing to Wickedness in spite of Years:
Struggles his Age and Weakness to resist,
And fain wou'd sin, but Nature won't assist.

L---l, the Pandor of thy Judgment-Seat,
Has neither Manners, Honesty, nor Wit;
Instead of which, he's plenteously supply'd
With Nonsense, Noise, Impertinence, and Pride;
Polite his Language, and his flowing Stile
Scorns to suppose Good Manners worth his while;
With Principles from Education stor'd,
The Drudgery of Decency abhor'd;
The City-Mouth, with Eloquence endu'd.
To mountebank the listning Multitude,
Sometimes he tunes his Tongue to soft Harangues,
To banter Common Halls, and flatter Kings:
And all with but an odd indifferent Grace,
With Jingle on his Tongue, and Coxcomb in his Face;
Definitive in Law, without Appeal,
But always serves the Hand who pays him well:
He trades in Justice, and the Souls of Men,
And prostitutes them equally to Gain:
He has his publick Book of Rates to show,
Where every Rogue the Price of Life may know:
And this one Maxim always goes before,
He never hangs the Rich, nor saves the Poor.
God-like he nods upon the Bench of State,
His Smiles are Life, and if he Frowns 'tis Fate:
Boldly invading Heaven's Prerogative;
For with his Breath he kills or saves alive.

344

Fraternities of Villains he maintains,
Protects the Robberies, and shares the Gains,
Who thieve with Toleration as a Trade,
And then restore according as they're paid:
With aukward scornful Phyz, and vile Grimace,
The genuine Talents of an ugly Face;
With haughty Tone insults the Wretch that dies,
And sports with his approaching Miseries.

F---e, for so sometimes unrighteous Fate
Erects a Mad-man for a Magistrate,
Equipt with Leudness, Oaths, and Impudence,
Supplies with Vices his defect of Sense;
Abandon'd to ill Manners, he retains
His want of Grace as well as want of Brains.
Before the Boy wore off, the Rake began,
The Bully then commenc'd, and then the Man.
Yet Nature seems in this to do him wrong,
To give no Courage with a saucy Tongue;
From whence this constant Disadvantage flows,
He always gives the Words, and takes the Blows:
Tho often can'd, he's uninstructed by't;
But still he shews the Scoundrel with the Knight,
Still scurrilous, and still afraid to fight.
His Dialect's a Modern Billinsgate,
Which sutes the Hosier, not the Magistrate;
The same he from behind the Counter brought,
And yet he practis'd worse than he was taught;
Early debauch'd, in Satan's Steps he mov'd,
And all Mechanick Vices he improv'd.
At first he did his Sovereign's Rights invade,
And rais'd his Fortune by clandestine Trade;
Stealing the Customs, did his Profits bring,
And 'twas his Calling to defraud his King:
This is the Man that helps to rule the State,
The City's New-reforming Magistrate;
To execute the Justice of the Law,
And keep less Villains than himself in awe;

345

Take Mony of the Rich, and hang the Poor,
And lash the Strumpet he debauch'd before.
So for small Crimes poor Thieves Destruction find,
And leave the Rogues of Quality behind.

Search all the Christian Climes from Pole to Pole,
And match for Sheriffs S---ple and C---le;
Equal in Character and Dignity,
This fam'd for Justice, that for Modesty:
By Merit chosen for the Chair of State,
This fit for Bridewell, that for Billinsgate;
That richly clad to grace the Gaudy Day,
For which his Father's Creditors must pay:
This from the fluxing Bagnio just dismist,
Rides out to make himself the City Jest.
From some lascivious Dish-Clout to the Chair,
To punish Lewdness and Disorders there.
The Brute he rides on wou'd his Crimes detest,
For that's the Animal, and this the Beast:
And yet some Reformation he began;
For Magistrates ne'er bear the Sword in vain.
Expensive sinning always he declin'd,
To frugal Whoring totally resign'd:
His Avarice his Appetite opprest,
Base like the Man, and brutish like the Lust:
Concise in Sinning, Nature's Call supply'd,
And in one Act two Vices gratified.
Never was Oyster, Beggar, Cinder Whore
So much caress'd by Magistrate before.
They that are nice and squeamish in their Lust,
'Ts a sign the Vice is low, and wants a Gust;
But he that's perfect in th'Extreme of Vice,
Scorns to excite his Appetite by Price.
'Twas in his Reign we to Reform began,
And set the Devil up to mend the Man.
More might be said, but Satyr stay thy Rimes,
And mix not his Misfortunes with his Crimes.

C---n, superbly Wise and Grave of Life,
Cou'd every one reform, except his Wife:

346

Passive in Vice, he pimps to his own Fate,
To shew himself a Loyal Magistrate.
'Tis doubtful who debauch'd the City more,
The Maker of the Masque, or of the Whore.
Nor his Religion less a Masquerade;
He always drove a strange mysterious Trade:
With decent Zeal, to Church he'll gravely come,
To praise that God which he denies at home.
Socinian T---d's his dear Ghostly Priest,
And taught him all Religion to digest;
Took prudent Care he shou'd not much profess,
And he was ne'er addicted to Excess.
And yet he Covets without Rule or End,
Will sell his Wife, his Master, or his Friend;
To boundless Avarice a constant Slave,
Unsatisfy'd as Death, and greedy as the Grave.

Now, Satyr, let us view the numerous Fry,
That must succeeding Magistrates supply,
And search if future Years are like to be
Much better taught, or better rul'd than we.
The Senators of Hospital Descent,
The upper House of Ostia's Parliament,
Who from Destruction should their City save,
But are as wicked as they shou'd be grave:
With Citizens in Petto, who at need,
As these do those, so those must these succeed.

D---b, the Modern Judas of the Age,
Has often try'd in vain to mount the Stage:
Profuse in Gifts and Bribes to God and Man,
To ride the City-Horse, and wear the Chain.
His Vices, Ostia, thou hast made thy own;
In chusing him, thou writ'st thy own Lampoon:
Fancy the haughty Wretch in Chair of State,
At once the City's Shame and Magistrate;
At Table set, at his right Hand a Whore,
Ugly as those which he had kept before.
He to do Justice, and reform our Lives,
And she receive the Homage of our Wives.

347

Now, Satyr, give another Wretch his Due,
Who's chosen to reform the City too;
Hate him, ye Friends to Honesty and Sense,
Hate him in injur'd Beauty's just Defence:
A Knighted Booby insolent and base,
“Whom Man no Manners gave, nor God no Grace.
The Scorn of Women, and the Shame of Men,
Matcht at Threescore to innocent Fifteen;
Hag-rid with jealous Whimsies let us know,
He thinks he's Cuckold, 'cause he should be so:
His vertuous Wife exposes to the Town,
And fears her Crimes because he knows his own.

Here, Satyr, let them just Reproach abide,
Who sell their Daughters to oblige their Pride.
The Ch---er---n begins the doleful Jest,
As a Memento Mori to the rest;
Who fond to raise his Generation by't,
And see his Daughter buckl'd to a Knight,
The Innocent unwarily betray'd,
And to the Rascal join'd the hapless Maid;
The Purchase is too much below the Cost,
For while the Lady's gain'd, the Woman's lost.
What shall we say to common Vices now,
When Magistrates the worst of Crimes allow?
Ostia, if e'er thou wilt reform thy Gates,
'T must be another Set of Magistrates;
In Practice just, and in Profession sound;
But God knows where the Men are to be found.
In all thy numerous Streets 'tis hard to tell,
Where the few Men of Faith and Honour dwell:
Poor and despis'd, so seldom they appear,
The Cynick's Lanthorn would be useful here.

No City in the spacious Universe,
Boasts of Religion more, or minds it less;
Of Reformation talks, and Government,
Backt with an Hundred Acts of Parliament:
Those useless Scare-Crows of neglected Laws,
That miss the Effect because they miss the Cause:

348

Thy Magistrates, who should reform the Town,
Punish the poor Mens Faults, but hide their own;
Suppress the Players Booths in Smithfield-Fair,
But leave the Cloysters, for their Wives are there,
Where all the Scenes of Lewdness do appear.

Satyr, the Arts and Mysteries forbear,
Too black for thee to write, or us to hear;
No Man, but he that is as vile as they,
Can all the Tricks and Cheats of Trade survey.
Some in clandestine Companies combine,
Erect new Stocks to trade beyond the Line:
With Air and empty Names beguile the Town,
And raise new Credits first, then cry 'em down:
Divide the empty Nothing into Shares,
To set the Town together by the Ears.
The Sham Projectors and the Brokers join,
And both the Cully Merchant undermine;
First he must be drawn in, and then betray'd,
And they demolish the Machine they made.
So conjuring Chymists, who with Charm and Spell
Some wondrous Liquid wondrously exhale;
But when the gaping Mob their Mony pay,
The Charm's dissolv'd, the Vapour flies away;
The wondring Bubbles stand amaz'd to see
Their Mony mountebank'd to Mercury.

Some fit out Ships, and double Fraights ensure,
And burn the Ships to make the Voyage secure:
Promiscuous Plunders thro the World commit,
And with the Mony buy their safe Retreat.

Others seek out to Africk's Torrid Zone,
And search the burning Shores of Serralone;
There in insufferable Heats they fry,
And run vast Risques to see the Gold, and die:
The harmless Natives basely they trepan,
And barter Baubles for the Souls of Men:
The Wretches they to Christian Climes bring o'er,
To serve worse Heathens than they did before.

349

The Cruelties they suffer there are such,
Amboyna's nothing, they've outdone the Dutch.

Cortez, Pizarro, Guzman, Penaloe,
Who drank the Blood and Gold of Mexico,
Who thirteen Millions of Souls destroy'd,
And left one Third of God's Creation void;
By Birth for Nature's Butchery design'd,
Compar'd to these are merciful and kind;
Death cou'd their cruellest Designs fulfil,
Blood quench'd their Thirst, and it suffic'd to kill:
But these the tender Coup de Grace deny,
And make Men beg in vain for leave to die;
To more than Spanish Cruelty inclin'd,
Torment the Body and debauch the Mind:
The lingring Life of Slavery preserve,
And vilely teach them both to sin and serve.
In vain they talk to them of Shades below,
They fear no Hell, but where such Christians go;
Of Jesus Christ they very often hear,
Often as his blaspheming Servants swear;
They hear and wonder what strange Gods they be,
Can bear with Patience such Indignity.
They look for Famines, Plagues, Disease, and Death,
Blasts from above, and Earthquakes from beneath:
But when they see regardless Heaven looks on,
They curse our Gods, or think that we have none.
Thus Thousands to Religion are brought o'er,
And made worse Devils than they were before.

Satyr, the Men of Drugs and Simples spare,
'Tis hard to search the latent Vices there;
Their Theologicks too they may defend,
They can't deceive, who never do pretend.
As to Religion, generally they show
As much as their Profession will allow:
But count them all Confederates of Hell,
Till B--- they with one Consent expel.
B---, our Satyr startles at his Name,
The College Scandal, and the City's Shame;

350

Not satisfy'd his Maker to deny,
Provokes him with Lampoon and Blasphemy;
And with unprecedented Insolence,
Banters a God, and scoffs at Providence.

No Nation in the World, but ours, would bear
To hear a Wretch blaspheme the Gods they fear:
His Flesh long since their Altars had adorn'd,
And with his Blood appeas'd the Powers he scorn'd.
But see the Badg of our Reforming Town,
Some cry Religion up, some cry it down:
Some worship God, and some a God defy,
With equal Boldness, equal Liberty.
The silent Laws decline the just Debate,
Made dumb by the more silent Magistrate;
And both together small Distinction put
'Twixt him that owns a God, and him that owns him not:
The Modern Crime 'tis thought no being had,
They knew no Atheist when our Laws were made.
'Tis hard the Laws more Freedom should allow
With God above, than Magistrates below.

B--- unpunish'd, may Heaven and Earth defy,
Dethrone Almighty Power, Almighty Truth deny;
Burlesque the Sacred, High, Vnutter'd Name,
And impious War with Jove himself proclaim.
While Justice unconcern'd looks calmly on,
And B--- boasts the Conquest he has won;
Insults the Christian Name, and laughs to see
Religion bully'd by Philosophy.

B--- with far less hazard may blaspheme,
Than thou may'st, Satyr, trace thy Noble Theme:
The Search of Vice more hazard represents
From Laws, from Councils, and from P---
Thou may'st be wicked, and less Danger know,
Than by informing others they are so:
Thou canst no P---r, no Counsellor expose,
Or dress a vicious M---r in his proper Clothes;
But all the Bombs and Canon of the Law,
Are soon drawn out to keep thy Pen in awe:

351

By Laws post Facto thou may'st soon be slain,
And Innuendoe's shall thy Guilt explain.

Thou may'st lampoon, and no Man will resent,
Lampoon but Heaven, and not the P---:
Our Trustys and our Welbelov'ds forbear;
Thou'rt free to banter Heaven, and all that's there;
The boldest Flights thou'rt welcome to bestow
O'th' Gods above, but not the Gods below.

B--- may banter Heaven, and A---l Death,
And T---d poison Souls with his infected Breath:
No Civil Government resents the Wrong,
But all are touch'd and angry at thy Song.

Thy Friends without the help of Prophesy,
Read Goals and Gibbets in thy Destiny;
But Courage springs from Truth, let it appear,
Nothing but Guilt cun be the Cause of Fear.
Satyr go on, thy keenest Shafts let fly,
Truth can be no Offence to Honesty:
The Guilty only are concern'd, and they
Lampoon themselves, when e're they censure thee.

II. PART II.

The City's view'd, now Satyr turn thine Eye,
The Country's Vices, and the Court's survey:
And from Impartial Scrutiny set down.
How much they're both more vicious than the Town.
How does our Ten Years War with Vice advance?
About as much as it has done with France.

Ride with the Judg, and view the wrangling Bar,
And see how leud our Justice-Merchants are:
How Clito comes from instigating Whore,
Pleads for the Man he cuckol'd just before;

352

See how he cants, and acts the Ghostly Father,
And brings the Gospel and the Law to gether:
To make his pious Frauds be well receiv'd,
He quotes that Scripture which he ne'er believ'd.
Fluent in Language, indigent in Sense,
Supplies his Want of Law with Impudence.
See how he rides the Circuit with the Judg,
To Law and Lewdness a devoted Drudg.
A Brace of Female Clients meet him there.
To help debauch the Sizes and the Fair:
By Day he plies the Bar with all his might,
And Revels in St. Ed---'s Streets at Night:
The Scandal of the Law, his own Lampoon,
Is Lawyer, Merchant, Bully, and Buffoon;
In drunken Quarrels eager to engage,
Till Brother Justice lodg'd him in the Cage:
A thing the Learned thought could never be,
Had not the Justice been as drunk as he.
He pleads of late at Hymen's Nuptial Bar,
And bright Aurelia is Defendant there.
He courts the Nymph to wed, and make a Wife,
And swears by G--- he will reform his Life.
The solemn Part he might ha' well forbore,
For she alas! has been, has been a Whore:
The pious Dame the sober Saint puts on,
And Clito's in the way to be undone.

Casco's debauch'd, 'tis his Paternal Vice;
For Wickedness descends to Families:
The tainted Blood the Seeds of Vice convey,
And plants new Crimes before the old decay.
Thro all Degrees of Vice the Father run,
But sees himself outsin'd by either Son;
Whoring and Incest he has understood,
And they subjoin Adultery and Blood.

This does the Orphan's Cause devoutly plead,
Secures her Mony and her Maidenhead:
And then persuades her to defend the Crime,
Evade the Guilt, and banter off the Shame.

353

Taught by the subtile Counsellour, she shows
More nice Distinctions than Ignatius knows:
In Matrimony finds a learned flaw,
A Wife in Honour, and a Wife in Law.
“Choice is the Substance of the Contract made,
“And mutual Love the only Knot that's ty'd:
“To these the Laws of Nations must submit,
“And where they fail, the Contract's incomplete.
“So that if Love and Choice were not before,
“The last may be the Wife, the first the Whore.
Thus she securely sins with eager Gust,
And satisfies her Conscience and her Lust:
Nor does her Zeal and Piety omit,
But to the Whore she joins the Jesuit:
With constant Zeal frequents the House of Prayer,
To heal her prostituted Conscience there;
Without remorse, adjourns with full Content,
From his lascivious Arms to th'Sacrament.

The Brother less afraid of Sin than Shame,
Doubles his Guilt, to save his tottering Fame:
'Twas too much risque for any Man to run,
To save that Credit which before was gone:
The Innocent lies unreveng'd in Death,
He stop'd the growing Scandal in her Breath:
Till time shall lay the horrid Murder bare;
No Bribes can crush the Writs of Error there.

Nor is the Bench less tainted than the Bar;
How hard's that Plague to cure that's spread so far!
'Twill all prescrib'd Authorities reject,
While they're most guilty who should first correct.
Contagious Vice infects the Judgment-Seats,
And Vertue from Authority retreats:
How should she such Society endure?
Where she's contemn'd she cannot be secure.

Milo's a Justice, they that made him so
Should answer for th'oppressive Wrongs he'll do;
His Lands almost to Ostia's Walls extend;
And of his heap'd up Thousands there's no end,

354

If Magistrates, as in the Text 'tis clear,
Ought to be such as Avarice abhor,
This may be known of the Almighty's Mind,
That Milo's not the Man the Text design'd.

Satyr, be bold, and fear not to expose
The vilest Magistrate the Nation knows:
Let Furius read his naked Character,
Blush not to write what he should blush to hear;
But let them blush, who in a Christian State
Made such a Devil be a Magistrate.

In Britain's Eastern Provinces he reigns,
And serves the Devil with excessive Pains:
The Nation's Shame, and honest Mens surprize,
With Drunkard in his Face, and Madman in his Eyes.
The Sacred Bench of Justice he profanes,
With a polluted Tongue and bloody Hands:
His Intellects are always in a Storm,
He frights the People whom he should reform.
Antipathys may some Diseases cure,
But Vertue can no Contraries endure.
All Reformation stops when Vice commands,
Corrupted Heads can ne'er have upright Hands.
Shameless ith' Class of Justices he'll swear,
And plants the Vices he should punish there.
His Mouth's a Sink of Oaths and Blasphemies,
And Cursings are his kind Civilities;
His fervent Prayers to Heaven he hourly sends,
But 'tis to damn himself and all his Friends;
He raves in Vice, and storms that he's confin'd,
And studies to be worse than all Mankind.
Extremes of Wickedness are his Delight,
And's pleas'd to hear that he's distinguish'd by't;
Exotick ways of Sinning he improves,
We curse and hate, he curses where he loves;
So strangely retrograde to all Mankind,
If crost he damns himself, if pleas'd his Friend.

This is the Man that helps to bless the Nation,
And bully Mankind into Reformation,

355

The true Coercive Power of the Law,
Which drives the People which it cannot draw:
The Nation's Scandal, England's true Lampoon,
A Drunken, Whoring, Justicing Buffoon.

With what stupendious Impudence can he
Punish a poor Man's Immorality?
How should a Vicious Magistrate assent
To mend our Manners or our Government?
How shall new Laws for Reformation pass,
If Vice the Legislation should possess?
To see Old S---y Blasphemy decry,
And S---e vote to punish Bribery;
Lying exploded by a Perjur'd Knight,
And Whoring punish'd by a Sodomite:
That he the Peoples Freedom should defend,
Who had the King and People too trepan'd.
Soldiers seek Peace, Drunkards prohibit Wine,
And Fops and Beaux our Politicks refine:
These are Absurdities too gross to hide,
Which wise Men wonder at, and Fools deride.

When from the Helm Socinian H---t flies,
And all the rest his Tenents stigmatize,
And none remain that Jesus Christ denies.
Judas expell'd, Lewd, Lying C--- sent home,
And Men of Honesty put in their room.
Blaspheming B---s to his Fen-Ditches sent,
To bully Justice with a Parliament,
Then we shall have a Christian Government.
Then shall the wish'd for Reformation rise,
And Vice to Vertue fall a Sacrifice.

And with the nauseous Rabble that retire,
Turn out that Bawdy, Saucy Poet P---;
A Vintner's Boy the Wretch was first prefer'd,
To wait at Vice's Gates, and pimp for Bread;
To hold the Candle, and sometimes the Door,
Let in the Drunkard, and let out the Whore:
But, as to Villains it has often chanc'd,
Was for his Wit and Wickedness advanc'd.

356

Let no Man think his new behaviour strange,
No Metamorphosis can Nature change;
Effects are chain'd to Causes, generally
The Rascal born will like a Rascal die.

His Prince's Favours follow'd him in vain,
They chang'd the Circumstance, but not the Man.
While out of Pocket, and his Spirits low,
He'd beg, write Panegyricks, cringe and bow;
But when good Pensions had his Labours crown'd,
His Panegyricks into Satyrs turn'd,
And with a true Mechanick Spirit curst,
Abus'd his Royal Benefactor first.
O what assiduous Pains does P--- take,
To let great D--- see he could mistake!
Dissembling Nature false Description gave,
Shew'd him the Poet, and conceal'd the Knave.

To---d, if such a Wretch is worth our Scorn,
Shall Vice's blackest Catalogue adorn;
His hated Character, let this supply,
Too vile even for our University.

Now, Satyr, to one Character be just,
M---n's the only Pattern and the first:
A Title which has more of Honour in't,
Than all his antient Glories of Descent.
Most Men their Neighbours Vices will disown,
But he's the Man that first reforms his own.
Let those alone reproach his want of Sense,
Who with his Crimes have had his Penitence.
'Tis want of Sense makes Men when they do wrong,
Adjourn their promis'd Penitence too long:
Nor let them call him Coward, 'cause he fears
To pull both God and Man about his Ears.
Amongst the worst of Cowards let him be nam'd,
Who having sin'd 's afraid to be asham'd:
And to mistaken Courage he's betray'd,
Who having sin'd 's asham'd to be afraid.
Thy Valour, M---, does our Praise prevent,
For thou hast had the Courage to repent:

357

Nor shall his first Mistakes our Censure find,
What Heaven forgets let no Man call to mind.

Satyr, make search thro all this sober Age,
To bring one season'd Drunkard on the Stage;
Sir Stephen, nor Sir Thomas won't suffice,
Nor six and Twenty Kentish Justices:
Your E---x Priesthood hardly can supply,
Tho they're enough to drink the Nation dry.
Tho Parson B---d has been steept in Wine,
And sunk the Royal Tankard on the Rhine,
He's not the Man that's fit to raise a Breed,
Should P---k, P---l, or R---n succeed
Or match the Size of matchless Rochester,
And make one long Debauch of Thirteen Year;
It must be something can Mankind out-do,
Some high Excess that's wonderful and new.
Nor will Mechanick Sots our Satyr sute,
Tis Quality must grace the Attribute.
These like the lofty Cedars to the Shrub,
Drink Maudlin-College down, and Royston-Club.
Such petty Drinking's a Mechanick Evil,
But he's a Drunkard that out-drinks the Devil:
If such cannot in Court or Church appear,
Let's view the Camp, you'll quickly find 'em there.

Brave T---n, who revell'd Day and Night,
And always kept himself too drunk to fight;
And O---d in a Sea of Sulphur strove
To let the Spaniards see the Vice we love.

Yet these are puny Sinners, if you'll look
The dreadful Roll in Fate's Authentick Book.
The Monument of Bacchus still remains,
Where English Bones lie heap'd in Irish Plains:
Triumphant Death upon our Army trod,
And revell'd at Dundalk in English Blood.

Let no Man wonder at the dreadful Blow,
For Heaven has seldom been insulted so.
In vain Brave Schomberg mourn'd the Troops that fell,
While he made Vows to Heaven and they to Hell.

