Poems on Affairs of State

When the Almighty did his Palace frame,
That glorious shining Place he Heav'n did name:
And when the first Rebellious Angels fell,
He doom'd them to a certain Place, call'd Hell.
There's Heav'n and Hell confirm'd in Sacred Story:
But yet I ne'er could read of Purgatory,
That Priests have fram'd for the good Roman Race:
Our Maker never thought of such a Place.
It is a Place sure somewhere under ground;
Where sinful Souls lie fluxing till they're sound.
O Rome! we own thee for a learn'd wise Nation,
To add a Place wanting in God' Creation.

Satire upon Romish Confessors.

By Mr. Dryden.

Our Church alas! as Rome objects, does want
These Ghostly Comforts for the falling Saint;
This gains them their Whore-Converts, and may be
One Reason of the Growth of Popery.
So Mahomet's Religion came in fashion.
By the large leave it gave to Fornication.
Fear not the Guilt if you can pay for't well;
There is no Dives in the Roman Hell.
Gold opens the strait Gate, and lets him in,
But want of Mony is a mortal Sin.
For all besides you may discount to Heav'n,
And drop a Bead to keep the Tallies ev'n.
How are Men cozen'd still with shews of Good!
The Bawd's best Mask is the grave Friar's Hood.
The Vice no more a Clergy-man displeases,
Than Doctors can be thought to hate Diseases:
'Tis by your living ill, that they live well;
By your Debauches their fat Paunches swell.
'Tis a Mock-War between the Priest and Devil,
When they think fit, they can be very civil.
As some who did French Counsels most advance,
To blind the World have rail'd in Print at France.
Thus do the Clergy at our Vices baul,
That with more ease they may engross them all.
By damning ours, they do their own maintain;
A Church-man's Godliness is always Gain.
Hence to their Prince they will superior be,
And Civil Treason grows Church-Loyalty.
They boast the Gift of Heav'n is in their Power,
Well may they give the God they can devour.

Still to the sick and dead their Claims they lay,
For 'tis on Carrlon that the Vermin prey.
Nor have they less Dominion on our Life,
They trot the Husband, and they pace the Wife.

Rouze up, ye Cuckolds of the Northern Climes,
And learn from Sweden to prevent such Crimes.
Unman the Friar, leave the holy Drone
To hum in his forsaken Hive alone;
He'll work no Honey, when his Sting is gone.
Your Wives and Daughters soon will leave the Cells,
When they have loft the Sound of Aaron's Bells.

The Robber robb'd.

A certain Priest had hoarded up
A Mass of secret Gold;
And where he might bestow it safe,
He knew not to be bold.

At last it came into his Thought
To lock it in a Chest,
Within the Chancel; and he wrote
Thereon, Hic Deus est.

A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind
Did long for such a Prey,
Respecting not the sacred Words
That on the Casket lay;

Took out the Gold, and blotting out
The Priest's Inscript thereon,
Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic:
Your God is rose and gone.

PARADOX.

That Ambition, or the Desire of Rule and Superiority, is a Virtue.

This is a Truth so certain, and so clear,
That to the first-born Man it did appear.
Did not the mighty Heir, the noble Cain,
By the fresh Laws of Nature taught, disdain
That, tho a Brother, any one should be
A greater Favorite to God than he?

He struck him down; And so, said he, so fell
The Sheep, which thou didst sacrifice so well.
Since all the fullest Sheaves that I could bring,
Since all were blasted in the Offering;
Lest God should my next Victim too despise,
The acceptable Priest I'll sacrifice.
Hence Coward Fears: for the first Blood so spilt,
As a Reward, he the first City built.
'Twas a Beginning generous and high,
Fit for a Grand-Child of the Deity.
So well advanc'd, 'twas pity there he stay'd;
One step of Glory more he should have made,
And to the utmost bounds of Greatness gone;
Had Adam too been kill'd he might have reign'd alone.
One Brother's Death what do I mean to name?
A small Oblation to Revenge and Fame:
The mighty-soul'd Abimelech, to shew
What for high Place a higher Spirit can do,
Almost a Hecatomb of Brothers slew.
And seventy times in nearest Blood he dy'd
(To make it hold) his Royal Purple Pride.
Why do I name the Lordly Creature Man?
The weak, the mild, the coward Woman can,
When to a Crown she cuts her sacred way,
All that oppose with Manlike Courage slay.
So Athaliah, when she saw her Son,
And with his Life her dearer Greatness gone,
With a Majestick Fury slaughter'd all,
Whom high Birth might to high Pretences call.
Since he was dead, who all her Power sustain'd,
Resolv'd to reign alone: Resolv'd and reign'd.
In vain her Sex, in vain the Laws withstood,
In vain the sacred Plea of David's Blood.
A noble and a bold Contention she
(One Woman) undertook with Destiny:
She to pluck down, Destiny to uphold
(Oblig'd by holy Oracles of old)

The great Jessæan Race on Judah's Throne,
Till 'twas at last an equal Wager grown,
Scarce Fate, with much ado, the better got by one.
Tell me not she her self at last was slain;
Did she not first seven Years, a Life-time reign?
Seven Royal Years to a publick Spirit will seem
More than the private Life of a Methusalem.
'Tis God-like to be great; and as they say,
A thousand Years to God are but a Day:
So to a Man, when once a Crown he wears,
The Coronation Day's more than a thousand Years.

BRUTUS.

1.

Excellent Brutus! of all Human Race
The best, till Nature was improv'd by Grace:
Till Faith above themselves had rais'd Men more,
Than Reason above Beasts before.
Virtue was thy Life's Centre, and from thence
Did silently and constantly dispense
The gentle, vigorous Influence
To all the wide and fair Circumference;
And all the Parts upon it lean'd so easily,
Obey'd the mighty Force so willingly,
That none could Discord or Disorder see,
In all their Contrariety.
Each had his Motion nat'ral and free,
And the whole no more mov'd, than the whole World could be.

2.

From thy strict Rule some think that thou didst swerve
(Mistaken honest Men) in Cæsar's Blood:
What Mercy could the Tyrant's Life deserve
From him, who kill'd himself rather than serve?
Th' Heroick Exaltations of the Good
Are so far from being understood,

We count them Vice. Alas! our sight's so ill,
That things which swiftest move, seem to stand still.
We look not upon Virtue in her height,
On her supreme Idea brave and bright,
In th'original Light.
But as her Beams reflected pass
Thro' our own Nature, or ill Custom's Glass;
And 'tis no wonder so,
If with dejected Eye,
In standing Pools we seek the Sky,
That Stars so high above should seem to us below.

3.

Can we stand by and see
Our Mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Yet not to her Assistance stir,
Pleas'd with the Strength and Beauty of the Ravisher?
Or shall we fear to kill him, if before
The cancell'd Name of Friend he bore?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?
Ingrateful Cæsar, who could Rome enthrall!
An Act more barbarous and unnatural,
(In th'exact Ballance of true Virtue try'd)
Than his Successor Nero's Parricide.
There's none but Brutus could deserve
That all Men else should wish to serve,
And Cæsar's usurp'd Place to him should proffer;
None can deserve't but he who would refuse the Offer.

4.

Ill Fate assum'd a Body thee t'affright,
And wrapt it self i'th' Terrors of the Night;
I'll meet thee at Philippi, said the Spright:
I'll meet thee there, saidst thou,
With such a Voice, and such a Brow,
As put the trembling Ghost to sudden flight:
It vanish'd as a Taper's Light
Goes out, when Spirits appear in sight;
One would have thought t'had heard the Morning Crow,
Or seen her well appointed Star

Come marching up the Eastern Hill afar.
Nor durst it in Philippi's Field appear,
But unseen attack'd thee there.
Had it presum'd in any shape thee t'oppose,
Thou would'st have forc'd it back upon thy Foes:
Or slain't like Cæsar, tho it be
A Conqueror and a Monarch mightier far than he.

5.

What Joy can human things to us afford,
When we see perish thus, by odd Events,
Ill Men and wretched Accidents,
The best Cause and best Man that ever drew a Sword?
When we see
The false Octavius, and wild Anthony,
God-like Brutus, conquer thee?
What can we say but thy own Tragick Word;
That Virtue, which had worship'd been by thee,
As the most Good, and greatest Deity,
By this fatal Proof became
An Idol only, and a Name?
Hold, noble Brutus, and restrain
The bold Voice of thy generous Disdain:
These mighty Gulphs are yet
Too deep for all thy Judgment, and thy Wit.
The Time's set forth already which shall quell
Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel;
Which these great Secrets shall unseal,
And new Philosophies reveal.
A few years more, so soon hadst thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded human Virtue's Pride,
And shewn thee a GOD crucify'd.

ODE. In Answer to the former.

1.

'Tis said, that Favourite Mankind
Was made the Lord of all below,
But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find;
'Tis only one Man tells another so.
And for this vast Dominion here,
Which over other Beasts we claim,
Reason our best Credential does appear,
By which indeed we domineer;
But how absurdly, we may see with shame.
Reason, that solemn Trifle! light as Air!
Mov'd with each Blast of Censure or Applause;
By partial Love away 'tis blown,
Or the least Prejudice can weigh it down:
Thus our high Privilege becomes our Snare.
In any nice and weighty Cause
How wavering are the Wisest! yet the Grave
Impose on that small Judgment which we have.

2.

In Works of Fame, whose Names have spread so wide,
And ev'n the Force of Time defy'd,
Some Failings yet may be descry'd;
Among the rest with wonder be it told,
That Brutus is ador'd for Cæsar's Death;
By which he still survives in Fame's immortal Breath.
Brutus! ev'n he of all the rest,
In whom we should that Deed the most detest,
Is of Mankind esteem'd the best!
As Snow descending from some lofty Hill
Is by its rolling course augmenting still,

So from illustrious Authors down has roll'd
Till now, that Rev'rence he receiv'd of old:
Still ev'ry Age adds a profound Esteem,
And gild their Eloquence with Praise of him.
But Truth unveil'd, like a bright Sun appears,
To shine away this Heap of seventeen hundred Years.

3.

In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious Wit,
To whom I otherwise submit,
That Cæsar's Life no Pity could deserve
From one who kill'd himself rather than serve.
Had Brutus chose rather himself to slay,
Than any Master to obey,
Happy for Rome had been that noble Pride!
The World had then remain'd in Peace, and only Brutus dy'd:
For he, whose Virtue would disdain to own
Subjection to a Tyrant's Frown,
And his own Life had rather end,
Would sure much rather kill himself, than only hurt his Friend.
To his own Sword in the Philippian Field,
Brutus indeed at last did yield;
But in those times such Actions were not rare,
And then proceeded only from Despair;
Else he perhaps had chose to live
In hopes another Cæsar would forgive:
That so he might for publick Good once more
Conspire against a Life, which had spar'd his before.

4.

Our Country claims indeed our chiefest Care,
And in our Thoughts deserves the tender'st share.
Her to a thousand Friends we should prefer,
But not betray 'em, tho it be for her.
Hard is his Heart whom no Desert can move,
A Wife, a Mistress, or a Friend to love
Above whate'er he does besides enjoy:
But may he for their sakes his Sire, or Sons destroy?

Sacred be all the Ties of publick Good,
We to our Country owe our dearest Blood:
To suffer in her Service were a Bliss,
And ev'n to fall, the noblest Fate that is.
So brave a Death, tho in Youth's early Bloom,
Is above all the longest Life to come;
But 'tis not surely of so great Renown,
To take another's, as to lose our own.
Of all that's ours, we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to Friendship, O! 'tis Sacrilege to touch.

5.

Can we stand by unmov'd, and see
Our Mother robb'd and ravish'd? Can we be
Excus'd, if in her Cause we never stir;
Pleas'd with the Strength and Beauty of the Ravisher?
Thus sings our Bard with almost Heat Divine;
'Tis pity that his Thought was not as strong as fine:
Would it more justly did the Case express;
Or that its Beauty, and its Grace were less.
(Thus a loose Nymph sometimes we see,
Who so charming seems to be,
That, jealous of a soft Surprize,
We scarce dare trust our eager Eyes)
So dangerous an Ambush to escape,
We shall not plead a willing Rape.
A valiant Son would be provok'd the more;
A Force we therefore must confess, but acted long before.
A Marriage since did intervene,
With all the solemn, and the sacred Scene;
Loud was the Hymenæan Song,
The violated Dame walk'd smilingly along:
And in the midst of the most sacred Dance,
As if enamour'd of his Sight,
Often she cast a kind admiring Glance
On the bold Strugler for Delight:
Who afterwards appear'd so moderate and cool,
As if for publick Good alone he so aspir'd to rule.

6.

But O! that this were all the Muse could urge
Against a Roman of so great a Soul!
And that fair Truth permitted us to purge
His Fact of what appears so foul!
Friendship! that sacred and sublimest thing!
The noblest Quality, and chiefest Good!
(In this base Age scarce understood)
Inspires us with unusual Warmth its injur'd Rights to sing.
Assist, ye Angels, whose immortal Bliss,
Tho more refin'd, chiefly consists in this.
How plainly your bright Thoughts to one another shine!
O! how you all agree in Harmony Divine!
The course of mutual Love with equal Zeal you run:
A course as far from any end, as when at first begun.
You saw, and smil'd at this most wretched Pair,
Who did betwixt them both so many Virtues share.
Some which belong to Peace, and some to Strife,
Those of a calm and of an active Life,
That all the Excellence of Human Kind
Concur'd to make of both but one united Mind.
Which Friendship did so fast and closely bind,
Not the least Cement could appear by which their Souls were join'd.
That Tie which holds our mortal Frame,
Which poor unknowing We a Soul and Body name,
Seems not a Composition more Divine,
Or more abstruse than all that does in Friendship shine.

7.

From mighty Cæsar's boundless Grace
Brutus indeed his Life receiv'd;
But Obligations, tho so great believ'd,
We count but slight in such a case:
Where Friendship so possesses all the Place,
There is no room for Gratitude; since he
Who so obliges is more pleas'd than his sav'd Friend can be.
Just in the midst of all this noble Heat,
While their great Hearts did both so kindly beat,

That it amaz'd the Lookers-on,
And forc'd them to suspect a Father and a Son:
(Yet here ev'n Nature's self did seem to be out-done)
From such a Friendship unprovok'd to fall
Is Crime enough: But O! that such a Crime were all,
Which does, with too much cause, ungrateful Brutus call.

8.

He calmly laid a long Design
Against his best and dearest Friend,
Did all his Care and Credit bend
To spirit others up to work his barbarous End;
Himself the Centre where they all did join.
Cæsar mean time, fearless, and fond of him,
Was as industrious all the while
To give such ample Marks of his Esteem,
As made the gravest Romans smile
To see with how much ease Love can the Wise beguile.
For he, whom Brutus deem'd to bleed,
Did, setting his own Race aside,
No less a thing for him provide,
Than to the World's great Empire to succeed.
Which we are bound in Justice to allow,
Is all-sufficient Proof to show,
That Brutus did not strike for his own sake;
And if, alas! he fail'd, 'twas only by mistake.

Rome.

Cæsar was suspected to have begotten Brutus.

A Preparative to Study:

Or, the Virtue of Sack.

Written in the Year 1641.

Fetch me Ben Johnson's Skull, and fill't with Sack,
Rich as the same he drank, when all the pack
Of jolly Sisters pledg'd, and did agree,
It was no Sin to be as drunk as he;
If there be any Weakness in the Wine,
There's Virtue in the Cup to make't Divine.

This muddy Drench of Ale does taste too much
Of Earth, the Malt retains a scurvy touch
Of the dull Hind that sow'd it, and I fear
There's Heresy in Hops; give Calvin Beer,
And his precise Disciples, such as think
There's Powder-Treason in all Spanish Drink,
Call Sack an Idol: we will kiss the Cup,
For fear their Conventicle be blown up
With Superstition: away with Brew-house Alms,
Whose best Mirth is Six-shilling Beer and Psalms.
Let me rejoice in sprightly Sack, that can
Create a Brain ev'n in an empty Pan.
Canary! it is thou that dost inspire
And actuate the Soul with Heavenly Fire.
Thou that sublim'st the Genius, mak'st the Wit
Scorn Earth, and such as love or live by it;
Thou mak'st us Lords of Regions large and fair,
While our pleas'd Thoughts build Castles in the Air.
Since Fire, Earth, Air, thus thy Inferiors be,
Henceforth I'll know no Elements but thee.
Welcome thou Juice Divine! Mankind's Delight;
By thee my gladsom Muse begins her Flight:
I would not leave thee, Sack, to be with Jove,
His Nectar is but feign'd, but I, blest I, do prove
Thy more essential Worth. I am methinks
In the Exchequer now, hark how it chinks:
I now esteem my venerable Self
As brave a Fellow as if all that Pelf
Were sure mine own, and I have thought a way
Already how to spend it; I would pay
No Debts, but fairly empty every Trunk;
And change the Gold for Sack to keep me drunk,
To keep me drunk, until Spain's gen'rous Wine
So seiz'd my Crown, that th'Indies too were mine.
And when my Brains are once afloat (Heav'n bless us)
I think my self a better Man than Crœsus.
I fancy now my self to be a Judg,
And coughing, laugh, to see the Clients trudg

After my Lordship's Coach unto the Hall
For Justice, and am full of Law withal,
And do become the Bench as well as he
That fled of late for want of Honesty.
But I'll be Judg no longer, tho in jest,
For fear I shou'd be talk'd with like the rest.
When I am sober, who can chuse but think
Me wise, that am so wary in my Drink?
O admirable Sack! here's dainty Sport,
I am come back from Westminster to Court,
And am grown young again, my Ptysick now
Hath left me, and my Judges graver Brow
Is smooth'd, and I turn'd amorous as May,
When she invites young Lovers forth to play
Upon her flowry Bosom; I cou'd win
A Vestal now, or tempt a Saint to sin.
O, for a score of Queens! you'd laugh to see
How they wou'd strive, which first shou'd ravish me.
Three Goddesses were nothing: Sack has tipt
My Tongue with Charms like those which Paris sipt
From Venus, when she taught him how to kiss
Fair Helen, and invite a farther Bliss.
Mine is Canary-Rhetorick, that alone
Would turn Diana to a burning Stone,
Stone with Amazement burning with Love's Fire,
Hard to the Touch, but short in her Desire.
Inestimable Sack! thou mak'st us rich,
Wise, amorous, any thing; I have an itch
To t'other Cup, and that perchance will make
Me valiant too, and quarrel for thy sake.
If I be once inflam'd against thy Foes,
That would preach down thy Worth in Small-beer Prose,
I shall do Miracles, as bad or worse,
Than he that gave the King a hundred Horse:
I'm in the North already; Lesley's dead,
He that wou'd rise, carry the King his Head,

And tell him (if he ask, who kill'd the Scot)
I knock'd his Brains out with a pottel Pot.
Out ye rebellious Vipers, I'm come back
From thence again, because there's no good Sack:
T'other odd Cup, and I shall be prepar'd
To snatch at Stars, and pluck down a Reward
With my own Hands from Jove upon their Back,
That are, or Charles's Foes, or Foes to Sack.
Let it be full, and if I chance to spill,
Over my Standish by the way, I will,
Dipping in this Diviner Ink my Pen,
Write my self sober, and fall to't again.

ODE.

Written soon after O. Cromwel's Death.

1

Curst be the Man! (what do I wish? as tho
The Wretch already were not so)
But curst on let him be, who thinks it brave
And great, his Country to enslave;
Who seeks to overpoise alone
The Ballance of a Nation,
Against the whole but naked State;
Who in his own light Scale makes up with Arms the Weight.

2

Who of his Nation loves to be the first,
Tho at the rate of being worst:
Who wou'd be rather a great Monster, than
A well-proportion'd Man:
The Son of Earth with hundred Hands
Upon his three-pil'd Mountain stands,
Till Thunder strikes him from the Sky;
The Son of Earth again in his Earth's Womb does lie.

3

What Blood, Confusion, Ruin to obtain
A short and miserable Reign?
In what oblique and humble creeping wise
Does the mischievous Serpent rise?
But ev'n his forked Tongue strikes dead,
When he has rear'd up his wicked Head:
He murders with his mortal Frown,
A Basilisk he grows, if once he gets a Crown.

4

But no Guards can oppose assaulting Ears,
Or undermining Tears:
No more than Doors, or close-drawn Curtains keep
The swarming Dreams out when we sleep.
That bloody Conscience too of his,
(For O! a Rebel-Redcoat 'tis)
Does here his early Hell begin:
He sees his Slaves without, his Tyrant feels within.

5

Let gracious God, let never more thy Hand
Lift up this Rod against our Land:
A Tyrant is a Rod and Serpent too,
And brings worse Plagues than Egypt knew.
What Rivers stain'd with Blood have been?
What Storm and Hailshot have we seen?
What Sores deform'd th'ulcerous State?
What Darkness to be felt has bury'd us of late?

6

How has it snatch'd our Flocks and Herds away,
And even made our Sons a Prey?
What croaking Sects and Vermin has it sent
The restless Nation to torment?
What greedy Troops, what armed Pow'r
Of Flies and Locusts, to devour
The Land, which ev'ry where they fill?
Nor fly they, Lord, away: no, they devour it still.

7

Come th'eleventh Plague rather than this should be:
Come sink us rather in the Sea:
Come rather Pestilence, and reap us down;
Come God's Sword rather than our own:
Let rather Roman come again,
Or Saxon, Norman, or the Dane:
In all the Bonds we ever bore,
We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept; we never blush'd before.

8

If by our Sins the Divine Justice be
Call'd to this last Extremity,
Let some denouncing Jonas first be sent,
To try if England can repent.
Methinks, at least, some Prodigy,
Some dreadful Comet from on high,
Should terribly forewarn the Earth,
As of good Princes Deaths, so of a Tyrant's Birth.

A Dialogue between two Zealots, upon the Et cætera in the Oath.

Sir Roger, from a zealous Piece of Freeze,
Rais'd to a Vicaridg of the Childrens Threes;
Whose yearly Audit may by strict account
To twenty Nobles, and his Vails amount:
Fed on the Common of the Female Charity,
Until the Scots can bring about their Parity;
So shotten, that his Soul, like to himself,
Walks but in Querpo: This same Clergy Elf,
Encountring with a Brother of the Cloth,
Fell presently to cudgels with the Oath.
The Quarrel was a strange mishapen Monster,
Et cætera (God bless us) which they conster
The Brand upon the Buttock of the Beast;
The Dragon's Tail ty'd to a Knot; a Nest

Of young Apocrypha's; the Fashion
Of a new mental Reservation.

While Roger thus divides the Text, the other
Winks and expounds; saying, My Pious Brother,
Hearken with Rev'rence; for the Point is nice,
I never read on't, but I fasted twice:
And so by Revelation know it better,
Than all the learn'd Idolaters o'th' Letter.
With that he swell'd, and fell upon the Theme,
Like great Goliah, with his Weaver's Beam.
I say to thee, Et cætera, thou ly'st,
Thou ar't the curled Lock of Antichrist.
Rubbish of Babel! for who will not say,
Tongues are confounded in Et cætera?
Who swears &c. swears more Oaths at once
Than Cerberus out of his triple Sconce.
Who views it well, with the same Eye beholds
The old false Serpent in his Num'rous Folds.
Accurst Et cætera! Now, now I scent
What the prodigious bloody Oysters meant.
O Becker! Beckeer! How cam'st thou to lack
This Friend in thy prophetick Almanack?
'Tis the dark Vault wherein the Infernal Plot
Of Powder 'gainst the State was first begot.
Peruse the Oath, and you shall soon descry it,
By all the Father Garnets that stand by it.
'Gainst whom the Church (whereof I am a Member)
Shall keep another fifth Day of November.
Yet here's not all: I cannot half untruss
Et cætera, 'tis so abdominous.
The Trojan Nag was not so fully lin'd:
Unrip Et cætera, and you shall find
Og the great Commissary, and (what's yet worse)
Th'Apparitor upon his skew-bald Horse.
Then, finally, my Babes of Grace, forbear;
Et cætera will be too far to swear:
For 'tis (to speak in a familiar stile)
A Yorkshire Weabit, longer than a Mile.

Here Roger was inspir'd, and by God's-Diggers,
He'd swear in Words at length, and not in Figures.
Now by this Drink, which he takes off, as loth
To leave Et cætera in his liquid Oath,
His Brother pledg'd him, and that bloody Wine,
He swears, shall seal the Synod's Catiline.
So they drunk on, not offering to part,
Till they had sworn out the eleventh Quart.
While all that saw and heard them, jointly pray,
They and their Tribe were all Et cætera.

Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.

Smectymnuus! the Goblin makes me start:
I'th'name of Rabbi Abraham, what art?
Some Conjuror translate, and let me know it,
Till then 'tis fit for a West-Saxon Poet.
But do the Brotherhood thus play their Prizes,
Like Mummers in Religion, with Disguises?
Out-brave us with a Name in Rank and File?
A Name, which if 'twere train'd wou'd spread a Mile.
The Saints Monopoly, the Zealots Cluster;
Which like a Porcupine presents a Muster,
And shoots his Quills at Bishops and their Sees;
A devout Litter of young Maccabees.
Thus Jack of all Trades has distinctly shown
The twelve Apostles in a Cherry-stone.

Next Sturbridg-Fair is Smec's; for lo! his Side
Into a five-fold Lazar's multiply'd.
Under each Arm there's tack'd another Gizard,
Five Faces lurk under one single Vizard.
The Whore of Babylon left these Brats behind,
Heirs of Confusion by Gavelkind.

Like a Scots Mark, where the more modest Sense
Checks the loud Praise, and shrinks to 13 Pence;
Like to an Ignis Fatuus, whose Flame,
Tho sometimes Tripartite, joins in the same:

Like to nine Taylors, who, if rightly spell'd,
Into one Man are monosyllabled:
Short-handed Zeal in one hath cramped many,
Like to the Decalogue in a single Penny.

The Sadducees would raise a Question,
Who shall be Smec at the Resurrection?
Who coop'd them up together, were to blame;
Had they but wire-drawn and spun out the Name,
'Twould make another Prentices Petition,
Against the Bishops and their Superstition.
Some Welshman was his Godfather; for he
Wears in his Name his Genealogy.
The Banes are ask'd, would but the Times give way,
Between Smectymnuus and Et cætera:
The Guests, invited by a friendly Summons,
Should be the Convocation and the Commons:
The Priest to tie the Foxes Tails together,
Mosely, or Sancta Clara, chuse you whether.
Thus might Religions caterwaul, and Spight,
Which uses to divorce, might once unite:
But their cross Fortunes interdict their Trade,
The Groom is rampant, but the Bride is spay'd.

I could by Letters now untwist the Rabble,
Whip Smec from Constable to Constable;
But there I leave you to another dressing,
Only kneel down, and take your Father's Blessing:

May the Queen-Mother justify your Fears,
And stretch her Patent to your Leathern Ears.

Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford.

Here lies Wise and Valiant Dust,
Huddled up 'twixt Fit and Just:
Strafford, who was hurry'd hence,
'Twixt Treason and Convenience.

He spent his Time here in a Mist,
A Papist, yet a Calvinist.
His Prince's nearest Joy and Grief
He had, yet wanted all Relief.
The Prop and Ruin of the State,
The Peoples violent Love and Hate.
One in Extremes lov'd and abhorr'd:
Riddles lie here, and in a word,
Here lies Blood, and let it lie
Speechless still, and never cry.

On the Death of K. Charles the First.

Great! Good! and Just! Could I but rate
My Griefs, and thy too rigid Fate,
I'd weep the World to such a Strain,
As it should deluge once again.
But since thy loud-tongu'd Blood demands Supplies,
More from Briareus' Hands than Argus' Eyes,
I'll sing thy Obsequies with Trumpet-Sounds,
And write thy Epitaph with Blood and Wounds.

MONTROSE. Written with the Point of his Sword.

A Lenten Litany.

From Villany dress'd in a Doublet of Zeal,
From three Kingdoms bak'd in one Commonweal,
From a Gleek of Lord Keepers of one poor Seal,
Libera nos Domine.

From a Chancery-Writ, and a Whip, and a Bell,
From a Justice of Peace that never could spell;
From Colonel P--- and the Vicar of Hell,
Libera nos, &c.

From Neats-feet without Socks, and three-penny Pyes,
From a new-sprung Light that will put out Mens Eyes;
From Goldsmiths-Hall, the Devil, and Excise,
Libera nos, &c.

