Poems on Affairs of State

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

University of Virginia Library

Advice to a Painter,

by A. Marvell Esqr;