358

Our Satyr trembles to review those Times,
And hardly finds out Words to name their Crimes;
In every Tent the horrid Juncto's sate,
To brave their Maker and despise their Fate;
The Work was done, Drunk'ness was gone before,
Life was suspended, Death could do no more.
Five Regimented Heroes there appear,
Captains of Thousands, mighty Men of War,
Glutted with Wine, and drunk with Hellish Rage,
For want of other Foes they Heaven engage.
Sulphur and ill-extracted Fumes agree,
To make each Drop push on their Destiny.
Th'Infernal Draughts in Blasphemies rebound,
And openly the Devil's Health went round:
Nor can our Verse their latent Crime conceal,
How they shook hands to meet next day in Hell;
Death pledg'd them, Fate the dreadful Compact read,
Concurring Justice spoke, and four or, five lay dead.
When Men their Maker's Vengeance once defy,
'Ts a certain Sign that their Destruction's nigh.
'Tis vain to single out Examples here,
Drunk'ness will soon be th'Nation's Character;
The grand Contagion's spreading over all,
'Tis Epidemick now, and National.
Since then the Sages all Reproofs despise,
Let's quit the People and Lampoon the Vice.
Drunk'ness is so the Error of the Time,
The Youth begin to ask if 'tis a Crime:
Wonder to see the grave Patricians come,
From City Courts of Conscience reeling home;
And think 'tis hard they should no Licence make,
To give the Freedom which their Fathers take.

The Seat of Judgment's so debauch'd with Wine,
Justice seems rather to be drunk than blind:
Lets fall the Sword, and her unequal Scale
Makes Right go down, and Injury prevail.

A Vice, 'tis thought, the Devil at first design'd
Not to allure, but to affront Mankind;

357

A Pleasure Nature hardly can explain,
Sutes none of God Almighty's Brutes but Man.

An Act so nauseous, that had Heaven enjoyn'd
The Practice, as a Duty on Mankind,
They'd shun the Bliss which came so foul a way,
And forfeit Heaven, rather than once obey.

A double Crime, by which one Act w' undo
At once the Gentleman and Christian too;
For which no better Antidote is known,
Than t'have one Drunkard to another shown.
The Mother Conduit of expatiate Sin,
Where all the Seeds of Wickedness begin;
The Introduction to Eternal Strife,
And Prologue to the Tragedy of Life;
A foolish Vice, does needless Crimes reveal,
And only tells the Truth it should conceal.

'Tis strange how Men of Sense should be subdu'd
By Vices so unnatural and rude;
Which gorge the Stomach to divert the Head,
And to make Mankind merry, make them mad:
Destroys the Vitals, and distracts the Brain,
And rudely moves the Tongue to talk in vain;
Dismisses Reason, stupifies the Sense,
And wondring Nature's left in strange suspence;
The Soul's benumb'd, and ceases to inform,
And all the Sea of Nature's in a Storm;
The dead unactive Organ feels the Shock,
And willing Death attends the fatal Stroke.

And is this all for which Mankind endure
Distempers past the Power of Art to cure?
For which our Youth old Age anticipate,
And with luxurious Drafts suppress their Vital Heat?
Tell us ye Learned Doctors of the Vice,
Wherein the high mysterious Pleasure lies?
The great sublime Enjoyment's laid so deep,
'Tis known in Dream, and understood in Sleep.
The Graduates of the Science first commence,
And gain Perfection when they lofe their Sense:

360

Titles they give, which call their Vice to mind,
But Sot's the common Name for all the Kind:
Nature's Fanaticks, who their Sense employ,
The Principles of Nature to destroy.
A Drunkard is a Creature God ne'er made,
The Species Man, the Nature retrograde;
From all the Sons of Paradise they seem
To differ in the most acute Extreme;
Those covet Knowledg, labour to be wise,
These stupify the Sense and put out Reason's Eyes.
For Health and Youth those all their Arts employ,
These strive their Youth and Vigour to destroy;
Those damn themselves to heap an ill-got Store,
These liquidate their Wealth, and covet to be poor.

Satyr, examine now with heedful Care,
What the rich Trophies of the Bottle are,
The mighty Conquests which her Champions boast,
The Prizes which they gain, and Price they cost.

The Ensigns of her Order soon displace
Nature's most early Beauties from the Face.
Paleness at first succeeds, and languid Air,
And bloated Yellows supersede the Fair;
The flaming Eyes betray the nitrous Flood,
Which quench the Spirits, and inflame the Blood,
Disperse the Rosy Beauties of the Face,
And fiery Blotches triumph in the place;
The tottering Head and trembling Hand appears,
And all the Marks of Age, without the Years;
Distorted Limbs gross and unweildy move,
And hardly can pursue the Vice they love.
A Bacchanalian Scarlet dyes the Skin,
A sign what sulphurous Streams arise within.
The Flesh emboss'd with Ulcers, and the Brain
Oppress'd with Fumes and Vapour, shews in vain
What once before the Fire it did contain.

Strange Power of Wine! whose Vehicle the same
At once can both extinguish and inflame:

361

Keen as the Lightning does the Sword consume,
And leaves the untouch'd Scabbard in its room.
Nature burnt up with fiery Vapour dies,
And Wine a little while Mock-Life supplies:
Gouts and old Aches, Life's short Hours divide,
At once the Drunkard's Punishment and Pride:
Who having all his youthful Powers subdu'd,
Enjoys old Age and Pain before he should.
Till Nature quite exhausted quits the Wretch,
And leaves more Will than Power to debauch.
With Hellish Pleasure past Excess he views,
And fain would drink, but Nature must refuse:
Thus drench'd in artificial Flame he lies,
Drunk in Desire, forgets himself and dies.
In the next Regions he expects the same:
And Hell's no Change, for here he liv'd in Flame.

Satyr, to Church; visit the House of Prayer,
And see the wretched Reformation there;
Unveil the Mask, and search the Sacred Sham;
For Rogues of all Religions are the same.
The several Tribes their numerous Titles view,
And fear no Censure where the Fact is true.
They all shall have thee for their constant Friend,
Who more than common Sanctity pretend;
Provided they'll take care the World may see
Their Practices and their Pretence agree.
But count them with the worst of Hypocrites,
Whom Zeal divides, and Wickedness unites,
Who in Profession only are precise,
Dissent in Doctrine, and conform in Vice.

They who from the Establish'd Church divide,
Must do it out of Piety or Pride;
And their Sincerity is quickly try'd.
For always they that stand before the first,
Will be the best of Christians, or the worst.
But shun their secret Counsels, O my Soul!
Whose Interest can their Consciences controul;

362

Those Ambo-Dexters in Religion, who
Can any thing dispute, yet any thing can do:
Those Christian-Mountebanks, that in disguise
Can reconcile Impossibilities:
Alternately conform, and yet dissent,
And sin with both Hands, but with one repent.

The Man of Conscience all Mankind will love,
The Knaves themselves his Honesty approve:
He only to Religion can pretend,
The rest do for the Name alone contend.

The Verity of true Religion's known
By no Description better than its own:
Of Truth and Wisdom it informs the Mind,
And nobly strives to civilize Mankind;
With potent Vice maintains Eternal Strife,
Corrects the Manners, and reforms the Life.

Tells us, ye learned Magi of the Schools,
Who pose Mankind with Ecclesiastick Rules,
What strange amphibious Things are they, that can
Religion without Honesty maintain,
Who own a God, pretended Homage pay,
But neither his, nor humane Laws obey?
Blush England, hide thy Hypocritick Face,
Who has no Honesty, can have no Grace.

In vain we argue from Absurdities,
Religion's bury'd just when Virtue dies:
Virtue's the Light by which Religion's known,
If this be wanting, Heaven will that disown.
We grant it merits no Divine Regard,
And Heaven is all from Bounty, not Reward:
But God must his own Nature contradict,
Reverse the World, its Government neglect,
Cease to be just, Eternal Law repeal,
Be weak in Power, and mutable in Will,
If Vice and Vertue equal Fate should know,
And that unbless'd, or this unpunish'd go.

In vain we strive Religion to disguise,
And smother it with Ambiguities:

363

Interest and Priest—may perhaps invent
Strange Mysterys, by way of Supplement:
School-men may deep perplexing Doubts disclose,
And subtile Notions on the World impose;
Till by their Ignorance they are betray'd,
And lost in Desarts which themselves ha' made.
Zealots may cant, and Dreamers may divine,
And formal Fops to Pageantry incline;
And all with specious Gravity pretend
Their spurious Metaphysicks to defend.

Religion's no divided Mystick Name,
For true Religion always is the same;
Naked and plain her Sacred Truths appear,
From pious Frauds and dark Ænigma's clear:
The meanest Sense may all the Parts discern,
What Nature teaches all Mankind may learn:
E'en what's reveal'd is no untrodden Path,
'Tis known by Rule, and understood by Faith;
The Negatives and Positives agree,
Illustrated by Truth and Honesty.

And yet if all Religion was in vain,
Did no Rewards or Punishments contain,
Vertue's so suted to our Happiness,
That none but Fools could be in love with Vice.

Vertue's a native Rectitude of Mind,
Vice the Degeneracy of Human Kind:
Vertue is Wisdom Solid and Divine,
Vice is all Fool without, and Knave within:
Vertue is Honour circumscrib'd by Grace,
Vice is made up of every thing that's base:
Vertue has secret Charms which all Men love,
And those that do not choose her, yet approve:
Vice like ill Pictures which offend the Eye,
Make those that made them their own Works deny:
Vertue's the Health and Vigour of the Soul,
Vice is the foul Disease infects the whole:
Vertue's the Friend of Life, and Soul of Health,
The Poor Man's Comfort, and the Rich Man's Wealth:

364

Vice is a Thief, a Traytor in the Mind,
Assassinates the Vitals of Mankind;
The Poison of his high Prosperity,
And only Misery of Poverty.

To States and Governments they both extend,
Vertue's their Life and Being, Vice their End:
Vertue establishes, and Vice destroys,
And all the Ends of Government unties:
Vertue's an English King and Parliament,
Vice is a Czar-of-Muscow Government:
Vertue sets Bounds to Kings, and limits Crowns;
Vice knows no Law, and all Restraint disowns:
Vertue prescribes all Government by Rules;
Vice makes Kings Tyrants, and their Subjects Fools:
Vertue seeks Peace, and Property maintains;
Vice binds the Captive World in hostile Chains:
Vertue's a beauteous Building form'd on high,
Vice is Confusion and Deformity.

In vain we strive these two to reconcile,
Vain and impossible, th'unequal Toil:
Antipathies in Nature may agree,
Darkness and Light, Discord and Harmony;
The distant Poles in spite of Space may kiss,
Water capitulate, and Fire make Peace:
But Good and Evil never can agree,
Eternal Discord's there, Eternal Contrariety.

In vain the Name of Vertue they put on,
Who preach up Piety, and practise none.
Satyr, resume the Search of secret Vice,
Conceal'd beneath Religion's fair Disguise.

Solid's a Parson Orthodox and Grave,
Learning and Language more than most Men have;
A fluent Tongue, a well-digested Stile,
His Angel Voice his Hearers Hours beguile;
Charm'd them with Godliness, and while he spake,
We lov'd the Doctrine for the Teachers sake.
Strictly to all Prescription he conforms,
To Canons, Rubrick, Discipline, and Forms;

365

Preaches, disputes, with Diligence and Zeal,
Labours the Church's latent Wounds to heal.
'Twould be uncharitable to suggest,
Where this is found we should not find the rest:
Yet Solid's frail and false, to say no more,
Dotes on a Bottle, and what's worse, a W---
Two Bastard Sons he educates abroad,
And breeds them to the Function of the Word.
In this the zealous Church-man he puts on,
And dedicates his Labour to the Gown.

P---, for so his Grace the Duke thought fit,
Has in the Wild of Sussex made his Seat:
His want of Manners we could here excuse,
For in his Day 'twas out of Pulpit-use;
Railing was then the Duty of the Day,
Their Sabbath-work was but to scold and pray.
But when transplanted to a Country Town,
'Twas hop'd he'd lay his fiery Talent down:
At least we thought he'd so much Caution use,
As not his Noble Patron to abuse.

But 'tis in vain to cultivate Mankind,
When Pride has once possession of his Mind.
Not all his Grace's Favours could prevail
To calm that Tongue that was so us'd to rail.
Promiscuous Gall his Learned Mouth desil'd,
And Hypocondriack Spleen his Preaching spoil'd;
His undistinguish'd Censure he bestows,
Not by Desert, but as Ill-nature flows.
The Learned say the Causes are from hence,
An Ebb of Manners, and a Flux of Sense;
Dilated Pride, the Frenzy of the Brain,
Exhal'd the Spirits, and disturb'd the Man;
And so the kindest thing that can be said,
Is not to say he's mutinous, but mad:
For less could ne'er his Antick Whims explain,
He thought his Belly pregnant as his Brain;
Fancy'd himself with Child, and durst believe,
That he by Inspiration could conceive;

366

And if the Heterogeneous Birth goes on,
He hopes to bring his Mother Church a Son:
Tho some Folks think the Doctor ought to doubt,
Not how't got in, but how it will get out.

Hark, Satyr, now bring Boanerges down,
A fighting Priest, a Bully of the Gown:
In double Office he can serve the Lord,
To fight his Battels, and to preach his Word;
And double Praise is to his Merit due,
He thumps the Pulpit and the People too.

Then search my L--- of L--- Diocess,
And see what R--- the Care of Souls possess;
Beseech his L--- but to name the Priest,
Went sober from his Visitation Feast.
Tell him of sixteen Ecclesiastick Guides,
On whom no Spirit but that of Wine abides;
Who in contiguous Parishes remain,
And preach the Gospel once a Week in vain:
But in their Practices unpreach it all,
And sacrifice to Bacchus and to Baal.

Tell him a Vicious Priesthood must imply
A carless or defective Prelacy.
But still be circumspect and spare the Gown,
The Mitre's full as Sacred as the Crown;
The Church[OMITTED] Sea is always in a Storm,
Leave them[OMITTED] Latter Lammas to reform.
If in their G[OMITTED] Vice thou should'st appear,
Thou'lt certain to be lost and shipwrack'd there:
Nor meddle with their Convocation Feuds,
The Church's F---, the Clergy's Interludes;
Their Church-Distinctions too let us lay by,
As who are low Church R--- and who are high.
Enquire not who their Passive Doctrine broke,
Who swore at random, or who ly'd by Book:
But since their Frailties come so very fast,
'Tis plain they should not be believ'd in hast.

Satyr, for Reasons we ha' told before,
With gentle Strokes the Men of Posts pass o'er;

367

Nor within Gun-shot of St. Stephen's come,
Unless thou'rt well prepar'd for Martyrdom;
Not that there's any want of Subject there,
But the more Crimes we have the less we'll hear.
And what hast thou to do with S--- P---?
Let them sin on and tempt the Fatal Hour.
'Tis vain to preach up dull Morality,
Where too much Crime and too much Power agree;
The hardn'd Guilt undocible appears,
They'll exercise their Hands, but not their Ears.
Let their own Crimes be punishment enough,
And let them want the Favour of Reproof.

Let the Court Ladies be as lewd as fair,
Let Wealth and Wickedness be M--- Care;
Let D--- drench his Wit with his Estate,
And O--- sin in spite of Age and Fate;
On the wrong side of Eighty let him whore,
He always was, and will be lewd and poor.
Let D--- be proud, and O--- gay,
Lavish of vast Estates, and scorn to pay:
The antient D--- has sin'd to's Heart's content,
And, but he scorns to stoop, would now repent;
Would Heaven abate but that one darling Sin,
He'd be a Christian and a P--- again.
Let poor Corrina mourn her Maidenhead,
And her lost D--- gone out to fight for Bread.
Be he embark'd for P--- or S---
She prays he never may return again,
For fear she always should resist in vain.

Satyr, forbear the blushing Sex t'expose,
For all their Vice from Imitation flows;
And 'twould be but a very dull Pretence,
To miss the Cause, and blame the Consequence:
But let us make Mankind asham'd to sin,
Good Nature'l make the Women all come in.
This one Request shall thy Rebukes express,
Only to talk a little little less.

368

Now view the Beaus at Will's, the Men of Wit,
By Nature nice, and for Discerning fit:
The finish'd Fops, the Men of Wig and Snuff,
Knights of the Famous Oyster-Barrel Muff.
Here meets the Dyet of Imperial Wit,
And of their weighty Matters wisely treat;
Send Deputies to Tunbridg and the Bath,
To guide young Country Beau's in Wit's unerring Path.

Prigson from Nurse and Hanging-sleeves got free,
A little smatch of Modern Blasphemy;
A powder'd Wig, a Sword, a Page, a Chair,
Learns to take Snuff, drinks Chocolate, and swear.
Nature seems thus far to ha' led him on,
And no Man thinks he was a Fop too soon,
But 'twas the Devil surely drew him in,
Against the Light of Nature thus to sin:
That he who was a Coxcomb so compleat,
Should now put in his wretched Claim for Wit.
Such sober Steps Men to their Ruin take,
A Fop, a Beau, a Wit, and then a Rake.

Fate has the Scoundrel Party halv'd in two,
The Wits are shabby, and the Fops are Beau;
The Reason's plain, the Mony went before,
And so the Wits are Rakish 'cause they're poor.
Indulgent Heaven for Decency thought fit,
That some shou'd have the Mony, and some the Wit.
Fools are a Rent-Charge left on Providence,
And have Equivalents instead of Sense;
To whom he's bound a larger Lot to carve,
Or else they'd seem to ha' been born to starve,
Such with their double Dole shou'd be content,
And not pretend to Gifts that Heaven ne're sent:
For 'twou'd reflect upon the Power Supream,
If all his Mercies ran in one contracted Stream:
The Men of Wit would by their Wealth be known,
Some wou'd have all the Good, and some ha' none.
The useless Fools wou'd in the World remain,
As Instances that Heaven cou'd work in vain.

369

Dull Flettumacy has his Heart's Delight,
Gets up i'th' Morning to lie down at Night;
His Talk's a Mass of weighty Emptiness,
None more of Business prates, or knows it less;
A painted Lump of Idleness and Sloth,
And in the Arms of Bacchus spends his Youth:
The waiting Minutes tend on him in vain,
Mispent the past, unvalued those remain.
Time lies as useless, unregarded by,
Needless to him that's only born to die;
And yet this undiscerning thing has Pride,
And hugs the Fop that wiser Men deride.

Pride's a most useful Vertue in a Fool,
The humble Coxcomb's always made a Tool:
Conceit's a Blockhead's only Happiness,
He'd hang himself if he cou'd use his Eyes.
If Fools cou'd their own Ignorance discern,
They'd be no longer Fools.
From whence some wise Philosophers ha' said,
Fools may sometimes be sullen, but can't be mad.
'Tis too much thinking which distracts the Brain,
Crouds it with Vapours which dissolve in vain;
The fluttering Wind of undigested Thought
Keeps Mock Idea's in, and true ones out:
These guide the undirected Wretch along,
With giddy Head and inconsistent Tongue.
But Flettumacy's safe, he's none of them,
Bedlam can never lay her Claim to him;
Nature secur'd his unincumbred Scull,
For Flettumacy never thinks at all:
Supinely sleeps in Diadora's Arms,
Doz'd with the Magick of her Craft and Charms;
The subtil Dame brought up in Vice's School,
Can love the Cully, tho she hates the Fool:
Wisely her just Contempt of him conceals,
And hides the Follies he himself reveals.
'Tis plain the Self-denying Jilt's i'th' Right,
She wants his Money, and he wants her Wit.

370

Satyr, the Men of Rhyme and Jingle shun,
Hast thou not Rhim'd thy self till thou'rt undone?
On Rakish Poets let us not reflect,
They only are what all Mankind expect.

Yet 'tis not Poets have debauch'd the Times,
'Tis we that have so damn'd their sober Rhymes:
The Tribe's good-natur'd and desire to please,
And when you snarl at those, present you these.
The World has lost its ancient Tast of Wit,
And Vice comes in to raise the Appetite;
For Wit has lately got the start of Sence,
And serves it self as well with Impudence.

Let him whose Fate it is to write for Bread,
Keep this one Maxim always in his Head:
If in this Age he would expect to please,
He must not cure, but nourish their Disease.
Dull Moral things will never pass for Wit,
Some Years ago they might, but now 'ts too late.
Vertue's the saint Green-sickness of the Times,
'Tis luscious Vice gives Spirit to all our Rhymes.
In vain the sober thing inspir'd with Wit,
Writes Hymns and Histories from Sacred Writ;
But let him Blasphemy and Bawdy write,
The Pious and the Modest both will buy't.
The blushing Virgin's pleas'd, and loves to look,
And plants the Poem next her Prayer-Book.

W---ly with Pen and Poverty beset,
And Bl---re vers'd in Physick as in Wit;
Tho this of Jesus, that of Job may sing,
One Bawdy Play will twice their Profits bring:
And had not both carest the Flatter'd Crown,
This had no Knighthood seen, nor that no Gown,

Had Vice no Power the Fancy to bewitch,
Dryden had hang'd himself as well Creech;
Durfey had starv'd, and half the Poets fled,
In Foreign Parts to pawn their Wit for Bread.
'Tis Wine or Lewdness all our Theams supplies,
Gives Poets Power to write, and Power to please:

371

Let this describe the Nation's Character,
One Man reads Milton, forty Rochester.
This lost his Taste, they say, when h' lost his Sight;
Milton had Thought, but Rochester had Wit.
The Case is plain, the Temper of the Time,
One wrote the Lewd, and t'other the Sublime.

And shou'd Apollo now descend to write
In Vertue's Praise, 'twou'd never pass for Wit.
The Bookseller perhaps wou'd say, 'Twas well:
But 'Twou'd not hit the Times, 'Twou'd never Sell;
Unless a Spice of Lewdness cou'd appear,
The sprightly part wou'd still be wanting there.
The Fashionable World wou'd never read,
Nor the Unfashionable Poet get his Bread.
'Tis Love and Honour must enrich our Verse,
The Modern Terms, our Whoring to rehearse.
The sprightly part attends the God of Wine,
The Drunken Stile must blaze in every Line.
These are the Modern Qualities must do,
To make the Poem and the Poet too.

Dear Satyr, if thou wilt reform the Town,
Thou'lt certainly be beggar'd and undone:
'Tis at thy Peril; if thou wilt proceed
To cry down Vice, Mankind will never read.

CONCLUSION.

What strange Mechanick Thoughts of God and Man,
Must this unsteady Nation entertain,
To think Almighty Science can be blind,
Wisdom it self be banter'd by Mankind;
Eternal Providence be mock'd with Lies,
With Out-sides and Improbabilities,

372

With Laws, those Rodomanta's of the State,
Long Proclamations, and the Lord knows what
Societies ill Manners to suppress,
And new sham Wares with Immoralities:
While they themselves to common Crimes betray'd,
Can break the very Laws themselves ha' made.
With Jehu's Zeal they furiously reform,
And raise false Clouds which end without a Storm;
But with a loose to Vice, securely see
The Subject punish'd, and themselves go free.
For shame your Reformation-Clubs give o'er,
And jest with Men, and jest with Heaven no more:
But if you wou'd avenging Powers appease,
Avert the Indignation of the Skies;
Impending Ruin avoid, and calm the Fates;
Ye Hypocrites, reform your Magistrates.