From two hours Talk without one word of Sense;
From Liberty still in the future Tense;
From a Parliament's long-wasted Conscience,
Libera nos, &c.

From copped-crown Tenant pick'd up by a Brother;
From damnable Members, and Fits of the Mother;
From Ears like Oysters, that grin at each other,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Preacher in Buff, and a Quarterstaff Steeple;
From th'unlimited Sov'reign Pow'r of the People;
From a Kingdom that crawls on its Knees like a Cripple,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Vinegar-Priest on a Crab-tree Stock;
From a fodd'ring of Pray'rs four hours by the Clock;
From a holy Sister with a pitiful Smock,
Libera nos, &c.

From a hunger-starv'd Sequestrator's Maw;
From Revelations and Visions that never Man saw;
From Religion without either Gospel or Law,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Nick and Froth of a Penny-pot House;
From the Fiddle and Cross, and a great Scots Louse;
From Committees that chop up a Man like a Mouse,
Libera nos, &c.

From broken Shins, and the Blood of a Martyr;
From the Titles of Lords, and Knights of the Garter;
From the Teeth of mad Dogs, and a Countryman's Quarter,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Publick Faith, and an Egg and Butter;
From the Irish Purchases, and all their clutter;
From Omega's Nose when he settles to sputter,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Zeal of old Harry lockt up with a Whore;
From waiting with Plaints at the Parliament-door;
From the death of a King without why or wherefore,
Libera nos, &c.

From the French Disease, and the Puritan Fry;
From such as ne'er swear, but devoutly can lye;
From cutting of Capers full three Stories high,
Libera nos, &c.

From painted Glass, and idolatrous Cringes;
From a Presbyter's Oath that turns upon Hinges;
From Westminster Jews with Levitical Fringes,
Libera nos, &c.

From all that is said, and a thousand times more;
From a Saint and his Charity unto the Poor;
From the Plagues that are kept for a Rebel in store,
Libera nos, &c.

That it may please thee to assist
Our Agitators, and their List,
And hemp them with a gentle Twist,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to suppose,
Our Actions are as good as those
That gull the People thro the Nose,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee here to enter,
And fix the rumbling of our Centre,
For we live all at peradventure,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to unite
The Flesh and Bones unto the Sprite,
Else Faith and Literature good-night,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee, O that we
May each Man know his Pedegree,
And save that Plague of Heraldry,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee, in each Shire,
Cities of Refuge, Lord, to rear,
That failing Brethren may know where,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to abhor us,
Or any such dear Favour for us,
That thus have wrought thy Peoples Sorrows,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embrace,
Our Days of Thanks and Fasting Face,
For robbing of thy Holy Place,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to adjourn
The Day of Judgment, lest we burn;
For, lo! it is not for our turn,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to admit
A close Committee there to sit;
No Devil to a Human Wit,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to dispense
A little for Convenience:
Or let us play upon the Sense,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embalm
The Saints in Robin Wisdom's Psalm,
And make them musical and calm,
Quæsumus te, &c.

That it may please thee, since there's doubt,
Satan cannot throw Satan out,
Unite us, and the Highland Rout,
Quæsumus te, &c.

To the KING,

On his Majesty's happy Restoration.

The rising Sun complies with our weak Sight,
First gilds the Clouds, then shews his Globe of Light,
At such a distance from our Eyes, as tho
He knew what harm his hasty Beams would do:
But your full Majesty at once breaks forth
In the Meridian of your Reign; your Worth,
Your Youth, and all the Splendour of your State
Wrapt up, till now, in adverse Clouds of Fate,
With such a Flood of Light invade our Eyes,
And our spread Hearts with so great Joy surprize;
That if your Grace incline that we should live,
You must not, SIR, too hastily forgive.
Our Guilt preserves us from th'Excess of Joy,
Which scatters Spirits, or would else destroy.
All are obnoxious, and this faulty Land,
Like fainting Hester, does before you stand,
Watching your Scepter; the revolted Sea
Trembles to think she did your Foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late,
In a wild Rage became the Scorn and Hate
Of her proud Neighbours, who began to think,
She with the Weight of her own Force would sink.
But you are come, and all their Hopes are vain,
This Giant Isle has got her Eye again.
Now she might spare the Ocean, and oppose
Your Conduct to the fiercest of her Foes.
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all
Dangers abroad, and now your Thunder shall.
Princes, that saw you, diff'rent Passions prove,
For now they dread the Object of their Love;

Nor without Envy can behold his Height,
Whose Conversation was their late Delight.
So Semele contented with the Rape
Of Jupiter, disguis'd in mortal Shape,
When she beheld his Hands with Lightning fill'd,
And his bright Rays, was with Amazement kill'd.

And tho it be our Sorrow and our Crime,
To have accepted Life so long a time
Without you here, yet does this Absence gain
No small Advantage to your present Reign:
For having view'd the Persons and the Things,
The Councils, State, and Strength of Europe's Kings,
You know your Work, Ambition to restrain,
And set them Bounds, as Heav'n does to the Main.
We have you now with ruling Wisdom fraught,
Not such as Books, but such as Practice taught:
So the lost Sun, while least by us enjoy'd,
Is the whole Night for our Concern imploy'd:
He ripens Spices, Fruits, and precious Gums;
Which from remotest Regions hither come.

This Seat of yours, from th'other World remov'd,
Had Archimedes known, he might have prov'd
His Engine's Force; fix'd here, your Power and Skill
Make the World's Motion wait upon your Will.

Much suff'ring Monarch, the first English born,
That has the Crown of these three Nations worn;
How has your Patience, with the barbarous Rage
Of your own Soil, contended half an Age?
Till (your try'd Vertue, and your sacred Word,
At last preventing your unwilling Sword)
Armies and Fleets, which kept you out so long,
Own'd their Great Sov'reign, and redress'd his Wrong.
When strait the People, by no Force compell'd,
Nor longer from their Inclination held,
Break forth at once, like Pouder set on fire,
And with a noble Rage their King require.

So th'injur'd Sea, which from her wonted Course
To gain some Acres, Avarice did force;
If the new Banks, neglected once, decay,
No longer will from her old Channel stay:
Raging, the late-got Land she overflows,
And all that's built upon't to Ruin grows.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin
To strive for Grace, and expiate their Sin.
All Winds blow fair that did the World imbroil,
Your Vipers Treacle yield, and Scorpions Oil.

If then such Praise the Macedonian got,
For having rudely cut the Gordian Knot;
What Glory's due to him, that could divide
Such ravel'd Int'rests, has the Knot unty'd,
And without Stroke so smooth a Passage made,
Where Craft and Malice such Impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all
To his high Hand, which threw the untouch'd Wall
Of self-demolish'd Jericho so low:
His Angel 'twas that did before you go;
Tam'd savage Hearts, and made Affections yield,
Like Ears of Corn when Wind salutes the Field.

Thus Patience crown'd, like Job's, your Trouble ends,
Having your Foes to pardon, and your Friends:
For tho your Courage were so firm a Rock,
What private Vertue could endure the shock?
Like your great Master, you the Storm withstood,
And pity'd those who Love with Frailty shew'd.

Rude Indians, torturing all the Royal Race,
Him with the Throne and dear-bought Scepter grace,
That suffers best; what Region could be found,
Where your Heroick Head had not been crown'd?

The next Experience of your mighty Mind,
Is how you combat Fortune, now she's kind:
And this way too you are victorious found,
She flatters with the same Success she frown'd.

While to your self severe, to others kind,
With Power unbounded, and a Will confin'd,
Of this vast Empire you possess the Care,
The softer part falls to the Peoples Share:
Safety and equal Government are things
Which make the Subjects happy as their Kings.

Faith, Law and Piety, that banish'd Train,
Justice and Truth with you return again.
The Cities Trade, and Countries easy Life
Once more shall flourish without Fraud or Strife:
Your Reign no less assures the Ploughman's Peace,
Than the warm Sun advances his Increase;
And does the Shepherds as securely keep
From all their Fears, as they preserve their Sheep.
But above all, the Muse-inspired Train
Triumph, and raise their drooping Heads again:
Kind Heav'n at once has in your Person sent
Their sacred Judg, their Guard, and Argument.

Satire on the Scots.

Come keen Iambicks with your Badgers Feet,
And Badger-like, bite till your Teeth do meet;
Help, ye tart Satirists, to imp my Rage
With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.
But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quote
The Name of Scot without an Antidote;
Unless my Head were red, that I might brew
Invention there that might be Poison too.
Were I a drouzy Judg, whose dismal Note
Disgorges Halters as a Juggler's Throat
Does Ribbons: Could I in Sir Empirick's Tone
Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;
Or roar like Marshal, that Geneva Bull,
Hell and Damnation, a Pulpit full:

Yet to express a Scot, to play that Prize,
Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice:
Before a Scot can properly be curst,
I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.
Scots are like Witches; do but whet your Pen,
Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.
Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take
The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at stake:
I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your Eyes;
A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.

No more let Ireland brag, her harmless Nation
Fosters no Venom since that Scot's Plantation,
Nor can our feign'd Antiquity obtain
Since they came in, England has Wolves again.
Nature herself does Scotch-men Beasts confess,
Making their Country such a Wilderness;
A Land that brings in question and suspence
God's Omnipresence, but that Charles came thence:
But that Montrose and Crawford's Royal Band,
Aton'd their Sin, and christen'd half the Land.
Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots,
There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots:
As in a Picture, where the squinting Paint
Shews Fiend on this side, and on that side Saint.
He that saw Hell in's melancholy Dream,
And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme,
Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright,
Had he view'd Scotland, had turn'd Proselyte.
A Land where one may pray with curst Intent,
O may they never suffer Banishment!
Had Cain been Scot, God would have chang'd his Doom,
Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.
Like Jews they spread, and as Infection fly,
As if the Devil had Ubiquity.
Hence 'tis they live at Rovers, and defy
This or that Place, Rags of Geography.
They're Citizens o'th' World, they're all in all,
Scotland's a Nation Epidemical.

And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode,
How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad;
To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug,
Or which of the Dutch States a double Jug
Resembles most in Belly, or in Beard,
(The Card by which the Mariners are steer'd)
No! the Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat,
Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat.
Nature with Scots, as Tooth-drawers, has dealt,
Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt.

Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame
The stubborn Scot: a Prince that would reclaim
Rebels by yielding, does like him, or worse,
Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse.

Was it for this you left your leaner Soil,
Thus to lard Israel with Egypt's Spoil?
Lord! what a goodly thing is want of Shirts?
How a Scotch Stomach, and no Meat converts!
They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took
Religion for their Semstress and their Cook.
Unmask them well, their Honours, and Estate,
As well as Conscience, are sophisticate.
Shrive but their Titles, and their Monies poise;
A Laird and twenty Pence pronounc'd with Noise,
When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go,
And a good sober Two-pence, and well so.

Hence then you proud Impostors, get you gone,
You Picts in Gentry and Devotion;
You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a Race
Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace.
Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce
The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of use.
The Indian, that Heaven did forswear,
Because he heard some Spaniards were there;
Had he but known what Scots in Hell had been,
He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between.

My Muse has done. A Voyder for the Nonce,
I wrong the Devil, should I pick the Bones:

That Dish is his; for when the Scots decease,
Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.
A Scot, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose,
Drops into Styx, and turns a Solan Goose.

Satire upon the Dutch.

Written by Mr. Dryden in the Year 1662.

As needy Gallants in the Scrivener's Hands,
Court the rich Knaves that gripe their mortgag'd Lands,
The first fat Buck of all the Season's sent,
And Keeper takes no Fee in Compliment:
The Dotage of some Englishmen is such,
To fawn on those who ruin them, the Dutch.
They shall have all rather than make a War
With those, who of the same Religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea Trade, the Herrings too;
Nay, to keep Friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolv'd not to find out the Cheat,
But, Cuckold-like, love them that do the Feat.
What Injuries soe'er upon us fall,
Yet still the same Religion answers all:
Religion wheedled us to Civil War,
Drew English Blood, and Dutchmens now would spare.
Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true,
They have no more Religion, Faith,—than you:
Int'rest's the God they worship in their State,
And we, I take it, have not much of that.
Well Monarchies may own Religion's Name,
But States are Atheists in their very Frame:
They share a Sin; and such Proportions fall,
That, like a Stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
Think on their Rapine, Falshood, Cruelty,
And that what once they were, they still would be.

To one well-born th'Affront is worse and more,
When he's abus'd and baffled by a Boor.
With an ill Grace the Dutch their Mischiefs do;
They've both ill Nature, and ill Manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an antient Nation;
For they were bred e'er Manners were in fashion.
And their new Commonwealth has set 'em free
Only from Honour and Civility.
Venetians do not more uncoothly ride,
Than did their Lubber-State Mankind bestride:
Their Sway became 'em with as ill a Mien,
As their own Paunches swell above their Chin.
Yet is their Empire no true Growth, but Humour,
And only two Kings Touch can cure the Tumour.

As Cato did his Africk Fruits display;
Let us before our Eyes their Indies lay:
All Loyal English will like him conclude;
Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdu'd.

Vox & Lachrymæ Anglorum.

Or, The true English-man's Complaint, humbly offer'd to the serious Consideration of their Representatives in Parliament at their next sitting in the Year 1667.

To the Parliament.

These Lines had kiss'd your Hands October last,
But were suspended till the time was past;
Because we hop'd you were about to do
That which this just Complaint excites you to.
It is our Duty to put you in mind
Of that great Work which yet does lag behind.

Our Griefs and Woes compel us loud to cry,
And call on you for speedy Remedy.
This was the moving Cause of these our Tears,
That you might know our Suff'rings and our Fears.
And Providence now having led the Way
To give it Birth, peruse it well we pray,
And do not take it for an old Wives Story:
Behold the Nations Grievances before ye
In these short Hints; yet here, as in a Map,
With ease you'll see the Cause of our Mishap.

There's not a free-born English Protestant
But sets both Hand and Heart to this Complaint.

Vox & Lachrymæ Anglorum.

O patriots renown'd, open your Eyes,
And lend an Ear to the Justice of our Cries;
As you are Englishmen, our Blood and Bones,
Know 'tis your Duty to regard our Groans:
On you, next God, our Confidence relies,
You are the Bulwarks of our Liberties.
Within your Walls was voted in our King,
For Joy whereof our Shouts made England ring;
And to make him a great and glorious Prince,
Both you and we have been at great Expence.
Full five and twenty hundred thousand Pound,
By you enacted, since has been paid down.
Our Customs to a vast Revenue come,
Our Fishing-mony no inferiour Sum.
The old Ale-spoiling Tax of the Excise
Does yearly to a Mass of Mony rise;
Besides the Additional of the Royal Aid,
And Chimny-Mony, which is yearly paid.
Oft have our Heads by Polls been sadly shorn,
And from poor Servants Wages Mony's torn:
Our Dunkirk yielded many a thousand Pound,
('Tis easier far to fell than gain a Town)

With forc'd Benevolence, and other things,
Enough t'enrich a dozen Danish Kings.
Million on Million on the Nation's back:
Yet we and all our Freedoms go to rack.
We hop'd when first these heavy Taxes rose,
Some shou'd be us'd to scare away our Foes,
Or beat them, till, like Gibeonites, they bring
Their Grandees ready halter'd to our King;
Or make them buckle, and their Points untruss,
As they who took for Motto, God with us.
But O! instead of this, our cruel Fate
Has made us like a Widow desolate.
Our Houses sadly burnt about our Ears,
Our Wives and Children sensless made with Fears.
Our Wares, like Ships, in which our Safety lay,
Unto our daring Foes are made a prey:
Our Forts and Castles, which shou'd guard our Land,
Just like old Nunneries and Abbies stand.
And long before our inland Towns demur'd,
That Sea and Land alike might be secur'd.
Our Magazines which did abound with Store,
Like us, sad Englishmen, are very poor.
Our Trade is lost, our Markets are undone;
Yeomen and Farmers all to ruin run:
Those that our fatal Battels fought neglected,
And swearing damme cowardly Rogues protected.
Our gallant Seamen, once the whole World's Dread,
For want of Pay are metamorphosed:
While the sad Widows, and poor Orphans weep,
Whose dear Relations perish'd in the Deep;
And to augment and aggravate their Grief,
At the Pay-Office find but cold Relief:
Many a Month are forc'd to wait and stay
To seek the Price of Blood, dead Husbands Pay.
The sober People who our Trade advanc'd,
Throughout our Nation are discountenanc'd.
It grieves our Hearts, that we shou'd live to see
True Virtue punish'd, and foul Vice go free.

Thousands alas! that would not hurt a Worm,
Imprison'd are, 'cause they could not conform.
Others exil'd, and from Relations sent,
We know not why, but that they're innocent.
While Rome's Black Locusts menace us with Storms,
Like Egypt's Frogs about our Land in Swarms.
Our Penal Laws are never executed
Against those Vermin, which our Land polluted.
Only to blind and hoodwink us, alas!
An Edict passes to prohibit Mass:
With such a Latitude, as most Men say,
'Tis like its Sire, the Oath Et cætera.

But prais'd be God for Peace! that's very clear;
But on what Terms, th'Event will make appear.
We dread lest it should prove more to our Cost,
Than when Amboyna's Spicery was lost.
They treat with Rod in hand our Buttocks bare,
Judg what the Issues of such Treaties are.

Thus sick, ye Worthies, sick our Nation lies,
And none but God can cure her Maladies.
Those that shou'd chear her in your Interval,
Like dull Quacksalvers, make her Spirits fail.
Turn she her wither'd Face to whom she will,
All that she get's is but a purging Pill.
If any of her Children for her cry,
Her cruel Empiricks use Phlebotomy:
That wholesom Physick that should cleanse her Blood,
They do detain, inflaming what is good.
This for a long time has bad Humours bred;
Which send up filthy Vapours to the Head.
All wise Men judg, if these Extremes endure,
They'll issue in a mad-brain'd Calenture.
Then O ye Worthies! now for Heaven's sake,
Some Pity on your gasping Country take.
Call to account those Leeches of the State,
Who from their Trust deeply prevaricate:
Who have of English Coin exhausted more
Than would ten Cœur de Lions home restore:

Who like perfidious and deceitful Elves,
Ruin the Nation to enrich themselves:
More ready are our Counsels to disclose,
Than to protect us from our Belgian Foes.
The Fleet divided shews such Treachery,
That Pagans, Turks and Infidels decry.
The States Purse cannot but be indigent,
When so much Mony over-Sea is sent.
No wonder Dutchmen cry, Thank Clarend—
That we're so roundly paid with English Coin.
If George's Mouth be stopt, think they that we
Have all our Eyes bor'd out, and cannot see.
Our Foes of English Coin have greater Store,
Since War's begun, than e'er they had before.
Quaint-Stratagem! for Rulers busy'd be,
To tie a raw Hyde to an Orange tree;
With Resolution, cause he's of that Blood,
That lifts his Head above the Mogenhood.
Then both the Keipe-Skins would be well bestow'd,
One honour'd here, t'other as much abroad.

These and like Projects have procur'd a War,
Where Mortals worry'd were like Dog and Bear.
Then Mony works the Wonder, that is sure,
The Price of Dunkirk here may much procure.
Dunkirk was sold, but why we do not know,
Unless t'erect a new Seraglio:
Or be a Receptacle unto those,
Were once intended our invading Foes.
Then let that treacherous abject Lump of Pride,
With all his joint Confederates beside,
Be brought to Justice, try'd by our good Laws,
And so receive the Merits of their Cause;
Who justly now are made the People's Hate,
That would not do them Justice in the Gate.

We pray your Honours chuse out a Committee,
To find the Instruments that burnt our City:
Can one poor sensless Frenchman's Life repair
The Loss of Britain's great Imperial Chair?

Many there were in that vile Fact detected,
And those that should them punish, them protected.
When Nero did the like on famous Rome,
Were all her Senators and People dumb?
Must we be silent, when encompass'd round
With black-mouth'd Dogs, that would us all confound?
Most hellish Plot! 'Twas Guido Faux in grain,
Hatch'd by the Jesuits in France and Spain:
For which your Honours wisely did remember
To keep another Fifth Day of November.
When these Delinquents up and down the Nation
You sifted for, then came your Prorogation.
Mean while tho London in her Ashes lies,
Yet out of her shall such a Phœnix rise,
Shall be a Scourge and Terror unto those,
Who for this hundred Years have been her Foes.
Perfidious Papists! Shall your Treachery,
Think ye, reduce us to Idolatry?
Blood-thirsty Monsters! we know better things,
Not all the pride of your black-Lanthorn Kings;
Nor all your Counsels of Achitophel,
Shall make us run your ready Road to Hell.
Blind Blockheads! we abhor your rotten Whore,
None but the God of Jacob we adore.

We beg your Honours to redeem our Trade,
Which in your Intervals is much decay'd:
Regaining that, we hope such Fruit 'twill yield,
We on our Ruins chearfully may build.
We pray, repeal the Laws unnatural,
That Men in question for their Conscience call:
'Tis Cruelty for you to force Men to
The thing, that they had rather die than do.
This is Man's All; 'tis Christ's Prerogative,
Therefore against it 'tis in vain to strive.
Distribute Justice with an equal Hand,
Both to the Peer and Peasant of the Land.

Many true Commoner murder'd of late,
Yet Justice strikes not the Assassinate.
Why should the rightful Cause of Clients be
Utterly lost, for want of double Fee?
Why partial Judges on the Benches sit?
Why Juries overaw'd? This is not fit.
Why some corrupted, others wanting Wit?
And why a Parliament should suffer it?
Why great mens Will should be their only Law?
And why they do not call to mind Jack Straw?
Why they do let their Reputation rot?
And why Carnarvan Edward is forgot?
Why Bloodworth would not let the dreadful Fire
Extinguish'd be, as good Men did desire?
And why Life-Guardmen at each Gate were set,
Hindring the People thence their Goods to get?
Why were our Houses level'd with the Ground,
That fairly stood about the Tow'r round?
When many thousand Families were left
Without a House, then we must be bereft
Of Habitations too, with all the rest,
And share with those that greatly were distress'd.
Why should our Mother-Queen exhaust our Store,
Enriching France, and making England poor?
Spending our Treasure in a Foreign Land,
Can never with the Nation's Int'rest stand.
Then timely stop the bleeding of this Vein,
Lest it the Kingdom's vital Spirits drain.
Why England now, as in the days of yore,
Must have an Intercessor, Madam Shore?
Why upon her is spent more in one Day,
Than would some Weeks the Publick Charge defray?
Why second Rosamond is made away?
A thing remains unriddled to this Day.
Why Papists put in Places of great Trust,
And Protestants lay by their Arms to rust?
Why Courtiers rant with Goods of other Men,
And why Protections cheat the Citizen?

Why drunken Justices are tolerated?
And why the Gospel's almost abrogated?
Why Clergymen do domineer so high,
Who should be Patterns of Humility?
Why they do Steeple upon Steeple set,
As if they meant that way to Heav'n to get?
Who nothing have to prove themselves devout,
Save only this, That Cromwel turn'd them out.
Why Tippets, Copes, Lawn-sleeves, and such-like Geer,
Consume above three Millions by the Year?
Why Bell and Dragon Drones, like Boar in Sty,
Eat more than all the painful Ministry?
Which is one Cause the Nation is so poor:
But when will Charles find out their Privy-door?
When Daniel shews th'Impression of their Feet,
And gives direction, then he'll come to see't.
Why England's Grand Religion now should be
A stalking Horse to blind Idolatry?
Why many thousands now bow down before it,
That in their Consciences do much abhor it?
Why Treachery is us'd by Complication?
Deceit and Fraud, why th'A-la-mode in fashion?
Why ranting Cowards in Buff-coats are put,
And why they Robbers turn to fill their Gut?
Why Fools in Corporations do command,
Who know nor Justice, nor the Laws o'th' Land?
Why he that brought our Necks into this Yoke,
Dreads not the thoughts of Felton's fatal Stroke?
Sure they're bewitch'd to think we Englishmen
Have no more Courage left us than a Hen.
And why that Int'rest is become the least,
In the Year Sixty greater than the rest?
We know no reason, but do all consent,
These are the Fruits of an ill Government.
Some think our Judgments do run parallel
With David's in the Days of Israel:

The difference is, he was a Man of God;
But ours have been his sore afflicting Rod,
To which we turn our naked Backs, and say,
During thy pleasure, Lord, Vive le Roy.
We pray, restore our faithful Ministers,
Whom we do own as Christ's Embassadors.
Why are our Pulpits pester'd with a Crew,
That took up Orders since black Barthol'mew?
Who Myst'ries of the Gospel know no more,
Than the dumb Calf that Israel did adore.
Too late for us to you to make our moan,
When they have led us to destruction.
Must all be Enemies of King and State,
That from the Church of England separate?
Must all the Meetings of the Innocent
Be judg'd unlawful? they to Prison sent?
'Twere better all such Edicts you made void,
And grant the Liberty they once enjoy'd;
Confirming that unto 'em by a Law,
Makes good the Royal Promise at Breda.
Tread all Monopolies into the Earth,
And make provision that no more get birth.
In this a Prince's Danger chiefly lies,
That he is forc'd to see with others Eyes.
From hence our Troubles rose in Forty One,
When that Domestick War at first began.
Relieve th'Oppress'd, and set all Pris'ners free,
Who for their Consciences in durance be.
Poor Debtors, who have not wherewith to pay,
Break off their Shackles, let them go their way.
Let no suborn'd false Witnesses appear
In Courts, against the Innocent to swear:
Let no more Juries, that are biassed,
Be pack'd to do whatever they are bid:
Who to fulfil mens Lust and Cruelty,
Have no regard altho the Guiltless die.
Why should our righteous Laws like Cobwebs be,
To catch small Flies, and let the great go free?

This turns true Judgment into Wormwood-gall,
Does for the Vengeance of th'Avenger call;
Then ease those Burdens under which we groan,
Give Liberty its Resurrection.
Let painful Husbandry, that Child of Peace,
Be now encourag'd since our Wars do cease.
Let not the poor and inslav'd Peasant crave
Redress from you, and yet no Succour have.
'Tis too much like a base French Stratagem,
To make the People poor to govern them:
More happy for a Prince, when Aid he craves,
To have't from free-born Men, than injur'd Slaves.
We are free-born, we yet are English Men:
Let's not, like old Men, boast what we have been;
But make us happy by your gentle Rays,
And you shall be the Tenour of our Praise:
And our Posterity, with joint Consent,
Shall call you England's Healing Parliament.
But if you still will make our Bonds the stronger,
If Pris'ners must remain in Durance longer;
If wand'ring Stars must still by Force detrude,
Under Eclipse, those of first Magnitude;
If Prelates still must o'er our Conscience ride,
And Papists Bonfires make of us beside:
If he and they, whose Avarice and Pride
So long have rid our Backs, and gaul'd our Side;
Have got so strong an Int'rest in the State,
That their Commitment costs so long Debate,
Till means be found to further their Escape
To Foreign Parts, there to negotiate;
The Edg of Justice surely's turn'd aside,
To cut the poor Man's Flesh, and save the Hyde.
If you mens Lusts and Avarice gratify,
And yet our empty'd Purse-strings do unty;
You are too free of what was ne'er your own,
And now you only make us more to groan,
Ass-like: and surely any mortal Man
Will seek to ease his Burden if he can.

There's not an Englishman but well has learn'd,
Your Privileges are alike concern'd
With all our Liberties; that he who doth
Infringe the one, usurps upon 'em both.
And shall it on your Doors and Tombs be writ,
This was the Parliament so long did sit;
While Conscience, Liberty, our Purse and Trade,
The Country, City, Ships, and all's betray'd?
To make an Act for building on the Urn,
But no Inquest who did the City burn:
To feed a Palmer-worm, who threw away
The Publick Stock, which Seamen should defray.

Since now you have an Opportunity,
Redeem your selves and us from Slavery:
If not, the Wheel goes round, there is no doubt,
You'l also share with those you have turn'd out.

Vivat Lex Rex.

POSTSCRIPT.

If e'er you'l leave us in a lasting Peace,
You all our Grievances must first redress.
When Rulers stop their Ears to th'Peoples Cries,
'Tis a sad Symptom of Catastrophies.
In Watch or Clock things made irregular,
Tho ne'er so small, cause all the Work to jar,
And in the Body natural 'tis found,
That if ill Humours do therein abound,
Them the Physician must extenuate,
And make 'em with the rest co-operate:
So if in Bodies politick there be
Not found, 'twixt all Estates, a Harmony;
They cease not till, in tract of Time, they bring
All to confusion, Peasant, Lord, and King.

