Poems on Affairs of State :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.