Your Quest of Vice at Church and Court begin,
There lie the Seeds of high expatiate Sin;
'Tis they can check the Vices of the Town,
When e'er they please but to suppress their own:
Our Modes of Vice from their Examples came,
And their Examples only must reclaim.
In vain you strive ill Manners to suppress,
By the Superlatives of Wickedness:
Ask but how well the Drunken Plow-man looks,
Set by the swearing Justice in the Stocks;
And poor Street-Whores in Bridewel feel their Fate,
While Harlot M---n rides in Coach of State.
The Mercenary Scouts in every Street,
Bring all that have no Money to your Feet;
And if you lash a Strumpet of the Town,
She only smarts for want of Half a Crown:
Your Annual Lists of Criminals appear,
But no Sir Harry or Sir Charles is there.
You Proclamations Rank and File appear,
To bug-bear Vice, and put Mankind in fear:
These are the Squibs and Crackers of the Law,
Which hiss and make a Bounce, and then withdraw.

373

Law like the Thunder of Immortal Jove,
Rings Peals of Terror from the Powers above;
But when the pointed Lightnings disappear,
The Cloud dissolves, and all's serene and clear.
Law only aids Men to conceal their Crimes,
But 'tis Example must reform the Times:
Force and Authorities are all in vain,
Unless you can perswade, you'll ne'er constrain;
And all perswasive Power expires of Course,
'Till back'd with good Examples to enforce.
The Magistrates must Blasphemy forbear,
Be faultless first themselves, and then severe;
Impartial Justice equally dispense,
And fear no Man, nor fear no Man's Offence;
Then may our Justices, and not before,
When they reprove the rich, correct the poor.

The Men of Honour must from Vice dissent,
Before the Rakes and Bullies will repent;
Vertue must be the Fashion of the Town,
Before the Beaus and Ladies put it on;
Wit must no more be Bawdy and Profane,
Or Wit to Vertue's reconcil'd in vain.
The Clergy must be sober, grave and wise,
Or else in vain they cant of Paradise:
Our Reformation never can prevail,
While Precepts govern and Examples fail.
Were but the Ladies vertuous as they're fair,
The Beaus would blush as often as they swear;
Vice wou'd grow antiquated in the Town,
Wou'd all our Men of Mode but cry it down:
For Sin's a Slave to Custom, and will die,
Whenever Habits suffer a Decay;
And therefore all our Reformation here,
Must work upon our Shame and not our Fear.
If once the Mode of Vertue wou'd begin,
The Poor will quickly be asham'd to sin.
Fashion is such a strange bewitching Charm,
For fear of being laugh'd at they'll reform;

374

And yet Posterity will blush to hear,
Royal Examples ha' been useless here;
The only Just Exception to our Rule,
Vertues not learnt in this Imperial School.
In vain Maria's Character we read,
So few will in her Path of Vertue tread.

In vain her Royal Sister recommends
Vertue to be the Test of all her Friends,
Back'd with her own Example and Commands.
Our Church establish'd, and our Trade restor'd,
Our Friends protected, and our Peace secur'd:
France humbl'd, and our Fleets insulting Spain,
These are the Triumphs of a Female Reign;
At Home her milder Influence she imparts,
Queen of our Vows, and Monarch of our Hearts.
If Change of Sexes thus will change our Scenes,
Grant Heaven we always may be rul'd by Queens.

The Play-House:

A Satyr.

By T. G. Gent.

Near to the Rose where Punks in numbers flock,
To pick up Cullies, to increase the Stock;
A Lofty Fabrick does the Sight invade,
And stretches round the place a pompous Shade;
Where sudden Shouts the Neighbourhood surprize,
And Thund'ring Claps, and dreadful Hissings rise.

Here Thrifty R--- hires Monarchs by the Day,
And keeps his Mercenary Kings in Pay;
With deep-mouth Actors fills the Vacant Scenes,
And drains the Town for Goddesses and Queens:
Here the lewd Punk, with Crowns and Scepters grac'd,
Teaches her Eyes a more Majestick Cast;

375

And hungry Monarchs with a numerous Train
Of Supplicant Slaves, like Sancho, Starve and Reign.

But enter in, my Muse, the Stage survey,
And all its Pomp and Pageantry display;
Trap-Doors and Pit-falls, from th'unfaithful Ground,
And Magic Walls, encompass it around:
On either side maim'd Temples fill our Eyes,
And intermixt with Brothel-Houses rise;
Disjointed Palaces in order stand,
And Groves obedient to the mover's Hand,
O'ershade the Stage, and flourish at Command.
A Stamp makes broken Towns and Trees entire:
So when Amphion struck the Vocal Lire,
He saw the Spacious Circuit all around,
With crowding Woods, and Neighb'ring Cities crown'd.

But next the Tyring-Room survey and see,
False Titles, and promiscuous Quality,
Confus'dly swarm from Heroes, and from Queens,
To those that swing in Clouds and fill Machines.
Their various Characters they chose with Art,
The Frowning Bully fits the Tyrant's part:
Swoln Cheecks, and swaggering Belly makes a Host,
Pale meager Looks, and hollow Voice a Ghost;
From careful Brows, and heavy down-cast Eyes,
Dull Cits, and thick-scull'd Aldermen arise:
The Comick Tone, inspir'd by F---r, draws
At every Word loud Laughter and Applause:
The Mincing Dame continues as before,
Her Character's unchang'd, and acts a Whore.

Above the rest, the Prince with mighty Stalks,
Magnificent in Purple Buskins walks:
The Royal Robe his Haughty Shoulders grace,
Profuse of Spangles and of Copper-Lace:
Officious Rascals to his mighty Thigh,
Guiltless of Blood, th'unpointed Weapon tye;
Then the Gay Glittering Diadem put on,
Pondrous with Brass, and star'd with Bristol stone.

376

His Royal Consort next consults her Glass,
And out of twenty Boxes culls a Face.
The Whit'ning first her Ghastly Looks besmears,
All Pale and Wan th'unfinish'd Form appears;
Till on her Cheeks the Blushing Purple glows,
And a false Virgin Modesty bestows;
Her ruddy Lips the Deep Vermillion dyes;
Length to her Brows the Pencil's touch supplies,
And with black bending Arches shades her Eyes.
Well pleas'd at length the Picture she beholds,
And spots it o'er with Artificial Molds;
Her Countenance compleat, the Beaux she warms
With looks, not hers, and spight of Nature, charms.

Thus artfully their Persons they disguise,
Till the last Flourish bids the Curtain rise.
The Prince then enters on the Stage in State;
Behind, a Guard of Candle-Snuffers wait:
There swoln with Empire, terrible and fierce,
He shakes the Dome, and tears his Lungs with Verse:
His Subjects tremble, the Submissive Pit,
Wrapt up in Silence and Attention, sit;
Till freed at length, he lays aside the Weight
Of Publick Business and Affairs of State;
Forgets his Pomp, dead to Ambitious Fires,
And to some peaceful Brandy-Shop retires;
Where in full Gills his anxious thoughts he drowns,
And quaffs away the Care that waits on Crowns.

The Princess next her pointed Charms displays,
Where every Look the Pencil's Art betrays.
The Callow Squire at distance feeds his Eyes,
And silently for Paint and Patches dies:
But if the Youth behind the Scenes retreat,
He sees the blended Colours melt with heat,
And all the trickling Beauty run in Sweat.
The borrow'd Visage he admires no more,
And nauseates every Charm he lov'd before:
So the same Spear, for double force renown'd,
Apply'd the Remedy that gave the Wound.

377

In tedious Lists 'twere endless to engage,
And draw at length the Rabble of the Stage,
Where one for twenty Years has given Alarms,
And call'd contending Monarchs to their Arms;
Another fills a more important Post,
And rises every other Night a Ghost.
Thro the cleft Stage his meager Face he rears,
Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears;
Others with Swords and Shields, the Soldiers Pride,
More than a thousand times have chang'd their Side,
And in a thousand fatal Battels dy'd.

Thus several Persons, several Parts perform;
Pale Lovers whine, and blustring Heroes storm.
The stern exasperated Tyrants rage,
Till the kind Bowl of Poison clears the Stage.
Then Honours vanish, and Distinctions cease;
Then with Reluctance haughty Queens undress.
Heroes no more their fading Laurels boast,
And mighty Kings in private Men are lost.
He whom such Titles swell'd, such Power made proud,
To whom whole Realms, and vanquish'd Nations bow'd,
Throws off the gaudy Plume, the Purple Train,
And is in Statu quo himself again.

378

The Dream,

to Sir Charles Duncomb.

On my hard Fate as late I pondring lay,
Spent and bow'd down beneath the Toils of Day,
By weary Nature to repose constrain'd,
I slept at last, and thus in sleep complain'd.
Ah Wretch! to this unhappy Clime confin'd,
Lost to my Friends, and cut from Human kind;
A Clime where gentle Zephyrs never blow,
Where frozen Gods keep Court in Ice and Snow.
The rigid Winters here come early on,
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.
In other places Nature looks but bare,
Some marks of Spring continue all the Year;
But every Winter stript her naked here.
The Miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,
And there must come a Drowth to be releas'd.
No Converse does the tedious Hours beguile,
But Love and Friendship fly this barbarous Soil.
None here for ought but Mammon will repair,
And Life has no cessation from its Care.
Even Honesty it self is banish'd hence,
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.
The Natives are such Brutes, so homely bred,
They're of a piece with that on which they tread;
Strangers to Virtue, to all Liberal Arts;
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.
Among each other endless Fewds they sow,
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.
In Courts and Senates let them strive and jar,
Wrangle in Cities, clamour at the Bar.

379

But this is strange e'en in this abject Life,
Where Matter fails, to find an equal Strife.
No mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;
And Knav'ry follows, when 'tis Interest guides.
Thus Slander, Strife, and Spight triumphant reign
Among these clumsy Blockheads of the Plain.

How vain are all the Tales the Antients told
Of a self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold;
Of flowry Shades where Peace supinely reigns?
Of faultless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains?
'Tis all Idea—but by Fancy wrought,
The idle Rovings of a wandring Thought.
E'en Cowley, who a Rural Life had long
Ador'd, and made it Deathless in his Song;
When to the Fields he for that Blessing came,
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name;
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhymes)
Blam'd in his Prose to all succeeding times.
What Path can here derided Virtue take?
What Musick can the sighing Muses make?
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.
The long remove from Mirth, from Wit and Arts,
Sets us beneath our very natural Parts.
If we're not rising, we go down the Hill,
For Knowledg knows no mean of standing still.
The brightn'd Armour glitters to the Sun,
But only using keeps the Polish on.

Thus doom'd to Dulness, here I bury'd lye;
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!
My Youth has vainly, idly took its flight,
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight.
Depriv'd of all that can improve or please,
I live in Desarts, yet depriv'd of Ease:
Whilst envious Fortune here my Head imploys
In barren Labour, and eternal Noise.
Depriv'd of London, then too little priz'd,
Before I knew the Blessing I despis'd.

380

For Towns, like Tallys, Man for Man does fit,
And Wit does keenest whet it self on Wit.
Oh Noble City! but too late I mourn
My Fortune, banish'd never to return.
I would not have it thought, my Wish intends
Great Matters—No, free from ambitious Ends:
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.
None better cou'd than I contented live
With little, or from little more would give.
But here I live not, in this Brutal Den
Banish'd from Town, from Manners, and from Men.

'Twas here methought a Glorious Form appear'd,
Yet Awful, as a Goddess long rever'd.
Her Monumental Tower the Skies out-brav'd,
And on her Front was fair Augusta grav'd.
And why, said she, dost thou thus sighing lye?
Why all despondence, yet relief so nigh?
He that does set so many Captives free,
He will, he must, he shall deliver thee.

So bright a Form, Words of such pleasing sound,
Oppress with Pleasure, and with Joy confound.
The Glorious Shape perceiv'd my deep Amaze,
I would have spoke, but I could only gaze.

Know'st thou not Me? what Country is there found,
What Nation where my Name is not renown'd?
Let Vulgar Names, said she, resign to Fate,
I can already boast of more than Mortal Date:
This privilege the British Glory gives,
I'm only then to die, when nothing lives.
Quite from the rising to the setting Sun,
As vast a Round as his my Fame has run.
Let it be either Traffick, Peace or War,
What City sends her Naval Tow'rs so far?
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?
What Shores are water'd with such wealthy Tides?
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,
And for my Profit never takes repose.

381

But shifting Tides to Sea, from Sea to Land,
Do our own Stores, and all the World's command:
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings
The Noblest, Richest, and Remotest things.
Tho round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,
And every Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.
What other Town do's there so nobly stand
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?
What City do's beside so Lordly rise?
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?
Who less fears War? and when a War do's cease,
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?
What Sholes of People pour thro every Street!
In passing on, what Myriads must you meet!
How gay, how richly clad, where'er you come!
What gallant Youths, and Beauties in their Bloom!
Not brighter shines by night the Milky Way,
Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.
Who sooner can than I such Sums produce,
For self-Magnificence, or Publick Use?
Who can her Hand, for Wealth, extend so far,
And with such ready Loans defray a War?
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,
He lik'd the Sound worse than the Clank of Arms.
He saw in War the Nerves of War increase,
He saw, advis'd, and straight consents to Peace.
But herein most I pride; this Wealth, these Powers
No Mercenary Troops defend, no Towers
Rise up in my Defence, my Safety's found
Within my self; no Ditches here surround
My Walls; my Thames flows freely in her Bed,
To no forc'd Channels like a Captive led.
Freedom in all, in every Part appears,
Choice gives the Sway in all succeeding Years.
Amongst our selves we raise the Good, the Wise,
Virtue and Labour make the Chosen rise.

382

Kings of some Empires want our Wealth, our Power
A Duncomb lends a Million in an Hour.
Our Wealth the Spanish Indies does uphold,
And from our Iron Mines we send them Gold.
Yet Kings receive but what the People give;
They make him rich, and yet in plenty live.
They name the Sum, and we forestal the Day;
Others less quick to take, than We to pay.
Augusta this great Blessing gives, that she
Makes all her Sons not only Rich, but Free.

Thou know'st me now, believe what I impart,
I've nam'd the Man shall raise thy drooping Heart.
Stay then no longer thus lamenting here,
But hope a milder Heav'n, and kinder Air,
The rising of thy better Stars are near.
Once were thy Shades e'en with his Presence blest,
When Thee, e'en Thee, he singl'd from the rest;
And kindly smiling on thy Rural Lays,
Crown'd them at once both with Reward and Praise.
'Tis He I mean, who does our Captives free
From more than an Egyptian Slavery:
'Tis he, that shall at last provide for Thee.
'Tis he that everlasting Honour gains
By Nobly striking off my Debtors Chains.
Husbands He to their Wives again does give;
He heard their Dying Cries, and bids 'em live.
So Mighty Paul, and Silas, when they were
Imprison'd, pray'd, and found the Angel there:
The Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew;
But Duncomb's Angel stoops not to so few.
At every Prison, at every Jayl does call,
And, like an Act of Grace, he manumits them all.

'Twas here she paus'd, smiling with such a Grace,
No Furrow seen, no Wrinkle in her Face.
The Awful Dread, which first my Senses strook,
Dissolv'd to Pleasure by her Charming Look.
Let Cheating Priests use little Arts to fright,
But why should Poets their false Fictions write?

383

Clad in a Stygian Vest, with scatter'd Locks,
The raving Priestess Heav'nly Power invokes.
Black Fumes arise, and from the trembling Ground,
Sad Murmurs, breaking thro' the Temple, sound:
And Flames from the unkindled Altars rise,
As rais'd by Magick Songs, with horrid Cries.
Such the Contrivances by Priests of old,
When Pious Stories to the Crowd they told.
Thus Hell and Horror to the Gods they join,
And make them Terrible, to be Divine.
Poets no more let Verse and Truth dispute,
Nor Human Crimes to Deities impute.
Let Tyrants choose to govern Men by Fear,
The Gods are gentle, but Mankind severe.
Not so Augusta:
For She, the Glorious Genius of our Isle,
Softn'd her Godhead with a Human Smile.
I found the Heav'nly Vision gave Consent;
So poor a Bard might give his Passion vent.

Encourag'd thus, I gently rais'd my Voice:
Say, Goddess, how our Sh'riff became the Choice
Of crowding Throngs, who echoing his Name,
Did him their Darling Magistrate proclaim.
Say, Goddess, how does he become your Theme,
That Name so lately injur'd in Extreme?
An Envious Race I know his Ruin sought,
Declare then how the mighty Change was wrought.
Th'Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,
Where Fair Augusta gives such vast Applause.

As Stormy Nights and dark Eclipses may
Set greater Value on succeeding Day:
So Malice raging without Rule or Form,
Exalted him, and rais'd him by the Storm.
Easie, and Rich, in Innocence secure,
He would not bend with little Arts, procure
Success to Projects hatch'd against the State,
Nor help th'Exchequer Cheat, but met his Fate,
Braving the Faction, and their utmost Hate.

384

Unseasonable Virtue out of time,
Was Duncomb's Fault, and that his only Crime.
He knowing well the narrow self Design,
Shunning base Profit, did his Place resign.
But this the bold Projectors could not bear;
He must be guilty, that themselves may share,
With double Joy, the Vengeance and the Prize,
Two thirds their Avarice could scarce suffice.
Thro thick and thin the Furious Leaders drive,
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive.
These ruin'd, fall, and others prostrate yield,
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.
Orphans lament, the desolate Widow weeps,
Thousands undone, and yet the Nation sleeps.

Here human Malice might it self display,
And many dark Designs expose to Day.
Here painted to the Life, the haughty Crew
Might in true Colours be expos'd to view.
But I forbear, nor shall their Rage inspire
A Heav'nly Breast with like ill-natur'd Fire.
Let this suffice, expect the happy Day.
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Virtuous Way.
It is enough I disappoint their Aim,
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,
And fix in Honour Duncomb's injur'd Name.
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,
It yields to Softness, but abhors Controul.
The frighted World all arm'd in his Defence,
Who either had good Nature or good Sense.
Tir'd with their Spite, and all their Hopes o'erpast
To ruin him, they left the Chase at last,
But sullenly, just as the Bear withdraws,
The Lamb redeem'd that fill'd his griping Paws.
By the known Laws he did himself acquit,
Rescu'd by Heav'n from Malice, and from Wit,
From Bribes, and Power, from the devouring Jaw
Of nigh Oppression, to take place as Law.

385

The City sensible, what Men conspire
Against his Innocence, they soon took fire;
Touch'd with his Sufferings, knowing his Desert,
All with one Voice, unanimous in Heart,
My Sons advance him to the Shrieval Name,
Where now he honours That, and gives the Nation Fame.

Our Royal Master by this time was come,
As late with Laurel, crown'd with Olive, home.
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heav'n
To Britain has there yet a Prince been given,
Who sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,
Or past more Dangers to a deathless Name.
Nor did the shining Chase of Glory cease,
Till he had crown'd his Martial Toils with Peace.
The Hero's Heat drives no cool Thought away,
His People long for Peace, without delay
He gloriously procures the wish'd for Day.
Plenty and Safety, with their brooding Wings
Extended wide, produce all useful things;
In Peace the Plowman reaps, in Peace the Poet sings.
To happy England had not Fate decreed,
That from that Glorious Pair none should succeed,
So much th'expecting World seem'd to require,
From Mary's Virtue, and from Nassau's Fire.
Nature, deficient to so great a Task,
Would nothing give, when we too much did ask.
We were ungrateful for the present Store,
Worthless of what we had, yet craving more.
Those who from Tyranny redeem the Land,
In Fame's large Temple shall for ever stand.
Greater than they, whose Conquest Trophies rear,
Such the Camilli, such the Decii were:
Whose Names in Story are more sacred far
Than theirs, who happy in Invasive War,
Brought Western Gold, and Eastern Spices home;
These were admir'd, but those belov'd in Rome.

This Glorious King returning to our Isle,
Receiv'd th'intended Martyr with a Smile;

386

Pleas'd to bestow on injur'd Innocence
Favours, which leave to Malice no pretence.
Whom the King honours, and the People chuse,
To such a one who can Applause refuse,
Fit for the Praises of the chastest Muse?
Let then his unjust Sufferings be repaid
By Praises due, for since my Walls were laid,
Never a Subject more befriended Trade.
Who in his Office ever rais'd so high
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?
What Table thro the Nation does afford
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?
Who for all sorts so fitly does prepare?
The Great, the Poor are equally his Care;
And Wit and Vertue still are welcome there.
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move,
Th'Inspiring Nectar which the Muses love.
Who e'er the City's Interest studied more,
Or better Laws propos'd to feed the Poor?
Nor does he, splitting on the common Shelf,
Propose to others, what he shuns himself.
To give by Driblets (which is chiefly done)
Is but to keep the Needy starving on.
He lays out his Relief at nobler Rates,
His Dole's a Market, and his Gifts Estates.

I here had answer'd, but the Dame withdrew,
And with her Sleep retir'd, and left me too;
But left th'Impression deep upon my Mind
Of Duncomb honour'd, and Augusta kind.

Forgive me, Sir, if thus opprest with Spleen,
I treat you with this Visionary Scene:
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,
Since they petition only but in a Dream:
In Dreams they live, and chiefly Dreams regard,
But most they err, when dreaming of Reward.
But tho my Sleep dissents, I waking near
Upon that Subject, shall offend your Ear.

387

These Melancholy Vapours bred at sight
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their flight,
When op'ning Sweets, and universal Green,
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene.
Tho now with Rains, and blighting Blasts we strive,
That Glorious Season will again revive.
The Tuneful Choir thro every Field and Grove,
Will then renew their Musick, and their Love.
With them th'Exulting Muse her Voice shall raise;
And waking then, I'll sing my Patron's Praise.

The British Muse:

Or Tyranny expos'd. A Satyr, Occasion'd by all the Fulsom and Lying Poems and Elegies, that have been written on the Death of the Late King James.

For Tyrants dead no Statues we erect,
Or sumptuous Fanes with sable Mourning deckt;
No weeping Eyes the joyful Country drown,
But all rejoice to hear the Tyrant's gone:
For Slaves have Freedom, when the Tyrant's dead,
And do around their gawdy Ensigns spread.

England, rejoice! thy slavish Fears are past:
The Tyrant's dead, who was thy worst and last.
Encircl'd he's within the Shades of Night,
Confin'd far distant from the Realms of Light:
No more thy Liberties he shall invade,
Subvert thy Laws, and undermine thy Trade.

388

Whilst impious Pens usurp illegal Fame,
And Honours give to his detested Name,
My British Muse in justest Notes shall sing
A Bankrupt Monarch, and a Tyrant King.

Let Flaming London first appear in view,
And his good Actions and his Virtues shew,
Whose Houses he into a Bonfire turn'd,
And sacred Temples with like Zeal he burn'd;
Pleas'd with the Sight, as the great City fell,
He and his Priests carous'd and drank to Hell.
Thus Nero Rome by Fire in Ashes laid,
Laugh'd at the Flames, and as they burnt he play'd.

Proceed, my Muse, shew Martyrs round his Herse,
Who in loud Yells their Injuries express;
Murder'd yet unreveng'd by British Hands,
The dire Effect of his unjust Commands.

First strangl'd Godfrey slides from Scenes of Light,
A pale thin Ghost would even Fiends afright.
Then College, first destroy'd by Popish Rage,
The Loss and Scandal of that Impious Age:
His Ghost may well attend his Funeral,
And on his Soul for heavy Vengeance call.
His Name to Oxford a due Scandal bears,
Thro a vast Series of succeeding Years.
When Time shall truly the sad Story tell,
How its lewd Priests combin'd with Rome and Hell,
To murder him who for their Freedoms strove,
And did for them a bloody Victim prove;
Yet sporting with his Death, were glad to see
A College added to their University:
Hang'd, drawn and quarter'd by Tyrannick Sway,
Which Passive Priests taught People to obey,
Till they themselves in Popish Blankets tost
By their lov'd James, another College lost.
Lord! how their passive Cannons then did roar!
And their Report reach'd to the Belgic Shoar:
Then all grew Active, Passive were no more.