To make some great, and ruin all the rest,
In this a Commonwealth can ne'er be blest.
And does it follow hence, Great Sir, that we
Must be undone to all Posterity?
Let Equity and Justice plead our Cause,
And then refer us to our Antient Laws.
If Magna Charta must be wholly slighted,
We must conclude our Rulers are benighted.
But needs must we be poor, when it is known
We've had a second Price of Gavestone.
Your Pow'r is Sov'reign, else we durst not quote
This poys'nous Name without an Antidote.
Perfidious Clarend—! that Potent Thief,
His Prince's Blemish, and the People's Grief;
Who once did scorn to plunder by Retail,
Who stretch'd the States Purse till the Strings did fail:
He and his Fellow-Jugglers found the knack
To plough deep Furrows on the Nation's Back.
Like Glaziers, who excite the roaring Crew,
Windows to break, that they may make them new:
So these pick Quarrels with our Neighbour Nations,
Then baul at you to peel us with Taxations;
Which having got, still more and more they crave,
Ev'n like the Horse-leech, or devouring Grave:
For Avarice cannot be satisfy'd,
No more than Belzebub, and's Brother H---.
That Macchiavel we have not yet forgot,
Who brew'd that wicked Hellish Northern Plot;
Where many Gentlemen had ruin'd been,
If Providence had not step'd in between.
Who then among your selves secure can be,
If this be not check'd by Authority?
He was one of the open-handed Tribe,
Whose Avarice ne'er yet refus'd a Bribe.
What Suit at Law soe'er before him came,
He that produc'd most Angels, won the Game:
Be't right or wrong, or Plaintiff or Defendant
Should win the day if Gold were at the end on't.

How did he send without Remorse or Fear
Thousands of English to that Grave, Tangier?
What Usage had the Scots, thousands can tell,
When the late Remonstrators did rebel.
While Irish Rebels quit their old O Hone,
Poor English Protestants take up the Tone.
Empson's and Dudley's Fact compar'd with his,
Were but Night's Darkness unto Hell's Abyss.
The famous Spencers did in time pourtray
What should be acted by this Beast of Prey.
Earth him, and you shall find within his Cell
Those Mischiefs which no Age can parallel;
War, Fire and Blood, with vast expence of Treasure,
Ruin of Englishmen, his chiefest Pleasure.
In fine, for Mischief he was what you will,
The perfect Epitome of all Ill.
All good Men hate his Name; nay, what is worse,
Three Nations dog him with their heavy Curse.
As he regarded not the Widow's Tears,
So may just Heaven multiply his Fears:
Let Cain's most dreadful Doom soon overtake him,
And his Companion Gout never forsake him:
Let Heaven's Vengeance light upon his Pate,
And all our Injuries retaliate:
Till he himself to Justice does resign,
Let all Men call him cursed Clarend—.
Most dextrous Artist! he with mighty ease
Transplanted Dunkirk from beyond the Seas,
And dropt it near that fatal Spot of Land,
Where for him Tyburn now does weeping stand.
The echoing Ax from out the Tower does call,
To speed this Monster Epidemical:
But he upon us having play'd his Prank,
Follows his Brethren Finch and Wyndebank.
Thus Hyde by Name, is Hide by Practice too,
Yet cannot hide from Heav'n, tho hid from you:

And being gone, has left his Imps behind,
Whose only Work is all our Eyes to blind;
Lest tracing him you find their Villany,
Known yet to few but the all-seeing Eye.
If any thing of common Fame be true,
He's only gone our Mischiefs to renew:
And if his Practice justify our Fears,
He'll set's again together by the Ears.
Ambition's of the nature of the Devil,
Always to brood, and hatch, and bring forth Evil.
If true the Maxim be, Kings cannot err;
With Modesty we may from thence infer,
Ill thrives that hapless Nation then that shows
A silent Prince, and Chancellor that crows
Over his Equals, over all his Peers,
Over Phanaticks, over Cavaliers.
He was so absolute, 'twas hard to say,
Or him, or Charles, whether we must obey.
Ris'n from a Gentleman too near the Throne,
Sought not the Nation's Int'rest, but his own.
You are the Bridle in such Tyrants Jaws,
Who would destroy us, and subvert the Laws.
Now hold the Reins, now keep the Ballance true,
Find those Banditti that do lie purdieu.
If you, like Cato, for your Country stand,
Three noble Nations are at your Command:
While Justice, Truth and Righteousness do guide you,
We'll be your Guard, whatever shall betide you.
Disarm the Papists, and secure our Ports,
Place Protestants in Garisons and Forts.
Why should the French and Irish here bear sway,
Who Enemies to England are this day?
Let not our Magazines remain with those
That burnt our City, and still are our Foes;
Whose Hellish bloody Principles are such,
To butcher Englishmen they think not much.

What Safety, Peace, or Trade can we expect,
When these Protection find, and you neglect
Us to secure against such Cut-throat Dogs,
As swarm now in our Land like Egypt's Frogs?
What means the flocking of the French so fast
Into our Bowels thus with Arms to haste?
And must our Horses, which of Value be,
Be thus to France transported, as we see?
Are not our Forts and Castles all betray'd,
When all their Stores and Guns aside are laid
Out of the reach of such as would oppose
Both Foreign En'mies and Domestick Foes?
Did the dumb Child, when at his Father's Throat
He saw a Knife, immediately cry out?
Can we be silent when the Train is laid,
And Fire-works made ready, as 'tis said?
Look thro the Veil, and you will soon espy
That Romish Counsels close at work do lie
To undermine you, and Religion too:
Look well about you, lest you do it rue.

Now is the time t'acquit your selves like Men,
Now stand up for your Liberties, and then
The Laurel Wreath, and never-fading Bays
Shall crown your Heads, and we will sing your Praise.

Upon the Proroguing of the Parliament; or, The Club of Unanimous Voters.

Prorogue upon Prorogue! Damn'd Rogues and Whores!
First pick'd our Pockets, then turn'd us out of Doors.
Have we our Country plagu'd, and Trust betray'd,
Giv'n Polls, and Subsidies, and Royal Aid,

Hearth-Mony, Imposts on the Lawyers Fees,
Ruin'd all Trades, tormented all Degrees,
Crush'd the poor Phanaticks, broke thro all the Laws
Of Magna Charta, and the good Old Cause,
To be thus fool'd at last?
Have we more Bullion giv'n in twelve years space,
Than Norman's Bastard had, and all his Race;
Hurry'd up our Mony-Bills 'gainst Dutch and French,
And seen it spent upon a Dunghil Wench?
Did we consent the Kingdom to undo,
T'enrich an over-ridden Whore or two,
And all for this?
With Plague, War, Fire was this poor Kingdom curs'd,
While of all Plagues we were our selves the worst.
Were just Elections null'd, took we such Pain
To make a Parliament-man a Rogue in grain,
Stood to be piss'd on by the House of Peers,
Cut Coventry's Nose, and cropt his Ears?
Unworthy Gentlemen, more like Servants Race,
Run to our Master's Collar to Fox our Mace.
Did we a hundred baser Acts than these,
That we might not his Majesty displease,
To be thus serv'd?
Well-fare true Vaughan, Osborn, Howard, Carr,
Lit---ton, Sey---r, our great Men of War,
And Garraway, the Hector of the House,
That always fetch'd his Blow to kill a Louse:
These Patriots, Male-content, did plot
Their Countries Good, till they had Places got;
Bluster'd and huff'd till they were officer'd,
And then of Country more the De'el a word.

Damn'd Buckingham! of a false Sire the Son!
Did we for this dismount old Clarendon
To set thee up, thou mighty Man of State,
And in thy hands put the whole Kingdom's Fate?

Did we forget thy former Treachery,
When safe, thou left'st our King in Misery?
Turn'd sneaking Renegade to what was Trump,
And swor'st Allegiance to the rotten Rump?
Did we free thee, when Chancellor thee mumbled,
And when thou wert by him from Post to Pillar tumbled?
Did we connive at taking Shrewsbury's Life,
That with more freedom thou might'st have his Wife,
To be requited thus? Ungrateful Wretch!
May Pox, and Plague, and Devil hence thee fetch!
Or some Prorogu'd, incensed Felton rather
Send this curs'd Son to find his guilty Father!
No other way could'st find t'attain thy Ends,
Than to disgust the King with his best Friends?
Turn out a Parliament, that ne'er King before
Had such a one, nor ever will have more?
Did we give cause to fear we should not do
Whate'er the King or thou command'st us to?
If Standing-Army 'tis thou wouldst be at,
We could as well as others have rais'd that.
We could have made, as well as any other,
A Bastard Race Legitimate as Brother:
Consented to send back the barren Queen,
And a new Issue had, had that your Humour been.
League Tripartite we could have broke, the Dance
Chang'd to the Musick of the Pipe of France:
Sneer, and look thro the Fingers to behold
New London flaming, as you did the old.
We freely could have rais'd a Citadel,
As well the City as the Dutch to quell:
We coul make Plots, as Oliver on Hewit,
And make such guilty of 'em as ne'er knew it.
And must we after all this Service done,
In Field for Father, and in House for Son,
Be thus cashier'd to please a pocky Peer,
Who neither Roundhead is, nor Cavalier?

But of some medley-cut, some ill-shap'd Brat,
Would fain be something if he knew but what.
For Commonwealth he vogues himself to be,
And by and by for Abs'lute Monarchy:
Then neither likes; but some new knick-knack found,
Not Fish, not Flesh, not square, and yet not round.
Venetian Model pleases him to-night,
To-morrow Morning France is in the right.
Thus he, like Butterflies, much flutter makes;
Sleeps of one Judgment, of another wakes.
Zealous at Morn, he will a Bishop make,
Yet before night all Bishops down he'll take.
He all things is, but yet to nothing true;
All old things hates, nor can endure the new.
But please your pocky Grace to give me leave
To ask why thus you do your King deceive?
Your first Prorogu'd sure might have stood, for then
'Twas time enough for to Prorogue agen;
And not all in a hurry, sev'n Months before
Our former not expir'd, to add six more.

Nell's in again we hear, tho we are out;
Methinks we might have met to have giv'n a Clout,
And then Prorogu'd again: our Wont has been
Never to miss a Sessions 'gainst Lying-in.
For always 'gainst that time the French invade,
'Gainst whom we Mony raise to keep the Jade.
And ten to one before the Spring be over,
Our Cavalry must march again to Dover,
To guard the Shore against the Dutch and French;
When all this means but new Supplies for Wench.
The curs'd Cabal saw 'twas in vain to move
For Dissolution; we had too much Love
To be dissolv'd; which put you to find out
This damn'd side-wind to bring the end about.

For now the sacred Cod-piece must keep Lent,
Unless Phanaticks lend, or Mony from France be sent.
Had we but hearken'd, and a fair Game play'd,
We had prevented thus our being betray'd.
For had we Observation made, we might
Have known at Morn the Fate we found at Night.
For Cæsar never more Presages had
Of falling Greatness, than to us were made.

Crow cross'd the Speaker's Coach as to the House he came,
On Crutches that day went the Cripple lame.
The Thames at our Proroguing backward run;
Moon shone at Noon-day, and at Night the Sun.
A hollow earthly Voice i'th' House was heard,
Which made the Speaker of Guy Faux afraid.
Owen's Pease-Pottage unkindly boil'd that day;
A foul Handkerchief in Pocket had Bab May.
That day our Clock too was upon its Tricks,
Would not go right; strikes five when 'twas near six.
But since there's no resisting of our Fate,
We hope we may have leave to invocate.

Ah! sweet Revenge! may we but live to see
Such Rogues prorogued too as well as we!
Indulge our Envy but to see that day,
Tho we are ruin'd by it as well as they.
We Tyrants love, if we can Tyrants be;
If not, next Wish is we may all be Free.

A New Ballad, call'd, The Chequer-Inn.

1

I'll tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the Parliament have seen,
The Choice of Ale and Beer:
But such a Choice as ne'er was found,
In any Age on English Ground,
In Borough or in Shire.

2

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where all the Berties make their Hay,
There stands a House new painted:
Where I could see 'em crouding in;
But sure they often there had been,
They seem'd so well acquainted.

3

The Host that dwells in that same House,
Is now a Man that was a Mouse,
Till he was Burgess chosen:
And for his Country first began,
But quickly turned Cat in Pan;
The way they all have rosen.

4

And ever since he did so wex,
That now he Mony tells by Pecks,
And heaps up all our Treasure:
Thou'lt ken him out by his white Wand
He dandles always in his Hand,
With which he strikes the Measure.

5

And tho he now does look so big,
And bear himself on such a Twig,
'Twill fail him in a Year:

Then O! how I could claw him off,
For all his slender Quarter-staff,
And have him here and there.

6

He is as stiff as any Stake,
And leaner, Dick, than any Rake,
Envy is not so pale:
And tho by selling of us all,
He'as wrought himself into Whitehall,
He looks like Bird of Jail.

7

And where he might e'er now have laid,
Had not the Members most been made,
For some had been indicted:
For whosoe'er that peach him durst,
To clear him would have been the first,
Had they too been requited.

8

But he had Men enough to spare,
Besides a good Friend in the Chair,
Tho all Men blush'd that heard it:
Therefore I needs must speak my Mind,
They all deserv'd to have been kind
For such a shameful Verdict.

9

And now they march'd all Tag and Rag,
Each of his handy work to brag,
Over a gallant Supper:
On backside of their Letter some
For sureness cited were to come;
The rest were bid by Cooper.

10

They stood, when enter'd in the Hall,
Mannerly rear'd against the Wall,
Till to sit down desir'd:
And simper'd, justly to compare,
Like Maidens at a Statue-Fair,
None went away unhir'd.

11

The Lady, dress'd like any Bride,
Her Forehead-Cloth had laid aside,
And smiling thro did sail:
Tho they had dirted so the Room,
That she was forc'd to call for Groom,
To carry up her Tail.

12

Wheeler at Board then next her set,
And if it had been nearer yet,
She might it well afford:
For ev'n at Bed the time has been,
When no one could see Sun between
His Lady and her Lord.

13

This Knight was sent t'America,
And was as soon sent for away,
Tho not for his good Deeds:
But 'twas, it seems, with this Intent,
To plant with us that Government,
From thence he brought the Seeds.

14

And next him sat George Mountague,
The Foreman of the British Crew,
His Cup he never fails:
Mansel and Morgan, and the rest,
All of them of the Grand Inquest,
A Jury right of Wales.

15

Wild with his Tongue did all out-run,
And popping like an Elder-Gun,
Both Words and Meat did utter:
The Pellets which his Chaps did dart,
Fed all his Neighbours overthwart,
That gap'd to hear him sputter.

16

But King, God save him, tho so cramm'd,
The Cheer into his Breeches ramm'd,
Which Butt'ry were and Larder:
And of more Prov'nder to dispose,
Had sew'd on too his double Hose;
For Times thou know'st grew harder.

17

H---lt, out of Linen, as of Land,
Had mortgag'd of his two one Band,
To have the other wash'd:
And tho the Sweat, the while he eat,
With his own Gravy fill'd the Plate,
That Band with Sauce too dash'd.

18

His Brain and Face Tredenham wrung,
For Words not to be said but sung;
His Neck it turn'd on Wier:
And Berkenhead of all the Rout,
There was but one could be found out,
To be a greater Lyar.

19

Old Hobbes's Brother Cheyney there,
Throgmorton, Neville, Doleman were,
And Lawley, Knight of Shropshire:
Nay, Portman, tho all Men cry'd shame,
And Cholm'ley of Vale Royal came
For something more than Chop-cheer.

20

The Western Glory, Harry Ford,
The Landlord Bailes out-eat, out-roar'd,
And did his Trencher lick:
What pity 'tis a Wit so great,
Should live to sell himself for Meat;
But who can help it, Dick?

21

Yet, wot'st thou, he was none of those,
But would as well as Meat have Clothes,
Before he'd sell the Nation:
And wisely lodging at next Door,
Was serv'd more often than the Poor,
With his whole Generation.

22

Sir Courtney Poole and he contend,
Which should the other most commend
For what that Day they spoke:
The Man that gave that woful Tax,
And sweeping all our Chimney-Stacks,
Excises us for Smoke.

23

The Hanmers, Herberts, Sandys, Musgr---s,
Fathers and Sons, like coupled Slaves,
They were not to be sunder'd:
The Tale of all that there did sup
On Chequer-Tallies, was scor'd up,
And made above a hundred.

24

Our greatest Barn could not have held
The Belly-Timber that they fell'd,
For Mess was rick'd on Mess:
'Twas such a Treat, that I'm afraid
The Reck'ning never will be paid,
Without another Cess.

25

They talk'd about, and made such din,
That scarce the Lady could hedg in
The Papishes and Frenches:
On them she was allow'd to rail,
But, and thereby does hang a Tale,
Not one word of the Wenches.

26

The Host, who sat at lower end,
The Healths in order up did send,
Nor of his own took care:
But down the Visick Bottle threw,
And took his Wine, when 'twas his Due,
In spite of 'Pothecare.

27

They drank, I know not who had most,
Till King both Hostess kiss'd and Host,
And clap'd 'em on the Back:
And prithee why so pale? then swore,
Should they indict him o'er and o'er,
He'd bring him off i'fack.

28

Then all said Ay, who had said No,
And now, who would, 'twas time to go,
For Grace they did not stay:
And for to save the Serving-Men
The Pains of coming in agen,
The Guests took all away.

29

Candlesticks, Forks, Salts, Plates, Spoons, Knives,
Like Sweet-meats for their Girls and Wives,
And Table-Linen went:
I saw no more, but hither ran,
Lest some should take me for the Man,
And I for them be shent.

The Answer.

1

Curse on such Representatives,
They sell us all, our Barns and Wives,
Quoth Dick, with Indignation:

They are but Engines to raise Tax,
And the whole Bus'ness of their Acts
Is to undo the Nation.

2

Just like our rotten Pump at home,
We pour in Water when 'twon't come,
And that way get more out:
So when mine Host does Mony lack,
He Mony gives among the Pack,
And then it runs full spout.

3

By wise Volk I have oft been told,
Parliaments grow naught as they grow old,
We groan'd under the Rump:
But sure this is a heavier Curse,
That sucks and dreins thus ev'ry Purse,
By this old Whitehall Pump.

On King Charles the First's Statue.

Why 'tis so long before 'tis put up at Charing-Cross.

1

What can the Myst'ry be, why Charing-Cross
These two Months continues still blinded with Boards?
Dear Wheeler impart, we are all at a loss,
Unless Punchianello is to be restor'd.

2

'Twere to Scaramouchi too much Disrespect,
To limit his Troop to this Theatre small;
Besides the Injustice it were to eject
That Mimick, so legally seiz'd of Whitehall.

3

For a Dial the Place is too unsecure,
Since a Guard and a Garden could not one defend;
For so near to the Court they will not endure,
Any more to know how their time they mispend.

4

Were these Deals then in store for sheltring our Fleet,
When the King in Armada to Portsmouth did sail?
Or the Bishops and Treasurer did they agree't,
To repair with such Riff-raff the Church's old Pale?

5

Now to comfort the Heart of the old Cavalier,
The late King on Horseback is here to be shewn;
What ado with the Kings and Statues is here?
Have we not had enough already of one?

6

Does the Treas'rer think Men so legally tame,
When the Pensions are stopt to be fool'd with a sight?
No: 'tis forty to one if he play on his Game,
But he'll shortly reduce it to Forty and Eight.

7

The Trojan Courser, tho not of Brass, but of Wood,
Had within him an Army that burnt down the Town;
However 'tis ominous, if understood,
For the old King on Horseback is but half a Crown.

8

But his Brother-in-law's Horse had got much Repute,
That the Treasurer thought fit to try it agen;
And instead of a Market of Herbs and of Fruit,
He will here keep a Market of Parliament-men.

9

But why is the Work so long at a stand?
Such things you should never, or suddenly do:
As the Parliament twice was prorogu'd to your hand,
Will you venture so long to prorogue the King too?

10

Let us have a King, be he new, be he old,
Not Vyner delay'd us so, tho he was broken:
Tho the King be of Copper, and Danby of Gold,
Shall the Treas'rer of Guineas grudg us such a Token?

11

The Houswifely Treasuress sure's grown very wise,
Who so lib'rally treated the Members at Supper;
She thinks not convenient to go to the Price,
That we lose both our King, our Horse, and our Crupper.

12

When for so many Parties we are to provide,
To buy a King is not so wise as to sell;
But however, she said, it can't be deny'd,
But a Monarch of Gingerbread will do as well.

13

The Treasurer told her, he thought she was mad,
And his Parliament-Roll withal did produce;
Where he shew'd her that so many Votes he then had,
As would the next Sessions reimburse him with Use.

14

So the Statue will up after all this delay;
But to turn the Face tow'rds Whitehall you must shun:
Tho of Brass, yet for Grief, it will melt soon away,
To behold ev'ry Day such a Court, such a Son.

A Ballad, call'd, The Hay-market Hectors.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

I sing a woful Ditty,
Of a Wound that long will smart-a;
Giv'n, the more's the pity,
In the Realm of Magna Charta.

Youth, Youth, thou'dst better been slain by thy Foes,
Than live to be hang'd for cutting a Nose.

2

Our good King C--- the Second,
Too flippant of Treasure and Moisture,
Stoop'd from the Queen infecund,
To a Wench of Orange and Oyster.
Consulting his Catzo, he found it expedient
To engender Don Johns on Nell the Comedian.

3

The leach'rous Vain-glory
Of being lim'd with Majesty,
Mounts up to such a Story
This Bitchington Travesty;
That to equal her Lover, the Baggage must dare
To be Helen the Second, and Cause of a War.

4

And he our am'rous Jove,
While she lay dry-bobb'd under,
To repair the Defect of his Love,
Must lend her his Lightning and Thunder.
And for one Night prostitutes to her Commands,
His Monmouth, Life-Guards, O-Brian and Sands.

5

And now all fear of the French,
And the pressing need of Navy,
Are dwindled into a salt Wench,
And Amo, Amas, Amavi.
Now he'll venture his Subsidy so he cloven may see,
In Female Revenge, the Nose of Coventry.

6

O ye Hay-market Hectors,
How came you thus charm'd,
To be the Dissectors
Of one poor Nose unarm'd?
Unfit to wear Sword, or follow a Trumpet,
That would brandish your Knives at the word of a Strumpet.

7

But was't not ungrateful,
In Monmouth, Ap-Sidney, Ap-Carlo,
To contrive an Act so hateful,
O Prince of Wales, by Barlow?
For since the kind World had dispens'd with his Mother,
Might he not well have spar'd the Nose of John Brother?

8

Beware all ye Parliamenteers,
How each of his Voice disposes:
Bab May in the Commons, C. Rex in the Peers,
Sit telling your Fates on your Noses;
And decree, at the mention of every Slut,
Whose Nose shall continue, and whose shall be cut.

9

If the Sister of Rose,
Be a Whore so anointed;
That the Parliament's Nose
Must for her be disjointed?
Then should you but name the Prerogative Whore,
How the Bullets would whistle, the Cannons would roar!

A new Ballad, to an old Tune, call'd, I am the Duke of Norfolk, &c.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

1

I am a sensless thing, with a Hey, with a Hey,
Men call me a King, with a Ho:
To my Luxury and Ease,
They brought me o'er the Seas,
With a Hey Tronny Nonny Nonny no.

2

I melt away their Treasure, with a Hey, &c.
And swive at my Pleasure, with a Ho:

Their Women, and their Coin,
Are now become all mine,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

3

With a Court, and a Stage, with a Hey, &c.
I corrupted the Age, with a Ho:
The Nation once were Men,
But now are Slaves agen,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

4

Let the Bankers break, with a Hey, &c.
And the City sneak, with a Ho:
I've got a pack of Knaves,
Who will ride the dull Slaves,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

5

Let the Commons search for Plots, with a Hey, &c.
And the Lords sit like Sots, with a Ho:
If my Brother and my Whore
Say the word, they're no more,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

6

They pull'd my Army down, with a Hey, &c.
And so they would my Crown, with a Ho:
But to prevent that Chance,
I've sold it all to France,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

7

And while they all give ear, with a Hey, &c.
To what Oats and Bedlowe swear, with a Ho:
With Mirth I burst my Gall,
To see the Rascals sham 'em all,
With a Hey Tronny, &c.

8

'Twas a Blast of Royal Breath, with a Hey, &c.
Gave Godfrey his Death, with a Ho:

'Twas contriv'd by the Elf,
My Brother, and my self,
With a Tronny, &c.

9

My Ministers of State, with a Hey, &c.
Whom I damn to make 'em great, with a Ho
Let them use their wisest Skill,
I'm true Sir Martin still,
With a Tronny, &c.

10

And now to let you see, with a Hey, &c.
What Miracles there can be, with a Ho:
The Head of the Church,
Left the Body in the lurch,
With a Tronny, &c.

11

Damn the Good Old Cause, with a Hey, &c.
Religion and its Laws, with a Ho:
I scorn to bear the Sway,
By an English way,
With a Tronny, &c.

12

Let the Gentry groan, with a Hey, &c.
With the Weight of my Throne, with a Ho:
I care not a Straw
For the old Fop-Law,
With a Tronny, &c.

13

While the French take Towns, with a Hey, &c.
And the Seamen get Wounds, with a Ho:
I have a French Arse
For my unruly Tarse,
With a Tronny, &c.

14

And tho my Father, like a Fool, with a Hey, &c.
Lost his Life, to save his Soul, with a Ho,

I'll not quit my present Love,
For a Martyr's Place above,
With a Hey Tronny Nonny Nonny no.

SATIRE.

Thus long the wise Commons have been in debate,
'Bout Mony and Conscience, those Trifles of State,
While dang'rous Grievances daily increase,
And the Subject can't riot in Safety and Peace;
Unless, as against Irish Cattel before,
You now make an Act against Irish Whore.
The Colts black and white, Clanbrazie and Cox,
Invade us with Impudence, Beauty, and Pox:
Each carries a Fate no Man can oppose,
Without Loss of his Heart, or Fall of his Nose.
Is it just that with Love cruel Death should conspire,
And our Tarses be burnt by our Hearts taking fire?
There's no end of Communion, if humble Believers
Must be damn'd in the Cup like unworthy Receivers.

The Queen's Ball.

Reform, Great Queen, the Errors of your Youth,
And hear a thing you never heard, call'd Truth.
Poor private Balls content the Fairy Queen;
You must dance, and dance damnably to be seen.
Ill-natur'd little Goblin, and design'd
For nothing but to dance and vex Mankind.
What wiser thing could our great Monarch do,
Than root Ambition out by shewing you?
You can the most aspiring Thoughts pull down:
For who would have his Wife to have his Crown?

With a white Vizor you may cheat our Eyes;
You know a black one would be no Disguise.
See in her Mouth a sparkling Diamond shine,
The first good thing that e'er came from that Mine.
Heav'n some great Curse upon that Hand dispense,
That for th'Increase of Nonsense takes it thence.
How gracefully she moves, and strives to lug
A weight of Riches that may sink the Pug!
Such Fruit ne'er loaded so deform'd a Tree;
Her Jewels may be match'd, but never she.
If bold Acteon in the Waves had seen
In fair Diana's room our Puppet Queen,
He would have fled; and in his full career,
For greater haste, have wish'd himself a Deer;
Prefer'd the Bellies of his Dogs to hers,
And thought them the more cleanly Sepulchres.
What stupid Madman would not chuse to have
The settled Rest and Silence of a Grave,
Rather than such a Hell, which always burns,
And from whom Nature forbids all Returns?
Orm---d looks paler now than when he rid;
Your Visit frights him more than Tyburn did.
Fear of your Coming does not only make
Wor---r's wise Marquis, but his House too shake.
What will be next, unless you please to go
And dance among your Fellow-Fiends below?
There as upon the Stygian Lake you float,
You may o'erset and sink the laden Boat;
While we the Fun'ral Rites devoutly pay,
And dance for Joy that you are danc'd away.

The Character.

