Poems on Affairs of State

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.

University of Virginia Library

Fab. XXIII. The Devil and the Priest.