389

Next murder'd Essex to his Herse does come,
Sent by a bloody Razor to his Tomb.
Then noblest Russel does augment the Throng,
And in a Decent Terror slides along:
Manly yet meek; his even Temper was
Crown'd both with moral Virtues, and with Grace:
Yet by the Ax of Rome's curst Butcher fell
A Sacrifice to bloody James and Hell.
He shew'd his numerous Wounds, and groan'd the rest,
And then withdrew to Regions of the Blest.
Next Glorious Sidney at his Herse appears,
Murder'd by James in his declining Years;
The Martyr's Fate did crown his hoary Hairs.
No better Man his Family did grace,
Nor had more Virtues of a Nobler Race.
No Man his Country's Freedom better knew,
Or in its Cause a Sword more faithful drew.
No Man with greater Courage ever fought,
Or for our Freedoms with more Learning wrote.
Learning and Parts are but a weak Defence,
And Tyrants still wage War with Wit and Sense.
Cornish the best good Man Augusta knew,
With pleasant Terror does the Mourning view.
And that the Scene a Female should not want,
To grace the Rear comes up our murder'd Gaunt:
All to their Graves by Popish Murder thrust.
Was this, you lying Bards, your James the Just?

As in the Waters we do Fishes find,
Which do devour and prey upon their Kind;
This Princely Shark on his own Species fed,
When Cause requir'd, and Rome the Order made.
Thus Coleman to his Jaws a Victim fell,
Sent in a Jugler's Box to plot in Hell.
Vain Wretch! who could so fatally believe
A Man enclin'd by Nature to deceive.
With him what Wretches would the Scepter trust,
And blasphemously call him James the Just?

390

Nay, his own Brother, Partner in his Blood,
With poisonous Visage o'er his Coffin stood:
For James (when many Murders he had done)
Poison'd his Brother to ascend his Throne;
Then from his People and his Country fled,
The two good Acts this wicked Prince e'er did.

But now a Troop of grizly Ghosts appear,
And grinning pale are all approaching near:
Numerous they were, and all besmear'd with Blood,
With dismal Horror round his Coffin stood;
They slid along, and interchanging Ground,
Roar'd out his Obsequies in hollow Sound.
Who murder'd in the West at his Command,
A noble Train of slaughter'd Patriots stand:
Some beardless Youths slain by his Tyrant Rage,
And some declining by decrepid Age.
Such beauteous Youths might some Compassion move
In Bloody Tyrants, and might force their Love:
Some Pity Age (for Age has also Charms)
Might move in Tyrants, and secure from Harms.
But James, of all the Tyrant Race accurst,
Begot by Tygers, and by Vipers nurst,
Nor Age nor Sex could his Compassion move,
Nor yet the Judgments of Almighty Jove.

Oh had I now, by Heaven's impartial Laws,
A Power sufficient to revenge your Cause,
My dearest murder'd Friends! whole Troops should fall
By my just Hand to grace your Funeral;
Yet Heaven some weak Revenge does still afford,
Admits the Pen, when it denies the Sword.

Were but my Pen sharp-pointed as your Steel,
When you on Sedgmore Parracides did kill,
I'd raise a Monument to future Times,
And hang up Villains in exalted Rhymes.

When publick Justice is grown deaf and blind,
And Criminals no rightful Sentence find,
Each honest Man should his Resentment show,
And mark the Path where Justice ought to go.

391

That Justice did not Jefferies destroy,
Does more our Wonder than our Sense imploy:
He who by Blood climb'd to the top of State,
And grew by Murders insolent and great:
To him blind Justice no due Halter gave,
But unreveng'd he found a common Grave.
Kirk did not by the Hand of Justice fall,
He liv'd a Villain, died a General.
Such the Catastrophe of our strange Times,
Preferment rises from enormous Crimes.

Can e'er our Land those bloody Scenes forget,
That Western Massacre not question'd yet?
In which the bravest English Blood was spilt,
Without a Sacrifice t'atone the Guilt:
Where better Men than future Times will see,
By Cowards murder'd, hung on every Tree.

Had I but then this Body laid aside,
And with my dear, my happy Partners dy'd,
I had with them my Share of Bliss possest,
And now been number'd with th'Immortal Blest;
Had upwards soar'd, and tow'ring left behind
My youthful Limbs expos'd to Heat and Wind;
Of Life's great Burden had been surely eas'd,
And not the Number of my Sins encreas'd;
Had ne'er been quell'd by Times important Rage,
And known the Slights of an Ungrateful Age.
But Man contrives not his own Destiny,
And cannot, when he pleases, live or die.

Since Heav'n allows me Life against my Will,
And still I upwards climb the steepy Hill,
Good God! forbid my Sands in vain should pass,
And no good Actions grace my sinking Glass.
Tyrants I hated from my very Youth,
But always lov'd the Glorious Cause of Truth.
To English Laws I still Allegiance paid,
And never yet a Tyrant King obey'd,
But such who legally the Scepter sway'd.

392

Speak, Satyr! speak! and let thy Notes be heard
By trembling Tyrants, of thy Lash afraid!
Thy Task is Noble, and thy Theme's Divine:
Let Satyr speak, and bite in every Line!
And kill more surely than the Sword or Shot,
'Till the loath'd Name of TYRANT be forgot.

TYRANT! that thing accurst, ally'd to Hell,
Where Tyrant Kings in flaming Sulphur dwell.
The dreadful Tophet was ordain'd of old,
Tyrannick Princes and their Slaves to hold.
Tyrants and Slaves we both together join,
And in one dark Abyss do both confine:
For Slaves are Panders to a Tyrant's Lust,
And ravish Liberty by Force unjust;
Therefore o'er both the Heav'nly Powers prevail,
To damn them all in one Eternal Jail.

TYRANT! the very Name so heats my Blood,
My Veins scarce stop the Torrent of its Flood:
A Freeman's Rage can scarce my Sense command,
My Pen does tremble underneath my Hand.
Was every Atom of my Flesh a Man,
As brave as ever to the Battel ran,
I round the Orb would Tyrant Kings pursue,
And even Godlike Brutus would out-do.

First into France I would my Army lead,
And strike its proud and haughty Tyrant dead,
The vilest Wretch did e'er a Scepter sway,
Or e'er a wretched People did obey;
By Blood and Poison manages Intrigues,
And breaks like Cobwebs, solemn Pacts and Leagues:
Whose sacred Oaths are broken o'er and o'er,
His Faith is found in every carted Whore.
Him I'd depose, from his own Rack would send
His guilty Soul to his Infernal Friend,
His Faithful Friend whose Counsel still he took,
And ne'er with him the dark Alliance broke.
I'd make his Slaves by my just Fury free,
And treat them with the Sweets of Liberty:

393

I'd pull his Vassals from his Tyrant Paws,
And reinstate 'em in their Rights and Laws.
The little Bastard he of late proclaim'd
As King of England, shou'd with him be damn'd;
Tho England, fearless of the Gallick Hope,
Defies the French, their Bastard, and the Pope:
And if the Brat be James the Second's Son,
Like his dear Dad he'll from the Battel run;
His Nose will bleed engag'd in Wars Design,
He'll scamper, like his Father from the Boyn.
Suppose the Brat to be Legitimate,
How can it mend or alter England's Fate?
Mend it cannot, but may disturb our Fate;
Lewis a devilish Cobler is of State.
Nor can the English, who are bold and strong,
Fear one who from a Race of Cowards sprung.
Yet shou'd my Army the young Cub destroy,
And with the grizly Tyrant kill the Boy:
And Heaven does sometimes the same Measures take,
Destroys the Horse for the lewd Rider's sake.

Next into Savoy I my Coast would steer,
And play the Devil with the Traitor there.
That little Duke, yet mighty Tyrant, I
Would blow like Rockets mounting to the Sky;
I would revenge his Treason in the War,
And make him of a Tyrant's Fortune share:
The brave Vaudois their Country should enjoy,
And help their bloody Tyrant to destroy.

Then to compleat my Brave and Just Design,
I would my Forces with Prince Eugene join.
Monsieurs and Dons the self-same Fate should find,
As Clouds retiring from the potent Wind.
Spaniards enslav'd I would with Freedom bless,
Augment their Ease, and make their Thraldom less:
Their treacherous Nobles I'd severely drub,
Home to his Sire would send their Tyrant Cub.
To Austria's House I'd leave the Spanish Crown,
If they would grant the Natives what's their own;

394

But if they rob'd 'em of their Rights and Health,
I'd turn old Spain into a Commonwealth.
And e'er I sheath'd my just revenging Steel,
Porto Carero should its sharpness feel:
Crowding I'd send to Hell among the rest,
That damn'd Tyrannick Villain of a Priest.
Tyrant and Priest in the same Yoke do draw,
One damns the Gospel, t'other damns the Law.
'Tis fit that he who built a Tyrant's Throne,
And has by Forgery a Land undone,
Who to his Country did such Ills create,
Should share of Tyrants the Impartial Fate.

Thus having in the South declar'd my Worth,
I'd face about, and march my Army North:
The Polish Tyrant should my Vengeance feel,
And downwards fall beneath my fatal Steel.
The rav'nous Lion Tyrant of the Wood
Does claim Succession for his serine Brood:
But no Succession crown'd the Polish Bear;
For every Tyrant is elected there.
Ye Polish Slaves, trapan'd into a Choice,
How ill your Cause sutes with your Peoples Voice?
Who could so madly for themselves elect
A Tyrant, and their Liberties neglect.
To get a Crown he did forsake his God,
And justly proves to Fools a Scourge and Rod.
Great Sweden's King, I'd then revenge thy Cause,
And rescue Saxony from Poland's Claws,

This done, I'd march against the beastly Czar,
A Shame to Princes, and a Fool in War:
With numerous Hosts he other Lands invades,
But soon retires to Fastnesses and Shades;
Vanquish'd by Sweden's Youth, he wildly flies,
And not on Prowess, but on Flight relies.
Thus Tyrants fight, and like a Tyrant he
Should from my Hand receive his Destiny:
More Wounds than Brutus Tyrant Cæsar gave,
From my revenging Steel this Beast should have,

395

Lest the curst Hydra should cement again,
And plague his People in a longer Reign.

My Labours finish'd, I would return home,
And tell of Tyrants the impartial Doom.
My Native Land's a Nation Free and Brave,
That hates the odious Title of a Slave:
As poisonous Toads are kill'd by Irish Air,
So bloody Tyrants can't inhabit here,
But thrive like Plants in hot Arabia's Sand,
And soon a dry and wither'd Stalk they stand.
Freeman and Slave inconsisteant things,
And one the other to Destruction brings.
England's the Fortunate, the Happy Isle,
With Freedom blest, and with a fruitful Soil,
Whose Laws and Freedoms just and righteous are,
And every Man, the meanest, has his Share.
Here shall my Muse to after Ages sing
The Bravest People, and the Happiest King.

On the Promoted Bishops.

1691.

1

For the Miracles done
This Year Ninety one
Let's go forth and proclaim a Thanksgiving;
Late Archbishop we sing
To the Tune of Late King,
While J--- and old S---ft are living.

2

Of this Protestant Land
The Fleet not half mann'd,
Is a Miracle scarce worth our Trouble:

396

We judg of the Weight
Of this Politick State,
Now the Church and the Throne carry double.

3

The Law now in force
Made a solemn Divorce
Between J--- C--- and his Church has;
'Twill a Miracle show,
As the blessed Times go,
If Religion proves worth a Year's Purchase.

4

The Gospel now thrives
For our Lord hath two Wives,
And a Prelate his See of each Party:
That the Law doth respect
The new B---ps Elect,
Or the new second Wife of Clancarty.

5

As to the Pastoral Staff,
We at T---n laugh,
And the Projects of dull Politicians;
Spite of all Satan's Power,
Aaron's Rod shall devour
The Rod of those Heathen Magicians.

6

Our impotent Fleet
Our starv'd Army may greet,
And at each others Confidence wonder;
With an Army unpaid,
And a Navy betray'd,
We fast to keep Great Lewis under.

7

As old Babylon faith,
The Protestant Faith
Tooke deep root form the Codpiece of Harry:
We good Witness can bring,
The new Bishops all spring
From the Conducts of W--- and M---.

397

A Ballad on the Confederates;

in Imitation of Ratcliff Ramble.

A number of Pr---s, tho poor ones 'tis true,
In Confederacy join'd the French to undo,
But if they should fail, then wo to the Crew
of Banditti.

All snotty and snorting, like Horse that had Glanders,
All tattered they form the Mob of Commanders,
All poorer than Job were got into Flanders,
'tis pity.

To conquer the French King is not their Design,
Tho that's their Pretence, but to drink up his Wine;
'Tis a Liquor, they say, will make them Divine,
to their Glory.

If a Peasant that's drunk is as great as a King,
Then what is a Prince, a very fine thing,
And a Number of Princes will make the World ring
with a Story.

In a Council of War these Tatterdemallions
Having drunk off their Wine not by Quarts but by Gallons;
Who tho not fit for Soldiers are very good Stallions,
what d'ye think, Sir?

Considering their Number, to make all things sure,
A desperate Disease wants a desperate Cure,
We will instantly raise the Siege of Namure:
first let's drink, Sir.

They boast and they brag that we have a thing,
Some call him a P---, some call him a K---,
However he's something, Hey Ding a Ding ding,
to the matter.

398

We'll beat them by Sea, and we'll beat them by Land
It is a Royal Descent, you must understand,
To ruin the French, and unpeople the Land,
not to flatter.

At the French as yet you've no reason to jeer us:
For if you consider the Battel of Flerus,
You have little mind any more to come near us:
so good-morrow.

Besides you well know too when Mons was a taking,
Each Prince that looks big now did then fall a shaking,
And found its Relief was a mad undertaking,
to their Sorrow.

Nay further, your Courage did plainly appear,
When politick Æsop fell foul on the Rear,
And cut off ten thousand; then Princes stand clear,
was the Word, Sir.

Your Cities are taken, your Armies are beat,
Namure is our own, now sound a Retreat,
And brag of what Mischief you've done to our Fleet,
not a T---, Sir.

CURSE,

1690.

Curs'd be the Stars which did ordain
Queen Bess a Maiden Life should reign;
Married she might have brought an Heir,
Nor had we known a S---t here.
Curs'd be the Tribe who at Whitehall
Slew one o'th' Name, and slew not all.
Curs'd be the Second, who took Gold
From France, and Britain's Honour sold:
But curs'd of all be J--- the last,
The worst of Kings, of Fools the best.

399

And doubly cursed be those Knaves,
Who out of Loyalty would make us Slaves.
Curs'd be the Clergy who desire
The French to bring in James the Squire,
And save your Church so as by fire.

Curst be the Earl of T---ton,
Who almost had three Lands undone;
Who out of Fear, of Pride, or Gain,
Betray'd our Land, and lost her Main.

Curs'd be the Ministers of State,
Who keep our Fleet till 'tis too late;
Who have six Weeks the Cause disputed,
When the Whole in two might have recruited.

Curs'd be the Name of English-man,
To curse it more live T---ton.
Let Resolution only be
King William's noble Property:
He hath done what we ne'er could do,
Ill to himself, to us been true,
Prove that among us, and curse me too.

Answer to the Prophecy, As when the Knight, &c.

When J--- and his Army shall run from the Boyne,
And England stand blest to the altering their Coin;
When Plots laid in Hell can never succeed,
But the Traytors found out and lopt like a Weed;
When thy Armies desert thee for want of their Pay,
And those that don't run thou forcest away;
When the Fleets play Bopeep, and sculks up and down,
And dares not make head like a Fleet of Renown;

400

When old Age shall seize thee, and thy Senses decay
And thy Counsels of Priestcraft shall lead the wrong way
Then, Lewis, I tell thee thou'rt a cursed damn'd Tool
Thus to be expos'd for the sake of a Fool:
When the Weight is too heavy in oppressing the Land
That every Man is mark'd with want in his Hand.

On the Exchequer Bills.

Pray Sir, did you hear of a late Proclamation,
To send Paper for Payment quite thro the Nation
Yes, Sir, I have, they're your M---e's Notes,
Tinctur'd and colour'd by our Parliament Votes:
But it is plain on the People to be but a Jest,
They go by the Carrier, and come by the Post.

A Ballad on the Poll-Act.

A Poll and Land-Tax are now coming forth,
For our Deliverance they travel in Birth,
But 'tis to pay for a thing more than it's worth,
Which no body can deny.

To pay our just Taxes was once thought too much,
But now Extraordinary Charity is such,
We bankrupt our selves for maintaining the D---;
Which, &c.

401

A Tax for the Land, and a Poll for the Head,
In this both the Houses justly agreed,
For our Estates and our Heads are all forfeited;
Which, &c.

If we tax or poll on for a Year or two more,
The French I dare say will ne'er touch on our Shore,
For fear of the Charge of maintaining the Poor;
Which, &c.

Seeing nothing is done, for a Quarterly Poll
Is like taking Physick which gives one no Stool,
Make the Doctor a Knave, and the Patient a Fool;
Which, &c.

Since it is for Religion we make such ado,
There's no way to prove our Pretensions true,
Like parting with our Gold and Consciences too.
Which no body can deny.

A Panegyrick,

1696–7.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Hail happy W---, thou art strangely great,
What is the Cause, thy Virtue of thy Fate?
For thee the Child the Parents Hearts will sting,
For thee the Favorite will desert his King;
For thee the Patriot will subvert the Laws,
For thee the Judg will still decide the Cause;
For thee the Prelate will the Church betray,
For thee the Soldier fights without his Pay;
For thee the Freeman mortgages his Hold,
For thee the Miser lavishes his Gold;
For thee the Merchant loses all his Store,
For thee the Tradesman is content and poor;
For thee the Senate our best Laws suspend,
And will make any new to serve thy End:

402

The chief Design of all their Loyal Votes,
Is to invent new Ways, new Means and Plots.
No Credit in the Land but thine will pass,
Nor ready Mony if it want thy Face.
Thy Loyal Slaves love thy Oppression more,
Than all their Wealth and Liberty before.
For thee and Tyranny they all declare,
And beg the Blessing of Eternal War.
And that this Wonder may more wondrous seem,
Thou never yet didst one kind thing for them.
Rebels like Witches having sign'd the Rolls,
Must serve their Masters, tho they damn their Souls.

On the Earl of Castlemain's Embassy to Rome in King James II. Reign.

1687.

Let Mighty Cæsar not disdain to view
These Emblems of his Power and Goodness too.
A short Essay, but fraught with Cæsar's Fame,
And shews how distant Courts esteem his Name.
Here may'st thou see thy wondrous Fortune trac'd;
With Sufferings first, and then with Empire grac'd:
Long toss'd with Storms on Faction's swelling Tide,
Thy Conduct and thy Constancy was try'd;
As Heaven design'd thy Vertue to proclaim,
And shew the Crown deserv'd before it came.
Troy's Hero thus, when Troy could stand no more,
Urg'd by the Fates to leave his native Shore,
With restless Toil on Land and Seas was toss'd,
E'er he arriv'd the fair Lavinian Coast.

403

Thus Maro did his mighty Hero feign,
Augustus claim'd the Character in vain,
Which Britain's Cæsar only can sustain.
Permit, dread Sir, my Muse, tho mean, to own
A Truth to Albion and to Europe known:
You are what Virgil feign'd his Prince to be,
Your Valour such, and such your Piety.
Now Theseus Deeds we can receive for true,
And Hercules was but a Type of you:
He made the fierce Lernean Monster bleed.
From Hydra Faction you have Albion freed.
The paths of Glory trod, and Dangers past,
Just Heaven allows a peaceful Throne at last:
At home to shew th'Indulgence of a God,
And send your peaceful Ministers abroad.
While Palmer hastens to the Roman Court,
(And fraught with Worth that Honour to support)
His glorious Train and passing Pomp to view,
(A Pomp that ev'n to Rome it self was new)
Each Age, each Sex the Latian Turrets fill'd,
Each Age and Sex in Tears of Joy distill'd:
While Wonder them to Statues did convert;
And those e'en seem'd, that were the works of Art,
Emblems and Figures of such Life and Force,
As wanting Speech, did to the Eye discourse,
And shew, what was despair'd in Ages past,
An universal Language found at last.

Hail Palmer, Hail illustrious Minister!
To Cæsar, Britain, Fame, and Virtue dear;
Cæsar to represent, Great Cæsar's Voice
Nam'd Castlemain; the British Shores rejoice,
And Tyber's Banks applaud great Cæsar's Choice.
How therefore could the Muses silent be,
And none can want a Muse that writes of thee!
From thine, not Phebus Tree, my Song I'll raise,
And crown'd with Palm, I will contemn the Bays.

404

On King William's Statue at Dublin in Memory of the Victory at the Boyne, July 1st, 1690.

Monumentum Ære perennius.

How Nobly did our grateful City join
To represent King William at the Boyne;
And yet their Statue (we must all confess)
Tho it speaks Dublin great, makes William less:
For where are Heaps of slain, where Streams of Blood?
Where does it shew how Guardian Angels stood,

405

Watching to turn aside the fatal Ball,
And in one Royal Person sav'd us all?
Where may we see the dreadful Scombergh lost,
And William routing all that trembling Host,
Which once did like the fam'd Armado boast?
He could no less in just Revenge intend,
Than such a General Fall for such a Friend.
Where do we see them all disorder'd fly,
As if their safety in their Heels did lie,
And they would basely live, not bravely die?
The Artist knew no Skill could fully shew
That Conquest, all to his bold Conduct owe.
No Hand can make his warlike Spirit known
To long succeeding Ages, but his own;
And when all Brass consumes, all Marbles wast,
Great Nassau's Glories, and the Boyne shall last.

*On the Countess of Dor**r Mistress to King J* II.*

1680. By the Earl of D*****.

1

Tell me, Dormida, why so gay,
Why such Embroidery, Fringe, and Lace?
Can any Dresses find a way
To stop the Approaches of Decay,
And mend a ruin'd Face?

2

Wilt thou still sparkle in the Box,
And ogle in the Ring?
Canst thou forget the Age and Pox?
Can all that shines on Shells and Rocks
Make thee a fine young thing?

406

3

So have I seen in Larder dark
Of Veal a lucid Loin,
Repleat with many hellish Spark,
As wise Philosophers remark,
At once both stink and shine.

*A Psalm sung the 30th of January, 1696. At the C****s* H***d Club.*

1

There was a K--- of a S---h Race,
A Man of Muckle Might,
He never was seen in a Battel great,
But greatly he would sh---.
This K--- begat another K---,
Which made the Nation sad,
Was of the same Religion,
A Papist, with his Dad.

2

This Monarch wore a pecked Beard,
And scorn'd a doughty Hero;
As Dioclesian insolent,
And merciful as Nero.
The Churches darling Implement,
But Scourge of all the People,
He swore he'd make each Mother's Son
Adore their Idols Steeple.

3

But they perceiving his Design,
Grow plaguy shy and jealous,
And fairly cut his C--- H--- off,
And sent him to his Fellows.

407

Old R---y did succeed his Dad,
Such a King was never seen;
He'd f--- with every common Drab,
But seldom with his Queen.

4

Restless and hot, about he roll'd
The Town from Whore to Whore;
A Monarch merry he lived,
But scandalous and poor.
His Dogs would sit at Council-Board
Like Judges in their Furs;
We question much who had most Sense,
The Master or the Curs.