The Lords and Commons having had their Doom,
The banish'd Romans now supply their room;
And in full Herds they publickly appear,
Bearding both Protestant and Presbyter.
Yet do not so resent the foul Affront,
To take up Arms, and make Rebellion on't:
Nor do not sleep, but by the Drum and Fife,
To keep thy Throat from bloody Jesuit's Knife:
Tho Murder be in us a bloody Fact,
In holy Priests it is a holy Act.
If Priest and Knife be consecrated then,
By Blood and Massacre they Heaven win;
While we, poor Souls! are damn'd for the same Sin.
Who would not be a sacred Priest to Rome,
Since they can save, or give eternal Doom?
Make Virtue damn'd, and meritorious Vice
They snatch'd from Hell, and sent to Paradise.
And more to confirm their farther Glory,
They call and take a touch in Purgatory.

Now that the Bugbear Parliament is fled,
Bold were the Man durst say that Godfrey's dead:
That i'th' Queen's Slaughter-house his Blood was shed,
Or she consent to have him murdered.
Or who dares say the Temple was on fire,
By the contrivance of some Priest or Fry'r?
To burn Commissions hid in Langhorn's Room,
To blind the Plot, and clear the Lords of Rome.
O Parliament most weak, that could'st not see,
Thy self dissolv'd by thy own Treachery!
Contending with thy King, his Laws and Pow'r,
Intrenching on's Prerogative each hour;
Flying i'th' Face of his Supremacy,
With saucy Privilege and Liberty.
Had ever Men such reason to comply,
When e'en the Nation's Ruin is so nigh?
Had you been wise, and given the King a Sum,
You might have had your swinge at bloody Rome.
Finding no Coin, we cannot find the Plot;
The Jesuits have the Bag, and so 'tis not.
The Priest quick-sighted wisely did the Feat,
Made thee thus little, and himself thus great;
And well he might, when York was in the Cheat.
The Serpent's Seed is now abroad agen,
Great Hell's Long Parliament is rais'd from's Den,
To teach young Colt his black Rebellion,
Form'd and begot by the old damn'd Stallion,
Whose pregnant Issue's quick and nimble Sense
Exactly copies the Sire's Impudence;
Treading his Steps with full and violent Force,
Flies in the Face of Majesty in course:
The young out-throws the old at least a Bar,
For he but only 'gainst the King made War.
This Start-up, bold in big and thund'ring Words,
Beards both the King, his Bishops, and his Lords,
And would assume at once, and at one hour,
The Royal Office, and the Sovereign Pow'r.

D---by's the first shall to the Slaughter go,
'Tis we, the Commons, do command it so.
As King and Peers were Shepherds in the State,
And they the only Figures of Debate.
Traitor and Parliament do seem two Things,
But equal is the venom of their Stings.
Against Prerogative they plead Privilege,
That fatal By-blow with a double Edg,
The Pride o'th' Parliament, the Country's Pledg;
By which they're jilted, and ne'er thought a Curse,
The Commons and the Countries tender Nurse;
And for their Health they let 'em Blood i'th' Purse.
You call t'account what Men with Mony have done:
Let me ask you where all your Wisdom's gone?
'Tis plain to Foreign Monarchs you have none.
Where is it then? with you 'twas left in trust;
Come you to th'Bar, and prove if you are just.
The Court has sworn it ne'er shall harbour there,
Wisdom's a Burden fit for Beasts to bear:
The City does not value it i'th' least,
Because it does not bring them Interest.
The Clergy are so full, so stuff'd with Grace,
There is no room for Wisdom in that Place.
The Lawyers have such knavish Quirks and Tricks,
That Wisdom scorns with such base Dross to mix:
By search we've found what Person let it pass,
It was exhausted as the Treasure was.
The Chancellor has confess'd, with much ado,
It was embezel'd in a Speech or two.
Th' infatuated Jews, their Sense being gone,
Made War among themselves, and still fought on,
Till they were conquer'd by Vespasian.
So you fall out like sensless Stones and Stocks,
Flying at each other ev'n like Dogs at Cocks:
To satisfy your Pride, you split on Rocks.
You've made a Vote, the Land will arm the Sea,
Because the King and Peers will not obey;

Your Engine Chiv'rell has set forth in brief
Reasons why you ought to command in chief.
Your Pride obstructs your Great Affair each Hour,
By your too saucy Privilege and Power.
In short, your renown'd Character is this:
A Curse you're to the Nation, not a Bliss.
The House of Commons is the Rabble's God,
The Courtiers Scourge, the Bishops Iron Rod,
The Lords Vexation, and the King's by—.

The D. of B's Litany.

From a proud sensual Atheistical Life?
From arming our Lackeys with Pistol and Knife;
From murd'ring the Husband, and whoring the Wife,
Libera nos Domine.

From going Ambassador only as Panders;
From re-killing dead Kings by monstrous Slanders,
And betraying the Living in Scotland and Flanders,
Libera nos, &c.

From a wild rambling no-where Abode,
Without Day or Night, not at Home nor Abroad;
From a Prince to unhorse us in Dover Road,
Libera nos, &c.

From crowning the Herse of our Babe of Adultery,
Interr'd among Kings by a Lord of the Prelacy,
Whom we got cashier'd for carnal Arsery,
Libera nos, &c.

From selling Land, twice ten Thousand a Year;
All spent, no Mortal can tell how, or where;
From reforming of Kingdoms like a sanctify'd Peer,
Libera nos, &c.

From monstrous sucking till both Tongues have blister'd;
From making our Boast of giving three Glysters;
By giving our Claps to three cheated Sisters,
Libera nos, &c.

From transposing Nature on our Bongars,
On Kynaston acting both Venus and Mars,
From owning twenty other mens Farce,
Libera nos, &c.

From wretched Pasquils 'gainst Shadwel and Dryden;
From casting Nativities with Learned Heydon,
And casting of Dollars at Antwerp and Leyden,
Libera nos, &c.

From trembling at Sea, when not a Gun roar'd,
And then stealing on Shore by breaking our Word,
With D--- if ever you catch me on Board,
Libera nos, &c.

From being still cheated by the same Undertakers,
By Levellers, Bawds, Saints, Chymists, and Quakers,
Who make us Gold-finders, and themselves Gold-makers,
Libera nos, &c.

From damning whatever we don't understand;
From purchasing at Dowgate, and selling the Strand;
From calling Streets by our Name, when we have sold the Land,
Libera nos, &c.

From borrowing our own House to feast Scholars ill,
And then be unchancellor'd against our Will,
Nought left of a College, but our College-hill,
Libera nos, &c.

From judging the Judges in a sensless Speech;
From following Sh---y that wriggling Leech,
Because by turns both—the same Bitch,
Libera nos, &c.

From mortally hating all those that love us;
From mimical acting all those above us,
Till our Master at last is forc'd to remove us,
Libera nos, &c.

From cringing to those we scorn and contemn,
In hopes to be made the Citizens Gem,
Who now scorn us more than we e'er did them,
Libera nos, &c.

From beginning an execrable trayt'rous Health,
To destroy the Parliament, King, and himself,
To be made Ducal Peer of a new Commonwealth,
Libera nos, &c.

From changing old Friends for rascally new ones;
From taking Wildman and Marvel for true ones;
From wearing green Ribbons 'gainst him gave us blue ones,
Libera nos, &c.

From lodging at Court before we are sent for;
From selling six Palaces for less than they rent for,
And buying three Hillocks for the three Kings of Brentford,
Libera nos, &c.

From learning new Morals from Bedlam Sir Payton,
And Truth and Modesty from Sir Ellis Layton;
From making our Heirs to be Morrice and Clayton,
Libera nos Domine.

Sion-Hill, College-Hill, and Clifton-Hill.

Controversial Letters between a suppos'd Atheist, and J. D. Minister of --- in Surrey.

[First Letter]

Sir John, for so in times preceding
All Priests were call'd, I find by reading;
I wonder what a Plague's the Reason,
That you are given so to Leasing:
For when at Tavern you forsook me,
You said, you'd come agen to look me;
And yet you never made appearance,
According to my old Experience.
I trusted you, because a Parson,
But such a one, I say, my A--- on;
Neither to bring thy Snout nor Purse in,
G---, you are hardly worth the cursing.
'Tis strange that you, whose Zeal's so hot,
Should break your Word for I know not what;

When I, in whom but small Zeal known is,
Still keep my Word cum viris bonis:
Such whose Throats whole Bumpers swallow,
As if they were made glib with Tallow;
And could thy Glass so soon be empty,
Thou need'st not preach while I tell twenty:
For you by Measure tell your Tale,
As well as Tapster sells his Ale;
But he, sly Rogue! has got a trick,
To cheat Mankind with Froth and Nick.
And why mayn't you, now he has taught ye,
By half the Glass instruct the Naughty?
Few words are best, the Preacher tells you,
'Tis Pride that to so many swells you:
And there's a word, be sure you scape it,
Viz. Loquitur qui pauca sapit.

But now—
I would relate some pleasant Passages,
Could I but mix my Lines like Sausages;
And hang 'em so to one another,
That one might be drawn in by t'other.
Yet come, I'll venture at 'em bolder,
And bring 'em in by head and shoulder;
As Debtor often is by Bayly,
Because he does of Payment fail you.
And thus have at it: Mrs. Mary,
Who us'd to be so coy and wary,
Is marry'd, mauger her Ambition,
To one whose best Name is Musician.
But Truth to tell, and solve the Riddle,
'Tis one that lives, Jack, by his Fiddle.
Which when I heard, I went to visit her,
About old Stories to sollicit her:
And offer'd her a Gown, or so Sir,
To manage her; but she cry'd, No Sir.
Tho in few days, when Gold was tender'd,
Kind Rogue! she quietly surrender'd.

Almighty Gold! that has no Equal,
As you will find, Jack, by the Sequel,
I forc'd the Fidler to administer
His Wife to me, by means most sinister:
Nay more, to make our Joys sublime,
He play'd, while we in Bed kept Time.
And when we had enough o'th' Fiddle,
He came to Bed, which seems a Riddle,
And still his Wife lay in the middle.
Was not this rare Life, void of Sorrow?
Give it me, tho I die to-morrow.
But you for length of days make Pray'r,
Tho they be fill'd with Grief and Care:
When I in one Week, Jack, do live
More than thy Life-time can retrieve.
Is't not a tiresom piece of Nonsense
To talk of Heav'n, of Hell and Conscience?
Words only feign'd to help the Law
To keep the Multitude in awe.
Would it not make one mad to see
How damnably you disagree?
To think how much you Priests do vary?
The Catholick says Ave-Mary,
The English Churchman does refuse it,
And the damn'd Puritan abuse it.
Thus you have differently display'd
Religion in Masquerade,
And live by it as by a Trade.
This Talk perhaps you strange will think,
But now I'm call'd away to drink,
And have no leisure to excuse it,
Therefore I pray once more peruse it.
And if you find a Thought too bold is,
Tell it your Friend

A. O.

Second LETTER.

The Parson's Answer.

Alex.

For your ungodly Letter
I must confess I am your Debtor;
Which I've oblig'd my self to answer,
To keep you from the Devil your Grandsire:
Then be not angry, I beseech you,
If better I pretend to teach you.
And now to turn you Arsi-versie,
For which I scarce expect Gramercy,
You know much better than you mention
Of Priests the damnable Dissension;
Which I perceive so much affects you,
That to mere Atheism it directs you.
But know, thou Man of Maggot gentle,
Thy Time and Humours are both spent ill;
With Wheedles striving to cajole
Thy Reason, and to damn thy Soul.
For tho so much we disagree,
Yet all believe a Deity:
Nor doubt we of Heav'n, Hell, or Conscience,
All which you treat as downright Nonsense.
And you would force your self to credit,
Merely because your self has said it:
Or may be you have been too bold in
Pleasures, you're loth to be controul'd in;
And so are willing to be thinking
There is no Heav'n but Punch and Drinking:
Which if you thought a Hell attending,
You would no doubt full soon be mending.
This will, because 'tis void of ranting,
Appear to you a sort of Canting;

And by your Maggot Instigation,
To scorn us give you fresh Occasion;
Since I better do defend
Those Truths, which I to teach pretend.
But let it pass; judg what you will on't,
I'm still resolv'd not to be silent.
Think then, dear Friend, if you to-morrow
Were to return the Breath you borrow;
Could you with Resolution mighty
Leave all those Follies that delight you,
Without a thought that might affright you?
Then when your Soul goes to inherit
Rewards, your Actions justly merit;
And has a Prospect, tho too late,
Of what must ever be its Fate;
Condemn'd in the same Flesh to find
Pains for the Pleasures left behind.
Justly they're both alike tormented,
'Cause both on Earth alike consented.
Dear Rogue, believe now I'm serious
In what I say, there's nothing various.
But grant it were not so, yet surely
It were but dying more securely:
Believe it then, lest you should know
By sad Experience it is so.
And now to shew you, I'll not spare you,
I will proceed to Mrs. Mary;
Whose easy Conquest you repeated,
As if you had all Hell defeated.
A pleasant Victory to brag on!
Did she engage you like a Dragon,
With Sting in Tail, prepar'd with Poison?
Why this you might have made a noise on:
But since she was no more than Woman,
The Victory methinks is common.
But first of me you are complaining,
Because I was from you abstaining;

And urge my Promise to come to you,
Which you could ne'er expect—
Since you were satisfy'd I knew you:
For had I come,—
My Nose had ne'er been made a Bridg on,
And then be sure good-night Religion.
Restless we'ad roll'd from Crown to Mitre,
Till Paunch had made our Purse the lighter;
And till we had in Circulation
Been drunk with all the Wines in fashion.
And thus more in one Week you live,
Than all my Life-time shall receive:
Yet be advis'd,—
And let no more your Follies guide you,
But trust your Friend and Servant,

J. D.

Third LETTER.

To the Parson.

Parson;

What makes thee thus like silly Widgeon,
Debauch Burlesque with dull Religion?
Dost think, thou Coxcomb, with a murrain,
'Twas made for thee to keep a stir in?
That 'twas design'd for thee to prate on,
And tell us Tales of dirty Satan?
Now P--- upon thee, paultry Parson,
Thou'st writ me Word of true Sense scarce one.
But not to turn you topsy-turvy,
As my Epistle you do scurvy;
I have beyond what you expected,
To you in this my Thanks directed:
The care you take to save my Spirit,
No less Acknowledgment does merit.
But O thou Man in Gospel skilful,
Thou talk'st to me as bold and wilful,

As to the godly Wife of Farmer,
When with thy Noise thou mean'st to charm her:
But know, thou Heav'nly Pettifogger,
These will not sink into my Logger—
You know my meaning by my mumping,
For good Wits ever will be jumping,
And Parsons Pulpit-Cushions thumping:
It lays more weight upon the Sentence,
And hectors Folks into Repentance.
And truth is, Thumps are much more weighty
Than any thing that they can say t'ye;
And I believe turn many Sinners,
Especially if young Beginners.
But Priest, thou know'st it, I'm an old one
In Vice, as thou say'st, and a bold one.
Why should'st thou hope then to abuse me,
And to mere Godliness seduce me?
Lord! what a Question thou wert starting!
You bid me think my self departing;
Then ask me if no Thought would fright me:
Yes faith! it plaguily would spite me
To leave this Life that does delight me.
My Moll would think it much uneven,
Should I relinquish her for Heaven,
Since she for me has that neglected:
You see how much, Jack, I'm respected;
But why did'st wish her Tail infected?
Thou dost, because I have her cock-sure,
Desire that she may get the Pox sure:
But let that pass, and hear how neatly
You preach to me a devilish great Lye;
Thy Soul, dear Friend, O have a care on't,
Will feel strange Pains in Hell, I warrant,
Because she lets thy Flesh controul her,
And on a baudy Wench cajole her:
For which thy Flesh too shall know Sorrows,
And bear a part in th'Hellish Chorus.

This is your Hell, you tell me whining;
Now hear how 'tis of my defining:
There shall some little huffing Demon,
Whom you, 'tis like, did never dream on
Altho you were the greatest Bully,
Put false Dice on you, as on Cully.
There if you go a Wench to pick up,
You shall be plagu'd with such a Hickup,
That for your Blood you shall not utter
One word of Sense to make her foutre.
But if by chance you be so happy,
By sacred D'avenant's Nose she'll clap you;
And for your Wine, drink little or much on't,
The devilish Quality is such on't,
That 'twill recal those Pleasures past,
Of which you ne'er again shall taste;
'Twill make you talk of Friend and Mistress,
And lead you into plaguy Distress:
'Tis full of Brimstone, Tartar, Lime,
'Tis always rack'd, and never fine;
And tho it still provoke your loathing,
This either you must drink, or nothing.
Thus I have told you my Opinion,
Of sooty Beelzebub's Dominion:
But you would stretch my Faith's Dimension,
To credit Hell of your Invention,
And counsel me to live demurely,
That I may die the more securely.
But dost thou think I'll baulk the Humour,
Because of thirsty hellish Rumour?
No more, good John, for all your Lying,
There is no Hell but that of dying:
Unless—
To Men, and such I hope but few are,
That do believe thy Stories true are:
Such may indeed be strangely pond'ring
On some sad Place to which they're wand'ring.

And faith, methinks, thou should'st not sleep well,
For thus distracting silly People.
I know this Letter will inspire
Your Thoughts with a most zealous Fire,
And you will still at Rhyme be nibbling,
And plague me daily with your scribbling;
'Till I am forc'd to say, controul'd lies,
Your Servant,

A. O.

The Fourth LETTER.

In Answer to the former.

Dear Friend,

Your Letter I with Grief perus'd,
Finding therein Heav'n and your self abus'd:
Which yet I hope is rather the Effect
Of Humour, than of either a Neglect:
However, lest it may too aptly find
A real Entertainment in your Mind,
I have once more endeavour'd to revive
Reason, that may incite you to believe.
But first your timely Caution I'll commend,
I'll stile you less a Satirist than Friend:
For 'tis preposterous to dress, and say
Matters so serious in a Stile so gay:
It robs them of their Weight and their Esteem,
Men waking scorn the Terrors of a Dream.
So because I did great Concerns express
In too light Measures, they to you seem'd less.
But now an apter Stile I chuse to show,
How little you to your great Reason owe.
Reason, that's lent you for a better end,
Than thus its sacred Author to offend:
Reason that did against it self dispute,
For which my Reason I would yours confute:

Reason, that like a base and cunning Enemy,
Does Faith in th'Art, not Strength of Mind defy:
Why generous Faith, in parley much too weak,
Stands fair to all the Blows its Force can make.
These mighty Rivals for thy Soul dispute,
Be valiant and reject bold Reason's Suit;
That but an earthly Pleasure does propose,
This heav'nly Joys which you shall never lose.
Say, if you can, who was't before your Birth
That gave you Life, or who 'twas made the Earth?
If all things, as you say, of Nature be,
Then you of Nature make a Deity.
Ah! miserable wilful Ignorance,
Thus to a God a Notion to advance.
Is Holy Writ so mean in your Esteem,
That you no more regard it than a Dream?
Can you contemn its just Authority,
Rejecting all its Offers as a Lye?
Why should you think an honest harmless Priest
Should thus design to lead you in a Mist?
Were there no God, why should not he, like you,
Indulge himself in sinful Pleasures too?
You think, perhaps, his dull Capacity,
In flight of Reason, cannot soar so high,
As to confirm him in his Sophistry.
Does all the learned World, but your good Sect,
Wander in Paths to Truth most indirect?
I'm of Opinion, you as probably
May err, as those that own a Deity.
Does your proud Maggot so abuse your Sense,
To make you think ours but a weak Pretence,
And only yours the mighty Argument?
For shame of so unjust a Pride repent.
If dull Religion, as you call it, be
A Cheat, what need the Actors disagree?
What need they different Opinions frame,
When they by one alone might reach the same?
You'd not care how, so you did win the Game.

Strange Light of Nature, which your Will directs
Nothing to see, but what your Light affects:
But now I'm thinking of the Hell you made;
Ah! to what future Grief you are betray'd?
To this, I fancy, with some small amends,
You, as to Heav'n, will recommend your Friends.
Let but the Wine be good, and Gaming square,
You'd not repine to live for ever there:
And let the Miss be sound, and 'tis compleat,
These would to you be Joys divinely sweet.
You'd with those sensual Pleasures ever last,
And fear Eternity made too much haste.
The old Elysium would be too severe,
There drinking is not A-la-Mode I fear;
But Mahomet's Paradise comes very near.
Howe'er it be, pray God you be so wise,
To keep your self out of Fool's Paradise;
There, I'm afraid, your self at last you'll find,
Led on by Reason, that blind Guide o'th'Mind.
Thro Labyrinths of Thought, and envious Ways,
It will conduct you to the fatal Place,
And leave you there—
Naked to Shame, to Horror, and Amaze.
O then, from such Idolatry refrain,
To worship the Chimeras of your Brain.
Make not your Faith your Reason's Sacrifice,
Which only does prevail in Fallacies:
Thus you the Deity the Victim make,
And for the God the Sacrifice mistake.
As by Rebellion Subjects oft become
Lords of their Monarch, and pronounce his Doom:
So Reason, to your wicked Nature join'd,
Rebels 'gainst Faith, whose Slave it was design'd.
For your own sake these fatal Errors mend,
And by your Penitence make glad your Friend,

J. D.

The Fifth LETTER.

In compliance to you, dull serious Maggot,
Another kind of Stile you see I ha' got:
For I have chang'd my Measure, learned Stoick,
From plain Burlesque, into Burlesque Heroick:
And all I gather can from thy Discourse
Is, prithee Friend be sober, and wear Whiskers;
Or something to that purpose not worth minding,
No more than Straw or Cherry-stones worth finding.
You first begin to tell me how you're pester'd,
To think my Soul should with such Skin be fester'd.
And truly, Parson John, I take't unkindly,
That you would have me led about so blindly;
Denying me the blessed use of Reason,
'Tis on this Ground you build this pious Treason.
And could you once deprive me of that Engine,
I quickly might believe all said by Sir John;
Therefore, I think, you'ad e'en best take it from me,
Or I much doubt you'll never overcome me.
But how that must be done I can't imagine;
No Faith, I know no way that you may fadg in,
Unless by means unlawful and uncivil,
By sending me too early to the Devil.
But, prithee, what i'th' name of—urges
Thee thus to huff at Reason like a Burgess?
And to no more effect than brutish Zealot,
Led on by Faith—
Reviles the Stage and Taverns that we reel at.
Alas, poor Reason! he has banish'd thee;
So thou, and not in vain, repair'st to me:
For I'll in thy Defence be very furious,
But first of thy Disgrace the Cause assure us.
Did'st thou rebel 'gainst Faith, and jeer the Squire,
Or did'st thou tell him plainly, that he was a Lyar?

Or did'st thou else his Nakedness expose,
Both to the sight of Eye, and scent of Nose?
Or, prithee, tell me, let me know all truly,
And I'll redress thy Grievances as duly.
He tells Mr. Parson, that in good faith and sooth,
Reason and himself were at it Nail and Tooth.
And that at last the Squire Faith arose,
And kick'd him; so they went from Words to Blows:
Reason too quick—
Laid Faith upon his Back, and in the fall
Tore his long Garment, and discover'd all
Between his Legs, that on it was before on;
The first thing Reason saw was Mah'met's Alcoran:
On his left Leg Aaron, like Corps embalmed,
In Robes of Parchment hung the Jewish Talmud;
And next within the right side of his Vestment,
In a large fair Print was a Greek Test'ment.
Many and various were the Glosses on it;
And some to this, and some to that vail Bonnet.
And 'bout this Book, like Fools, hung to be dry'd there,
Millions of Oaphs whom Faith had slily ty'd there,
Who by so small a Thred were link'd to Saviour,
That you would think them bound to good Behaviour,
Which they ne'er had nor knew.—
These shew'd the Paint which they were drest so rich in,
Like Hen and Chicken hanging in a Kitchin.
Reason was going to look on one more nearly,
But Faith repuls'd him with his Foot severely;
And presently roar'd out for you t'assist him;
You came, and saw Faith down:—
So would not Reason hear, but strait dismiss'd him.
Now the Discourse on which began the Quarrel,
Was this: Faith swore—
The Tun of Heidelberg was but a Barrel.
Reason had often seen't, and help'd to make it;
Now Faith did only upon hearsay take it.
Then had not Reason cause to contradict him,
As he declar'd he did, for which Faith kick'd him?

Reason, abus'd by you, me Guardian chose,
Resolv'd no longer to be led by th'Nose,
By Fables of Faith's making—
It seems before they'ad had another bout,
'Cause Reason could not make Faith's Story out:
For Faith was telling of one Sampson, who
A Thousand with an Ass's Jaw-bone slew;
Which Reason vow'd he ne'er could think was true.
Thus you may see they've many Bickerings had,
Enough to make my Friend, good Reason, mad;
But that he now no more with Faith will dwell,
Who kept him long in awe with Tales of Hell.
But from those needless Fears, and him releas'd,
Reason forsakes him quite, makes him a Jest;
So that of Consequence he must turn Beast,
Or something monstrous, as he was before.
Reason refin'd his Sense; and now no more
Will ought but pious Fools irrational Faith adore.
With sensless Vulgar now he must take up his Quarters,
They will do him the Honour to be torn his Martyrs.
As heretofore in Smithfield People perish'd,
For a mere darling Whimsey, which they cherish'd.

The Vision.

1.

I had an easy Dose of Wine o'er Night,
Neither too heavy, nor too light,
But just enough to make me sleep;
Without which I too certain Vigils keep.
Strange Force of Custom that can tame
The Rash, or set the Wise on flame!
But long I did not rest,
E'er Fumes dispel'd gave place
To painful Thoughts which were by them suppress'd,

And which too soon at last
Death's kind Resemblance did deface,
Making Night's quiet Minutes anxious as the Days,
And with more Terror pass.

2.

I dreamt, O Horror to repeat!
And yet I waking see't;
The miserable Image of Mankind
Still haunts my Mind,
E'er since that fatal Night it first appear'd;
When with a Visage pale and thin,
Joints loose, and Nerves remiss,
Eyes fixt and dull, and ev'ry Member out of frame,
To my Bed-side it came,
And did begin
Sadly to utter this
With low and hollow Voice scarce to be heard.

3.

Least of my Care, give ear,
And tremble at the words you hear;
Alas! I faint, I'll come more near.
My Words too much do on my Spirits prey;
I must obey
My Weakness, and sit down,
Till I recover Breath.
He said no more,
But slowly bending with an uneasy Frown
Moan'd, while my Fears had almost brought my Death,
But that with them a superstitious Zeal increas'd,
To Heaven I my self address'd;
Till he began a little louder than before.

4.

I am, said he,
The Genius of Mankind, Humanity.
For that to the deplorable Estate,
By a sad Fate,
By the Rebellion of each part,
My erring Feet pretending to give Laws

Ev'n to their King my Head,
Each Member is by Contradiction led.
My Tongue does dictate to my Heart,
My Eyes are in vast Prospects lost,
My wand'ring Thoughts are tost
From this to that, yet cannot find the Cause.

5.

Discord does ev'ry where preside,
And giddy factious Pride
Usurps the Government of all.
This his Opinion would on that impose,
A third the contrary erects;
Hence such Misfortune grows,
That each intends his own, and publick Good neglects.
Thus I at last must miserably fall,
But no longer can discourse
On things so painful to my Thought:
My Griefs are of too great a force,
These Truths thou shalt another way be taught.
Look round about thee from this Hill,
And see the World grow madder still.

6.

I look'd methought, and did with Wonder gaze
To find my self on such a lofty Place,
Where all the World did seem
Lower than Valleys do appear,
To Men that stand on the usurping Ground.
Then I began afresh to fear
Lest he would throw me headlong down;
But then again I thought 'twas but a Dream.
Then strait he thus began;
Fear not, O Man!
But with a piteous Eye,
Behold Mankind's unhappy Tragedy,
Behold thy own as well as others Misery.

7.

Then looking down,
I saw the Earth turn round,

100

And giddy Man reeling from Doubt to Doubt,
As if the Motion of the Globe infected him.
But Oh!
Drunk with Opinion of himself,
His Vessel on the Ocean tost,
He split upon the fatal Shelf
Of his own Pride, whence all his Sorrows grow:
Or else to Sea by Ignorance set out
Is miserably lost,
And sunk in vent'ring to swim.
O Ignorance profound!
Deeper than are the Seas in which the Vessel drown'd.

8.

