University of Virginia Library

'Tis strange that you, to whom I've long been known,
Should ask me why I always rail at th'Town:
As a good Hound when he runs near his Prey,
With double Eagerness is hard to Bay.
So when a Coxcomb doth offend my sight,
To ease my Spleen, I straight go home and write:
I love to bring Vice ill conceal'd to light.
And I have found that they that Satyr write,
Alone can season the useful with the sweet.
Should I write Songs, and to cool Shades confin'd,
Expire with Love, who hate all Women kind!
Then in my Closet, like some fighting Sparks,
Thinking on Phillis Love upon my works!
I grant I might with bolder Muse inspir'd,
Some Hero Sing worthy to be admir'd,
Our King hath Qualities might entertain,
With Noblest Subjects Waller's lofty Pen.
But then you'll own no Man is thought his Friend,
That doth not love the Pope and York commend.
He who his Evil Counsellors dislikes,
Say what he will, still like a Traytor speaks.
Now I Dissimulation cannot bear,
Truth and good Sence, my Lines alike must share.
I love to call each Creature by his Name,
H---a Knave, S---an Honest Man.
With equal scorn I alwaies did abhor,
The Effeminate Fops and bustling Men of War.
The careful Face of Ministers of State,
I alwaies judg'd to be a down-right Cheat.
The smilling Courtier, and the Counsellour Grave,
I alwaies thought two different Marks of Knave.
They that talk loud, and they that draw i'th' Pit,
These want of Courage shew, those want of Wit.
Thus all the World endeavours to appear,
What they'd be thought to be, not what they are.
If any then by most unhappy choice,
Seek for content in London's crowd and noise.
Must form his words and manners to the place,
If he'll see Ladies must like Villers dress.
In a soft tone without one word of Sence,
Must talk of Dancing and the Court of France.
Must praise alike the ugly and the fair,
Buckly's good Nature, Feltons shape and Hair,
Exalt my Lady Portsmouth's Birth and Wit,
And vow she's only for a Monarch fit.
Although the fawning Coxcombs all do know,
She's lain with Beaufort and the Count de Leau.
This method with some ends of Plays,
Basely apply'd, and drest in a French Phrase
To Ladies favour, can e'ne Hewit raise.

He that from Business would Preferment get,
Plung'd in the Toyls and Infamies of State,
All Sence of Honour from his Breast must drive,
And in a course of Villanies resolve to live.
Must cringe and flatter the King's Owls and Curs,
Nay worse, must be obsequious to his Whores.
Must alwaies seem to approve what they commend,
What they dislike, by him must be contemn'd.
And when at last by a thousand different Crimes,
The Monster to his wisht-for Greatness climbs,
He must in his continu'd greatness wait,
With Guilt and Fears, the Imprison'd D---y Fate
This Road has H---r and S---r gone,
And thus must answer for the Ills they've done.
Who then would live in so deprav'd a Town,
Where Pleasure is by Folly, Power alone
By Infamy obtain'd?------

Wise Heraclitus, all his life-time griev'd,
Democritus in endless Laughter Liv'd;
Yet to the first no fears of Plots were known,
Nor Parliaments remov'd to Popish Town,
Murthers not favour'd, Virtues not supprest,
Laws not derided, Commons not opprest.
Nor King, who Claudius like, expels his Son,
To make th'Imperious Nero Prince of Rome;
Nor yet to move the others merry vane,
Did Cuckolds (who each Boy i'th' street could name)
Most learned Proof in publick daily give,
That they themselves do their own shame contrive;
While their Lewd Wives scouring from place to place,
T'expose their secret Members, hide their Face.

But Lo! how would this Sage have burst his spleen,
Had he seen Whore and Fool with merry King,
And Ministers of State at Supper sit,
Mistaking Bawdy Ribaldry for wit;
Whilst C---s with tottering Crown and empty Purse,
(Derided by his Foes, to's Friends a Curse)
Abandon'd now by every Man of Wit,
Delights himself with any he can get.
Pimps, Fools, and Parisites, make up the Rout,
For want of Wedding Garments, none's left out.

But I shall weary both my self and you,
To tell you all the Follies that I know.
How a great Lord, in numbers soft, thought fit,
(Though void of Sense, to set up for a Wit.)
And how with wondrous Spirit, he and's Friend
An Epitaph to Cruel Cloris pen'd;
His Name (I think) I hardly need to tell,
For who should be, but the Lord Ar---l.
But should I here waste Paper to declare,
The senseless Tricks of every silly Peer,
I'd as good tell how many several ways,
The trusty Duke his Country still betrays.
How full the World is stuft with Knave and Fool,
How to be very Honest is counted dull.
How to speak plain, and greatness to despise,
Is thought a Madness, but Flattery is Wise,
Dissimulation excellent, to cheat a Friend
A very Trifle, provided still our end
Be but the Snare We call our Interest,
Then nothing is so bad, but that is best;
I'le therefore end this vain Satyrick rage,
And leave the Bishops to reform the Age.