5

At last he dy'd we know not how,
But some say by his Brother;
His Soul to Royal Tophet went
To see his Dad and Mother:
Then furious J--- usurp'd the Throne,
To pull Religion down;
But by his Wife and Priests undone,
He quickly lost the Crown.

6

To France the wandring Bigot trudg'd
In hopes Relief to find,
Which he is like to have from thence,
E'en when the Devil is blind.
O how should we rejoice and pray,
And never cease to sing,
If B---ps too were cast away,
And banish'd with their K---!
Then Peace and Plenty would ensue
Our Bellies would be full;
Then we would laugh and smile,
As in the Days of Noll.

408

An Answer to a Jacobite Panegyrick upon Sorrel.

Insulting Ass! Who basely couldst revile
The Guardian Angel of our wretched Isle;
Who now retiring from the Scenes of Wars,
Is known and number'd 'midst the shining Stars!
Perform'd a Work, which when he was below,
None but a Soul like his cou'd undergo.
Britons enslav'd, he did with Freedom bless,
And broke the Chains their shackl'd Legs did press.
Belgia he did protect, and sav'd its Land;
And made in Awe the Gallic Tyrant stand:
He mark'd the Way to make all Europe Free,
And gave the Mortal Wound to Slavery.
Too soon, alas! Too soon this Monarch fell!
Yet after Ages shall his Honour tell;
When Britain feels his Loss, its Natives shall
In vain to Heav'n for such a Monarch call.
For ever be that stumbling Beast accurst;
Got by a Tory, by a Devil nurst.
And may for ever that unlucky Steed
Only on Briars and on Thistles feed.

409

On the Expedition to Cales under the D. of Ormond.

1702.

Whether by Sea our mighty Ormond flies,
Or else encamp'd on Foreign Lands he lies,
May still Propitious Fate his Arms attend,
Still may the Gods, and Fortune be his Friend!
Let England's Genius guide him in the War,
Let him the Darling of the Gods appear!
May Conquest still attend the British Sword,
And Barren Lands Triumphant Wreaths afford:
May English Valour, like the Sun disperse
Its martial Rays thro the whole Universe.
Let England's Fame, like the last Trumpets, sound
From Sea to Sea, from Pole to Pole rebound:
May trembling Nations, when the sound they hear,
Submit, and supplicate the God of War.
England's the Land with greatest Freedom blest,
Which Blessing she would give to all the rest.

Thus Mighty William (who her Scepter sway'd,
And whom all Men, but abject Slaves obey'd)
When He his Albion had from Bondage freed,
And all good Men, and Heaven approv'd the Deed;
Europe Enslav'd he did with Pity view,
And griev'd for men, who Freedom never knew.
Shall I (said He) One Nation only Save?
Why should not others the same Freedom have?
What tho the Wretches do themselves enthral?
Compassion is a Tribute due to All:
I'll break their Bonds, and set all Europe Free,
And every Slave shall tast of Liberty.

410

Belgia with Albion strictly is Ally'd;
In both their Powers I firmly can Confide:
Before their Force what Tyrant Foe can stand?
And who'l want Conquest, does such Men Command?

Bravely resolv'd, as bravely He pursu'd,
And had e'er this each Tyrant King subdu'd;
But Heav'n esteem'd what He'd already done,
Who justly Merited a better Throne:
And so from Toil remov'd Him to his Rest,
T'augment the Number of th'Immortal Blest.

Thus some Wise Architect Foundation lays
Of a great Work would aggrandize his Praise;
Which e'er accomplish'd he his Race has run,
And leaves Unfinish'd what he had Begun:
When some good Artist, building on his Fame,
With him obtains an Everlasting Name.

William! the Mighty William laid the Scene;
He did the Work of Liberty begin;
He first attack'd the Grizly Foe, and gave
Aim to the People would their Freedoms save.
Where he left off, our Ormond does begin;
He is to finish the Illustrious Scene.
May all the Heav'nly Powers with Him Combine,
And Bless His Arms, as William's at the Boyne.

411

Several Copys of Verses on her Majesty's and the Prince's going to Oxford.

The first by Mr. Harcourt, Son to Sir Simon Harcourt, Sollicitor General to Her Majesty.

To the QUEEN at Her coming to Christ-Church.

When haughty Monarchs their proud State expose,
And Majesty an awful Greatness shews;
Their Subjects, Madam, with amazement seiz'd,
Gaze at the Pomp, rather surpriz'd than pleas'd.
But your more gentle Influence imparts
Wonder at once, and Pleasure to our Hearts.
Where'er you come Joy shines in ev'ry Face;
Such winning Goodness, such an easy Grace,
Through all your Realms diffusive Kindness pours,
That ev'ry English Heart's entirely yours.
The Muses Sons with eager transport view
Their long desponding Hopes reviv'd in You,
The Muses Sons to Monarchy ever true.

These happy Walls by Royal Bounty plac'd,
Often with Royal Presence have been grac'd.
Here Kings to ease the Cares attend a Crown,
Preferr'd the Muses Laurels to their Own.
And here You once enjoy'd a safe Retreat,
From Noise and Envy free: To this lov'd Seat,

412

To be a Guest, You then did condescend,
Which now, its happy Guardian, You defend.

Oxford, with Joy, beholds the Royal Pair,
And finds her Muses are her Prince's Care:
May we presume to claim a nearer Tye;
They are your Subjects, We Your Family.
Accept the Duty then we doubly Owe,
We share your Presence and Protection too.
So, when Great Jove within the Country Cell
Of humble pious Baucis meant to dwell,
The bounteous God grac'd her with Gifts Divine,
And where he found his Refuge, fix'd his Shrine.

To the PRINCE, at his coming to Christ-Church.

Spoke by Mr. Cowslade.

And You, Auspicious Prince, our other Care,
Accept the Duty which Your Isis pays,
Whether in Arts of Peace, or Deeds of War,
The Hero justly claims the Muses praise.
Aspiring Youth, fir'd with a generous Flame,
The Tracts of Princely Vertues here persue;
At once both copy, and admire Your Fame,
And all their different Aims unite in You.
One, bloody Sieges, and feign'd Camp designs,
And fancied Schemes of future Actions draws,
And early in imaginary Times,
Defends his Countries, and his Prince's Cause.

413

Others the milder Arts of Phæbus chuse,
And to smooth Numbers form their tuneful Tongue,
From You begin, to You direct their Muse,
The Subject and the Patron of their Song.
Illustrious Guests, Joint-Partners in our Love,
Protect those Arts which by Your Influence live:
Those Arts which We with Loyal Zeal improve,
To you return the Vigour they receive.
Whilst Ormond by undaunted Courage led,
Regions unknown, and distant Foes alarms;
We, Ormond's Care, to early Duty bred,
Learn here to aid Your Councils, and Your Arms.

To the QUEEN at Supper.

Spoke by Mr. Finch, Son to the Honourable Heneage Finch Esq;

With Love, tho rude, we croud this hallow'd Place,
And clog that Triumph which we mean to grace,
To view that QUEEN that frees Us from Alarms,
Secures our Quiet, and directs our Arms.
England before its ruin'd Trade deplor'd,
A mourning Victor, and disputed Lord.
Now moulding Fleets in Gallick Harbours ly,
Whilst British Ships their double World defy.
Our Muses hear the Battles from afar,
And sing the Triumphs and enjoy the War.
This now, but soon the quivering Spear they'l weild,
And lead the shouting Squadrons to the Field.

414

They'l serve that Princess whom before they sung,
Defend that Queen beneath whose Eye they sprung.
So spreading Oaks from lovely Windsor born,
Shall shelter Britain which they now adorn:
With swelling Sails o'er distant Seas they'l go,
And guard that Goddess by whose Care they grow.

To the QUEEN going to Bed.

Spoke by Mr. Pultney.

Madam, once more, th'obsequious Muse,
With Zeal and just Ambition fir'd,
Her grateful Homage here renews,
In Numbers by your self inspir'd:
And late her willing Duty shews,
To guard You to Your safe Repose.

Within this silent humble Cell,
Secure the Gifts of Sleep receive;
No Factions here, or Discords dwell,
To break that Rest the Muses give.
Here daily Cares help to encrease,
Not interrupt, our mighty Ease.

These Walls more happy now, possest
Of the most fair and shining Court,
Not in the Muses, but their Guest,
Theirs, and the Muses, chief Support.
So Delphos was the bless'd Abode
Of Phebus Priests, and of the God.

May Heaven its sacred Charge defend:
May every Grace, and every Muse,
Round You with watchful Care attend,

415

And Balms of gentle Sleep infuse,
Such as the Virtuous only know;
Kind, as the Blessings You bestow.

On the Duke of Ormond's Success at Vigo,

1702.

Thro Storms of Wind, and swelling Seas which roar,
Our mighty Ormond has possest our Shore.
Fame ran before him like the Morning-Star,
And told his Deeds and wondrous Feats in War;
How he with English Force at once subdu'd
The Gallick Ships, and Spanish Multitude:
Those on the Sea in Flames with Light outvy'd
The rising Sun, and scorch'd the flowing Tide.
Th'afrighted Fishes to the Ocean swim,
And say, Great Ormond, we're afraid of him.
See on the shore the yielding Spaniards fly,
And see on board their Ships the Frenchmen die.
In vain they Bombs and Fortresses prepare
'Gainst English Valor, and the Fate of War.
What weak dependance has the Watry Fry?
On what Sea-God or Power can we rely?
See Neptune yonder, the vast Ocean's God,
At sight of Ormond hides his Head in Mud.
The Tritons, flouncing thro the Oase, repair
To Rocky Caverns from the Fate of War,
And all Sea-Monsters bellow from afar.
From Vigo's Port to th'Ocean all make way,
For here, alas! they dare no longer stay;

416

By burning Ships the Water's made so hot,
Its Surface bubbles like a boiling Pot.
Half-roasted Frenchmen, some o'er Gratings broil'd,
Do mix with Spaniards in the Sea parboil'd.
For Anjou's Dinner here's a pretty Dish;
I vow h'has made a Kettle fine of Fish.

Welcome Great Ormond to the English Land,
With Laurels loaden from a Foreign Strand:
Welcome to England, as to Sailers Day,
When Storms and Darkness had obscur'd their Way.
Welcome to us, as Mighty William was,
When he restor'd us to our Rights and Laws.
With like Respect as th'Senate thought your due,
An honest English Heart returns his Thanks to you.

On the Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 12. 1702. for the Success of her Majesty and her Allies by Sea and Land.

Whilst Lewis the Tyrant Te Deum does sing,
And the People rejoice at the Lies of their King,
For the Wealth and the Strength of th'Invincible Flota,
And the Confederates Loss at the Fort of La Rota;
While they Temples profane with a Sanctify'd Cheat,
And backwards praise God who has let 'em be beat;
We join in our Praises for Victories known,
For ev'ry one knows what our Forces have done.
Our Queen to her People her Actions ne'er sham'd;
And who will not rejoice, let 'em cry and be damn'd.

417

The Jacks and High-Fliers this Day keep a Fast,
Which as long as they live, I pray God it may last.
But now ye true Britons, who honour your Queen,
Consider of late how successful she's been;
How Lewis lies groveling beneath her just Arms,
Whilst our Land is secur'd both from Fears and Alarms.
Let your Bonefires this Night enlighten the Sky,
And even Great Ormond's at Vigo outvy:
Let Rockets in th'Air each resemble a Torch,
And Squibs, like High-Flyers, mount over the Church:
Whilst Jacks, like the Bats, into Darkness do fly,
And in Holes, just as Thrushes, in Winter do die;
Let each Briton this Evening his Bumper drink off,
To Anna the Great, but let him know when h' has enough.

On the Recovery of his Royal Highness the Prince, Lord High Admiral of England.

Novem. 1702.

Annals and Statues have the Heroes grac'd,
Design'd to make their Names and Actions last:
And since 'tis so, 'tis England's Justice too,
To rear their Monuments of Praise to You.
Departing Heroes, like retiring Light,
That veils the Day, and introduces Night,
Create Regret, as you Great Prince have done,
You whom we all esteem'd a Setting Sun.

418

Shades have attempted e'en our Royal Queen;
Shades have attempted, tho they could not skreen,
For thro those Shades still Majesty was seen.
While Denmark's Darling, and our Britain's Love,
With Fate that brought Superior Orders, strove;
Orders that wou'd have rob'd our mourning Isle,
And laid our Hopes upon the Funeral Pile.
But now, instead of Ashes Roses come;
Our Hopes are now reviv'd as in the Bloom,
Our Prince is rescu'd from the craving Tomb.
Let grateful Anthems eccho to the Skys,
In Strains that imitate their Harmonys.
The Zeal, the Gratitude, the Praise we own,
To that Above, for Blessings on our Throne.

Hail Happy Pair! May Foreign Shores resound,
And waft the Wish the Universe around;
Whilst all but France and Spain the Words rebound.
Great Anna, as You both adorn the Crown,
May both your Loves increase by being own:
Like You, may we your Subjects all unite;
In Harmony, as well as You, delight,
And England against England never fight.

419

On the French Protestants extolling their Prince, notwithstanding his forcing them to abandon their Native Country.

Happy the People where no Priest gives Rules,
Whose slavish Doctrines fetter Free-born Souls:
Where unconstrain'd Obedience is paid
Only to Laws that we our selves have made:
Such England is, and such She shall remain,
Beneath the Blessings of Great William's Reign.
Where Prince and People Gratefully do strive;
He guards our Rights, We his Prerogative.

Then curs'd be those who would our Rights betray
To the vain Lusts of Arbitrary Sway;
Who proud of Misery, and fond of Chains,
Extol the Beauty of Despotick Reigns.
But let that Priest be curs'd for ever more,
Who has so soon forgot the Chains he wore:
Condemn'd again to Gallick Wooden Shoos,
Who durst his New-born Freedom thus abuse.
Let him go home and preach that Doctrine, where
The Subjects Birth-Right is Eternal Fear,
Those little French Devices won't take here.
Must such a paltry Vagabond as he
Presume to censure English Liberty?
Why prithee Fool, what are our Rights to thee,
Thou who wert born and bred in Slavery?
In vain 'tis then, that we our Gifts bestow
On those that wou'd our Happiness o'erthrow;

420

Who nurs'd with Charity and blest with Peace,
Grow Wanton under unaccustom'd Ease:
Shall impudently dare to recommend
Those Slaveries from which we them defend.
In vain Abroad for Freedom do we fight,
If these warm'd Snakes at home abuse our Native Right.

On her Majesty's Birth-day, Feb. 6. 1702.

I.

Rise, lofty Numbers! Rise from Scenes of Light,
And let the Dullest Briton see
All Shades that be,
Yield to dispelling Harmony,
And try the charming Eloquence of Verse.
Ye Mutes, who round the Sable Herse
Of mighty William late did sit,
All your Dumb signs of Grief forget:
Ye living Emblems of Eternal Night,
Each Artificial Spright,
Who would the Muses and their Sons affright;
Rise! Rise! I say, your Throats prepare,
Lament no more the God of War,
Nor heed his Trumpets from afar:
Your Throats prepare, and in melodious Noise
To Anna's Fame extend your high exalted Voice.

II.

William the Brave, the Just, the Good is gone,
Anna the Vertuous does possess his Throne:
Æneas (tho no juster Prince
Did the Almighty Gods revere,

421

Or greater General try'd the dubious Fate of War)
Yields to our Mighty William now remov'd from hence.
Eliza (who our Chronicles relate,
Guarded so well the Seas, and Britain's State,)
Her Fame to Anna's must give Place,
Anna does Fly, not Run, in Glory's Race;
Eliza at long Run with Hands embrew'd
In Blood, the Spanish daring Force subdu'd:
Anna no sooner mounted on the Throne,
But with one stroke she kick'd the Spaniards down.

III.

Ah happy Britons with two Reigns thus blest,
Long shall your Flocks and Lowing Herds have rest;
Your mighty Pan, alas! has left the Plain,
But great Astrea in his stead does reign:
She too your Flocks from ravenous Wolves will keep,
She'll guard the Jolly Sheperd and his Sheep:
Beneath your Vines you may in safety sit,
And all the Ills of Tory Reigns forget;
When by the Ax and Rope your Patriots fell,
A Bloody Sacrifice to Rome and Hell.
May no curst Tory to her Councils creep,
Nor have Command by Land or on the Deep:
May they Dominion never more regain,
To shorten soon the Scenes of Her Blest Reign.
Britons rejoice, and thank the Heavenly Powers,
They are her Enemies as well as yours.

422

The Golden Age Restor'd.

A Poem in imitation of the fourth Pastoral of Virgil; suppos'd to have been taken from a Sibylline Prophecy.

— Paulo Majora canamus.

Siclian Muse, begin a loftier Flight,
Not all in Trees and lowly Shrubs delight:
Or if your Rural Shades you still pursue,
Make your Shades fit for able Statesmens view.

The time is come, by antient Bards foretold,
Restoring the Saturnian Age of Gold:
The Vile, Degenerate, Whiggish Offspring ends,
A High-Church Progeny from Heaven descends.

O Learned Oxford, spare no Sacred Pains
To nurse the Glorious Breed, now thy own B---ley reigns.

And thou Great S---l, Darling of this Land,
Do'st foremost in that fam'd Commission stand;
Whose deep Remarks the listening World admires,
By whose auspicious Care old Ra---gh expires.
Your mighty Genius no strict Rules can bind;
You punish Men for Crimes, which you want time to find.

Senates shall now like Holy Synods be,
And Holy Synods Senate-like agree.
M---th and M---n here instruct the Youth,
There B**ks and Kim---ly maintain the Sacred Truth.
P---is and H**lin here with equal Claim,
Thro wide West-Saxon Realms extend their Fame;

423

There B**ch and H**per Right Divine convey,
Nor treat their Bishops in a humane way.

Now all our Factions, all our Fears shall cease,
And Tories rule the promis'd Land in Peace.
Malice shall die, and noxious Poisons fail,
H---y shall cease to trick, and S---ur cease to rail:
The Lambs shall with the Lions walk unhurt,
And H---x with H--- meet civilly at Court.
Viceroys, like Providence, with distant Care,
Shall govern Kingdoms where they ne'er appear:
Pacifick Admirals, to save the Fleet,
Shall fly from Conquest, and shall Conquest meet:
Commanders shall be prais'd at William's Cost,
And Honour be retriev'd before 'tis lost.
Br---ton and Bur**by the Court shall grace,
And H--- shall not disdain to share a Place.
Forgotten Molineux and Mason now
Revive and shine again in F*** and H***.

But as they stronger grow and mend their Strain,
By choice Examples of King Charles's Reign;
Bold Bel***sis and Patriot Da**nant then,
One shall employ the Sword, and one the Pen:
Troops shall be led to plunder, not to fight,
The Tool of Faction shall to Peace invite,
And Foes to Union be imploy'd the Kingdoms to unite.

Yet still some Whigs among the Peers are found,
Like Brambles flourishing in barren Ground.
Som**rs maliciously imploys his Care
To make the Lords the Legislature share.
Bu---t declares how French Dragooning rose,
And Bishops Persecuting Bills oppose:
Till Ro---r's cool Temper shall be fir'd,
And N**th's and Not---m's strong Reas'nings be admir'd.

But when due Time their Counsels shall mature,
And fresh Removes have made the Game secure;
When Som---et and Dev---ire give Place
To Windham's B---d, and to R---d's Grace,

424

Both Converts great; when Justice is refin'd,
And Corporations garbled to their Mind,
Then Passive Doctrines shall with Glory rise,
Before them hated Moderation flies,
And Antichristian Toleration dies.
Gr---ile shall seize the long expected Chair,
Go---in to some Country-Seat repair;
P---ke from all Employments be debar'd,
And Mar---gh for antient Crimes receive his just Reward.

France, that this happy Change so wisely has begun,
Shall bless the great Design, and bid it smoothly run.
Come on, young J---'s Friends, this is the Time, come on;
Receive just Honours, and surround the Throne.
Boldly your Loyal Principles maintain,
H---s now rules the State, and R--- the Main.
Gr---es is at hand the Members to reward,
And Troops are trusted to your own Gr---rd.
The faithful Clubs assemble at the Vine,
And French Intrigues are broach'd o'er English Wine.
Freely the S---te the Design proclaims,
Affronting W---m, and applauding J---es.
Good antient Members with a solemn Face,
Propose that Safety give to Order place;
And what they dare not openly dissuade,
Is by Expedients ineffectual made.
E'en F***ch and Mu---ve, whom the Court caress,
Exalt its Praises, but its Power depress;
And that Impartial Justice may be seen,
Confirm to Friends what they refus'd the Queen.
Bishops who most advanc'd Good J---'s Cause
In Church and State, now reap deserv'd Applause:
While those who rather made the Tow'r their Choice,
Are stil'd Unchristian by the Nation's Voice.
Avow'dly now St. David's Cause they own,
And J---es's Votes for Simony atone.

425

Archbishop K*n shall from Longleat be drawn,
While firm Nonjurors from behind stand crowding for the Lawn.
And thou, Great W---th, to reward thy Charge,
Shalt fail to Lambeth in his Grace's Barge.

See by base Rebels J---es the Just betray'd,
See his Three Realms by vile U---rs sway'd;
Then see with Joy his lawful H--- restor'd,
And erring Nations own their injur'd L---.

O would kind Heaven so long my Life maintain,
Inspiring Raptures worthy such a Reign!
Not Thracian St. J---ns should with me contend,
Nor my sweet Lays harmonious Ha---nd mend:
Not tho young Davenant St. J---ns should protect,
Or the shrewd Doctor Ha---nd's Lines correct.
Nay should Tr---am in St Maws compare his Songs to mine;
Tr---am, tho St. Maws were Judg, his Laurel should resign.

Prepare, Auspicious Youth, thy Friends to meet;
Sir G--- already has prepar'd the Fleet.
Should Rival Neptune (who with envious Mind
In times of Danger still this Chief confin'd)
Now send the Gout, the Hero to disgrace,
Honest G--- Ch--- may supply his Place.

426

The Fourth Pastoral of Virgil,

Englished by Mr. Dryden.

Sicilian Muse, begin a loftier Strain,
Tho lowly Shrubs and Trees that shade the Plain
Delight not all; Sicilian Muse, prepare
To make the vocal Woods deserve a Consul's Care.