But now a horrid and confused Cry
Strikes my Ear and draws my Eye
Another way; and there, alas!
Malice above all other Passions does prevail,
Men by each other die:
The bloody Grass
Bears witness of the foolish Guilt.
How weak, how frail
Is Man, that merely for another's Fame,
Or his own ambitious Aim,
Prostrates his Blood thus to be spilt!
Forgotten in the Grave,
With a cold Epitaph,
O valiant! or O brave!
Now whether shall I weep or laugh?

9.

Here by his Brother one is kill'd;
A Father here to his own Son does yield,
Kneels, and intreats a Life for that he gave.
The Viper does refuse;
And O eternal Shame!
Tears out the Bowels whence he came.
And neither will his Parent, nor his Virtue save;
But deaf to both, does both abuse,
And in that monstrous Act does all Mankind accuse.

101

And now at last a Peace is made,
A little Gold for all that Blood and Guilt has paid.
Thus, merely thus for Gold
Man is bought and sold,
His Life expos'd for that, for that betray'd.

10.

And now the fighting Fools retire,
Their Rage consum'd in its own Fire;
Now on both sides are given
Prayers and Thanks for Victory to Heaven:
Heav'n that favour'd neither side,
But did them both deride,
Made both its Sport;
As Men to see the Bulls, and Bears, and other Creatures fight, resort.
Poor wretched Man! from whom are hid
The things he most does court:
Desire of Knowledg is his Punishment,
Never content,
Still searching after hidden Light,
And lost in darkest Shades of Night.

11.

Thus I reflected, till at last,
Turning my Head, I saw a Throng
Of zealous and religious Fools;
Some on the Ground were prostrate cast,
Speaking more with Looks than Tongue,
And Gestures learnt from godly Schools.
Here one with Arms expanded, on his Knees
Strives t'embrace th'Ideas of his Faith;
Courting in hope the better Life, his Death,
And greedily of Hope th'imperfect Pleasures sees,
Till Heat of Zeal and Fancy fails, and lets him freeze.
Others to Dress Religion would confine,
And think the plainest Men the most Divine.

102

Some are with Faith so blind, and so much void of Sense,
Ty'd to their own Opinion, that with Joy they give
Themselves to hasty Death, disdaining then to live,
When living, they to Heav'n must give Offence.
O fond Belief! O Death to be desir'd
Before the Joys of Life, or ought that's here admir'd!

On the Marriage of the Prince and Princess of Orange.

Hail happy Warrior! whose Arms have won
The fairest Jewel in the English Crown.
Happy in th'horrid Dangers of the Field;
Happy in Courts, which brightest Beauties yield.
O Prince, whose Soul is known so truly great!
Whom Heav'n did seem to take time to create:
First the rich Ore refin'd, then did allay,
Stamp'd thee his own, not shuffled thee away.
With wonder thus we thy cool Temper prize,
Not but thou art as brave and bold as wise.
Like the true English, who approach their Fate
With Awe, and gravely first with Death debate:
They kindle slowly, but when once on fire,
Burn on, and in the Blaze of Fame expire.

Hail Princess! Hail thou fairest of thy kind!
Thou Shape of Angels with an Angel's Mind!
Whose Virtues shine, but so as to be borne,
Clear as the Sun, and gentle as the Morn.
Whose radiant Eyes like lambent Glory move;
And ev'ry Glance wounds like a Dart of Love.
How well, O Prince, how nobly hast thou fought,
Since to thy Arms such Charms the Fates have brought!
Methinks I hear thee in the Nuptial Bed,
When o'er the Royal Maid thy Arms were spread:

103

Enough, kind Heav'n! well was my Sword employ'd,
Since all the Bliss Earth holds shall be enjoy'd.
Pains I remember now with vast Delight,
Well have I brav'd the thund'ring French in Fight:
My Hazards now are Gains; and if my Blood
In Battel mix, and swell the vulgar Flood,
Her Tears (for sure she'll be so good to mourn)
Like Balm, shall heal the Wounds when I return.

But hark! 'tis rumour'd that this happy Pair
Must go; the Prince for Holland does declare,
Call'd to the dreadful Business of the War.
Go then; if thy Departure is decreed,
Thy Friends must weep, thy Enemies shall bleed.
And if in Poets Minds, their vaster Souls,
Where all at once the whole Creation rolls;
To whom the Warrior is as much oblig'd,
As to Relievers, Towns that are besieg'd;
For Death would to their Acts an end afford,
Did not immortal Verse out-do the Sword:
If ought of Prophecy their Thoughts inspire,
And if their Fury give a solid Fire;
Soft shall your Waftage be, the Seas and Wind
Calm as the Prince, and as the Princess kind:
The World why should not Dreams of Poets take
As well as Prophets, who but dream awake?
I saw the Ship the Prince and Princess bore,
While the sad Court stood crouding on the Shore:
The Prince still bowing on the Deck did stand,
And held his weeping Princess by the Hand:
Which waving oft she bid them all farewel,
And wept as if she would the Ocean swell.
Farewel the best of Fathers, best of Friends,
While the mov'd Duke with a hurl'd Sigh commend
To Heav'n his Care; in Tears his Eyes would swim,
But manly Virtue binds them in the brim.
Farewel, she cry'd, my Sister, thou dear Part,
Thou sweetest part of my divided Heart:

104

To whom I all my Secrets did unfold;
Dear Casket, who dost all my Treasure hold.
My Sister, O!—her Sighs did then renew,
Once more, O Heav'n, a long and last Adieu!

The Lord Chancellor's Speech to the Parliament.

Would you send Kate to Portugal,
Great James to be a Cardinal?
And make Prince Rupert Admiral?
This is the time.
Would you turn D---y out of Doors,
Banish Italian and French Whores,
That worser sort of Common-Shores?
This is the time.
Would you unravel Popish Plots,
Send Laud---le among the Scots,
And rid the Court of Irish Sots?
This is the time.
Would you exalt the mighty Name
Of Shaftsbury and Buckingham,
And not forget Judg Scroggs's Fame?
This is the time.
Would you our Sov'reign disabuse,
And make his Parliament of use,
Not to be chang'd like dirty Shoes?
This is the time.
Would you extirpate Pimps and Panders,
Disband the rest of our Commanders,
Send Mulg---ve after Teague to Flanders?
This is the time.
Would you give Bellasis his Due,
And hang him if his Crime proves true,
Send Petre to his Name-sake Hugh?
This is the time.

105

Would you send Confessors to tell
Powis, Stafford, Arundel,
They must prepare their Souls for Hell?
This is the time.
Would you remove our Ministers,
The cursed Causes of our Fears,
Without forgetting Turn-coat Meers?
This is the time.
Would you hang those who take Example
By Clar---n and Timber Temple,
For all such Rascals merit Hemp well?
This is the time.
Would you once bless the English Nation,
By changing of Queen Kate's Vocation,
And find one fit for Procreation?
This is the time.
Would you let Portsmouth try her Chance,
Believe Oates, Bedloe, Dugdale, Prance,
And send Barillon home to France?
This is the time.
Would you turn Papists from the Queen,
Cloister up fulsom Mazarine,
And once more make Charles King agen?
This is the time.

The Answer.

I should be glad to see Kate going,
And Great James to our Church returning,
And Prince Rupert Admiralling,
At any time.
But to turn D---y out of Doors,
Or join his Name to Common-Shores,
None will say but Sons of Whores,
At any time.

106

I'd beg t'unravel Popish Plots,
To send Laud---le to rule the Scots,
And rid all Places of all Sots,
At any time.
But for exalting of the Name
Of Shaftsbury and Buckingham,
Let him who knows them be the Man,
And do't how and when he can
At any time.
But to remember Scroggs's Name,
And to proclaim his real Fame,
I could most gladly be the Man
At all times.
There's none our Sov'reign will abuse,
Or say the Parliament's of no use,
But Rogues who're bred in filthy Stews,
And smell more rank than dirty Shoes
At this time.
I'm for disbanding Pimps and Panders,
As fast as Country kills old Glanders,
Prove Mulgrave, Teague, send him to Flanders;
But to encourage good Commanders
At all times.
I'm for giving Bellasis his Due,
Hang him and all that are untrue,
But know not where to find old Hugh
At this time.
Then to send Confessors to tell,
Powis, Stafford, Arundel,
Unless they repent, they'll go to Hell,
I say would do most wondrous well
At this time.
But to remove our Ministers,
Without the Truths of Grounds for Fears,
Would be like Olivering Gears
At this time.

107

Hang those that take an ill Example,
I say they merit Cords of Hemp well,
But I know greater Rogues than Temple
At this time.
'Tis God must bless our English Nation,
He'll do't when Whoring's out of fashion,
And Pimps shall leave their old Vocation;
I wish for happy Procreation,
At this time.
I wish Barillon sent to France,
Believe Oates, Bedloe, Dugdale, Prance,
And would let Portsmouth have her Chance
At this time.
I would turn Papists from the Queen,
No Cloister build for Mazarine,
For she is certain Trump-Marine,
But make Charles great as e'er he'as been
At all times.
But if you'd come to mend the Matter,
Leave to dissemble, lye, and flatter,
And use plain-dealing clear as Water
At all times.

Satire on old Rowley.

1

How our good King does Papists hate
At ev'ry coming Sessions!
Then of his Laws he'll nothing bate,
But make perhaps some fresh ones.
At other times he's rul'd by's Brother,
As was his Father by his Mother.

2

Silly and sauntering he goes
From French Whore to Italian,
Unlucky in whate'er he does,
An old ill-favour'd Stallion.

108

Fain the good Man would live at Ease,
And ev'ry Punk and Party please.

3

Now he by Hyde, then Clifford rules,
Osborne and up-start Fellows;
When the Whores want, they're Knaves and Fools,
As he himself can tell us.
Till then tho Parliaments complain,
He says they're rude, and hate his Reign.

4

A pretty Set he has at hand
Of slimy Portsmouth's Creatures,
G---n, Lory, Sund---d,
French Gamesters and deep Betters:
Who would reform this brutal Nation,
And bring French Slavery in fashion.

5

King of three mighty Kingdoms he
Thinks Beggars only loyal,
Knaves wise, French true, and Popery
Quite clear'd at Wakeman's Tryal.
Nay, what seem'd never to be done,
The Chits have made him hate his Son.

6

Rise drousy Prince, like Sampson shake
These green Wyths from about thee,
Banish their Dalilah, and make
Thy People no more doubt thee.
In vain they fright thee with a War,
Thou art not hated, tho they are.

7

Rogue, Knave, and Bigot all love thee,
Because they fear thy Brother,
Queen Mary's Days they would not see,
And can expect no other.
No Misery a Land can want,
Rul'd by a Fool, Goat, Tyrant, Saint.

109

8

Men say we act like Forty Two,
Yet none tells thee the Reason;
Yet when the same Diseases grow,
Like Medicines come in season.
Twice we thy Armies have o'erthrown,
And without Blood voted them down.

9

Dukes thou creat'st, yet want'st an Heir;
Thy Portuguese is barren;
Marry again, and ne'er despair
In this leud Age we are in.
Some Harry Jarmyn will be found,
To get an Heir fit to be crown'd.

10

Thy Brother York would come to Blows,
While thou art yet in Being;
He shall not rule as now he does,
While thou art yet foreseeing.
But if thou'rt wise, deceive his Hope,
Leave him to Irish, French, and Pope.

11

Thou dost not use the Pow'r in hand,
Yet for the Ills that are done,
When Rogues pretend thy own Command,
Thou'rt ready with a Pardon;
As if 'twere thy Prerogative,
That Murd'rers, Knaves, and Traytors live.

12

For shame give o'er; new Counsels chuse,
If with the Eyes of others
Thou need'st must see, thy Nation's use,
And not thy Popish Brother's.
Brother to Brother should be kind,
Yet bear thee Littleton in mind.

110

SATIRE.

Quem Natura negat dabit Indignatio Versum.

I who from drinking ne'er could spare an hour,
But what I gave to some obedient Whore,
Who hate all Satire, whether sharp or dull,
From Dryden to the Governour of Hull;
Provok'd at length to a Poetick Rage,
Resolve to share in railing at the Age.
I cannot Poet turn with worse Success,
Than thousand Fools who now infest the Press;
Whose sensless Works proclaim'd in ev'ry Street,
Like saucy Beggars, worry all they meet.
At ev'ry Shop, while Shakespear's lofty Stile
Neglected lies, to Mice and Worms a Spoil;
Gilt on the Back, just smoaking from the Press,
Th'Apprentice shews you Durfey's Hudibras,
Crown's Mask, bound up with Settle's choicest Labours,
And promises some new Essay of Babor's
If you go off, as who the Devil would stay,
He cries, Sir, Mr. Otway's last new Play,
With th'Epilogue, which for the Duke he writ,
So lik'd at Court by all the Men of Wit:
I heard an Ensign of the Guards declare,
That with him Shadwell was not to compare;
He lik'd that Scene of Nicky Nacky more,
Than all that Shadwell ever writ before.
Was't not enough, that at his tedious Play
I lavish'd half a Crown, and half a Day;
But must I find, patch'd up at ev'ry Wall,
Such Stuff that none can bear, who starves not at Whitehall?
As Rascals changing Rags for Scarlet-Coats,
Cudgel'd before set up to cut Whigs Throats;

111

So ev'ry Blockhead, that can please the Court,
Plucks up a Spirit, and turns Poet for't.
They know not that a sensless fawning Praise
Does both their Heroes and themselves disgrace;
Praising York's Loyalty's like praising his Face:
Charles only his base Treason cou'd forgive,
And York alone so good a Brother leave.
An Infamy so mean no Age has known,
To seek from Rebels hands a Brother's Crown.
From his confiding Friends he falsly ran,
And was a full-grown Knave e'er yet a Man.
The Quiet which on England he has brought,
Appears in his still carrying on the Plot:
Of which his Weakness the Foundation laid,
And Obstinacy since has perfect made.
In Scotland we a well drawn Model see
Of what he purposes we once shall be.
By Coleman's Speech at Tyburn too we find,
He has a Heart that ne'er forgets his Friend.
Coningsmark did not use a baser way,
His wretched hireling Ruffians to betray;
This Diff'rence only is betwixt them known,
This murders for a Wife, that for a Throne.
His Lady's a good Woman, God defend her!
By why are we so fond of her Hans en Kelder?
The Slave that thought he or his Seed should reign,
As surely wish'd the King untimely slain.
The one with Pox has long corrupted been,
The other visited with his Father's Sin.
Poor harmless Babe! that lab'ring in the Womb,
To hated Light all o'er diseas'd wilt come:
A wretched innocent Pledg to all the Nation,
That Parents Crimes afflict their Generation.
But while I thus on others Faults run on,
I make the same which those I blame have done;
Omit the Praises of our Gracious King,
Which ev'ry Pen should trace, and ev'ry Tongue should sing,

112

Ev'n God himself grew jealous of his Pow'r,
And curs'd all those who Creatures durst adore.
By God allow'd, by his People freely given,
Our Charles's Empire is like that of Heaven.
Those Praises do Idolatry declare,
That make a Subject with a Monarch share.
Let such as live by't then his Brother praise,
A nobler Theme my loyal Stile shall raise.
Let Dryden's Pen indulgent David blame,
And brand his Friends with hated Rebels Name:
He that could once call Charles a saunt'ring Cully,
By Portsmouth sold, and jilted by Bitch Nelly;
He that could once the Prince of Rebels praise,
With the same Hand the Tories Cause may raise.
A slavish Muse no Int'rest can advance,
He writes as Parsons preach for Sustenance.
A pamper'd Hero for the Duke's Applause,
A cudgel'd Martyr to the whiggish Cause.
A Cur that fawns on him that gave him Bread,
And growls and snarls at all the World beside.
Ungrateful, mercenary, fearful, mean,
The best of Rhymers, and the worst of Men.
While Charles reigns here, no Cloud can shade our Isle;
Those who slight James's Frown, adore thy Smile.
The threatning Storms that with thy Brother come,
Dissolve like Clouds before thy pow'rful Sun.
Spight of their Enemies, and of thy own,
Thy Peoples duteous Love will e'er be shown.
Happy thy Reign and Nestor's be thy Years,
Vain Popish Hopes, and vain be all our Fears.
May some brave Youth spring from thy Princly Blood,
Like thee forgiving, prudent, great and good;
Succeed thee late to this thy glorious Crown,
And tumble all presumptive Hopers down.
While England from her threaten'd Ills got free,
In serving him, may still give thanks to thee.

113

But to go on with my satirick Tale;
(Who thinks on him will soon forget to rail)
What Age like ours did e'er with Vice abound?
A Protestant Officer may as soon be found,
A Cuckold jealous, or a Countess sound,
As one whose Honesty 'gainst all things proof,
No Fear can shake, nor no Preferment move.
Lost Reputations shall forget to meet,
To club for nasty Verse in Jermin-street:
And, ceasing Envy, th'Innocent and Fair,
Shall hate the stiff-neck'd Priest, and love the Pray'r.
Fools shall be wanting to disperse their Rhymes,
And Shopkeepers no more complain of Times.
The Scots and Irish homeward shall resort,
And swarm no more about the English Court;
The one industrious, t'other rich shall prove,
Both shall grow honest, both shall English love,
E'er I give o'er to lash the fulsome Slaves,
To laugh at Coxcombs, and to rail at Knaves:
Who are the Men who most Mankind disgrace,
They in my Verse shall have the leading Place.
The Knave of State, will all the sneaking Throng,
Of under Rascals which to Court belong.
Or should I of the hot-brain'd Clergy treat,
Whose very Trade is naturally a Cheat;
All over Lux'ry they at Vice declaim,
Chide at ill Lives, and at good Livings aim.
A Male converted still suspected proves;
A Lady Convert, 'tis the B--- loves.
On Down they sleep, and upon Carpets tread,
Their Ancestors, the Apostles, wanted Bread.
Each lustful D--- free licence has to whore,
But the grave wary B--- may do more.
At home they lie with Pride, Spleen, Plenty stor'd,
And hire some poor dull Rogue to serve the Lord.
Where'er thou call'st, loud Scandal, will I fly,
From the proud Statesman to the sniveling Spy;

114

From Hallifax, whose Crimes now furnish Fame,
Down to Fleet Shepherd's false and abject Name.
The first, that he all Villains might exceed,
His Honour sold for what he did not need.
An Atheist once; now Popery has profess'd,
Finding that suit with his good Morals best.
He'as sold his Country, and his King abus'd,
Join'd with scorn'd Chits, he'as Innocence accus'd,
And is at last ev'n by those Chits refus'd.
From Crime to Crime, he by degrees runs on,
Not safe from one till he has a greater done.
But he so false, and so contemn'd does grow,
His Fellow-Rogues trust him no longer now;
Yet use him still, and have found out a fit
Employment for my Lord's prodigious Wit.
For join'd with Roger, he with like Applause
Does write dull railing Libels for the Cause.
But he so often lyes to every Fool,
That on that Theme his Son could scarce be dull.
Seymour in every Quality does surpass,
Which may a sensless sawcy Turncoat grace.
By's breeding he for Cottrel's Place is fit,
And may the Bantam courtly Envoy meet,
And for his Learning may on Woolsack sit.
For Eloquence he may grave Finch succeed,
And for his Courage Tory Forces lead.
These with his Knav'ry, Pride, and Country's Hate,
Accomplish him for Minister of State.
As Schoolboys heat their Gigs to make 'em calve,
And from their old one a small Offspring have:
So our diminutive Statesman Falkland looks,
As if from Seymour fall'n at Arran's Strokes.
Mony, we know, him to Preferment brought;
He ought to hide how he the Mony got.
Let Albemarle no more Desert pretend,
That from the worthy Monk he does descend.

115

His Title's all that by his Birth he gains,
While his base Life the noble Fountain stains,
The General's is lost, the Sempstress' Blood remains.
The Father England's Freedom did regain,
The Son conspires t'enslave it once again.
Him a true Soldier of the Age we see,
He has nor Courage, Sense, nor Honesty.
A needless Foil to th'Hero he succeeds,
That dares not justify the Guards he leads.
Lord! how the Tories will the City rout,
While he the Horse, and Grafton leads the Foot.
In their Sires steps the H---s have better grown,
Wh'entail'd it on his Line to cheat the Crown.
Their Father was the Founder of that Ill,
Which his two Sons are lab'ring to fulfil,
Their Lordships stink of the old Lawyer still.
The first to J---s his prostrate Daughter wed,
Then brought a barren Imp to C--- his Bed.
To equal him his pious Sons, at strife,
One cheats the Husband, t'other robs the Wife.
The first for Mu---ve's famous Cuckold known,
Does the King's Bastards starve to keep his own.

*D***by's Farewel.*

Farewel my Tom D---by, my Pimp and my Cheat,
'Twas for my own Ends I made you so great:
The Plot is discover'd, our Mony's all spent,
I'll leave you to hang and my self to repent.
Our Masters the Commons begin now to war,
And swear they will either have you or my Whore.
Then D***by forgive me, if I am forsworn,
And leave you to die like a Traitor forlorn.

116

An Allusion.

When Israel first provok'd the living Lord,
He scourg'd their Sin with Famine, Plague, and Sword:
Still they rebell'd; then God in's Wrath did fling
No Thunderbolt among them, but a King.
A James-like King was Heav'ns severest Rod,
The utmost Vengeance of an angry God.
God in his Wrath sent Saul to punish Jewry,
And James to England in a greater Fury:
For Saul in Sin was no more like our James,
Than little Jordan can compare to Thames.

The Prodigal.

The Prodigal's return'd from Husks and Swine,
Such was the first, and so, great Ch**es, is thine;
Who to his Sov'reign's Favour did aspire,
From's wall'wing in the Town, and Wapping Mire.
The fatted Calf, this for a Convert slew;
But e'er this Prodigal does prove so too,
Oats shall turn honest, Armstrong shall prove true.
The House then sign'd his Pardon: Death attends,
Seal'd to ten thousand of thy dearest Friends.
Swoln Asps and Adders on his Tongue do nest,
E'er long thou'lt find 'em crawl into thy Breast:
And that sly Snake which stung thy Brother's Heel,
Him gnawing next within thy Heart thoul't feel.
Thy Counsellors shall fall, thy Judges bleed,
And Jefferys, doom'd before, shall now be flea'd
By the num'rous Croud, and Monmouth at the Head.
These were the noble Acts proclaim'd him Great,
At every Hedg-Cabal, and City-Treat.

117

Well he deserves it: Let him be prefer'd
The Captain of your Horse, and of your Guard.
And he who 'gainst your Life with Knaves conspir'd,
Be for your better Angel now admir'd.

You once proclaim'd him Traytor! where's the Reason
If Traytors meet not the Reward of Treason?
What Fondness to a Prodigal lost Fool,
Should both your Justice and the Laws o'er-rule?
Declare what mighty Wonders he has done,
That of a Rebel you adopt a Son.
What signal Service has deserv'd this Grace?
What Narratives, what Legends ring his Praise?
This would to th'astonish'd World make some amends,
Tho he declare the contrary to his Friends.
You tell of Wonders that he did confess:
Tell us what 'tis, we'll pay you in Address.
Address upon Address deserves one more,
And damn the Plot, and let the Whigs adore.
Then honest Men shall be in Plots insnar'd,
And Rumbold's Blunderbuss shall be your Guard.
You generously told us once before,
He was the Son of an anointed Whore.
This Truth you once were willing to declare,
And will you now exalt him in the Chair?
Make him your Son, he'll make himself your Heir.
This will record how fit you are to rule,
Great, good, wise Charles, out-banter'd by a Fool.

And what's become of all the Noise and Pother
Of Justice, Conscience, and our dearest Brother;
Of all the Loyal Youths his Int'rest own'd,
If Heirs must be depos'd, and Rebels crown'd?

Augustus Treasons lov'd, and so do you;
Will you with Julius hug the Traytor too?
Once was he such, pray Heav'n he be'nt so still;
Where Mischief's nurs'd to do some glorious Ill,
Give him the Pow'r, he'll never want the Will.

118

Sooner expect the Tyger will be tam'd,
Than once a Traytor ever be reclaim'd.

To be written under the Dutchess of Portsmouth's Picture.

Had she but liv'd in Cleopatra's Age,
When Beauty did the Earth's great Lord engage;
Britain, not Egypt, had been glorious made,
Augustus then like Julius had obey'd.
A nobler Theme had been this Poet's Boast,
That all the World for Love had well been lost.

ANSWER.

Oh that she'ad liv'd in Cleopatra's Age,
And not in ours, to fill us all with Rage!
To see Great Britain thus by her betray'd,
And Ch***es, who once was great, a Beggar made.
Of such a Theme no Poet sure will boast,
That would have stole the Pearl that then was lost.

ANOTHER.

Sure we do live in Cleopatra's Age,
Since Sun**land does govern now the Stage.
She of Septimius had nothing made,
Pompey alone had been by her betray'd.
Were she a Poet she would surely boast,
That all the World for Pearls had well been lost.

SATIRE.

Unhappy Island! what hard Fate ordains,
That thou should'st change thy Liberty for Chains?
Thou who to stubborn Nations once gav'st Law,
And kept the jarring World in peaceful Awe;

119

Holding that Ballance in thy steddy Hand,
By which the Weaker does the Strong withstand;
From Goths and Vandals long in vain set free,
And now thy self become a Colony,
The Scots and Irish are repriz'd in thee.
Starv'd Fugitives scatter'd by Want abroad,
Great Travellers for want of an Abode,
All meet in Swarms in this unlucky Place,
To lead our Armies, and our Counsels grace.
While croaking Priests, and greedy Troops devor,
The faithful Land with sacrilegious Pow'r.
Prevailing Nonsense Reason over-rules,
And Providence has giv'n us up to Fools.
Fools did th'excluding of a Fool prevent,
By a Rebellion Fools have Slav'ry sent,
And Fools confirm it still in Parliament.
Talbot Supplies of Fools from Ireland sends,
And Cl---don's return'd to make amends.
The Fav'rite Brother wears th'Almighty Rod,
Courted and prais'd by each created Toad,
The Sorcerer repines to be a God.
Pharaoh and he these Plagues of Egypt bring,
And such our Fate must be, while such our King.
Conspiring Sun***land still saves the Tide,
A Knave most useful to the unjustest Side:
And does as fit an Instrument now prove
Of lawless Pow'r, as once adulterous Love.
The little Chit does scarce deserve Rebuke,
That looks behind the Chair as if 'twould puke;
Beats time with Politick Head, and all approves,
Pleas'd with the Charge of the Queen's Muff and Gloves.
Much fam'd in Youth for Poetry and Sense,
By Jack Berkeley's early Correspondence.
But who can our great Chancellor describe,
The noisy Oracle of the Scarlet Tribe?
Of James's Instruments the keenest Tool,
The hottest, pertest and the boldest Fool:

120

Chose early, by himself design'd for Glory,
Since Whig-Law yielded first to conqu'ring Tory:
A mortal Enemy to saucy Charters,
Now less in fashion than the Book of Martyrs:
Than sharp L'Estrange, a more admir'd Prater,
Wittier in Bench than he in Observator.
O for some skilful Painter now to draw
The Western Triumph of avenging Law!
When angry Justice with resistless Force,
Not like a Stream, but Torrent stopt its Course;
Nor poorly bore a single Rebel down,
In Shoals the Wretches fell beneath his Frown.
Kirk the poor Beast did but for Hunger prey,
And only hang'd a Rogue that could not pay:
For Luxury the Wolf and Lion kill,
And scarce take time to taste the Blood they spill.
Now, Fame, thy Trumpet sound, thy Man of War
Great Feversham appears with his triumphant Star,
To the Clouds bear him in thy airy Chair.
Let Oglethorp be pinion'd to his Wing,
And as he tells the Tale, so do thou sing
His Courage, such as needs not Conduct's Aid,
Conduct makes Generals but seem afraid:
Therefore he scorns much to be found prepar'd,
And sent his Men to rest without a Guard.
O but for that unlucky Knock he gat
By Block, too sympathetick to his Pate,
When he his Brother Craven did aspire
To equalize in vain in quenching Fire,
Where might not James his Conqu'ring Army lead?
But Brains are some want in a General's Head.

Now, Muse, let thy just Indignation cease,
Touch not the lowsy Vermin after these.
When such a Quarry does thy Vigour claim,
Scorn to descend to an ignoble Game.
Thus while the Huntsman eagerly in view,
A foaming Boar or Lion does pursue,

121

Safe to their Holes the Fox and Badger creep,
And dare not look abroad, but stink and sleep.