The last great Age, foretold by Sacred Rhimes,
Renews its finish'd Course, Saturnian Times
Roll round again, and mighty Years begun
From their first Orb, in radiant Circles run.
The base degenerate Iron Offspring ends;
A golden Progeny from Heaven descends.
O chast Lucina, speed the Mother's Pains,
And haste the Glorious Birth, thy own Apollo reigns.
The lovely Boy, with his auspicious face,
Shall Pollio's Consulship and Triumph grace,
Majestick Months set out with him to their appointed Race.
The Father banish'd Virtue shall restore,
And Crimes shall threat the guilty World no more:
The Son shall lead the Life of Gods, and be
By Gods and Heroes seen, and Gods and Heroes see:
The jarring Nations he in Peace shall bind,
And with paternal Virtues rule Mankind.
Unbidden Earth shall wreathing Ivy bring,
And fragrant Herbs (the Promises of Spring)
As her first Off'rings to her Infant King.
The Goats with strutting Dugs shall homeward speed,
And lowing Herds secure from Lions feed.
His Cradle shall with rising Flowers be crown'd,
The Serpents Brood shall die, the sacred Ground

427

Shall Weeds and poisonous Plants refuse to bear,
Each common Bush shall Syrian Roses wear.
But when Heroick Verse his Youth shall raise,
And form it to Hereditary Praise;
Unlabour'd Harvests shall the Fields adorn,
And cluster'd Grapes shall blush on every Thorn:
The knotted Oaks shall Show'rs of Honey weep,
And thro the matted Grass the liquid Gold shall creep.
Yet of old Fraud some Footsteps shall remain,
The Merchant still shall plough the Deep for Gain;
Great Cities shall with Walls be compass'd round,
And sharpned Shares shall vex the fruitful Ground:
Another Eyphis shall new Seas explore,
Another Argos land the Chiefs upon th'Iberian Shore;
Another Helen other Wars create,
And Great Achilles urge the Trojan Fate.
But when to ripen'd Manhood he shall grow,
The greedy Sailor shall the Seas forego:
No Keel shall cut the Waves for foreign Ware,
For every Soil shall every Product bear:
The labouring Hind his Oxen shall disjoin,
No Plow shall hurt the Glebe, no Pruning-hook the Vine,
Nor Wool shall in dissembled Colours shine.
But the luxurious Father of the Fold,
With native Purple or unbarred Gold,
Beneath his pompous Fleece shall proudly sweat,
And under Tyrian Robes the Lamb shall bleat.
The Fates, when they this happy Web have spun,
Shall bless the sacred Clue, and bid it smoothly run:
Mature in Years, to ready Honours move,
O of Celestial Seed, O Foster Son of Jove!
See! labouring Nature calls thee to sustain
The nodding Frame of Heaven, and Earth and Main:
See to their base restor'd Earth, Seas and Air,
And joyful Ages from behind in crowding Ranks appear.
To sing thy Praise, would Heaven my Breath prolong,
Infusing Spirits worthy such a Song,

428

Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my Lays,
Nor Linus crown'd with never-fading Bays;
Tho each his Heavenly Parent should inspire,
The Muse instruct the Voice, and Phœbus tune the Lyre.
Should Pan contend in Verse, and thou my Theme,
Arcadian Judges should their God condemn.

Begin, Auspicious Boy, to cast about
Thy Infant Eyes, and with a Smile thy Mother single out:
Thy Mother well deserves that short Delight,
The nauseous Qualms of ten long Months and Travel to requite.
Then smile, the frowning Infants Doom is read,
No God shall crown the Board, nor Goddess bless the Bed.

Advice to a Painter,

1697.

What Hand, what Skill can frame the Artful Piece,
To paint our Ruins in a proper Dress?
Inspire us, Denham's Genius, whilst we write,
Urg'd by true Zeal to do our Country right;
As when the daring Artist, taught by you,
With Master-strokes the first bold Landskip drew.

Here, Painter, here employ thy utmost Skill;
With War and Slav'ry the large Canvas fill:
And that the Lines be easier understood,
Paint not with fading Colours, paint with Blood;
Blood of our bravest Youth in Battel slain,
At Steenkirk spilt, or Landen's fatal Plain;
Or that which flow'd, and does just Heaven invoke,
When F---k yield to the fatal Stroke.

429

First draw the (R) Hero seated on the Throne,
Spite of all Law, himself observing none;
Let English Rights all gasping round him lie,
And native Freedom thrown neglected by:
On either hand the Priest and Lawyer set,
Two fit Supporters of the Monarch's Seat.
There in a greazy Rotchet cloth'd describe
The bulky Oracle of the Preaching Tribe;
That solid necessary Tool of State,
Profoundly Dull, Divinely Obstinate.
Here with polluted Robes just reeking draw
The Adulterous Moderator of the Law;
Whose wrinkled Cheeks and fallow Looks proclaim,
The ill effect of his distemper'd Flame.

Next cringing B*n---g place, whose Earth-born Race
The Coronet and Garter does disgrace;
Of undescended Parentage, made great
By Chance, his Vertues not discover'd yet.
Patron of the Noblest Order; O be just
To thy Heroick Founder's injur'd Dust!
From his Ignoble Neck thy Collar tear,
Let not his Breast thy Rays of Honour wear;
To black Designs and Lust let him remain
A servile Favorite, and Grants obtain:
While antient Honours sacred to the Crown
Are lavish'd to support the Minion.
Pale Envy rages in his canker'd Breast,
And to the British Man a Foe profest.

Artist retire, 'twere Insolence too great
T'expose the Secrets of the Cabinet;
Or tell how they their looser Minutes spend,
That guilty Scene would all chast Eyes offend.
For should you pry into the close Alcove,
And draw the Exercise of Royal Love,
K*pp*l and He are Ganymede and Jove.
Avert the Omen, Heavens! O may I ne'er
Purchase a Title at a Rate so dear:

430

In some mean Cottage let me die unknown,
Rather than thus be Darling of a Throne.

Now Painter, now thy Art is at a stand,
For who can draw that Proteus S---d---d?
The deep Reserves of whose Apostate Mind,
No Skill can reach, no Principles can bind;
Whose working Brain does more Disguises bear
Than ever yet in Vision did appear.
A supple whispering Minister, ne'er just,
Confided still, still failing in his Trust,
And only constant to unnat'ral Lust.
For Witchery and prostituted Faith made great,
Yet this is he that must support the Weight,
And prop the Ruins of a falling State.

Artist proceed, next the brib'd Senate draw,
That Arbitrary Body above Law;
Place Noise and Faction and Disorder there,
And formal Paul set mumping in the Chair;
Once the chief Bulwark of the Church and State,
Their Darling once, but now their Fear and Hate:
So a rich Cordial, when its Virtues spent,
Contributes to the Death it should prevent.
Of publick Treasure lavishly profuse,
Large Sums diverted to their private use;
By Places and by Bounties largely paid,
For Rights given up, and Liberties betray'd.
Expose the Mercenary Herd to view,
And in the Front Imperious M---gue:
With venal Wit, and prostituted Sense,
With matchless Pride and matchless Impudence;
To whose successful Villany we owe
All his own Ills, and all that others do.
Slavish Excises are his darling Sin,
And Chequer-Bills the Project of his Brain;
No publick Prospect, but conducing most
To raise his Fortune at the publick Cost.
Order and Precedents are Terms of Course,
Too weak to interrupt his rapid Force;

431

Till Wiser Commons shall in time to come
Their Antient English Principles resume,
And give their base Corrupter his just Doom.
Thus have I seen a Whelp of Lion's Brood
Couch, fawn and lick his Keeper's Hand for Food,
Till in some fatal Hour the generous Beast,
By an insulting Lash, or some gross Fraud opprest,
His just Resentment terribly declares,
Disdains the Marks of Slavery he wears,
And his weak Feeder into pieces tears.

Here Painter draw our Politician B---le,
That fawning Arse-worm with his cringing smile;
Relations, Country, Court do all despise him,
He's grown so low ev'n B*g**ry can't rise him.
Let Gaffney's noble Hangman next advance,
And tell his Fears of Popery and France;
And for the blust'ring Pedant leave a space,
Who wears Corinthian Metal in his face:
See where the florid warlike C*tts appears,
As brave and senseless as the Sword he wears.
Here Sloan baits S---ur, L---ton Jack H---,
And all the while old Bowman cries Bow Wow.
To P**ms and St---land, and the Yorkshire Crew
By Sm*th directed, the next Station's due.
Sm*th whilst he seems good-natur'd, frank and kind,
Betrays th'inveterate Temper of his Mind.
To the Chit Sp---r Painter next be just,
That weak sour Offspring of a forced Lust,
Which his unnatural Father grudg'd to spare
From his Italian Joy, and spoil'd his Heir;
From hence that aukward Politician came,
To Commonwealth, which he admires, a Shame,
A Slave to Kings tho he abhors the Name.
He votes for Armies, talks for Liberty,
In th'House for Millions, out for Property:
Thus Father-like, with Flattery betrays
That Government which he propos'd to raise.

432

Near him Lord William bawls, whose well-stock'd Brain
Out-weighs Chit's Index-Learning half a Grain.
With these as fellow Empricks in design,
Let W**ton, Rich, Y**ng, Cl**k, and Hubbard join;
And let not H***les pass unregarded by.
'Twere endless to recount the meaner Fry
Of yelping Yeas and No's, who baul by rote,
To multiply the Unites of a Vote;
Opprest with Clamour, Truth and Justice flies,
And thus pursu'd, down hunted Reason lies.

Some few untainted Patriots yet remain,
Who native Zeal and Probity retain;
These sullen draw, disgrac'd and discontent,
Mourning the Ruin which they can't prevent.
But Painter hold—Reserve the vacant Room
For Knaves in Embrio, and Rogues to come;
Who undiscover'd yet with Ease betray,
And sell their Country in a closer way.

An Answer to the Earl of Rochester's Satyr against Man.

Written by Dr. P*****ck.

Were I to choose what sort of Corps I'd wear,
I'd not be Dog, Lord Monkey, nor Earl Bear;
But I'd be Man, not as I am, the worst;
But Man refin'd, such as he was at first.
The speechless State of Brutes I would refuse,
For the same Cause another does it chuse,
For then the Reputation I should lose

433

Of Wit, Extravagance, and Mode, from whence
Reason is made to truckle under Sense.
Or if to Sense I did so much incline,
I'd rather be a Satyr, Goat or Swine;
To help to break the Court-Physicians, who
Besides compounding Lusts have nought to do.
Nature (exceeding Broths) would then excite
Supplys to make a full-meal'd Appetite,
Nor bugbear Conscience dulling the Delight.
But what need such a Metamorphosis?
Man being Man, can e'en do more than this;
Granting the Principle, that Reason's use
Is not to curb, but make Sense more profuse.
For tho Man's Life more vigorous is than Brutes,
His Pander Reason can contrive Recruits
For its Defects; what Sins the sensual Man
Can't do alone, the Reasonable can.
With useful Wit for Sensuality,
An half unfashion'd Sinner does descry;
He's modishly debauch'd who can't tell why:
That stirs up slow-pac'd Lust by Argument,
Who to hir'd Sense gives no Divertisement,
But calls for more when all its Force is spent.
And tho the bragging Wretch would be content,
Disabled from more Vice, now to repent,
Upbraided Reason scorns the puny Motion,
Bids it cheer up, and gives it t'other Potion;
Till after all when Nature has giv'n o'er,
And Art can buoy up aged Sense no more,
Reason reserves this Remedy at last,
To think those Pleasures which it cannot tast.
In this a thinking Fool may become wise,
And yet think on so, that his Thinking lies
In Notions of Venereal Mysteries.
Hence sprung the reasoning Arts in former Days,
Of Spinstrix, Oscis, and the Modern ways,
By Baths, Lascivious Pictures, Jigs and Plays.

434

If this be Reason's use, no more we'll call
Clodius Incontinent, but Rational,
And boast the Reason of Sardanapal.
Reason nicknam'd, like Quakers newfound Light,
One while call'd Spirit, alias Appetite:
A Stupid Reason, which none will defend,
But he who has with Brutes one common end;
Debasing Reason, coupling every Ass,
E'en with my Lord in the same reasoning Class.
I'll be no Student in this reasoning School;
I'd rather be that Humane thinking Fool,
A Cloyster'd Coxcomb able to converse,
Altho alone, with the whole Universe;
And reasoning, into Heaven mount from thence,
Post Gazets of Divine Intelligence,
And sacred Knowledge most remote from Sense.
Might I be plac'd in this exploded Sphere,
I'd not alone forgive that Witty Jeer,
But boast the name of reasoning Engineer.
But as for Man made perfect and upright,
Why not the Image of the Infinite?
Were this a Scandal to his Glory, must
We for his Honour sake his Word distrust?
Or is an Image such a very same
With what it represents, that it must claim
Its full Perfections? sure, my Picture might
Be painted like me, and yet void of Sight.
Must the first Draught of Man be vilify'd,
Scorn'd and contemn'd, 'cause Man himself has stray'd?
Or did not Eve sufficiently transgress,
And bastardize Posterity, unless
Man, little as he is, be made much less?
Tho he does not his higher End pursue
So well as does that more Ignoble Crew
Of Birds and Beasts, that little have to do;
The difficulty of his lofty End
Above the others, does his Cause defend,

435

And in the Means a disproportion pleads;
Choice sways the one Instinct, the other leads.
'Tis not 'cause Jowler cries, he kills the Hare,
But 'tis because Jowler cannot forbear.
Tho in the Chair of State some lolling sit,
That therefore none can sit upright in it,
Is a false Consequence, and void of Wit.
But you your self have taught Man such a way
Unto his happiness, that he must stray:
For if his Sense must usher in his Rest,
And never be abridg'd of its request,
He may be drunk and pockey, but ne'er blest.
As for Pride gendring Philosophy,
A Captious word, 'tis what you'l have it be:
Your nice Distinctions have an Art to show
'Tis good or bad, or neither, as please you.
Some Sects love Wrangling, others Pedantry;
But in the Love of Wisdom all agree;
Wisdom, which all acknowledg to be good,
But has the Fate to be misunderstood.
But tho Fools croud among Philosophers,
The fault is not the Sciences but theirs;
With all their Flaws our Bedlam School I'd choose
Before the madder Taverns leuder Shews.
Tho both are Slaves, I rather do respect
The Stoick than the Epicurean Sect.
If Sense or Reason once must be deny'd,
Reason would tell me, Reason must abide,
The less obnoxious and the surest Guide.
But since kind Nature has design'd them both
For Humane Complement, I should be loth
To give up Humane Sense to its own Will,
Or grant a Tyrant Reason leave to kill
Such useless Faculties; my Reason shall
Govern my Subject Sense, but not enthral.
Nor shall officious Sense presume to act,
Till Justice Reason authorize the Fact.

436

That Humane Nature is corrupt I grant;
But was't the use of Reason or the want
That put out the warm Breath of Love? From whence
Sprung Murder first, but from malicious Sense?
Which having once usurp'd Queen Reason's Throne,
'Twas not contented with one Sin alone,
But falling headlong, plainly shows, alas,
By too too fatal Proofs, that that which was
The best, corrupted, to the worst doth pass.
Hence the acutest Wits, when they're defil'd,
Turn most Extravagant, Profane and Wild,
Defend Debaucheries, and Sense advance
To Reason, Reason out of Countenance,
Making their Knowledg worse than Ignorance.
But must Humanity be quite eras'd,
Because it is from what it was defac'd?
Or must the little Reason Men yet hold
For their Improvement, be for Dogs Flesh sold?
Sometimes the Gamester, when ill Fortune crosses,
With his last Stake recovers all his Losses.
He's but a weak Physician who gives o'er
His weaker Patient, whom he might restore.
But may he suffer an Eternal Curse,
That dares prescribe a Remedy that's worse
Than the Disease it self: when Jowler's lame,
No one expects that he should kill the Game;
But that he may hereafter, I am sure
'Tis best not to cut off his Legs but cure.
He that feels Qualms of Conscience in his Breast,
Let him not barter Reason with a Beast,
But purge the Guilt with which he is opprest.
That Honesty's against all Common Sense,
Is a good Argument for my defence.
If Sense with that which has so good a Name
Is inconsistent, Sense is much to blame;

437

And Reason will, spite of your Rhyme and Tide
Of Ink, Wit and Contempt, more firm abide,
For having such a Vertue on its side.
And Valour to take part with her for Sense,
As you contrive it, puts no difference
Between the Valiant that are so for fear,
And Cowards who would be so, but don't dare.
Reason could never frame so witty a thing,
That Man should fight for fear of Quarrelling.
All men, you say, for Fools or Knaves must go,
And he's a Man himself who calls them so:
And being Man, is at his own Choice free,
Or in the Rank of Fools or Knaves to be;
Let him be either, or else both for me.
But let me, Sir, request, before you slip
Into your Dog, or Bear, or Monkey's Shape,
Whether you think their Brutish Form procures
Any Advantages exceeding yours.
Both Dog and Bear, as well as Man will fight,
And (to no purpose too) each other bite.
And as for Puggy, all his Virtues lie
In aping Man, the only thing you fly.
The wisest way the Evil to redress,
Is to be what you are not more or less,
That is not Man, Dog, Bear, nor Monkey neither,
But a Rare something of 'em altogether.

438

The Golden Age Revers'd.

Sicilian Goddess, whose Prophetick tongue
Reveals Fate's dark Decrees in Sacred Song;
The present vile degenerate Age disdain,
And sound the Glories of a Future Reign:
When Whigs again shall rouse the drooping Land,
Unnerv'd and weaken'd by a Female Hand.
St---d for his great Wealth and Wisdom known,
Has in the Faction's Name ador'd the Rising Sun,
Secur'd the point, and made the Game their own.
Then So---t, in whose capacious Mind
Learning and solid Sense with Wit are join'd,
Judiciously in Council shall preside;
And ev'ry deep Design, and ev'ry Project guide.
Then H---x, by Nature form'd to please,
Humble in Greatness, easy of Access,
With unaffected Air the Court shall grace,
And safe from Angry Votes enjoy his Place.
Tonson and he in frequent close Debate
Shall pondring weigh the business of the State;
Then D---re, whose elevated Chin
Proclaims the happy Vacancy within,
Shall shuffle with his Creditors no more,
But pay his Debts, forsake his Dice and Whore.
Wh---n, for Valour and for Truth renown'd,
Whose ev'ry Action is with Justice crown'd,
Whose innocent and undesigning Life
Was always free from Faction, free from Strife,

439

Shall be invested with his old Command,
And wrest the Staff from haughty Seymour's hand.
S---rs, tho weak in Body, strong in Mind,
No Pox can taint a Substance so refin'd!
With just Applauses shall resume the Mace;
For now, neglecting Health, and private Ease,
He heals Divisions, and promotes the Publick Peace.
Or---d shall lord it o'er the Subject Main,
Eager of Battel, negligent of Gain.
M---n shall put on a Politician's Face,
For Sense with Riches always does increase;
By Railing now, he'll then deserve a Place.
What if sometimes when Strumpet lewd appears,
The Rake confessing, he the Sage cashiers?
So Puss transform'd, the Mouse could not refrain,
But re-assum'd her Shape, and mew'd again,
For Nature will in spite of Art remain.
Ha---ngs, tho now he struts with Comick Mien,
And sneers and jokes with Countenance serene,
Shall gravely quit his Jests, and lisping praise
The glorious Prospect of these happy Days.
Young S---nd, of honest Parents born,
Mature in Council, shall the Board adorn
Shall emulate his Father's spotless Fame,
And with a Faith like his secure a lasting Name.
B---t, the Glory of the Lawn he wears,
Firm to the Churches Interest appears,
Asserts and vindicates her injur'd Cause,
Whene'er invaded by Conforming Foes:
This holy Man shall T---n succeed,
Tall T---n, the Churches awful Head,
Whose venerable Fabrick fills the Eye
With solemn Apostolick Majesty.
Lambeth rejoice, when one great Prelate dies,
Another, great as he, shall soon arise,
Of equal Gravity, of equal Size.
Then Ha---ton, the Commous mighty Chief,
Who with undaunted Zeal oppos'd the word Retrieve,

440

Shall baffle Harcourt's Reasoning, Harley's Reach,
Musgrave's Experience, Seymour's lofty Speech.
Jekyl, who was by his own Merits rais'd,
Shall justly be by all admir'd and prais'd.
Jessop and he with Finch's Tongue shall vie,
And ev'ry Period, ev'ry Trope supply:
Bromley's clear Notions, Granvile's Vehemence
Shall yield to Jervois Wit, and Pawlet's Sense.
Then B---le, like Sampson, for his Hair renown'd,
One was with Strength and one with Beauty crown'd,
Shall make no scruple to wheel round again,
For he, sweet Soul! complies with ev'ry Reign.
Now Li---ton disdains to buy a Place,
But then the long forbidden Chair shall grace;
All his Debates shall be from Trifles free,
Nor Tale be heard, nor idle Repartee.
K---g in a mixt Capacity shall shine,
The Lawyer's here, and there the Tub Divine.
C---per shall leave his Whoring, and grow chast;
For such excessive Lewdness ne'er can last.
Str---nd shall wisely talk, and cease to rant;
And F---g forget his formal tedious Cant.
Str---ger no longer shall a Bully seem;
The Tories Terror, and the Whigs Esteem.
St---pe, that Offspring of unlawful Lust,
Begot with more than Matrimonial Gust,
Who thinks no Pleasure like Italian Joy,
And to a Venus Arms prefers a Pathick Boy,
Shall thunder in a Senate and the Field,
And reap what Fame, or Arms, or Arts can yield.
Go---n, who this mighty Change foresees,
Advances to their Cause by just degrees;
And happy they who can secure his Heart,
Unvarnish'd with the false disguise of Art:
His Thoughts are free, sincere and unconfin'd,
His Words the dictates of an open Mind.
But S---h sure, who now surrounds the Throne
With her Innumerable Pygmee-spawn,

441

Can never hope a more Auspicious Reign,
A kinder Mistress or a greater Queen.
L---ds, Wey---th, Ab---don and No---by,
R---ke, No---m and Ro---er shall fly
To some Recess, and there obscurely die.
For their unequal Sense can ne'er support
The vast Ambitious Aims of such a Court.
Ma---ter, B---ton, Ha---am, C---sle,
The Pride and Glory of our British Isle,
Shall undertake and execute the noble Toil.

O that my languid Numbers I could raise,
High as their Merits, sounding as their Praise!
Not Man---ring, tho all his Club should join,
And So---set himself correct each Line,
Could e'er produce Diviner Lays than mine.
Nay, towring Ha---x, that Giant Wit,
Tho he transcrib'd and own'd what Prior writ,
Could not pretend to reach the matchless Strain,
The Poet's Envy, and the Criticks Pain.

The Golden Age, from the Fourth Eclog of Virgil, &c.

Sicilian Muse, thy Voice and Subject raise,
All are not pleas'd with Shrubs and Sylvan Lays;
Or if we Shrubs and Sylvan Lays prepare,
Let 'em be such as sute a Consul's Year.

Now Merlin's Prophecys are made compleat,
And Lilly's best Events with Credit meet;
Now Banish'd Justice takes its rightful Place,
And Saturn's Days return with St---rts's Race.

442

With its own Lustre now the Church appears,
As one Year makes amends for fourteen Years,
And Joys succeed our Sighs, and Hopes succeed our Fears.

O Goddess, Genius of this Favorite Isle,
On thy own Work, this Revolution, smile;
Salute the Pleasures that come rolling on,
And greet the Wonders Heav'n and thou hast done;
Worthy the Glorious Change inspire our Strains,
Now thy own Anna rules, in Her own Kingdom Reigns.

And thou, O Dashwood, by peculiar Care,
Reserv'd till now to fill Augusta's Chair,
Behold the Mighty Months Progressive shine!
See 'em begin their Golden Race in Thine!
Under thy Consulship, Lo! Vice gives way,
And Whigs for ever cease to come again in Play.

The Life of Gods the Monarch shall partake,
Belov'd by Gods and Men for Virtues sake;
As she from Heroes sprung, brave Acts prefers,
And Heroes copy out their Fame from Hers;
As Kingdoms Rights she with her own maintains,
And where her injur'd F---r govern'd, reigns.

Hail Sacred Queen! Thy very Enemies own
Thy Lawful Claim, and recognize thy Throne;
Dissembling Statesmen shall before thee stand,
And H--- be first will kiss thy Hand;
S--- shall change his Temper with his Fate,
And promise Duty where he vow'd his Hate,
Seeming for past Offences to atone,
By complementing Claims he would postpone;
Had one but liv'd, that rais'd him, to his Shame,
To let him pack the Cards, and win the Game.

W--- shall to St. James's House resort,
And leave his Master's Corps to make his Court;
S--- shall quit the Practice of his Place,
Leave cutting Timber down in E---d Ch**se,
To seek for Favour, and prevail for Grace.

443

Old R--- shall thy Accession sing,
Hoping to serve Thee as he serv'd the King;
To keep his Grid-iron while he keeps his Life,
And build fresh Mansion-Houses for his Wife.

Lyons with Lambs united shall agree,
And Lambs like Lyons, Lyons Lambs shall be,
And S--- with S--- hail and bow the Knee.
K--- shall drop his Convocation Spleen,
And Att---y quarrels with the Dean,
To join in our Allegiance with the Queen.
The Churchmen and Dissenters shall combine
To pay the Tribute due to Stuart's Line,
As Presbyters with B---ps shall comply,
And B---ps shall fling out what Presbyters deny;
Like L---'s Watermen, whose Tempers shew,
That look one way while they another row.

Yet shall some Footsteps of old Fraud remain,
And Ills be practis'd in thy Golden Reign,
M---en at Sea shall in his Duty fail,
And Wade and Dastard Kirkby turn their Tail.
H--- at Land his Country shall abuse,
And B— by Plund'ring Conquest lose;
While British Troops with Or---nd at their Head;
Shall meet with Conquest who from Conquest fled;
And Mal---gh, of William's Post possess'd,
Reducing Liege, shall France it self invest.

S---'s huge P---te shall before thee preach,
And his dead Lord to flatter thee impeach;
Old dreaming W---r, once the Church's Pride,
Shall quit her Interest for another side,
Brow-beat his Clergy, and a Chief defame,
Spotless as is the Blood from whence he came;
And tho a Prisoner made in dubious times,
Shall now deserve the T---r for real Crimes.

Midst Lords and Commons shall Disputes arise,
And one disswade what t'other shall advise.

444

Proud Adriatick O--- shall be known
To sink the Nation's Money for his own,
And fix the Courtiers Thefts upon the Throne.
Funds shall, as if no Funds there were, appear,
Millions be giv'n the Kingdoms Debts to clear,
Yet shall we owe the Millions that we gave,
And pay for what we had not Wit to save;
Unless some Moths that fret the thredbare State,
Prevent our Ruin by their timely Fate,
Unless a P--- more often A---ts keeps,
And gives the Queen the Crop which now he reaps.
But when confirm'd in Arts of Empire grown,
Thou seest thy Reign mature, and fix'd thy Throne,
Both Land and Sea thy Sovereign Power shall own;
Fearless of Loss, and confident of Gain,
The Merchant shall in Safety plough the Main,
The lab'ring Hind shall cleave the Country Soil,
And Plenty rise, and court the Farmer's Toil.
As every Subject sees his Wrongs redress'd,
Views Faction quell'd, and Anarchy suppress'd,
And Prince and People mutually bless'd.

Such be thy Reign, the Fatal Sisters cry,
And such Britannia's Future Destiny.
Arise Auspicious Queen! the Times are come,
When France shall from thy Mouth expect her Doom;
When Providence shall labour in thy Cause,
And trembling Spain acknowledg English Laws:
Arise thou Bright Inspirer of my Song,
And vindicate the Blood from whence thou'rt sprung.
See the consenting World adore thy Fame!
Heav'n, Earth, and Sea confess the Justice of thy Claim!
See us for Thee our Vows and Prayers employ,
And coming Ages smile in hopes of coming Joy.
Oh! that this Life of mine so long would last,
As I might sing thy future Deeds and past,
As on thy rising Glories I might dwell,
And I in Verse, as thou in Fame, excel!

445

Not thy own Fate, tho with thy Laurels crown'd,
Should touch a sweeter Pipe, or give a sweeter Sound:
Not Favorite R---, tho I---y took his Part,
Should boast more Judgment, or reveal more Art;
Not C---ve stock'd with all his Patron's Praise,
Produce a Zeal like mine, or equal Lays;
Tho C--- H--- his Friend should be,
C---ve, if H--- were Judg, should yield to me.
Begin, Great Queen, the St---t's Steps to tread,
And let thy Living Worth exceed the Dead;
Happiest of Princes in this Climate born,
Entirely English, above thy Enemies Scorn.
Thou ne'er wert dandled on an A---'s Knee,
Not H---r stood Godfather for thee,
But sprung directly from the British Strain,
Where thou first drew'st thy Breath, dost there commence thy Reign.

A Poem, in defence of the Church of England;

In Opposition to the Hind and Panther, written by Mr. John Dryden.

If we into our selves, or round us look,
We find a God, exprest in Natures Book.
The Sacred Truth is writ in every Breast;
By every Clime and every Tongue confest:
Th'inconstant World kneel'd early to the Sun;
His fruitful Light Idolatry begun.
Saturn, Mercurius, Jupiter, and Mars,
Were but the Names of several wandring Stars.

446

Men worship'd with Idolatry; like theirs
Who slight our Kings, and court their Ministers.
Hero's that did great Actions here on Earth,
Were said at last to be of Heavenly Birth:
And when no man wou'd own the doubtful Child,
Then Jove or Mars the easy Nymph beguil'd.
But different Climes invented several Rites;
For Nature in variety delights:
Some sacrific'd a Child, others a Ram;
Unlike the Offrings, but the Zeal the same.
Some cut their Flesh, and whipt themselves with Rods,
As if their Blood and Torture pleas'd their Gods.
Bacchus with Feasts and Revels some ador'd;
Devoutly drank, and piously they whor'd.
Unnatural Sins defil'd their sensual Nights,
Till Heathen Virtue rose against such Rites,
And drove that lewd Religion out of Rome,
Damning by Law all Bacchanals to come.
Apis the Ox in Egypt was ador'd,
Their Gardens with Green Deities were stor'd;
Succeeding Times their Princes Deify'd,
And Priests and Temples for the Dead decreed;
In Venus Fame others their Daughters plac'd,
To be deflowr'd by Strangers as they past,
Who in her wanton Service entertain'd,
Still gave the Priest and Goddess what they gain'd.
Thus human Fancy toil'd in vain to find
A Service grateful to the Heavenly Mind.
And untaught Nature gave us a dim sight
Of Divine Beings, but no further Light.
Our God a Covenant with Mankind made,
The Womans Seed should bruise the Serpent's Head;
Then Abram's Race he for his People chose,
And holy Prophets from his Loins arose.

447

Moses more fully did his Will declare,
And mighty Wonders his Credentials were:
Among the rest, Error and Idols reign'd,
Peculiar Gods each Legislator feign'd.
At last he sent his Son to guide Mankind
In Sacred Paths, of their great Duty blind;
He taught us Worldly Greatness to despise,
To bear Reproach, and pardon Enemies.
Meekness a Virtue, till his time unknown,
(Which Christians properly may call their own)
He planted first, then his Apostles taught
The Truths he preach'd, and Wonders that he wrought;
And in their Sacred Pages 'tis alone
Man finds his Duty to the Heavenly Throne.

Who ever read, in Earnest or in Jest,
Of any white unchang'd Immortal Beast;
Or of an harmless Hind that knew no Fear,
Yet fled when Hunters and the Hounds drew near?
Sure never any Brute before complain'd
The Common Hunt her Company disdain'd.
Tell me what Young ones are unlike their Dams;
Thy Tales of Hero Make, are Heathen Shams.
Friend Bayes, I fear this Fable, and these Rhymes,
Were thy dull Penance for some former Crimes,
When thy free Muse her own brisk Language spoke,
And unbaptiz'd disdain'd the Christian Yoke.
Thy Spanish Fryer not thought himself reveng'd,
Until thy Stile, as well as Faith, were chang'd.
Our Church refus'd thee Orders, whence I find
Her call'd the Panther, that of Rome the Hind.
O wondrous Hind, whose White no Blood can stain
Of People massacred, or Monarchs slain.
Their Wealth, their Friends, and native Soil men leave,
Because they can't as they are bid, believe.
Some tortur'd, of their harsh Conversion die;
Others the Oar in cruel Gallies ply,
Till what their Hearts avow, their Lips deny.

448

Of all the Blood in such a Quarrel spilt,
Who shall absolve th'Absolvers from their Guilt?
If here thy Hind has lost some vocal Blood,
In France and Ireland she has spilt a Flood;
Not in a Legal way, where Treason mixt
With breach of Law, the double Guilt perplext.
For still the boasted Martyrs on her side,
Not for Religion, but for Treason dy'd:
They stuck so close, that we could never part
The Priest from Traytor in the Tyburn Cart,
Nor yet in open Field, where Force with Force
The Brave repel, and kill without remorse;
But in cold Blood, all Enmity laid down,
Friendship and Joy restor'd throughout the Town.
Supinely resting on a Monarch's Word,
Ten thousand felt e'er they could fear the Sword.
Lodg'd in his Palace, on pretence of care,
They for Protection ran into the Snare,
So rushes on the Hounds the frighted Hare.
The King relenting as it nearer drew,
Having the mighty Ruin full in view,
Wou'd have gone back, but Zeal knew no retreat;
Then kill, said he, all Hereticks you meet.
Keep this black Action from succeeding time,
Leave none alive, that may reproach the Crime.
Now rings the fatal Bell, Death is let loose,
He ranges uncontroul'd thro every House:
Down every Street he pours a Purple Flood,
And mounting Souls prevent their vocal Blood:
The Guise not spares the Husband of his Child;
Next the too easy Admiral is kill'd:
A Cross their Badg, and Heretick the Word,
(A strange Commission to a Christian Sword)
Alike all Ranks, all Ages, Sexes fare:
Thy Hind bids kill, and 'tis a Crime to spare.

449

The Lion and his Shaggy Dam stood by,
And from their Windows clapt the Tragedy.
Zeal runs through every Province with like Rage,
Nor cou'd two Months the Purple Flood asswage.
The Pope himself did the vast Murder bless,
And gave God Publick Thanks for the Success:
Before King Philip, in a Spanish Rant,
Twas stil'd the Triumph of Church Militant.
Thus Romish Fury like the Plague destroys,
Baths in Kings Blood, and Massacres enjoys.
So the third Henry fell, from the Priest's Knife;
In vain Ten Legions guard His Sacred Life.
The vile Assassinate thought Heaven his own,
When he the more than Hellish Act had done;
His Holiness the Murderer extol'd,
And Clement in the Book of Life enrol'd.
Next by Ravilliac's Hand great Bourbon dyes,
Belov'd, and guarded by his Enemies:
No publick Rage, scarce any private Frown,
All but the Church submitted to the Crown,
By a hot Novice's misguided Zeal,
In his full Glory, that Great Hero fell.
Three Popes with their Church Thunder shake his Throne,
No Heretick Right their learned Clergy own:
Birth-right, Descent, and Title, they declare
Not to be valu'd in a Pious War;
Nor wou'd the States admit him to the Crown,
Till first the Church receiv'd him for her Son.
Kings are but Means, Church-Greatness is the End;
He has best Right who will her Right defend.

Queen Mary's Reign might a just Poem make,
Where Prisons, Whips, and Burning at a Stake

450

Were common Punishments for Heresy,
And almost grown familiar to the Eye.
Four Reverend Prelates in blest Flames ascend,
And what in Life they taught, in Death defend.
Three hundred Martyrs her few Years devour,
Never did Flames so highly feast before;
She kill'd, and burnt, as if her cruel Mind
A Vestal Fire of Hereticks design'd.

Our Maiden Queen in vain the Monsieur woo'd;
In vain two Popes declare against her Blood;
Courtship and Malice she alike withstood,
Unwearied Malice, lasting as her Breath,
Teeming with Plots, Conspiracies, and Death.
By a fierce Pope her Realms are given away,
Spain fills with floting Towers the British Sea,
But Heaven in Storms forbids th'unlawful Prey;
And English Thunder with Celestial joins,
Scatters their Fleet, and sinks their vast Designs.
No sooner James on Albion's Throne was plac'd,
But Rome prepares t'exalt him with a Blast;
And in loud Flames prefer him to the Sky,
While round him Lords, and scatter'd Commons fly,
Short Blazing-Stars of Zealous Cruelty.
Nor had it fail'd, but for a silly Scroll
Sent to Monteagle from some melting Fool;
Who poorly grudg'd to sacrifice a Friend
To such a pious and important End:
Dost thou not think him below Judas damn'd,
Whom Pity thus unfainted and unman'd?

Unlick'd and Independant, as thy Bear,
'Tis plain, at first, all Christian Churches were;
Nor did St. Paul acknowledg Peter's Chair;
But fill'd with equal Light, and equal Grace,
Withstood him boldly to his Erring Face.

451

Too strait enclos'd, he overthrew the Fence,
And forc'd the Laws, unskilful to dispense.
But yet for Liberty he nobly fought:
That English Plant thou diggs'd up by the Root.
Too far alas he carry'd his Success,
The better sort oft wish'd it had been less.
He chang'd the Legal for a Lawless Lord;
So hard it is to rule a Conquering Sword.
War has Ten thousand Mischiefs in her Womb,
And fruitful Seeds of ev'ry Ill to come;
Instead of Curing she provokes the Smart,
Or drives the deadly Poyson to the Heart.
Thy Apes will all thy chosen Party take,
Whilst thy soft Numbers the Conversion make.
Like a starv'd Dog now fauns thy quaking Hare,
Can lye, and can dissemble, tho not swear.
Puss is familiar with our Nymrods grown,
Makes up the Cry to run the Panther down,
And has a sort of Leopard of her own.
A Motly Prince shining with inward Light,
Whose unarm'd passive Subjects never fight,
Drink no Man's Health, uncover not the Head,
As 'twere a mark of Grace to be ill-bred:
Titles because they want, they never give,
Cheat in few words, and without Oaths deceive;
Break for Ten thousand Pounds with Yea and Nay,
And when the Spirit moves-um, run away;
Proudly our Forms and Ways of speaking slight,
For what's their inward Spirit but their Wit,
Which good or bad is their pretended Light?
This Leopard, once a Gay and Spotted Beast,
A fair Hybernian Nymph wou'd have comprest;
Bold in his Youth, and Lustful in his Kind,
In Nightly howlings he exprest his mind.

452

A Rival Wolf, the Terror of the Wood,
Who of whole Herds had drank the reaking Blood;
His Jaws well arm'd, his frightful Bristles rear'd,
A dreadful Champion for the Dame appear'd:
Offers the Combate, which the Leopard shuns,
Forsakes the Dame, and from the Forest runs:
Thus he for shame and fear became a Saint,
And thinks to cover all with Thred-bare Cant,
With which he got a Wife for his supply,
The highest Prize of their poor Lottery;
Such was the doughty Scribe against the Test,
From whom all Sides must learn their Interest.

Thy Baptist Boar perhaps may think it odd
A new-born Child should cov'nant with his God,
Or go to Hell e'er he deserve the Rod.
From Holy Scripture they their Doctrine draw,
And may mistake, but do not break the Law;
While thy Infallible presumptuous Hind
To Bread alone the Eucharist confin'd,
Tho Wine, as well as Bread, the Sacred Text enjoin'd.

Thy graceless Fox, by Athanasius chain'd,
Popes, Councils, Emperors, awhile maintain'd,
Till the loud Nicene Hunt quite run her down,
And with thy Hind confest the Three in One,
Th'Eternal Father, Spirit and the Son.
Tho above Sense, this does not Sense oppose,
What Mortal the Divine Existence knows?
The Bread we see, we handle, tast, and smell;
Nor can a God within a Wafer dwell,
Or be devour'd by Thousands at a time,
In every Age, in every distant Clime.

453

A Body glorify'd mends not the matter,
Such things agree not with Corporeal Nature;
If on the Cross he ceas'd not to complain,
Can Christ be eaten now and feel no Pain?
Or like Prometheus Liver grows his Flesh,
That still these Eagles feed on him afresh?
Heaven for our Weakness does in vain provide,
Since erring Judgments may mistake the Guide,
Who tho unerring, is not so to me,
Unless I were Infallible as he.
Thy Throne of Darkness in a Pit of Light,
If not quite Nonsense, is a lofty Flight;
Since either damns us, why took Heaven no care
We should not sin? Yet such we should not err.
Th'Omnipotence of God who dares deny?
Yet that he can't destroy himself or lie,
Release the Damn'd, recal the Time once past,
Is on all hands without offence confest.
Christ stood before his Train in open Light,
With the same Body that escapes our Sight;
Which had none seen, the World had not believ'd,
Nay Thomas felt e'er he was undeceiv'd.
If our Redeemer then appeal'd to Sense,
To doubt their Verdict we have no pretence:
By Godlike Acts he prov'd his Deity,
The Lame he made to walk, the Blind to see;
Souls to their former Mansions he restor'd,
These Miracles Men saw e'er they ador'd.
But say what Sense, what Miracles attest
The Corp'ral Presence in the Eucharist,
That lying Wonder of a coz'ning Priest;
When God upheld, and Princes on their Knees,
Heaven Gates he shuts, and opens as he please.
All Reverence to the Word Divine is due,
But Man's Deductions are not always true;
The Turks, as well as we, make Faith their Guide,
So all Religions in the World beside;

454

But Faith should grafted upon Reason be,
Reason the Stock, and Faith the deathless Tree.

Thy Isgrim next with famish'd Face appears,
A Haggard Look, Predestinating Ears,
For what thou wilt still thy own Mother wears.
Teaching the Scriptures of themselves are plain,
And fully every saving Truth contain;
He barks at Miter'd Popes in Peter's Chair,
At Bishops grins, and would the Surplice tear:
Among their Brethren would their Charge divide,
Check their Ambition, and abate their Pride.
Affirms th'Elect are the true Church, and here
Since others may, Councils and Popes may err.
If they alone the Scripture might explain,
Christ spoke, and his Apostles writ in vain,
Till they were settled in their Spiritual Reign.
He grins at Picture-Worship, Saints, and Cross,
And would refine the Metal from the Dross;
Yet sets no foot on the Imperial Head,
As fair Matilda's Paramour once did;
When, all the Marks of Majesty laid down,
Fasting and Barefoot Henry alone,
Without his Guards, like a poor Pilgrim drest,
Beg'd for Admittance, and his Guilt confest
In vain, till fair Matilda us'd her Interest;
Her softer Charms over his Rage prevail'd,
And his Church-Thunder he at length recall'd.
So Venus beg'd, and would not be deny'd,
While the grim God lay panting by her Side;
And in the Flames of Love half melted down,
Promis'd bright Armour for the Godlike Son.
These are thy Isgrim's Doctrines; tell me now
Where's their Contempt of Heaven, or Kings below?
I'll not exempt some Times and Men from Blame,
For Priests of all Religions are the same;

455

No not the Panther, nor thy harmless Hind;
Full Power is of the persecuting Kind.

Unhappy Regions, Italy and Spain,
Under the Myter'd Tyrants double Reign,
Where Fire and Sword, Church-unity maintain.
Rome, once the gentlest Mistress of Mankind,
That Arms exalted, or that Arts refin'd;
Whose conquering Eagles travel'd with the Sun,
And a like Race of deathless Glory run,
One spreading Vertue, and the other Light
Through every Region in their prosp'rous Flight;
Nobly she fought, to Conquer, not Enslave,
And won Renown, but Peace and Plenty gave;
To injur'd Kings their Empire she renew'd,
And lawless Tyrants with just Arms pursu'd,
Improving still what ever she subdu'd;
Is now content, under a Sp'ritual Head,
And petty Dukes from his Corruption bred,
Poorly to languish in inglorious Peace,
Rebel to Honour, and mean Slave to Ease.
The Fruitful Regions of all Italy
Unpeopl'd, unmanur'd, deserted lie.
Nature in vain pours forth her various Store;
Rich is the Soil, but the vext Country poor,
While Prince or Priest their Industry devour.
So the Jackal upon the Lyon waits,
And what he leaves, the hungry Vermin eats.
These are the Blessings that she now enjoys,
Under a Tyrant of the Conclave's Choice,
Where French, or Spanish Pistols sway the Voice.
Thy noble Lyon do's bought Converts hate,
But Hope's a Bribe, Preferment is a Bait,
And mighty Blessings on all Converts wait;
Valiant they grow, and in an instant Wise,
And what their Nature wants, their Faith supplys.
One of these rising things who wou'd not be,
That were neglected, scorn'd, decay'd like thee?

456

Thy Panther next appears, Spotted 'tis true,
But like thy Hind, of a Celestial hew.
Her generous Lyon how can she offend,
Whose Sons and Writings for his Power contend?
Her Duty, Cæsar and her God divide,
Allowing no Supremacy beside.
When expert Huntsmen had the Wood beset,
All Arts, all Instruments of Ruin met;
Some at his Life, some aiming at his Crown,
None cou'd prevent his Fall, but Heaven alone:
(Tho well content thy Hind shou'd be ensnar'd)
Her Loyal Sons, thy generous Lion spar'd;
Th'Exclusive Bill in the Lords House they damn'd,
Pulpit and Press against the Act exclaim'd.

Not so the Clergy of too Jealous Rome,
Look'd on the Right of Henry to come;
Lest o'er the Flock one Heretick should reign,
Popes with the League, the League combines with Spain.
They level their Church-Thunder at his Crown,
Bishops and Nobles must their King disown,
Or else involv'd in the same Sentence lie,
The last effect of Spiritual Tyranny.
The League with Spanish Arms their King oppose;
And Zeal unites, whom Nature had made Foes;
Ten thousand men th'Italian Clergy send,
That might their Choice of a new King defend.
Our Church not thinks the Heart can go along
With Prayers utter'd in an unknown Tongue,
No more than how old Women can do harm
With barbarous words repeated in a Charm:
Nor from the Vulgar do's the Word conceal,
But opens wide to all that Heavenly Weal,
Where in plain words all saving Doctrines dwell.
All necessary Truths are short and clear,
She and th'Apostle bids us seek 'um there.

457

Finding no Track of an unerring Guide,
She sets Rome's haughty Plea to it aside;
Exacts no lewd Confession to a Priest,
Lodging our secret Sins in others Breasts,
A burden which the Primitive Church declin'd,
And which long after Innocent enjoin'd,
When first he Transubstantiation coin'd.
She makes no Saints, nor Pictures to adore,
Obeys her Maker, and enquires no more:
He Images forbid in Sacred Writ,
She fears the nice distinctions of your Wit;
Nor will Doulia nor Latria trust,
But to the plain and Sacred Text be just.
The Godhead's every where, we know not how,
Such real Presence all of us allow;
But that we eat his Flesh, or drink his Blood,
Is neither meant, believ'd nor understood.
So Jews, when their Old-Feasts they celebrate,
Call 'um the bitter Herbs their Fathers eat;
Not literally those which they did tast,
When by their Gates th'avenging Angel past;
But such as were in after-times design'd
To bring that great Deliverance to their mind.
From purging Flames, no Masses for the Dead
At a set Price are in our Churches said,
Nor act we Scriptures which all ought to read.
Your antient Doctrines we indeed reject,
But 'tis when elder Truths they contradict.
Of new Opinions thus we stand accus'd,
While we revive the Old too much abus'd.
Our Reformation's new, it is confest,
But our Religion is as old as Christ's.
The Israelites when out of Egypt led,
By Wonders rescu'd, and by Wonders fed,

458

Did not the Substance of the Calf adore,
Which was but their own Gold and Rings before.
Under that Figure they ador'd their God,
Who gave such Virtue to the sacred Rod;
Created Locusts, that devour'd their Corn,
And smote thro Pharaoh's Kingdom the first-Born;
Made the Red-Sea retire on either side,
Banish her rolling Waves, absent her Tide;
While they upon her sandy Bosom trod,
To Mortal men a new Impervious Road.
Yet God those sly Idolaters abhor'd,
And in their Calf disdain'd to be ador'd.
Scarce holy Moses cou'd his Wrath asswage,
Obtain their Pardon, and disarm his Rage;
Yet they directed their Intention right,
The Calf but brought their God before their sight;
What pleads thy Hind more than these Wretches might?