Let honest Laureat now, whose pliant Rhymes,
With his Religon, wait upon the Times,
Rail at the Man who these bold Truths has told,
And call him dull Phanatick, Whig and Scold;
Franklyn, Lloyd, Sackville, and the meaner Rout
Of little Underlings, that sit about,
Pretend they know the Author by his Stile:
I've eas'd my Mind, and will securely smile.

A New Ballad:

To the Tune of Trenchmore.

1

What do Members now ail,
To the King to turn Tail,
Nor in Loyalty more to persevere?
With them lies the blame,
For he's still the same,
And as he is like to be ever.

2

'Tis a kind of gainsaying
To Passive Obeying,
To be govern'd by your own Senses:
The King does no more
Than you did before,
When with the use of those he dispenses.

3

With a new turn'd Devotion
They quit their Promotion;
They slighted Laws, now they adore 'em:
'Cause the Test makes 'em swear
The Bread is still there,
Since they think they see it before 'em.

125

4

The religiously Wise
With the Church should advise,
Not with Canterbury, or with Pauls:
For no Trick can stir 'em,
Since Chester and Durham
Are standing Councils for Souls.

5

For Temporal Grudges
Repair to the Judges,
There's nothing to them a hard Motion:
Could they have been scar'd
With a Question too hard,
Their Lordships had lost their Promotion.

6

But why should John Moor
See more than before
Strange Scruples, at which he grows troubled?
And what does bewitch
Our Loyal Sh'riff Rich,
By Conscience now to be bubbled?

7

But yet by good hap
There's Moses in Gap,
Who has compass'd that which may please you:
Smart Craven's Address
Has found strange success,
And the Protestants they shall have ease too:

8

Naval shall be free
As Nature should be;
There is granted a large Commission,
With a full good Intent,
It comes beyond Trent
From the Generous Inquisition.

126

To Mr. Julian.

Julian , in Verse, to ease thy Wants, I write,
Not mov'd by Envy, Malice, or by Spite;
Or pleas'd with th'empty Names of Wit or Sense,
But merely to supply thy want of Pence.
This did inspire my Muse, when out at heel,
She saw her needy Secretary reel;
Griev'd that a Man so useful to the Age,
Should foot it in so mean an Equipage.
A crying Scandal! that the Fees of Sense,
Should not be able to support th'Expence
Of a poor Scribe, who never thought of Wants,
When able to procure a Cup of Nants.
But Dulness sits at Helm, and in this Age
Governs our Pulpits, Councils, and the Stage.
Here a dull Counsellor ador'd we see;
And there a Poet duller yet than he;
With beardless Bishop, dullest of the three.
'Tis dangerous to think—
For who by thinking tempts his jealous Fate,
Is strait arraign'd as Traytor to the State:
And none that come within the Verge of Sense,
Have to Preferment now the least pretence.
Nay Poets, guilty of that Treason prov'd,
Are by a general Hiss from Court remov'd.
Shakespear himself reviv'd, finds no success,
And living Authors sure must hope for less.
Since Dullness then finds more success than Wit,
This Poem, Julian, cannot chuse but hit.
But for thy Profit, Julian, have a care
Of prying Poultney, and of Bully Carr:
In them there's Danger, for the one does write
With the same Prowess, the other us'd to fight.
Next florid Huntingdon and civil Grey,
Who knew his Grace was gone, but not which way:

127

'Twere needless here, and tedious too to name
All that are envious of poor Poets Fame:
Consult thy sacred Volume, and thou'lt find,
Some who to Reverend Dulness have been kind:
To those obsequious cringe with humble Bow,
With Court-like Scrapes, and with submissive Brow;
Since from their num'rous Party thou may'st hope,
More than Prance, Oates or Bedlow from the Pope.
Thirsis has gain'd Preferment by a Song,
While Hudibras does starve among the Throng,
Nay, minion Shadwell cannot hold out long.

There lives a Lord, a Noble Peer is he,
Whose Conscience is as pliant as his Knee;
Whose easy Temper, by Good-nature mov'd,
Does make him universally belov'd.
He once pretended to a share of Sense;
But for that Insolence and bold Offence,
The Council wisely banish'd him from thence.
He, finding those Pretences ominous,
Is grown at length as dull as one of us.
Him make thy Friend, and if that Method fail,
Prepare thee in these following Terms to rail.

May Hewet's Billets-deux successful prove,
In tempting of her little Grace to Love:
May Anglesey think Bribery a Sin;
His Countess pull it out when it's once put in:
May Arlington his little Brat despise,
And she no more the Name of Dutchess prize:
May puzzling Howard live by Poetry,
And Cleaveland die for want of Leachery:
May Monmouth quit his Int'rest in the Crown,
Mall Howard never grin, and Nelly never frown:
May Betty Mackrel cease to be a Whore,
And Villain Frank kiss Mazarin no more.

128

To the Tune of Joan Sanderson:

The Cushion-Dance at White-Hall by way of Masquerade.—

Enter Godfrey Aldworth, follow'd by the King and Duke Hand in Hand.
King.
The Trick of Trimming is a fine Trick,
And shall we go try it once again?

Duke.
The Plot it will no farther go.

King.
I pray thee wise Brother, why say you so?

Duke.
Because the Bastard will not come to.

King.
He must come to, and he shall come to,
And he must come whether he will or no.

Enter the Duke of Monmouth out at heels.
Chorus.
Welcome thou Rebel Son, Welcome,
Welcome.

The Dance ended.
Enter the Duke of Grafton looking wisely, the Duke of Richmond with the Keys of the Muse, his Grace of Albemarle with his Commission, Sidney with his Pardon, they dance the Hay.—Albemarle falls asleep, Richmond gets to's Book, Grafton looks like a Fool, and Sidney lets a Fart.
Exeunt Omnes.

Satire.

Among the Race of England's modern Peers,
There's one whose Looks betray his leuder Years;
Whom early Nature for all Ill did frame,
And time increas'd not faster than his Fame:
Unheard-of Vices were his study'd Care,
Th' effects of which his rotten Ruins were.

129

His sight's a Terror to the boldest Punk,
Who shuns him more than Pembroke when he's drunk.
But tho to Pox and Impotence confin'd,
His Body's less corrupted than his Mind.
Both Politick and Hero he'd be thought,
By James's Ruin he has Judgment bought,
And Epsom-Hedg can witness how he fought.
To a Soul so mean ev'n Shadwell is a Stranger;
Nay, little Sid, it seems, less values danger:
The most hen-hearted Wretches of the Age,
Who ne'er durst give offence, but on the Stage.

But on such Trash my time were ill bestow'd;
Those Hackney Cowards in the Common Road.
The Man, whose Character I would relate,
From Infamy defin'd divines his Fate.
'Tis France can tell where he the Broil began,
Engag'd his Friend, and then away he ran.
This is that worship'd Idol, who with's Pen
Detracts the best of Monarchs, best of Men:
Whose Libels wholly tend to move Sedition,
Like those good Men, who now-a-days petition.
Falshood and Knavery his Morals guide,
A Stain to Honour, and a Slave to Pride;
Yet courts and flatters you in ev'ry place,
And all the while designing your Disgrace;
The most fantastick of all Fools i'th' Nation,
Industrious only to be out of Fashion,
Which he affects from tawny A--- A---n,
That tawdry, impudent, insipid Baron,
Who to be Fop Supreme does drudge and labour,
And whom on Earth nothing can match but Baber:
He of the Two's the more Authentick Ass,
As witness his translating Hudibras;
And prating still of Poetry and Writing,
In which he just succeeds as in his Fighting.

But besides these there is another sort,
Infects the Coffee-House, as these haunt the Court:

130

A sort of Rascals, in whose tainted Veins
The Blood of their rebellious Fathers reigns:
And Broods of creeping Rogues of mungrel Races,
Whose Principles are fatal as their Faces.
Such abject Animals! one would forswear
Ev'n witty Men to find such Vermin there:
Villains that Faction daily do foment,
And practise to defame the Government:
Assembling their Cabal, at whose discretion
The Royal Line must prostrate the Succession.
What Times we live in, when such Beasts as Clud,
The Whartons, Jepson, and that Blockhead Wood,
The Ashes, Bradbury, and mad Sir John,
Blunt, Marshal, St. John, Spicer, Ireton,
Merry, and Cuckold Smithsby, Harris, Cope,
The Patron of the Faction-burning Pope;
Chase, Lower, Negus, Tizard, all the Shrubs,
Of Kings head, Dragon, and of Ashley Clubs.
When Insects, such as these, from Filth begun,
Thy Peace disturb, and slight thy milder Sun;
Shine, out great Cæsar, let thy glorious Heat
Declare thee pow'rful, as thou'rt truly Great.
Disperse those saucy Flies, that tempt thy Flame,
At nothing less than thy Destruction aim.
To Mon---th, Sh---ry, and Maxfield bring
The just Resentments of an injur'd King.
Call home thy banish'd Brother, by whose Hand,
Being Lord o'th'Sea, thou'rt King again at Land.
Let that wrong'd Prince enjoy his antient Right,
The Sailor's Genius, and their God in Fight.
Then shall the Navy stretch its joyful Wings,
While every Muse of Britain's Triumph sings.
The French no more shall dare our Ships despise,
But Homage pay where-e'er thy Standard flies.
All honest Men with Signs of Joy shall greet
This prosp'rous Leader, and thy matchless Fleet;
Whose happy Conduct shall again restore
Those Wreaths of Glory which our Fathers wore.

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Then Knaves and Plotters shall be publick made,
And we no more of Perjuries afraid.
The Nations all throughout will then proclaim
Th'Injustice done to his Illustrious Name:
And thou, great King, rejoice above the rest,
With such a Subject, and a Brother blest.

The Answer.

Among the writing Race of Modern Wits,
Blest be his Pen, whoe'er it be, that writ
In Numbers soft the Politick Petition,
I'th' Name of all the honest Men o'th' Nation.
Wishing for Parliaments deserves rebuke,
For good Men now a-days wish for the Duke.
The first, whose Character I would relate,
For want of Wit and Fashion finds his Fate;
There's not so false, so infamous a thing,
So leud a Wretch in Court, God bless the King.
To Pox and Impotence much more confin'd,
As gravely politick, and no more refin'd.
In's Heart less Honesty, in's Bones more Dryness,
Just such another Hero as his Highness.
Had this leud Wretch but his deserved Fall,
Wit then and Truth might flourish at Whiteball.
For Lauderdale's as honest, as well featur'd,
As little treacherous as he's ill-natur'd.
Mulgrave's a Pattern of Humility,
Of sweet Deportment, and of Chivalry.
Deep plotting Plymouth is the Nation's Glory,
And sprightly Grafton deeply read in Story:
Their Wit and pretty Morals speak 'em plain,
Sprung from the best of Monarchs, best of Men.

Griffin's a dainty thing, would he but dance,
And Sun---land's a very Scourge to France.

Youthful St. Al---ns, fam'd for Piety,
And humble N---port for kind Courtesy.

132

For Stratagems in War, there's Albemarle,
Hewet's not fitter for a General.
Yet when all's done, there's no Man can compare,
For Carriage, Youth, and Beauty, with Sir Carre.

But besides these, there is another sort
Adorns the Coffee-House, as these grace the Court:
A Race of high-born Heroes, in whose Veins
The Blood of their illustrious Fathers reigns.

There's great Sir George, who never cheats at play,
Hates lying much, and scorns to run away;
Abhors to flatter, and is shy to lend
His healthy Mistress to his wealthy Friend.

By his Discourse Lumley gives great Diversion,
But he's most famous for his true Conversion.

Good-humour'd Sackville, once a Senator,
With his Crevat-string keeps but little stir;
Has a bewitching Face, and that's a Blessing,
For those that have it, need not mind their Dressing.

'Twere labour lost, after these three, to name
Honest Frank Newport, and well-shap'd He'ningham,
Musician Pack, Fox, Lucy, Hastings, Frazier,
Sarah's Charles Deering, faithful Barry's Parker,
Matthews and Courtney, by whose Swords and Brains,
Our Cæsar wisely and discreetly reigns,
Spite of those saucy Flies, who tempt his Flame,
Daring their Cares and Liberties to name:
Infamous Rascals, by a double Brand,
For they all hate the Pope, and some have Land;
And Land was ever held the greatest Slander,
By gentle Poet, and by small Commander.

133

SATIRE.

Since all the Actions of the far-fam'd Men
Of Athens, Rome, and Sparta, by the Pen
Of learned Plutarch are distinctly known,
For which he is unequal'd in Renown:
Why may not I, by his Success inspir'd,
Tread in his Steps, and be as much admir'd?
My Heroes are unquestionably brave,
Have Valour to o'ercome, and Mercy have to save.
For Birth and Quality they yield to none,
Should they from Jove descend to fill a Throne:
For who is ignorant throughout the Land
Of famous Bedloe, or the more fam'd Southerland?
The antient Britain's proud to own the one,
And fertile Scotland from the frozen Zone,
Proclaims she's prouder of her Hero's Birth,
Than were she Mistress of the whole known Earth.
These Heroes both did for the Wars prepare,
In France and Flanders both reap'd equal Share
Of Glory and Renown.—

But hold! before my Muse leads me too far,
I of their Education must declare.
They are alike in the Laconick Law,
Hardly bred up to Want, and lie in Straw:
These hopeful Youths their Breeding underwent
With Constancy, and fasted with Content;
But as in Sparta, by Lycurgus' Rule,
The Youths had nought to eat but what they stole,
And who was caught was punish'd for the Fool:
So they in unknown Paths their Lives did lead,
And for their bare Subsistence stole their Bread.
In equal Ballance yet hung their Renown,
But now the British Hero I must own;

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Must vail his Bonnet to the nobler Scot,
And in a

A Prison.

Naskin mourn his fatal Lot.
While Industry and want of Clothes conspir'd,
To make our Northern Hero more admir'd.
Whate'er he undertook, prov'd fortunate,
He often stole, but never yet was caught.
With Art he'd lift a Shop, could file a Cly,
Or give a Coach the Ambiguity.
And that his Vertues you may throughly know,
By what unpractis'd Ways he stole, and how;
Upon the lofty Walls of Lincolns-Inn,
Coming from Holbourn, I have often seen
A Tongs, which closely lay at the Command
Of this our Hero's most unerring Hand:
And when a flutt'ring Spark did walk that way,
It did its Master tenderly obey,
And snapt the Hat and Perriwig for a Prey.
Or when a gentle Cully he did spy,
Equip me with a George, he strait wou'd cry,
Or d---mee, Sir, I'll clap you thro the Thigh.
Thus with a thousand ways that I could name,
By which he earn'd his Bread, and purchas'd Fame,
He does at last most splendidly resort
Unto his proper Sphere, the glorious Court;
Where without Envy at the Helm he'll sit,
Advanc'd as much for's Beauty, as his Wit:
Yet can't forget his old delightful way,
But must cry,—Jack, what have you stole to-day?

A Letter from the Duke of M---th to the King.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport,
Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court;
Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors,
And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores;

135

The Scene of Laughter, and the common Chats
Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats;
Forc'd to a private Life, to whore and drink,
On my past Grandeur, and my Follies think.
Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab,
Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choke or stab,
Rather than be the Issue of a King,
And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a thing.
How little cause has Mankind to be proud
Of noble Birth, the Idol of the Croud?
Have I abroad in Battels Honour won,
To be at home dishonourably undone?
Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine
With all those gaudy Trifles, once call'd mine;
Your Hobby-Horses, and your Joys of State;
And now become the Object of your Hate:
But, d---mee, Sir, I'll be legitimate.
I was your Darling, but against your Will;
And know that I will be the People's still.
And when you're dead, I and my Friends the Rout,
Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout;
And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring,
Next after you, by ------, I will be King.

The King's Answer.

Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son,
Thou hast thy self unhappily undone;
And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more,
How much thou hast inrag'd thy Father's Whore.
Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head,
And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led.
Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys,
The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys?
Have I so oft sent thee with Cost to France,
To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance?

136

Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star,
And sent thee like a Meteor to the War?
Have I done all that Royal Dad could do,
And do you threaten now to be untrue?
But say I did with thy fond Mother sport,
To the same Kindness others had resort;
'Twas my Good-nature, and I meant her Fame,
To shelter thee under my Royal Name.
Alas! I never got one Brat alone,
My Mistresses are by each Fop well known,
And I still willing all their Brats to own.
I made thee once, 'tis true, the Post of Grace,
And stuck upon thee every mighty Place,
Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow
Grew dull with Honour, and my Power low.
I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose
With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes
By secret Envy at thy growing State,
I lost my Safety when I made thee Great.
There's not the least Injustice to you shewn,
You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne.
Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badg
Bestow'd by Fits, and snatch'd away in Rage;
And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves,
I may take from them when my Portsmouth raves.
Thou art a Creature of my own Creation,
Then swallow this without Capitulation.
If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a clutter,
And make the People for your sake to mutter,
For my own Comfort, but your Trouble know,
G---fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.

137

*The Ghost of honest Tom Ross, to his Pupil the Duke of M***mouth.*

Shame of my Life! Disturber of my Tomb!
Base from thy Mother's prostituted Womb!
Huffing to Cowards, fawning to the Brave,
To Knaves a Fool, to credulous Fools a Knave,
The King's Betrayer, and the popular Slave.
Like Samuel, at the Negromantick Call,
I rise to tell thee, God has left thee, Saul.
I strive in vain thy infected Blood to cure,
Streams will run muddy when the Spring's impure.
In all your prosp'rous Life we plainly see
Old Taff's invincible Sobriety.
The Place of Master of the Horse, and Spy,
You, like Tom Howard, did at once supply.
From Sydney's Blood your Loyalty did spring,
You shew us all your Fathers, but the King;
From whose too tender, and too bounteous Arms,
(Unhappy he whom such a Viper warms)
As dutiful a Subject as a Son,
To your true Parents, the whole Town, you run.
Read, if you can, how th'old Apostate fell,
Out-do his Pride, and merit more than Hell:
Both he and you were gloriously bright,
The first and fairest of the Sons of Light.
But when, like you, he offer'd at the Crown,
Like him, your angry Father kick'd you down.

138

A Poem on the Bishops throwing out the Bill of Exclusion.

The grave House of Commons, by hook or by crook,
Resolv'd to root out the Pope and the Duke;
Let them vote, let them move, let them do what they will,
The Bishops, the Bishops have thrown out the Bill.

There was Hereford, Winnington, Hamden and Birch,
Did verily think to establish the Church:
But now they do find it's past all their Skill,
For the Bishops, the Bishops have thrown out the Bill.

Sir William endeavour'd, as much as he could,
To shew that the Bill was for the Duke's Good,
For that disinherits the Man we would kill,
The Bishops, &c.

Paul Wharton that stood behind Sir Richard Cary,
To confront, as he thought, the Plenipotentiary;
Little thought, when he rudely had bawl'd out his fill,
That the Bishops, &c.

There is little Reason the dull six and twenty
Should oppose the whole Nemine Contradicente,
And what they bring forth in its Infancy kill;
For the Bishops, &c.

The wise Earl of Shaftsbury, Monmouth, and Grey,
Lord Essex, Lord Howard, Lords Et cætera,
Tho they have drawn in the Lord Privy Seal,
Yet the Bishops, &c.

139

Old Rowley was there to sollicite the Cause,
Against his own Life, the Church, and the Laws;
Yet he might have liv'd safely against his own Will,
Had the Bishops, the Bps, not thrown out the Bill.

His Highness for fear to Scotland is gone,
The Cov'nant to take, and be crown'd at Scoon;
But now he may e'en come home if he will,
For the Bishops, &c.

Had he known this before, or some of the Gang,
He had sav'd his Guineas to Sir John Whitwang,
And might at St. James's have plotted, his fill;
For the Bishops, &c.

Had not Bishops been suffer'd in the House for to sit,
He had been like his Grandfather Jemmy beshit;
But now he's as safe as a Thief in a Mill,
For the Bishops, &c.

The best of Expedients the Law can propose,
Our Church to preserve, and quiet our Foes,
Is not to let Lawn-sleeves our Parliament fill,
But throw out the Bishops that threw out the Bill.

A Familiar Epistle to Mr. Julian, Secretary to the Muses.

Thou common-shore of this Poetick Town,
Where all our Excrements of Wit are thrown:
For Sonnet, Satire, Baudry, Blasphemy,
Are empty'd and disburden'd all on thee.
The cholerick Wight untrussing in a Rage,
Finds thee, and leaves his Load upon thy Page.

140

Thou Julian! O thou wise Vespasian rather,
Dost from this Dung thy well-pick'd Guineas gather.
All Mischief's thine; transcribing thou wilt stoop
From lofty Middlesex to lowly Scroop.
What times are these? when in that Hero's room
Bow-bending Cupid does with Ballads come,
And little Aston offers to the B---.
Can two such Pygmies such a Weight support?
Two such Tom-Thumbs of Satire in a Court?
Poor George grows old, his Muse worn out of fashion,
Hoarsly she sings Ephelia's Lamentation.
Less art thou help'd from Dryden's Bed-rid Age,
That Drone has left his Sting upon the Stage.
Resolve me, poor Apostate, this main Doubt;
What hope hast thou to rub this Winter out?
Know and be thankful then, for Providence
By me has sent thee this Intelligence.

A Knight there is, if thou can'st gain his Grace,
Known by the Name of the hard-favour'd Face;
For Prowess of his Pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote descended lineally:
And tho, like him, unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in Attempts of Wit and Love;
Of his unfinish'd Face what shall I say,
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red Clay?
That much, much Ocre was on it bestow'd,
God's Image 'tis not, but some Indian God.
Our Christian Earth can no Resemblance bring
But Ware of Portugal for such a thing:
Such Carbuncles his fiery Cheeks confess,
As no Hungarian Water can redress.
A Face, which could he see (but Heav'n was kind,
And to indulge his Self-love made him blind)
He durst not stir abroad for fear to meet
Curses of teeming Women in the Street.
The best could happen from that hideous Sight,
Is that they should miscarry with the Fright,
Heav'n guard 'em from the Likeness of the Knight.

141

Such is our charming Strephon's outward Man,
His inward Parts let those describe who can:
But by his Monthly Flow'rs discharg'd abroad;
'Tis full, brim full of Pastoral and Ode.
One while he honour'd Birtha with his Flame,
And now he chaunts no less Lovisa's Name:
For when his Passion has been bubbling long,
The Scum at last boils up into a Song.
And sure no mortal Creature at one time
Was e'er so far begon with Love and Rhyme.
To his dear self of Poetry he talks,
His Hand and Feet are scanning as he walks:
His squeezing Looks, his Pangs of Wit accuse,
The very Symptoms of a breeding Muse;
And all to gain the great Lovisa Grace,
But never Pen did pimp for such a Face.
There's not a Nymph in City, Town, or Court,
But Strephon's Billet-deux have been her Sport.
Still he loves on, yet still as sure to miss
As he that was an Æthiop's Face or his.
What Fate unhappy Strephon does attend,
Never to get a Mistress or a Friend?
Strephon both Wits and Fools alike detest,
Because, like Æsop's Bat, half Bird, half Beast:
For Fools to Poetry have no Pretence,
And common Wit supposes common Sense.
Not quite so low as Fool, nor quite a top,
He hangs between them both, and is a Fop.
His Morals, like his Wit, are motley too,
He keeps from arrant Knave with much ado;
But Vanity and Lying so prevail,
That one Grain more of each would turn the Scale.
He would be more a Villain had he time,
But he's so wholly taken up with Rhyme,
That he mistakes his Talent: All his Care
Is to be thought a Poet fine and fair.
Small-Beer and Grewel are his Meat and Drink,
The Diet he prescribes himself to think.

142

Rhyme next his Heart he takes at Morning-peep,
Some Love-Epistle at the hour of Sleep:
So between Elegy and Ode we see,
Strephon is in a Course of Poetry.

This is the Man ordain'd to do thee good,
The Pelican to feed thee with his Blood.
Thy Wit, thy Poet, nay, thy Friend; for he
Is fit to be a Friend to none but thee.
Make sure of him, and of his Muse betimes,
For all his Study is hung round with Rhymes.
Laugh at him, justle him, yet still he writes,
In Rhyme he challenges, in Rhyme he fights.
Charg'd with the last and basest Infamy,
His Bus'ness is to think what rhymes to Lee:
Which found, in Fury he retorts again,
Strephon's a very Dragon at his Pen.

His Brother's murder'd, and his Mother whor'd,
His Mistress lost, and yet his Pen's his Sword.

The Statesman's Almanack.

Being an excellent new Ballad, in which the Qualities of each Month are consider'd; whereby it appears that a Parliament cannot meet in any of the old Months: With a Proposal for mending the Calendar, humbly offer'd to the Packers of the next Parliament.

[_]

To the Tune of, Cold and Raw the Wind did blow.

1

The Talk up and down
In Country and Town
Has been long of a Parliament's sitting;

143

But we'll make it clear,
Ne'er a Month in the Year
Is proper for such a Meeting.

2

The Judges declare it,
The Ministers swear it,
But the Town as a Tale receives it;
Let them say what they can,
There is ne'er a Man,
Except God's Vicegerent believes it.

3

If the Criticks in spite,
Our Arguments slight,
And think them too light for the Matter;
It has been often known,
That Men on a Throne
Have arraign'd the whole Realm with no better.

4

For in times of old,
When Kings were less bold,
And made for their Faults some Excuses;
Such Topicks as these,
The Commons to please,
Did serve for most excellent Uses.

5

Either Christmas comes on,
Or Harvest's begun,
And all must repair to their Station;
'Twas too dry or too wet
For the Houses to set,
And Hey for a Prorogation.

6

Then, Sir, if you please,
With such Reasons as these,
Let's see how each Moon's appointed:
For sure it most strange is,
That in all her Changes,
She favours not God's Anointed.

144

January.

The first is too cold
For Popery to hold,
Since Southern Climes do improve it:
And therefore in Frost
'Tis odds but it's lost,
If they offer for to remove it.

February.

The next does betide,
Tho then the King died,
Ill-luck, and they must not be tamp'ring:
For hadn't Providence quick
Cool'd his Head in the nick,
'Fore Gad they were all a scamp'ring.

March.

The Month of old Rome
Has an Omen with some;
But the sleeping Wind then knows,
And trusts not the Croud
When Storms are so loud,
Lest th'Air infects the House.

April.

In this by mishap
Southesk had a Clap,
Which pepper'd our Gracious Master:
And therefore in Spring
He must physick his Thing,
And venture no new Disaster.

May.

This Month is too good,
And too lusty his Blood
To be for business at leisure:
With his Confessor's leave
Honest Bridget may give
The Fumbler Royal his Pleasure.

June.

The Brains of the State
Have been hot of late,
They have manag'd all business in Rapture:

145

And to call Us in June
Is to the same Tune,
To be mad to the end of the Chapter.

July.

This Season was made
For the Camp and Parade,
When with the Expence of his Treasure,
With much Sweat and Pains
Discreetly he trains
Such Men as will break all his Measures.

August.

This Month did advance
Their Projects in France,
As Bartholomew remembers;
But alas they want Force
To take the same Course
With our Heretical Members.

September.

They cannot now meet,
For the Progress was set,
And they find it a scurvy Fashion,
To ride, and to ride,
To be snub'd and deny'd
By ev'ry good Man in the Nation.

October.

Now Hunting comes in,
That Licence to sin,
That does with a Cloak befriend him:
But if the Queen knows
How at Graham's he blows,
His Divine Right cannot defend him.

November.

November might do,
For ought that we know,
But that the King promis'd by Chancellor:
And his Word before
Was pawn'd for much more
Than e'er 'twill be able to answer.

146

December.

The last of the Year
Resemblance does bear
To their Hopes and their Fortune declining:
Ne'er hope for Success,
Day grows less and less,
And the Sun once so high has done shining.

EPILOGUE.

Ye Gypsies of Rome
That run up and down,
And with Miracles the People cozen;
By the help of some Saint
Get the Month which you want,
And make up a Baker's Dozen.

You see the old Year
Won't help you, 'tis clear:
And therefore to save your Honour,
Get a new Sun and Moon,
And the Work may be done,
And 'fore George it will never be sooner.

The Dissolution.

O Heav'ns! we now have Signs below,
To let us our Destruction know:
Eclipses, bearded Stars that range,
Are needless to presage our Change.