The Wolf and Bear too lately she escap'd,
In their rough Paws to be again entrap'd,
They but forsook her for resembling thee,
Worst Foe to man's and Christian's Liberty;
O Hind unchang'd! but 'tis in Cruelty.
To their mistaken sight she did appear
No Panther, but a sort of spotted Deer,
That might, when past the Glorys of her Prime,
Grow grey with Age, and become white in time.
They thought unlighted Tapers useless things,
Absurd as Altars without Offerings;
That Real Presence might grow Corporal,
And Men from Kneeling to Adoring fall.
Tho she resemble thee alas too much,
With Joy they find she never will be such;
She like a Loving Spouse endur'd it long,
And much abus'd, dissembled with the Wrong;

459

Till driven from the Table, she withdrew,
Forc'd from the Board, she left the Houshold too;
And never will the odious Tye renew.
Where is it said a Priest shall have no Wife?
Where's the command for a Monastick Life?
Our Wise Creator bid us fill the Land,
And shall we vow to break his first Command?
Our Sons and Daughters into Convents thrust,
And their hot Youth with untam'd Fryers trust?
'Tis true, they pay a sort of forc'd Consent,
But Pride and Friends forbid 'em to repent;
Like Cowards in a Battel they go on,
Asham'd and loth to run away alone;
Till tam'd by Custom and benum'd with Age,
Like Birds long kept they cannot leave the Cage.
A Rosy-colour'd Face Religion shews,
This every Convent, and Fat Abby knows.
The Pride of Cardinals, what Pen can trace?
When they appear, the Royal Blood gives place;
They may on Earth but by the Pope be try'd,
To kill 'um is a sort of Parricide.
This Henry found; the Guise unheeded falls,
But Bourbons Blood for the Church-Thunder calls;
Paris and Orleans reject his Reign,
And Sorbon Doctors their Revolt maintain,
Affirming that the People safely might
Against their King, when thus excommun'd, fight.
See here the boasted Loyalty of Rome,
And by their past, expect their Faith to come.
Men need not fear how they their Lives pollute,
Penance and Fasts kind Father will commute,
The Price of Sins they reasonably compute.
A tedious Lent th'Arabian Prophet made,
But Dispensations were no Eastern Trade;

460

His temperate Law the Joys of Wine abhor'd,
When he plurality of Wives restor'd;
Wisely foreseeing that Excess might spoil
The wish'd Increase of his unpeopled Soil;
Indulging thence their Nobler Appetites,
His new Religion to the Clime he fits.
But Natures Frailtys both alike relieve,
The Turks allow but what your Priests forgive.
The Text which bids a Bishop have one Wife,
Excuses Luther in his Married Life;
Nor has that Sacred Bed such Joys of Love,
To be mistook for Bacchannals above.
'Tis true, our Church is to our Isle confin'd,
No cruel Swords inforce it on Mankind;
No harsh Conversions stain our peaceful Faith,
Ours are th'Effects of Charity, not Wrath;
While Turks their Errors with their Empire spread,
And from Dragoons our Neighbours learn their Creed.
Japan and China with your Priests abound,
And Mass is said wherever Gain is found.
What Swede, what Norway Converts can you boast?
You never trade to any barren Coast.
Your Zeal burns dim, benum'd with Northern Cold,
But flames and rages in the Climes of Gold.
Once for three Years the Church had lost her Head,
Princes and Cardinals in no Pope agreed.
At length the weary'd Faction with one Voice
To Cardinal Dossa left the Sacred Choice.
He nam'd himself, defeating all their Hopes,
And shew'd us a new way of making Popes.
Urban and Clement did the World divide:
Scarce forty Years cou'd the dark Right decide.

461

Councils and Cardinals both their Titles damn'd,
And Alexander a third Pope proclaim'd.
Where all this time was Rome's unerring Guide?
Did he in none, or in all three reside?
Saint Peter cou'd no Successor declare,
He Clement nam'd, but Linus took the Chair.
If Popes be doubtful, who can Priesthood trust?
For if they fail, their long Succession must.
Since then false Popes as well as true ordain'd,
How can Rome's Holy Orders be maintain'd?
By Otho's Arms assisted, the Twelfth John,
Not full eighteen, his Papacy began:
His Mind was bloody, few and leud his Days;
His great Imperial Patron he betrays,
Assists his Foe; but Otho overcome,
And drove th'ingrateful Stripling out of Rome.
His Life in Corners he awhile prolong'd;
But fell at last by one whose Bed he wrong'd.
Sergius by force of Arms the Chair obtain'd,
And Pepin's Right Pope Zachary maintain'd:
Grandchild to Pepin, who his King dethron'd
At Rome, so early was Rebellion own'd.
And Valentine a Deacon, not a Priest,
Chosen by all, the Holy Seat possest.
Silvester on his Deathbed did declare,
The Devil and Magick plac'd him in the Chair.
Clement in pangs of Poison ends his days,
And Damasus, that gave it, takes the Place.
Victor the Third dy'd of a poisonous Sup;
And prov'd that more than Blood was in the Cup.
The Popedom virtuous Celestine resign'd,
The Sacred Charge he consciously declin'd;
Warn'd not anights by Heaven, as he thought,
But by Impostors Benedict had taught,

462

In broken Voices to disturb his Rest;
And tell him God was with his Reign displeas'd.
The pious Hermit caught in that false Snare,
Retires, and Benedict assumes the Chair,
Leaving the Hermit to the Jaylor's Care.
After the Death of Clement it appears,
The Holy Seat was vacant for two Years.
Where in those Days was Rome's unerring Guide?
Who thus omitted, might be laid aside.
Full forty Years his Holiness was split,
Half did at Rome, half at Avignion sit.
Each fiercely by his Followers maintain'd,
Both Wonders forg'd, and Revelations feign'd.
By temporal Arms both Popes assert their Right,
Princes and Nobles in both Parties fight.
John by a Council which at Constance met,
For Crimes and Vices was expel'd the Seat;
Which to confirm by Edict, they proclaim,
That next to Christ, a Council was Supreme.
Henry the Second made the Romans swear,
Without his leave not to confer the Chair.
He from a Pope receiv'd th'Imperial Crown,
But claim'd a Right to give the Triple one.
Thus sometimes Popes made Emperors, and then
They took upon 'em to make Popes agen.
Each propping at their need with others Might,
The weak Foundations of injurious Right.
So Phocas, when he had the Hate incur'd
Of his own Clergy for his murder'd Lord,
At Rome for lawful Emperor was own'd,
As if by Choice, or long Descent enthron'd.
He first (with that vile Flattery beguil'd)
Head of the Church the Roman Bishop stil'd.
None but Apelles might the Conqueror paint;
We want a Juvenal to draw this Saint.
His Holiness, a Father now indeed,
Might damn Election, and let Blood succeed.

463

John his First-born was Earl of Candia made,
Cæsar a Cardinal, of's Father's trade.
Jeffry the Third we Prince Squillaci find,
And bright Lucretia to Alphonso join'd.
These were the Comforts of his private Life,
While fair Vannocchia was esteem'd his Wife;
E'er wild Ambition taught him to aspire,
Or worldly Pomp misled his vain Desire:
But when once Pope, his Vice grew Villany,
A doubtful Friend, a cruel Enemy;
Faithless and Proud, oppressive was his Reign,
His Lust was Avarice, his God was Gain:
He brib'd the Conclave, and the Popedom bought,
But to just Ruin the vile Card'nal brought;
He Banish'd, Poison'd, or Imprison'd most
Of those Red-Caps, that put him to that Cost.
Cæsar with Arms lays wast his native Soil,
And with the French divides the odious Spoil;
And for Reward of his unnatural War,
Is promis'd Realms with Albret of Navarre:
But under vast Designs vast Treasures fail,
Places and Card'nals Caps are set to sale;
Extortion, Violence, and Simony,
Groan with the weight of War and Luxury.
Had Magus liv'd till now, and offer'd most,
Saint Peter's Heir had sold the Holy Ghost,
Dock'd the Entail, and the Succession crost.
All Projects failing, Murder is decreed,
But yet the Sacred Scarlet must not bleed,
Tho to their Wealth his Holiness succeed.
At Belvidere he makes a treacherous Feast,
Card'nals and wealthy Prelates are the Guests;
Where liquid Death, in private Bottels plac'd,
Attends the Cup th'invited Card'nals tast;

464

But by mistake, or Heaven's immediate Care,
He and his Son the deadly Potion share:
Thus damn'd and murder'd by himself he dies,
A wicked Priest, but worthy Sacrifice.
So many Villanies no long Race affords,
Nor rude Election of Pretorian Swords,
As have succeeded to this Sacred Chair;
They can usurp, kill, poison, but not err.
A General Council cannot err, some say,
Yet every Priest is Fallible, and may;
The Army can't, each Man may run away.
Heaven fix'd Salvation to the Name of Christ;
Whom he redeem'd, why damns the Popish Priest?
Believe in him, you have Eternal Life;
Make not the God of Peace the Subject of your Strife.
Christ said, the Gates of Hell should not prevail
Against the Church, nor should she ever fail;
Who knows but that the Spirit might intend,
To use Reformers to that Sacred end?
Differ we may, yet all have saving Faith,
Go the same Journey, tho each chuse his Path.
Error and Sin attend us here below,
That God that pardons Sin, will pardon Error too.
Were Picture-Worship no Idolatry,
I think it so, and 'twere a Crime in me;
Tho feign'd Conversion may the World deceive,
Men must be sav'd by what themselves believe.
This found thy Lion, and our Peace proclaim'd,
Calm'd our Dissensions, and our Fury tam'd.
The Panther, Wolf, the Hind, the Fox, the Hare,
And the whole Forest his Protection share;
The Ark did not more peacefully contain
Their warring Kinds, than his impartial Reign;
Truly devout, with an indulgent Eye,
He nobly views all sorts of Piety:
His generous Nature Persecution hates,
Heaven's easier Methods patiently he waits;

465

Thought by Experience that no outward Force
Can stop Religion's Immaterial Course:
Men Threats, and Death, and Torture not regard,
Whose thoughts are fix'd on the sublime Reward:
Their ravish'd Fancies ev'n in Flames delight,
And Heaven descends expanded to their sight;
With Grief, not Rage, he views the wandring Flock,
And sandy Cots, not founded on the Rock;
Born to Command, and forward to Controul,
His trembling Conscience checks his daring Soul.
No harsh Submission to his Will we pay,
Fearing we love, and loving we obey;
Deceit he scorns, and Force he will not use,
But by like means his great Designs pursues.
His Word he never, nor his Friend forgets,
His Smiles are Promises, and Frowns are Threats;
No idle Talk, no Laughter shakes the Room,
No loose Buffoons on their lewd Jests presume;
His Mirth is Royal, Pleasures are severe,
The Neighing Steed and Trumpet charm his Ear.
He flourishes that Sword he knows to use,
And the old Terror of our Arms renews.
Hunting (that flattering Image of the War)
Does but his Limbs for nobler Toils prepare.
Th'Extremes of Heat and Cold he learns to slight,
And sees the short Defence of trembling Flight;
Whether on foot he take his certain Aim,
Or on his fiery Steed pursue the Game.
Business and well-arm'd Troops his Time divide,
And War appears in all her harmless Pride;
Like a young Lion e'er he tast of Blood,
While from his Dam he draws his easy Food;
E'er Rage or Hunger drive him thro the Plains,
Of flying Herds to drink the reaking Veins.
Nor will out fierce Ambitious Neighbour dare
Provoke a Prince so well prepar'd for War;
Nor home-bred Treason show her odious Face,
Doubly subdu'd by Arms and Acts of Grace.

466

The Ax may cut off Traytors as they sprout,
But Mercy digs up Treason by the Root;
Above the Forms, yet true to the Intent
Of Law, he steers his steddy Government;
And only stretches his Prerogative,
To ease th'Opprest and let Offenders live.
So swift a Pity do's his Wrath succeed,
His fiercest Foes, but for Example bleed;
Not like those Princes who decline the Weight,
And glorious Toils of their exalted State:
By Heaven entrusted, and assisted too,
He will no Partner of his Cares allow.
His Mind has Motions perfectly her own;
And the firm Springs to Mortals are unknown.
The Crafty Courtier knows not where to bribe,
Nor where to cringe, nor fawn, the starving Tribe
Of a free Gift the charming Force he knows;
Unimportun'd, his Royal Bounty flows,
Like the ripe Clusters of the generous Vine,
Whose unprest running makes the noblest Wine.
The Zeal of Priests he curbs in the Debate,
When he determines the Affairs of State.
Thus freed from their vile Fears, his Royal Mind
That wise Indulgence for all Sects design'd;
He saw us languish, and our Trade decay,
Our Bankers break, our Seamen run away;
Our Churches fill'd with a dividing Herd,
Who but our Temples to our Jayls prefer'd.
Others of God, more than of Man afraid,
To Foreign Parts our gainful Trades convey'd.
Some for Plantations left their native Soil,
Their Wealth and Ease, for Poverty and Toil.
No Taxes, no Oppression, vext the Land;
Yet Power and Wealth he saw were at a stand.
His piercing Judgment the Disease descry'd;
His Goodness the blest Remedy apply'd;
Not like those Hirelings who had rather kill
With common Drugs, than hazard their own Skill:

467

But like a Father, and Physician too,
He trys the utmost that his Art can do;
Secure that at his Pleasure he can stop
The doubtful Medicine, shou'd the Patient droop.
Let Commonwealths boast Liberty no more,
She thrives as well beneath the Lyons Roar;
Not as with them, mean, sordid and ill-bred,
But like the Partner of a Royal Bed:
With all the Decent Charms of Beauty grac'd,
And next her Lord in Veneration plac'd,
Her Lord, from whom this Blessing we receive,
Greater than some thought Monarchy cou'd give.

Selden de Dis Syris Cap. 7.

Massacre under Charles the 9th of France, 1572.

Charles the 9th, and the Queen Mother.

Sixtus Quinens.

Henry the 4th of France.

Sixtus Quintus, Gregory the 4th and Innocent.

The Spanish Expedition in 1588.

The Gunpowder Treason confest by Garnet the Priest, and others at their Execution.

The Atheist.

The Quaker.

W. P. being challeng'd by a Gentleman, turn'd Quaker, that he might not be deem'd a Coward in not accepting the Challenge.

Liberius and Felix Popes.

Council held at Arles, another at Blois.

Valens, Constantius, and other Emperors.

Gregory VII. Pope, and Henry IV. Emperor. Anno 1080.

Church of England.

The 4th of France.

In the 4th Lateran Council, 1215.

The 3d of France.

Gregory at Rome, Benedict at Avignion, and Alexander chosen at Pisa under Charles the VI. See Mezeray, Thuanus, and other French Historians. 1409.

Celestine the I.

Duke of Ferara.

Quintus Arbelius to Charles Lord H---.

Take Courage, Noble Charles, and cease to muse;
I came from t'other World to bring thee News:
I'm Quint' Arbelius in black Scylla's time,
Proscribed then, and for no other Crime,
Than that my Lands in fair Albania's Field
Were pleasant there, and did much Profit yield.
Take Courage Man, for that thou hast a Charm,
Thy pleasant Lands can never do thee harm:
And yet thy Faults are worse, far worse than Mine;
My Lands my Faults were, and thy Place is thine.
Thy Faults are worse, for I, poor silly Fool,
Had no Ambition, nor a Soul to rule:
But thou, Great Charles, the Glory of that Court,
Thy Master's Crown and Honour didst support;
Thou kepst those Vipers from that Sacred Head:
But the great Patron of Mankind is dead;

468

And now they spit their Venom, set their Sting
On thee, and all that lov'd that Glorious King.
But 'tis a Crime enough in any Case
To keep, when Men in Power want a Place.
Take Courage Charles, for I this Comfort bring,
The Heav'ns, that did protect and love that King,
After some Tryal thou shalt surely find
To all his Friends propitious and kind,

More wou'd I tell thee, but th'approach of Day
Forces us Shadows to make hast away.

On King William the III.

Great Nassau, from his Cradle to his Grave,
Oppos'd by those whom he was born to save;
Whilst every Check mounted his Glory higher,
Forc'd such as would not love, yet to admire.
Thoughtfully Wise, sedately Fierce and Brave,
He Conquer'd to Deliver, not t'Enslave:
Saviour of Nations, Tyranny's sworn Fo,
Faithful himself, and Faith's Defender too.
Three Crowns the Royal Hero's Head adorn'd,
And thrice three Nations at his Funeral mourn'd.
The Belgick, with the British Lions groan,
Th'Imperial Eagle drooping sits alone,
Sad Europe doth its Champion's Loss bemoan.
Having outdone all that is Great below,
To find an Equal he to Heav'n did go.
Heav'n, that so long his Godlike Soul had fir'd,
Now crowns that Virtue which it self inspir'd,
And which it self, as well as Earth admir'd.

FINIS.

469

POSTSCRIPT.

[_]

The following Poem should have been inserted in Pag. 432. it being an Answer to the Advice to a Painter, which begins Pag. 428. especially that Part of it which relates to K. W.

And must the Hero that redeem'd our Land,
Here in the Front of this base Tablet stand?
The Man, the more than Man, that left his Ease,
And crost so oft the faithless boistrous Seas;
That paid an annual Tribute of his Life,
To guard Britannia from the Murderer's Knife?
Must He, the Brave, the Pious, and the Just,
Adorn these Scenes of Tyranny and Lust?
O! my Blood boils, my Spirit's all on Flame!
Curse on the Poet, Darkness on his Name!
Methinks the Skies should lower, just Thunder roll,
And Lightning blast the Villain to the Soul.
Audacious Wretch! to stab a Monarch's Fame,
And blow his Subjects to a rebellious Flame;
To call the Painter to his black Designs,
To draw our Guardian's Face in hellish Lines!
Painter forbear: The Monarch can be shown
Under no Shape but Angels or his own,
Gabriel or William on the British Throne.

O! cou'd my Thoughts but sute the vast Design,
Or Words with Infinite Ideas join,

470

I'd rouse Apelles from his Iron Sleep,
And bid him trace the Conqu'ror o'er the Deep;
Trace him, Apelles, on the Belgian Plain,
Fierce climbing o'er the Mountains of the Slain,
Scattering just Vengeance thro the red Campagn.
Then dash the Canvass with a flying Stroke,
Till it be lost in Clouds of Fire and Smoke,
And say, it was the Conqu'ror thro the Squadrons broke.
Heav'ns! how he leaves the Pleasures of a Throne,
And makes his Peoples Dangers all his own.

Now Noble Pencil, lead him to our Isle;
Mark how the Skies with joyful Glories smile:
Wash off the Blood, and take a peaceful Teint.
All red the Warrior, white the Ruler paint;
Abroad a Hero, and at home a Saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining Seat,
Lust and Profaneness dying at his Feet;
Laurels about his Head, and may they blow
With flowry Blessings ever on his Brow.
Place at his Hand the Volume of the Laws,
Whence his Imperial Commands he draws.
Let Liberty and Right, with Plumes display'd,
Clap their glad Wings around his Sacred Head.
Describe the Vertues that his Actions teach,
His Soul inspires us what his Prophets preach.
His Soul inspires, and, wide as his Command,
Scatters his brave Example thro the Land.
Not so the former Reigns—
Bend down his Ear to each afflicted Cry,
And paint the generous Mercy in his Eye.
But O! the Love, the Pity of his Breast;
'Tis not to be by Art or Words exprest:
Stop Pencil here, for we must think the rest.

Now Muse, pursue the Satyrist again,
Wipe off the Blots of his invenom'd Pen.
Hark how he bids the servile Painter draw,
In monstrous Shapes, the Patrons of our Law;

471

And at one dash he crosses every Name
From the Records of Honesty and Fame.
This scribling Fool makes every Man a Knave,
Shoots all his Bolts promiscuous at the Base and Brave;
And with unpardonable Malice sheds
Poison and Spite on undistinguish'd Heads.

Painter forbear; or if thy bolder Hand
Dares to attempt the Villains of the Land,
First draw this Poet like some baleful Star,
With silent Influence shedding Civil War,
Or factious Trumpeter, whose Magick Sound
Calls off the Subjects to the hostile Ground,
And scatters hellish Feuds the Nations round.
These are the Imps of Hell, the cursed Tribe,
That make the Plagues and Mischiefs they describe.

Draw just above the Great ones of our Isle,
Still from the Good distinguishing the Vile:
Set these in Pomp, in Grandeur and Command,
Peeling the Subjects with a greedy Hand.
Paint out the Knaves that have the Nation sold,
And tinge their meagre Looks with sordid Gold.
Mark how a slavish Faction undermines
The Pious Monarch's generous Designs;
Spoil their own Native Land, as Vipers do,
Vipers that tear their Mothers Bowels thro.

Let Great NASSAU beneath a careful Crown,
With Eyes of Pity and just Rage, be drawn;
Grieving to see how weak his Labour proves,
To save the stubborn Nation that he loves.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

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

THE FOREIGNERS.

The True-born Englishman:

A SATYR.

The Introduction.

I. PART I.

II. PART II.

BRITANNIA.

His Fine Speech, &c.

The Conclusion.

ÆSOP at Tunbridge;

or a few Select FABLES in Verse.

Fab. I. Fair Warning.

Fab. II. The Cock and Pearl.

Fab. III. Of the Horse and the Ass.

Fab. IV. Of the Iudgment of the Ape.

Fab. V. Of the Horse and Man.

Fab. VI. The Bargain.

Fab. VII. The Frogs Concern.

Fab. VIII. Of a Man and his Ass.

Fab. IX. Of a Wolf.

Fab. X. The Plaintiff and Defendant.

Fab. XI. Of the Pigeons.

Fab. XII. The Farmer and the Hare.

Fab. XIII. Poetry its Cure.

1

2

3

4

5

6

Several other Fables on State-Affairs.

Fab. I. The Fox and the Poultry.

Fab. II. The Poor Man and the Devil.

Fab. III. The Farmer and the Badger.

Fab. IV. The Ravens and Crows.

Fab. V. The Summons.

Fab. VI. The Interview.

Fab. VII. The Frogs Concern.

Fab. VIII. The Lion and Fox.

Fab. IX. The Weesil, Rats and Mice.

Fab. X. Lubberland.

Fab. XI. The Hawk and Birds.

I

II

III

IV

Fab. XII. The Asylum.

Fab. XIII. Of the other Members conspiring against the Belly.

Fab. XIV. The Fable of the Spunge.

Fab. XV. Esop sent to Bedlam.

Fab. XVI. The Priest and Pears.

Fab. XVII. The Owl and the Bat.

Fab. XVIII. The Sharpers and Cullies.

Fab. XIX. The Wolf and Dog.

Fab. XX. Of the Apple and the Horse-Turd.

Fab. XXI. The Pump.

Fab. XXII. Of the Bear and the Bees.

Fab. XXIII. The Devil and the Priest.

Fab. XXIV. The Courtier.

Fab. XXV. The Pilgrims.

Fab. XXVI. The Confederacy.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Fab. XXVII. The Lions Treaty of Partition.

Fab. XXVIII. The Blind Woman and her Doctors.

Fab. XXIX. The Satyrs Address.

Fab. XXX. The Farmer and his Dog.

A Copy of Verses written in the Year 1623.

relating to many things that would happen to the Government of England.

Another Copy of Verses by the same Author, written in 1628.

A Panegyrick upon Oates.

[In Parem imperium habet Par]

1

2