When Monarch frowns upon the Wise,
And glibly swallows Romish Lyes:
When Demonstration can't convince
A deaf and unbelieving Prince:
When King, by evil Counsel led,
Crushes the Trunk to rear the Head;

147

And does the Members fiercely sever,
To make 'em calmly come together:
When Popery at Helm shall ride,
And Ignorance our Counsels guide:
When compounded of Ambition,
And the Wrath of Inquisition;
Whom by the Heat of Heart and Tongue,
You'd guess a Lump of Pigeons Dung;
And by fierce Deeds rash and amiss,
You'd think his Blood the Spirit of Piss:
When he, the stubborn Charioteer,
Takes his full uncheck'd Carier;
While Brother, thoughtless of his Crown,
Upon soft Carcase lays him down;
When he's Postilion to the Throne,
And on the Royal Lumber drives,
Protestants, defend your Lives.
What can the Issue of this be,
But loss of Subjects Liberty?
When Presidents of Church and Steeple,
Vote for the Treasurer 'gainst the People:
And Holy Church, that should not favour
Of Carnal Fear, or Princes Favour,
Basely complies with Popish Leven,
Against their Consciences and Heaven:
O, worst of Fates! on our side,
The Clergy now from State divide.
When Crown-Revenues by Bribes are wasted,
And on vile Pensioners exhausted;
When honest Men receive Disgrace,
Turn'd out of Office, and of Place,
And Pow'r beckons from the Throne,
To let the Nation stand alone;
Thinks of new Ways for new Supplies,
And damns the Parliament as Spies:
Prorogues, and then dissolves their Heats,
And gives no time to try Court-Cheats:

148

What can we think of these Delusions,
But Loss of Safety, and Confusions?
When King to Commons makes fine Speeches,
And draws his Reasons from his Breeches:
When Whores make Monarchs drunk, and rule
By th'idle Grants of a dipp'd Fool:
And Dissolution may be said
Th' Effect of Staggers in the Head;
And Government is a Disease,
Made up of Vice and sensual Ease:
When Bestial King, to's Heart's Content,
Sucks Bourdeaux from the Fundament:
When Cavalier in publick, wars
Against the bubbled Governors,
And swears, he'll not Assistance bring
To a lascivious lazy King,
Whom Whores to various Minds do draw,
Ruling by Leachery, not Law;
Who does his Pimps, not Statesmen trust,
Spending his Brains upon his Lust:
When things are thus perversly sowing,
Poor Ninive is surely going.
When French runs thro the Prince's Veins,
And he by theirs, not our Laws reigns:
When French creeps into Royal Bed,
First charming Codpiece, then the Head:
When Female Buttocks dictate thus,
Good Lord! what will become of us?
Is there no end of Monarch's Itch,
That lolls upon a fulsom Bitch?
And swears upon her nasty Skin,
He'll let the Mass and French Troops in;
Assigns his Crown and Regal Pow'r
To be dispos'd of by a Whore.
Beware, unthinking Ch****es, beware,
Consider, and begin to fear:
For Pope and Lewis are untrue,
Whatever James declares to you.

149

He's warranted by Holy Mother,
To sham and gull his elder Brother.
When he's to work you to design,
At first he'll soak you well with Wine:
And then to your incestuous Eyes
He'll shew again her Highness' Thighs;
She may expose on Church-Occasion,
Her Popish A--- to the whole Nation.
Zeal wipes away all Impudence,
And greater Crimes are Innocence;
When for the Church's Good intended,
And thus her Highness' Faults are mended,
And Catholick Modesty befriended.
This was a good Attempt at first,
Shews she ne'er bashfully was nurst;
But either liv'd 'mong Shamble-Crews,
Brought up in some Italian Stews,
A Dutchess in our Country known,
A common Strumpet in her own.

From Dukes that are but little better,
From a Whore by Nation and by Nature,
From Kings that reign by their Direction,
And Subjects guide by Devil's Protection,
From a sous'd Pilot at the Helm,
Good Lord deliver this poor Realm.

An Ironical Encomium on the unparallel'd Proceedings of the Incomparable Couple of Whiggish Walloons.

Go on brave Heroes, you whose Merits claim
Eternal Plaudit from the Trump of Fame,
Beyond the daring Hector that aspir'd
To leave a Name, when he the Temple fir'd,

150

For after Ages; and let nothing pall
Your well-fix'd Resolutions; not tho all
The Seas were heap'd on Seas, and Hills on Hills:
Small are secur'd by doing greater Ills.
Go on, and may your tow'ring Deeds outshine
The high Atchievements of blest Catiline.
And let the Echoes of your Acts by all
Be heard as loud as those were at Guildhall.
What shall a puny Patriot baulk your Flight,
And formal Fops your dawning Days benight?
Shall Laws confine, or Lawyers you withstand,
That have both Law and Lawyers in your hand?
Shall gilded Chains beshackle you with Fears?
Tear, tear their Gowns and Chains from off their Ears,
And hang their Worships in them: let the Curs
Be swing'd in Scarlet, and go rot in Furs.
Damn 'em for Dogs to put such Worthies by,
Just i'th nick of our Tranquillity;
Just as the Saints with forty thousand Men
Were furnish'd for a Holy War again.
Rally once more, and cry them in the Croud,
The Mobile's your own; give out aloud
For Reformation, and the Town's your own,
Else Liberty and Property are gone.
Cæsar's abroad, go seize the Senate, do;
And if he comes, faith seize brave Cæsar too.
Let nothing be too sacred for your Arms,
(Love and Revenge are never fill'd by Charms:)
By greatest Acts your greatest Glory gather,
And he's no more Immortal than his Father.
Serve him as Brutus did, and in his room
Put up young Perkin, now the time is come
That Ten may chase a Thousand; now or never,
Lose but this time, and you are lost for ever.
A Deed more bold than Blood's, more brave than them
That slily sneak'd to steal a Diadem:
For sure that Soul deserves much more Renown,
That kills a King, than he that takes his Crown.

151

The Ides of March are past, and Gadbury
Proclaims a Downfal of our Monarchy;
Who saw the last Conjunction did portend,
That Crowns and Kingdoms tumble to their End.
A Commonwealth shall rise and splendid grow,
As now predicted by the wise T. ---O.
Who can foretel, forestal, forswear, foresee,
Thro an Inch-Board, or thro an Oaken Tree;
Whose Opticks o'er the mighty Main have gone,
And brought Destruction on the Great Don John.
Titus, whose Skill in Swearing doth excel
The monstrous Monarch Radamanth of Hell,
And sent more Souls to their untimely Grave,
Than the destroying Angels lately have:
A walking Plague, a breathing Pestilence,
A Cockatrice that kills a Mile from thence.
Go on, brave Sirs, the gaping Crouds attend,
They watch the Word, the Saints their Thimbles send.
The Cushion's cuff'd, the Trumpet sounds to War,
Our dying Hopes in you revived are;
The People's Choice, with you they'll live and die,
The Guardian Angels of their Sanctuary.
The Groans are grievous, and the Hawks and Hums,
And Pulpits rattle too like Kettle-drums.
The Sisters snivel, and their Bodkins melt;
They're grop'd in Darkness, and in Pleasure felt.
More than in Pharaoh's time the Souls are sick,
And cry for Light; alas, the Candlestick
Is quite remov'd: Oh! they're lost, they're gone,
They see that Whore, the Baud of Babylon,
Is just approaching! Oh! the Popish Jade
Will tear away their Teachers, and their Trade!

Call a Cabal for Resolution hearty,
The blessed Brethren of the sober Party.
Let Segla's Ghost inform you in the Fact,
Rouze him to Earth; and in this glorious Act
Consult with Pluto, let old Noll ascend,
And if't be possible the new made Friend.

152

Our much-miss'd Oracle let Owen know,
The Devil's here as well as those below;
And speed for Bethel, bid him not defer,
Tell him we want an Executioner:
For Royal Blood's in chase, and none but he
To act the Villain in a Tragedy.
The Rogue will leap for Joy, such News admire,
The Son's as sweet as was his sacred Sire;
For he's a raving Nimrod will not start
To bathe his Hands in such a Royal Heart.

The Assembly of the Moderate Divines.

1

Pray pardon John Bays, for I beg your Excuse,
If I make no Stranger of your belov'd Muse,
It being your Talent Divines to abuse.

2

Divines that can scruple and cant with the Times,
As Settle and Shadwel for Bread belch their Rhymes;
But St. Peter and St. Judas you know had their Crimes.

3

If amongst twelve Apostles we can produce two
Did exceed any cruel and hard-hearted Jew,
Why then should we wonder that we have a few?

4

There's the Bishop of Bugdon, for Lincoln he ne'er saw;
And there's naked Truth with his scrupulous Paw,
And London pray beware of the Common Law.

5

There's the D---n of St. Paul's admir'd by some
For his Works against England, Geneva and Rome,
Idolatry, Separation, Irenicum.

6

There's a moderate Dean too that talks much of Love,
As if a Fanatick was as meek as a Dove;
But for him and Ralph Cudworth, a G--- let them prove.

153

7

But B---net, where art thou, thou Man of the Lord!
For Mary Hill's loss you may take the Plank's word;
For betwixt you and I 'twas a Prophetick Board.

8

With you Anthony Horneck the Pulpit disgraces,
With your whining, your sour and tub-like Faces;
But the Rolls and the Savoy are privileg'd Places.

9

Saint Laurence for Whichcot does stifly dispute;
Perhaps he might cant well if he was not mute:
But he preaches as Marr-All does play on the Lute.

10

There's a moderate Doctor of Cornhill St. Miles,
Whom the Clergy's Contemner per Slip-stocking stiles;
He's an eloquent Preacher, none hears him but smiles.

11

And there's Boanerges his Brother that thunders,
He cants in Old Fish-street, and who I pray wonders?
For he has an excellent Voice to cry Flounders.

12

There's old Father Gifford in St. Dunstan's i'th' East,
Who among the rude Vulgar's a Prophet at least;
But whoe'er preach'd well when the People were pleas'd?

13

There's a Reverend Doctor at Cr---gate dwells,
Who Sm---thy his Curate in trimming excels;
But Bunyan the Quaker has tickled his Gills.

14

There's Pain of White-Chappel, a Simoniack they say,
A Man that's cut out to be Vicar of Bray,
If the Times do but change, as he wishes they may.

15

There's Hospital Patrick, a Captain they call him,
For burlesquing the Psalms some highly extol him,
But Oh! L'Estrange and Sam's Coffee-house gall him.

154

16

There's one Squire Ramsey, a famous Divine,
Who no less than ten Women did love at one time;
But it might be call'd Lust in any but him.

17

There's Johnson th'Apostate, who deserves to be hemp'd,
For he alone (were all others exempt)
Were occasion enough for the Clergy's Contempt.

18

There's Colchester Hickeringil, the Fanaticks Delight,
Who Gregory Gray-Beard and Meroz did write:
You may see who are Saints in a Pharisee's sight.

19

There's Titus the Witness, the Nation's trite Theme,
Who for Satan and Hell hath so great an Esteem,
That Damnation would be a Preferment to him.

20

There's Geering of Southwark, and Lewis o'th' Wall,
The one hath a Sacrament at a Whig's Call;
For he made his Saviour St. John's Jackall.

21

There's B---B. there's Aldgate paid;
There's Messieurs Raggous wears no Shirt, as 'tis said,
Because they resemble a Surplice indeed.

22

But Kid---r, thy trimming above human Race,
For Faction turn'd out of the Rolls with Disgrace,
And Orthodox B---net succeeds in thy Place.

23

There's Scotch bawling Anderson proof against Pen,
Has a Voice that drowns a Cathedral Amen;
But 'tis thought he catches more Women than Men.

24

There's Durham of Bread-street has trim'd fifty years,
So old, so grave, so foolish appears,
At once he deserves both Laughter and Tears.

155

25

But Trimming's the Subject of brave Roger's Pen,
Who scourges these Monsters call'd moderate Men;
For Trimming the Scourge of Rebellion has been.

26

But who all Divinity-Trimmers can tell,
Who ev'ry where teach, and no where do dwell?
I hate Knaves in it, but I love the Gown well.

On Wi. Williams.

Williams , this tame Submission sutes thee more
Than the mean Payment of thy Fine before.
Poor Wretch! who after taking down thy Arms,
Has a Court-smile such over-ruling Charms?
Bankrupt in Honour, now art tumbled down
Below the abject'st Creature of a Crown.
Is this the Man the wiser World did wait on,
Unworthy now the very Spew of Payton?
What will Sir Trevor Williams, Barnardiston,
And Arnold say, but that he should be piss'd on?
Is this Wi. Williams who made such a noise,
Dreadful to all the leud abhorring Boys?
Is this Wi. Williams, Spark of Resolution,
Who was so fierce for Bill of damn'd Exclusion?
Is this Wi. Williams, spoke the thing so strange;
Great Sir, your Commons are not given to change?
Is this Wi. Williams now at last set right?
Is't so: Then Drawer light me down to sh---.

156

*On my Lord Lin******n's Brother turning Roman Catholick.*

From the Embraces of a Harlot flown,
The Heavens have brought you to your native Home.
Now your once faded Laurels bloom again;
Thus Phœbus rises from the weeping Main.
That Guardian Angel wandring Israel fled,
With happy Care has blest your glorious Head.
Safe from th'involving Gulph you now may view
The falling Precipice that threaten'd you.
Religion's Truth will all your Care remove;
Your happy self protected from above,
Not by a Saint, or an intreating she,
But by the sole, the blest Divinity.
Vainly let those their num'rous Converts boast;
What they have got we wholly fancy lost.
Shining in Glory, and in number few;
We are the slighted Asians, but the true.
In you alone our Triumphs greater be,
You ballance all the number'd Progeny.
Legion their Name, Legion their Nature too:
The Truth can never yield, altho it bow.
See tho what Chaplets all our Nymphs prepare
To grace your Head, and to adorn your Hair.
Laurels immortal, and reviving Bay,
The perfect Emblem of your chosen way,
Shall crown the Virgin Beauties on their Brow;
This pious Gratitude and Heaven allow:
So Mecca's Saint rose proudly from a Slave;
So smooth Religion led the Victor Knave.
From pious Weeds to virtuous Arms decreed,
Tho Monkish Pride impose on Monkish Breed:
He gain'd the specious Phantom of a Throne,
And Blood and Murder did his Temples crown.

157

Prevent the Omen, be the Finis good,
'Tis a dark Bog, and darkly understood.
Sweet Looks are plac'd, and the deceiving Brow,
Crocodiles smile, and smiling murder too.
The Doctor libel'd, 'tis a meer Lampoon;
Can Father Hall mate Father Tillotson?
Ken speaks, the World his Eloquence must prize,
'Tis School-Boy's Logick echoes Prejudice.
He talks against the Antichristian Pope;
Thus Paul, tho beaten, unresisted spoke:
A Bishop he, and such may still remain,
Unenvy'd by the Darling of the Crown:
Let his dull miter'd Crosier vainly boast,
Van-Leader of th'Apostatizing Host.
This let him, nay and is there more, enjoy,
They well deserve such Passive Joys to try,
Who likely pay so dearly for't as he.
'Twas Interest the false Apostle sway'd,
How well his End his Int'rest obey'd?
No Prophet I, tho here we all accord,
Their Souls may well be fear'd, they fly their Lord.
Hence ye dull Earth, the Scandal to our Cause,
Go sink your Souls as you have damn'd the Laws,
Play with the Snakes that harbour in your Breast,
And when they bite, pray let them be at rest.
And since you play so much with Destiny,
Hear me, I'll wish, tho calmly, e'er I die;
May that false Pen, that did the Nonsense write,
May that false Tongue, that did the Lines indite,
Be damn'd, till those who do the Shams admire,
Shall curse the Writers, and deplore the Fire.

On Sir Will. Jones, an Epitaph.

Sir William in Arcta custodia lies,
Committed by Death Sans Bail or Mainprize,
Forsaking his King, a very good Client,
He turn'd Jack Presbyter, O fie on't!

158

And being thus from his Allegiance free,
Returned was by him for Anarchy.
A Gem call'd the Law in his Head there lay,
So Toads hold Pearls in Capite they say:
And stor'd he was with Poison like those Creatures,
Which made him swell so big against his Betters.
His Eyes so full were with Infection fill'd,
Loyalty seem'd a Statute-Law repeal'd:
He stuck close on the Republick side,
And having spit his Venom out, he dy'd.

*On the E. of D***by's Impeachment by the House of Commons, 1678.*

What a Devil ails the Parliament?
Sure they were drunk with Brandy,
When they did seek to circumvent
Thomas Earl of D---by.

But they ungrateful will appear,
As any thing that can be;
For they received Fidler's Fare
From Thomas Earl of D---by.

But Shaftsbury does lie and lurk,
That little Jack-a-Dandy,
And all his Engines set on work
'Gainst Thomas Earl of D---by.

Now whether he will stay or go,
I think it handy-dandy;
If he dare stay, he'll hang I trow
Poor Thomas Earl of D---by.

I never heard of Subject tell,
Nor can one in this Land be,

159

Deserves a Halter half so well
As Thomas Earl of D---by.

Then Commons trust him not a bit,
Unless you will trapan'd be;
There's not so false a Jesuit
As Thomas Earl of D---by.

Truth brought to Light:

Or, Murder will out.

By S. College.

Would the World know how Godfrey lost his Breath?
This tells the Tragick Story of his Death:
Not borrow'd from the feigned Ghost appearing
Unto us Mortals, so the Story clearing;
Or taken from the Narrative of Prance,
Where he too modest does on Persons glance;
Tho there's enough for all with half an Eye
To scan some Villains in this Tragedy.
An Oedipus there needs not to explain
The wretched Norfolk's House in Clements-Dane:
Or how the Owner Godfrey did persuade
To eat his last, and basely him betray'd.
Hear but the Villain how he did ensnare
This gen'rous Soul into his bloody Fare.

Pray, good Sir Edmund, stay, I beg the Boon
Of some Discourse with you this Afternoon,
In a Rehearsal of this Hellish Plot,
Which you by Oates's Depositions got;
You shall oblige me ever, and you will
Preserve our King and Kingdom from their Ill.
Tho of the Church of Rome you know I am,
I would be thought a Loyal English Man:
For if their damned Plot be as I hear,
I'll curse the Pope, and leave their Church I swear.

160

And as to what you plead as your Excuse,
You have some Friends at home you shall abuse
By your long stay, I will a Footman send,
That shall acquaint your Servants and your Friend,
You have some Bus'ness that detains you here;
And therefore they must not expect you there.

Thus by a Syren's Tongue and Popish Guile,
He did persuade his stay, and sent mean while
Unto his Ban-dogs, that they might way-lay him
As home he went, and barb'rously slay him.
Lo! here's the Project of a Popish Peer,
To murder Men in Love by Lordly Cheer:
From which, till known, the Wise have no defence,
Nor can escape Rome's treacherous Pretence.
The best of Men by wretched means they kill,
To serve their Church, and gain their cursed Will.
Say but Rome's Vicar, Such a Man must die,
That's Crime enough, no matter how or why.
His Hounds of Blood and cruel Beasts of Prey,
Who call it Merit to deceive, betray,
Murder whole Nations standing in their way.
So fell the Noble Godfrey by the hand
Of D's, E's, Ld's, and Q's of Royal Band,
Whose direful Dirge they sung in Northern Tone,
Where York and Norfolk kept the time as one:
And treach'rous Tom made England's Treasure pay
Rewards to those that did his Life betray.
That Osb***n Villain, raised by his skill
Of pimping, and procuring to our Will;
The worst of Slaves, that so he might be great,
Expos'd his Wife and Daughters to our Heat.
Ah! blessed Tool at our most gracious need,
That never fail'd us so to do the deed!

Next sail'd the Portsmouth Frigat with the Elves,
And as is said, is steered by our selves;
Blown by the blast of Bellas—curs'd Spleen;
And yet it seems was Musick for a Queen;

161

And so delighted England's harmless Chip,
That made her dance, and 'bout the dead to skip
In Masquerade, by Faux his Lanthorn drest,
Where her dear Priests the holy Murder blest.
Prejudg'd by them they this Conclusion draw,
A Ducal Dinner's Death by Martial Law.
By these Rome's Vassals did in order get,
That Godfrey's Life might have a Somerset,
And die for daring to inspect the things
Of Mother-Church, of holy Pope and Kings;
And the Retinue, Banditti of Hell,
Welch Powis, Peters, Stafford, Arundel,
And thousands more of that accursed Brood,
Who would convert us by a Sea of Blood,
And turn the Laws of England out of doors,
By Standing-Army, Pensioners and Whores,
Bastards sans number, at the Nation's Charge,
For whom we have been taxed oft at large;
And made to buy our Ruin with our Coin,
Which went for Votes, and Plots, and Countermine.

Alas! poor Nation, how art thou undone
By a bad Father, and now a worse, his Son!
What have these Cubs of Scotland brought upon us?
There's nothing left but Lord have Mercy on us!

Justice in Masquerade:

Or Scroggs upon Scroggs.

A Butcher's Son's Judg Capital
Poor Protestants for to enthral,
And England to enslave, Sirs:
Lose both our Laws and Lives we must,
When to do Justice we entrust
So known an errant Knave, Sirs.

162

Some hungry Priests he did once fell
With mighty Strokes, and them to Hell
Sent presently away, Sirs.
Would you know why? the Reason's plain,
They had no English nor French Coin
To make a longer stay, Sirs.

The Pope to Purgatory sends
Who neither Mony have nor Friends;
In this he's not alone, Sirs.
For our Judg to Mercy's not inclin'd,
'Less Gold change Conscience and his Mind,
You are infallibly gone, Sirs.

His Father once exempted was
Out of all Juries: Why? because
He was a Man of Blood, Sirs.
And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth)
Shou'd now be Jury and Judg both,
Cannot be understood, Sirs.

The good old Man with Knife and Knocks
Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox
Stoop to him in his Fury.
But the brib'd Son, like greasy Oaph,
Kneels down and worships Golden Calf,
And so does all the Jury.

Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade,
An honest Livelihood to have made
In hamp'ring Bulls with Collars,
Than to thy Country prove unjust,
First sell, and then betray thy Trust
For so many hard Rix-Dollars.

Priest and Physician thou didst save
From Gallows, Fire, and from the Grave,
For which we can't endure thee.

163

The one can ne'er absolve thy Sins,
And th'other (tho he now begins)
Of Knav'ry ne'er can cure thee.

But left we all shou'd end his Life,
And with a keen-whet Chopping-Knife
In a thousand pieces cleave him,
Let the Parliament first him undertake,
They'll make the Rascal stink at stake,
And so like a Knave let's leave him,

On the same.

Since Justice Scroggs Pepys and Dean did bail,
Upon the good Cause did turn his Tail,
For two thousand Pounds to buy Tent and Ale.
Which no body can deny.

The Jury and Judg, to sham the Plot,
Freed the Traitors to prove that it was not,
But old England will stand when the Rogues go to pot;
Which no body can deny.

Scroggs was at first a Man of the blade,
And with his Father follow'd the Butcherly Trade,
But 'twas the Peter Pence made him a Jade;
Which no body can deny.

He'd stand by the Protestant Cause he said,
And lift up his Eyes, and cry'd, We're betray'd;
But then the Pettifogger was in Masquerade.
Which no body can deny.

When D---by mention'd to the King his Name,
He said he had neither Honesty nor Shame,
And would play any sort of Roguish Game.
Which no body can deny.

He swears he'd confound Bedlow and Oates,
And prove the Papists Sheep, and the Protestants Goats,
And that he's a Fool that on Property doats.
Which no body can deny.

164

The Pope's Advice and Benediction to his Judg and Jury in Eutopia.

Well done my Sons, ye have redeem'd my Cause
Beyond my Expectation, from the Jaws
Of my curst Foes, the Protestants their Laws.

For had you not thus timely stept between,
They had endanger'd both my Cause and Queen,
And then past all Redemption had it been.

For Tyburn then more Martyrs had me sent,
Which I had rather quick to the Devil went,
Than my Designs so well contriv'd be shent.

Go on and prosper, never change your Notes,
The Sign o'th' Cross direct your open Throats,
To cry not guilty, so you'l baffle Oates.

Forsworn! no matter if you perjur'd be,
You are dispens'd with, and you ought go free,
'Tis mighty Service to the Court and Me;

Who will requite it, and for certain know
My Pardons and Blessings on you I bestow,
Besides the Gold you have receiv'd I owe.

Far greater Sums, than e'er the Court yet gave
To Pimp, or Cheat, or Traytor, Whore, or Knave,
Might satisfy our Lust, our sinking Credit save.

But that's not all, unless we do declare,
And set our Mark upon our Fav'rites fair,
That Hereticks may know them who they are.

165

And first, dear Scroggs, with thee we shall begin,
Altho of late thou wert a Man of Sin,
And didst abuse those for us put you in.

From which we now absolve ye as we're Pope,
And do allow that Butchers by the Rope
Begin, not end, for that would mar our hope.

'Tis true at first 'twas prudent, witty, quaint,
To counterfeit the Devil, act the Saint,
With zealous Thunder 'gainst the Jesuits complaint.

This gain'd you credit with the Rabble Rout,
Confirm'd the Choice of those that wish'd you out,
But now that's done 'tis time to tack about:

And dare to act to set my Vassals free,
You shall receive from Holy James and Me
A Crimson Cap, at least my Legate be,
Provided you escape Tresilian's Triple Tree.

Next, hated Ralph, thou Leader of the Van,
My Papal Power shall do all it can,
To make thee, next Election, Senate-Man.

And reason good, for then my Cause will thrive,
If all prove such, the Hereticks we'll drive
Till not a Soul of them is left alive.

Next follows all together half a dozen,
Whom neither Sheriff (by Order) for me chosen,
Who like good Men did Law and Justice cozen.

They're all Right Roman, Howley, Hodges, Downton,
And drew together Backthurst, Hempen, Heydown,
Sworn to be true, but false as Jack of Leyden.

166

Next were two Jades, Ball, Dobbing never right;
In Rack and Manger lay these Beasts delight:
Next were three Monsters, Avery, Whale, and White.

These being collar'd all together, swore
To do such Justice ne'er was done before,
Prostrate their Wives to save the Common Whore:

For which good Service most did places gain,
One made the Wheeler unto Charles's Wain,
And Taper-maker Lightman did obtain.

Three more had places to their Hearts desire,
Which York afforded, made them each Esquire,
And all they were to do was set the Land on fire.

Informing Dob—that's Landlord to Sir Wake,
To save his Tenant golden Pills did take,
Whose blessed Guilt before did make him quake.

The rest had Gold (dropt by the Fairy Queen)
Left in their Shoe, that she might pass unseen,
Which expel'd Poison as't had never been.

By this, my Sons, ye left them in the Lurch,
And swept the Scandal off our Holy Church,
Which erst stood tott'ring on a broken Crutch.

Strangely reviv'd my Lordly Sons i'th' Tower,
Who now transported laugh to scorn the Power
Of Lords and Commons, from whom they fear'd a show'r.

And o'er the Hereticks have advantage got,
Who stopt the blest Proceeding of my Plot,
No Oppositions left but Fanatick Sot.

For which great Service Debtor we remain
Till we get Britain in our Fist again,
Then then be sure, we will requite your Pain.

167

Till then adieu, Hell have you in its Care,
And ever dictate what you say or swear,
May make you useful to St. Peter's Chair.

Sir George Wakeman's Jury.

The Wolf-Justice.

Being Certain Verses fix'd upon the L. C. J. Scroggs's Chamber-door.

Here lives the Wolf-Justice, a Butcherly Knave,
Who Protestants goals, but the Papists does save.
He's a bold Persecutor contrary to Laws
Of all that dare write for the Protestant Cause.
Since these were his Actions, in vain were his Prate,
And false Imprecations he printed of late.
'Twill one day be prov'd (Old Clodpate) that you
Were brib'd by the Court and Portugal too.
When Par comes to Town, you'll receive such a check,
Not your Speech nor your Pardon will save your Bull-Neck.
Mean while go on and play England's Story,
You'l hang at the last as Tresilian before ye.
For we'll have the Plot punish'd, come on it what can be,
In spite of Clodpate, York, Lauderdale, D---by.
'Tis not Prorogations shall serve the Rogue's Turn,
We'll die at our doors e'er in Smithfield we'll burn.

Parliament.

A Satire.

His Holiness has three Grand Friends
Upon Great-Britain's Shore,
That prosecute his and their own Ends;
A Duke, a Judg, and a Whore.

168

The Duke is as true as Steel
To the Pope, that infallible Elf;
Therefore no Friend to the Commonweal,
Nor no Friend to himself.

The Judg is a Butcher's Son,
Yet hates to shed innocent Blood,
But for ten thousand Pounds has done
The Pope a great deal of good.

He did that Villain Wakeman clear,
Who was to have poison'd the King,
As it most plainly did appear;
For which he deserves a Swing.

Portsmouth, that Pocky Bitch,
A damn'd Papistical Drab;
An ugly deform'd Witch
Eaten up with the Mange and Scab.

This French Hag's Pockey Bum
So powerful is of late;
Altho it's both blind and dumb,
It rules both Church and State.

A Pun.

Take a T---d
Upon my word,
And into five parts cut it,
And put it
Into a Pye,
To convince
Our good Prince,
What it can be,
To mince
Thomas Earl of D---by
Into five Commissioners and a Guy.

169

A Caution to King Charles the Second from Forty One.

Hold fast thy Sword and Scepter, Charles,
Sad times are coming on,
The murm'ring of thy Senate House
Smells rank of Forty One.

When Kings are call'd to give Account
What their Expences be,
It is a sign we all are Kings,
Or that no King shall be.

Give way but to their Will a while,
And you will find as great
A Will in them to act anew,
From Forty One to Eight.

Hold cruel England, hold; in thee
Sure all Rebellion springs,
Consider but thy Infamy
To kill the best of Kings.

The World against thee will exclaim,
Thy Cruelty abhor,
That thus delights in killing Kings
And raising Civil War.

England's Court-Strumpets.

Since Cleveland is fled till she's brought to Bed,
And Nelly is quite forgotten,
And Mazarine is as old as the Queen,
And Portsmouth the young Whore is rotten.

170

Since Women at Helm, have ruin'd the Realm,
And Statesmen have lost their Anchors,
The Lords and the Commons know what will come on us,
But the Kingdom must break like the Bankers.

Since Ravenhouse is come let's send them all home,
But still let's secure the Millions:
'Twill serve for a Farce to clap a French Arse,
Or serve the next new-come Italian.

On the Monument upon Fish-street Hill.

When Hodge first spy'd the Labour-in-vain,
Grown since he pass'd by Pudding-lane;
To reach his Chin up as he gaz'd,
Till level'd with his Forehead rais'd,
With Face that Horizontal lies,
With gaping Mouth and staring Eyes;
Supporting on his Staff his Jaw,
He took the Height of what he saw:
As one that makes an Observation,
Chap fall'n he stood with Admiration.
Hodge was (altho to Cart confin'd)
A Virtuoso in his kind;
And long he stockt up in his Crown
Whate'er he saw or heard in Town:
Within his musty Fancy mew'd,
Heated into Similitude:
That whatsoever Subject fell,
He Bargains ready had to sell.
Tho the Similitude's most pat,
Shews that Men say they know not what.

171

The Description.

A new Spout to quench the Fire,
Or else to draw the Smoak up higher:
A Model of a Pepper-Box,
Or Microscope to view an Ox;
Or else a Candlestick to place a Light
For such as travel in the Night:
Or Christmas Candle over-grown,
Not to shew Light, but to be shown:
Or else a Torch with gilded Flames,
To steer the Boats that row on Thames:
Or else a Piece of Art and Labour,
Of Hook---out Architecting Baber.
When long he thus himself had guest,
Nor could the swallow'd Sight digest;
He ask'd a Wag at the next Stall,
To whom belongs this House so tall?

The Boy's Answer.

The City Monument is this,
In token that our Mayor did piss.
It seems when London's Mayor does stale,
She by consent too lays her Tail.
Bodies so great may bear the Expence
Of such a vast Sirreverence:
But 'tis a Heap which would have rent
All but the City's Fundament.

Rex & Grex.

Rex and Grex are of one Sound,
But Dux does Rex and Grex confound.
If Crux of Dux could have his fill,
Then Rex of Grex might have his Will.

172

Five Subsidies to ten would turn,
And Grex would laugh, that now does mourn.
Oh Rex! thy Grex does still complain,
That Dux bears Crux, and Crux not Dux again.

A Westminster Wedding:

Or, the Town-Mouth; alias, the Recorder of London and his Lady. Feb. 17. 1679.

'Tis said when George did Dragon slay,
He sav'd a Maid from cruel Fray.
But this Sir George, whom Knaves do brag on,
Mist of the Maid, and caught the Dragon;
Since which the furious Beast so fell,
Stares, roars, and yawns like Mouth of Hell:
He raves and tears; his bad Condition
Distracts his Mind as late Petition.
Peace Man or Beast (or both) to please ye;
A Parliament will surely ease ye.
Marriage and Hanging both do go
By Destiny: Sir George, if so,
You stand as fairly both to have,
As ever yet did Fool or Knave:
The first your Wife hath help'd ye to,
The other as a Rogue's your due:
No other way is left to tame ye;
And if you have it not, then blame me.
But e'er it comes and things are fitting,
Judg of his Merits by his getting:
He'as got a ven'mous Heart and Tongue,
With Vipers, Snakes and Adders hung:
By which in Courts he plays the Fury,
Hectors Complainants, Law and Jury:
His Impudence hath all Laws broken,
(To th'Judges honour be it spoken)

173

For which he got a Name that stinks
Worse than the common Jakes or Sinks.
But to allay the Scent so hot,
George from the Court has Knighthood got
Bestow'd upon him for his bawling,
A Royal Mark for Caterwauling:
But certain George must never boast on't,
'Cause Traytors, Cheats and Pimps have most on't.

Now Rogue enough he got in favour,
To bind good Men to worse Behaviour;
And bark aloud they will deceive ye,
In that he matches Tribe of Levi;
Who now with Pope bear all before 'em,
Priests made Just—Asses of the Quorum.
Faith, make 'em Judges too, most fine-o,
And then they'll preach it all Divino.
There's somewhat more that George has got,
(For Trevor left him who knows what)
A teeming Lady-Wife, nay more,
A Hansenkelder got before:
As true a Wench they say for kissing,
As e'er her Father was for pissing;
Who thought his Tool could Fire quench,
Because it oft had serv'd his Wench.
O happy City! when the Brains, Sir,
Of Elders—hangs in Furs and Chains, Sir.

But one thing more I can't let pass,
When George with Clodpate feasted last,
(I must say Clodpate was a Sinner,
To jerk his Brother so at Dinner;)
He by his Almanack did discover,
His Wife scarce thirty Weeks went over,

174

E'er she (poor thing) in pieces fell,
Which made Mouth stare and bawl like Hell;
And Puppy-like there told him truly,
First Leap he had was but last July.
What then, you Fool, some Wives miscarry,
And reckon June for January.
This Clodpate did assert as true,
Which he by old Experience knew;
But all his canting would not do.
George put him to't upon denial,
Which set him hard as Wakeman's Trial:
They rail'd and bawl'd, and kept a pother,
And like two Curs did bite each other;
Which brought some Sport, but no Repentance,
So off they went to Harris' Sentence,
Which soon they pass'd against all Laws,
To glut their Rage and Popish Cause:
For which Injustice, Knaves we hope
You'll end together in the Rope:
And when the Gallows shall you swallow,
We'll throw up Caps, and once more hollow.
If this we wish from private Grudg,
Or as their Merit, England's Judg:
Who seek the Nation to enthral,
Are treacherous Slaves and Villains all.
And when Confusion such does follow,
We'll throw up Caps, and once more hollow.

That's their Exit,
Tho they Rex-it,
We shall Grex-it.

Sir John Trevor, said to be his Lady's Gallant in the time of her Widowhood, &c.

Sir Tho. Bloodworth, Lord-Mayor in the time of the dreadful Fire of London, 1666.

Sir Wil. Scroggs Lord C. Justice.

Ben. Harris the Bookseller.

175

The Fancy:

Or, The D. of York's last Farewel.

As I a walking was the other day,
(Where do not ask me, for I will not say)
I fancy'd 'mongst a Grove of Trees I spy'd
A Man stood musing by a Water-side:
I wish 'twas but a Fancy, but no doubt
You'll think it more when you have heard it out.

The Person was a very tall black Man,
Above the common Size almost a Span;
His Face was melted in most piteous sort,
In all things else he was of Royal Port.
But if ill Looks alone Majestick be,
Commend me to that Face for Majesty,
For't had enough, I'll swear, for two or three.
To this tall Man instantly join'd another,
Of just his Stature, whom he call'd his Brother:
Richly encircled with a numerous Ring,
Which shew'd he wanted nought but th'Name of King.
Some time they silent stood, till all were gone,
When tallest bid his Brother to go on,
Which thus he did.—

I shall, Great Sir, my last Discourse retrieve,
I pray you like Attention to it give:
Your Case peculiar is, peculiar too
Must be your Care, or you'll your self undo.
For humble Stations, Industry or Wit,
A second Way may find, if first don't hit:
But he that's mounted on a Sov'reign Throne,
Ne'er had nor can have other ways than one
To curb the saucy Vulgar, and pull down
Their Cobweb Rights that circumscribe the Crown;
Take off their Shackles, let the Bumkins know,
No other Almighty is than you below.

176

You spoil your Game, Sir, while you do thus dally,
Who follows him that stands on shall I, shall I?
You cow the Bold, and keen the Coward's Heart,
Whilst you divided act the doubtful Part.

Had you when this damn'd City flam'd but run,
And cut their cursed Throats, your Work you'd done:
Their Blood you shou'd have made the Fire meet,
With Bodies fed the Flames in ev'ry Street.
To do and undo sorts well sorry things,
But is beneath the Majesty of Kings.
Cæsar, or nothing's writ on all they do,
True Monarchs know no Medium 'tween these two.
What is't you stick at, Sir, would you retreat?
You're now too far engag'd, and must them beat,
Or beaten be; rid or be ridden now:
He never back must look who holds the Plough.
May be you would not Promise break, or Oath;
Pish! all the World does know you can do both.
With great Advice but t'other day you said
By Parliaments and Councils you'd be led:
To-day you think it fit to let us know,
(What e'er you said) you ne'er intended so.
Fools to their Word, but Princes great like you,
To nought but their Intentions must be true.

What is't the Laws you tender are to break?
It's known that's but a Scruple, and too weak:
For Laws are nothing, but the Ties and Bands
Are made to shackle up your Subjects Hands.
Your silly Clergy, Sir, tho meer Jackdaws,
Yet they do preach you up above all Laws,
That Laws 'bove Subjects are, but that the King
(God bless him) is 'bove Laws and ev'ry thing;
And teach from sacred Leaves, not any thing
Of Law or Promise can confine a King.

Or for meet Tools is't you so doubtful are?
If this be it, I'll ease you of that Care;
Damn'd Villains of intrinsick Worth I have,
And more obedient than a Turkish Slave:

177

If you but bid 'em thrust their bloody Knives
In Fathers Throats, in Childrens, or in Wives;
In any but their own, they'll ready do't,
And lay them sprawling at your sacred Foot.
I have my Teagues and Tories at my beck,
Will wring their Necks off like a Chicken's Neck:
Try'd Rogues that never shall so much as start,
To tear from Mother's Womb the Infant's Heart.
First rape, then rip her up in half an hour;
Two Lusts they'll satiate, do but give them Power.
Faint Rogues will melt and have their Qualms of Fears
At Father's Groans, or at a Mother's Tears:
But mine are Monsters fit for any Prince,
Not plagu'd with Conscience, no nor pain'd with Sense.
The Flames of Hell, Horrour of endless Pain,
(Those Clergy-Cheats to propagate their Gain)
They ridicule, and scorn to lend an ear;
Let Knaves for Profit preach, and Fools go hear
The Tales of future Bliss, not worth a Rush;
One Bird in hand with them's worth two i'th'Bush.
Others now serve you but for constant Pay;
My Hounds will hunt, and live upon their Prey.
A Virgin's Haunch, or well-bak'd Lady's Breast,
To them is better than a Ven'son Feast:
Babes Pettitoes cut large in Arms and Legs,
They far prefer 'fore Pettitoes of Pigs:
Poor span-long Infants that like Carps are stew'd
In their own Blood, their Irish Chaps have chew'd;
And Fathers Cauls have Candles made to light
Those damn'd inhuman Banquets of the Night.
Whate'er you'd have, whate'er your Fancy craves,
But nod, 'tis done by my obedient Slaves.
They know no Scruple, no Commands dispute;
But do't as ready as a Turkish Mute.

You see, Sir, where you are; your Royal Date
Grows out if you don't soon support the State.
To shake off Parliaments may be too great,
And put you in too violent a Sweat:

178

To baffle therefore, but not cast them off;
To hold them still, but hold them but in scoff,
Must be your Work; for we are weaken'd so,
That we must drive the Nail that first will go:
And this too we must do with gentle Hand,
That tho they see, they may not understand.

When January comes, Cold and ill Way
Will call it Love to put 'em off till May.
In May some odd Intelligence comes newly,
Won't suffer you to hold them until July:
And July's so with Heat and Sickness vext,
Pity prorogues them to November next;
And time's ill manag'd if before that day
We able be'nt to throw all Masks away.
This far exceeds Dissolvings, in my mind,
And gives to our Designs a better Blind.
For if two Parliaments you slight, I doubt
The Rogues will then begin to scent us out.
For watchful with erected Looks, the Herd
Stands list'ning now, concerned and afeard.
As Covy half o'erspread, half scap'd the Net,
Are ten times harder than at first to set:
So People slipt out of the Noose or Train,
Are much more harder to be caught again.
With Prorogation therefore short and soft,
They must be treated: these repeated oft,
Will chafe them so, that either mad with Rage,
They'll bring the old Rebellion on the Stage;
Or sullen sit, and sleer on all you do,
(The far more dangerous Humour of the two)
Their dogged Nature now its Venom vents,
In chusing damn'd and plaguy Parliaments.
Poor Fools! their Rage does far out-run their Wit,
For you must ne'er intend that they shall sit:
But mock their Choice, and mock their Sessions too,
No other way we have our Work to do.
One Plot is better than ten Parliaments;
They give but Taxes, this shou'd give their Rents.

179

A thousand of the richest in we'll skrew
Into a Plot they never heard or knew.
If three hundred thousand Pounds a year would do,
I'll three times three by this Plot help you to.

This Sir's the bus'ness, how to get fit Stuff
Is all the Care, and I have Rogues enough;
Do you but Judges get, I'll Juries find,
And Witnesses according to your Mind.
They're such poor Rogues, 'twill do you good to hear
How daring, bold, and bravely they will swear;
They shan't, like Bedlow, Dugdale, Oates, and such,
Consider first, for fear they speak too much;
Nor let their Conscience maim their Evidence,
Thro tender Fear of hurting Innocence:
Nor do I care for a Fanatick Noose,
All shall Fanaticks be have ought to lose;
Judg, Jury, Witnesses, we'll all ensure,
And Devil's in't if all be not secure.
Yet shou'd this miss, don't you discourag'd be;
To form a new, leave to my Priests and me.
Like Pins, one Plot shall drive another out,
Till we have brought our only Plot about.
First work to save your Friends, that Point well done,
(Like Shirts) more Plots we've to our Backs than one.
They fain would foil your Plots, and fill your Ears
With Regicide Intents, to raise your Fears.
This fruitless Gun, that Dagger stabs your Belly,
When you know all better than they can tell ye.

Go on, Sir, never fear the heedless Herd,
They have no Courage but when you're afeard:
On me lay all the fault of Crown and Age,
I'll safely skreen you from the Peoples Rage:
And when ill accident a Plot does spoil;
Me they'll call Rogue, but you Most Gracious stile:
For Loyalty awes them in ev'ry thing;
Tho you destroy them, yet God save the King.
Tho you them stab, and I but hold the Knife,
Yet still they'll pray for's Majesty's long Life.

180

Now I'll step in, mine shall be the next Fate;
But I'll do something shall deserve their Hate.

Thus, greatest Sir, you're greatest Prince alive,
If Plot according to its Prospect thrive;
And thrive it shall, if you'll but do your part,
And from proposed Methods never start.
For Plots like Clockwork are, one Pin pull'd out,
Does all its Order and its Beauty rout.
Steddy your Hand, keep Parliaments at bay,
Not on, nor off, nor working, nor at play:
Clip ev'ry Tongue you find does hang too long,
It's taking Wind makes ev'ry thing scent strong.

This if you do, ill Fortune I'll defy,
All other things pray leave to Fate and I.
And now I'll dive again beneath the Show,
And act my Puppets will by Art below.

He being gone, in steps a certain Lord,
Who had seen all, and heard too ev'ry Word:
Great Sir, said he, Who can tell what to say?
If you by Popish Counsels mean to sway,
Curs'd be that Counsel, and the Men that do
Persuade you to your Ruin, and ours too!
A Thousand, Sir, Ten Thousand let your Brother
In's next Book write, if he dare write another.
Ten Gentry envies now what one has got,
For God's sake write us all in the next Plot;
All but your Papists, Sir, all but a few
(O shame to name it!) of our Clergy Crew.
Bate but these two, and let them take the Pole,
They'll hardly get another English Soul.
For one's damn'd Envy, and the other's Pride,
Have reconcil'd all England else beside.
Higher Huffs than his could ne'er this Nation awe,
On our side stand the People and the Law.
For don't mistake, Sir, it's by Law alone
Your Right's derived to our English Throne.
Set that aside, and make the Law a Sham;
No Sov'reign you, nor I no Subject am.

181

For self-same Laws give you your Dignity,
Give me my Life, my Fortune, Liberty.

Pardon if, Sir, less decent this is said,
Than doth become a Member to his Head.
For this sound Doctrine is, tho cully Brother
And Clergy Wights would fain bring up another.
Within the Circle of the Law, great Sir,
I stand, but out of it will never stir:
If to be King you'll be content, I will
Pay you Allegiance and Obedience still.
The Peoples Right and their brave English Laws
Do make the strongest Side and justest Cause.
'Tis not your keeping us from Parliaments
Can further or advantage your Intents.
For greater are the Chusers than the Choice,
England's Freeholders have a mighty Voice.
Those we'll unite, and those associate;
And if we can't defend our Lives and State,
We'll fairly fall, and Freemen to our Graves
We'll rather go by far, than to live Slaves.
Our Ancestors shan't curse us in their Tombs,
(Nor shall our Children in their Mothers Wombs)
They left us free, and We ours free will leave,
Or Death our Hopes and us shall both deceive.

Thus said, with threatning Looks he went away,
And I trudg'd too, as quite afraid to stay:
But as I went, I met with honest Nelly,
And when I more do hear, I more will tell ye.

A Bill on the House of Commons Door, April the 15th, 1680.

Gentlemen,

When last you were here th'House was to be lett,
But now to the Pope and the Frenchmen 'tis set;
If you'll club in amongst them, be quickly resolv'd,
Or else you must home again—rogu'd or dissolv'd.

182

We'll try for another may serve our Intention,
That will England betray for a Place or a Pension;
That's the Life of the Cause, and the End of Invention.

We lost an old Sett wou'd have done it no doubt,
But Pox on ill Luck, for Rogue Tommy was out,
Cou'd we get 'em again, we'd hug and collogue 'em,
Nor D---y, nor Dutchess should ever prorogue 'em.
An honest Endeavour to make us all Slaves:
Pray which the worst Evil, the Cause or the Knaves?
Old Albion looks ill, she was heard to complain,
Her Head, Oh! her Head was the Cause of the Pain:
It's all on a Lump, for it cannot discover
'Twixt its Catholick Foes and the Protestant Lover.
Her Empricks, and Quacks, called Divine, and some Civil,
Advise her to bleed again for the King's Evil;
But better the Rogues were sent quick to the Devil.
What, bleed an old Woman, Spring, Winter, and Fall!
Don't you know she's too old to be practis'd withal!
But if you do venture once more to attempt it,
It's Forty to One you're the first that repent it.
For your Plots, and your Murders, and Treasons shall try you,
Tho Monsieur, and Tories, and Devils stand by you.

Faxit Deus.

The Respondent:

or Litany for Litany.

From Kings that wou'd sell us to pay their old Scores,
From saving of Traitors, and shutting the Doors
Of the Senators House by advice of the Whores,
Good Lord deliver us.

183

From tricking the People out of their just Rights,
From making Confusion and Plots our Delights,
And from dubbing Rogues, Justices, Judges and Knights,
Good Lord deliver us.

From giving our Coin to uphold Subornation,
From contriving the Death of the best i'th' Nation,
And embracing the Doctrine of Equivocation,
Good, &c.

From abusing Grand Juries in Gazette's Sedition,
From publishing Lyes call'd the Country's Contrition
When none but the Popeling abhor'd the Petition,
Good, &c.

From being so cheap, when we swear what we'll do,
'Tis believ'd of none, should we chance to say true,
When our Credit abroad is not worth an old Shoe,
Good, &c.

From assisting the Papists and French all we're able,
From calling their Murders and Plots but a Fable,
And declaring our Heir but a By-blow at Table,
Good, &c.

From shedding of Blood, and the Innocents kill,
From marching more Forces again to Edge-Hill,
To set up a Dagon, or Pleasure and Will,
Good, &c.

From Churches Tantivy who rail at Dissenters,
From Pulpit Alarms, of War the Fomenters,
Who of Godliness ever have been the Tormentors,
Good, &c.

From a plotting false Duke that delighteth in Blood,
Half Fool and half Knave, that never did Good,
But the Welfare of England hath ever withstood,
Good, &c.

From his having the Crown, while it is his main Scope
By Fire and Faggot to set up the Pope,
Whose Treasons deserve both a Hatchet and Rope,
Good, &c.

184

From treating with Willoughby, Mordant, Cellier,
To carry on Plots against John Presbyter,
And then to come off like a Sow with one Ear,
Good, &c.

From posting to Town to have headed the Boys,
And the murd'ring Papists who were the Decoys,
To burn a few Rumps and some other such Toys,
Good, &c.

From fretting and fuming, and hunting about,
From little Will Waller, who gave us the Rout,
For which piece of Service we got him turn'd out,
Good, &c.

For coaching Le Marr, and his Mother Loveland,
From the Tower to St. James's, to Croydon the Strand,
To instruct the poor Fool the next way to be damn'd,
Good, &c.

From paying five hundred Pounds to our Fops,
And the perjur'd Rogues for Chimerical Traps,
And at last to speed worse than we did of our Claps,
Good, &c.

From Mungrel Christians at the next bloody Tryal,
Where the right Noble Buck--- at his Bay will defy all,
And the Truth it must out in spite of Denial,
Good, &c.

From printing the Matter without our Directions,
In which it's presum'd there will be Reflections
On Knaves of all Colours, the Kingdom's Infections,
Good, &c.

From Buggery, Sodomy, Perjuries, Slanders,
From the Villains i'th' Tower, and all their Bystanders,
When all are as false as the saving of Flanders,
Good Lord deliver us.

Christian and Blood.

Duke of Buckingham.

The five Popish Lords in the Tower.

185

Elegy on Coleman.

If Heav'n be pleas'd when Sinners cease to sin;
If Hell be pleas'd when Souls are damn'd therein;
If Earth be pleas'd when it's rid of a Knave;
Then all are pleas'd, for Coleman's in his Grave.

News from Westminster.

Strange News from Westminster, the like was never heard,
A Treasurer in Pantaloons, a Bishop without Beard;
A Judg with a Perriwig to his Waste hanging down;
A Speaker of the Commons that never wore a Gown.

Osb---n.

Cr---w.

Atkins.

Sey---r.

A Litany.

From the lawless Dominion of Mitre and Crown,
Whose Tyrannies are so absolute grown,
That Men become Slaves to the Altar and Throne,
And can call neither Bodies nor Souls their own,
Libera nos Domine.

From a Reverend py-bald Theologick Professor,
From a Protestant zealous for a Popish Successor,
Who for a great Bishoprick still leaves a lesser,
And ne'er will die Martyr, nor make good Confessor,
Libera nos, &c.

186

From Deans and from Chapters who live at their Eases,
Whose Leachery lies in renewing Church-Leases,
Who live in Cathedrals like Maggots in Cheeses,
And lie like Abby-Lubbers stew'd in their own Greases,
Libera nos, &c.

From Oxford and Cambridg Scholastical Fry,
Whose Leachery's with their Landress to lie,
Of Church and State their Wants to supply,
That Religion and Learning may never die,
Libera nos, &c.

From a comfortable—Divine,
From a Crissingle Parson in Silk Cassock fine,
Who loves no Tobacco, no Women, nor Wine,
But any Religion so of the right Line,
Libera nos, &c.

From a spruce Court-Chaplain, whose Pulpit rings
With Jure Divino of Bishops and Kings;
And from true Scripture false Evidence brings.
That Kingship and Priesthood are two sacred things,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Minister of the English Church Breed,
Mother-Church's own Son by Episcopal Seed,
Who turns to burlesque the Lords-Pray'r and Creed,
And can the whole Bible ridicule for a need,
Libera nos, &c.

From a scandalous limping litigious Vicar,
Of whom his Parish grows sicker and sicker,
Who taught his dull Maid to grow quicker, and quicker,
And who stole the Tankard when he drunk out the Liquor,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Ceremony-Monger, who rails at Dissenters,
And damns Non-Conformists in the Pulpit he enters,

187

Yet all the Week long his own Soul he ventures,
By being so drunk, that he cutteth Indentures,
Libera nos, &c.

From a young Boy ordain'd tho a—he has none,
From a Journyman Preacher to some dignify'd Drone,
Who whatever Text he preaches upon,
Still talks of Rebellion and Forty One,
Libera nos, &c.

From the Bishops Chaplain who scribbles everlasting,
On whom once Cook bestow'd a dry basting,
Who in his old Age young Flesh would be tasting,
And now writes for Bread to keep him from fasting,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Protestant Church where a Papist must reign,
From an Oxford Parliament call'd in vain,
Who because Fitz-Harris the Plot would make plain,
Was dissolv'd in a fit, and sent home again,
Libera nos, &c.

From Fools and Knaves, Prerogative Tories,
From a Church that for the Babylon Whore is,
From a Prince like a Pear, who rotten at Core is,
From a Court that has Millions, yet as Job poor is,
Libera nos, &c.

From a French Whore at Whitehall, and another at Paris,
From Dangerfield's Plot outdone by Fitz-Harris;
Deliver us Lord from the self-same thing,
From the King of France, and from the French King.

The Parson of Croydon.

Sir Roger L'Estrange.

188

The Downfal of the French Bitch, England's Metropolitan Strumpet, The three Nation's Grievance, The pickled pocky Whore, Rowley's Dalilah; all in a word, The damn'd dirty Dutchess.

What! down in the Dirt? By St. Leonard her Grace
Stinks vilely I'll warrant: That ominous place
Works upward and downward, has giv'n her a Glister,
To find her self tumble just over her Sister.
Make haste to Newmarket to air the French Tool,
If Rowley should smell her, 'twould give him a Stool.
The Wench of St. Martins who gave us the Clap,
Or Nelly, drawn in Kennel, as 'twas her Mishap,
Or the thing that beshit us having got the wild squirt,
Was nothing so noisom as Dutchess i'th' Dirt.
Then faugh! Carwel, faugh! for a stinking French Bitch;
Jane Shore was more wholesom when dead in a Ditch.
How came the Mischance, if it was one, let's know?
Had the spoil of the Land o'erballanc'd her so,
That she sunk by the Weight her Whoredom had gotten
To be her support now her Carcase is rotten?
Never Whore so mistaken! Faith, Rowley, her Grace
Is lame on all four, not fit for the Race.
Let Shoreditch be famous for the Fall and the Foil
It has given two Whores, who sunk in its Soil.

189

Had the last but lain by it as long as the first,
It had eas'd three Nations that in her are curs'd.
Howe'er we all thank you, you did your Endeavour,
To have laid her as fast, and unwilling to leave her.
The Men of Art tell us the Stars do portend,
That her Fall in that place presages her End:
As Rowley grows stiff, and can leap her no more,
She'll rot in a Ditch as her Sister Jane Shore.
Pray Heaven it prove so! then Gadbury shall,
If he guess right in this, be pardon'd for all.

The Obscure Prince,

Or, The Black Box boxed.

O Heavens! the Weakness of my unkind Father!
Better some Peasant had begot me rather:
He wou'd not black himself, his Wife defame,
And after Marriage Bastard me proclaim;
Through panick Fear thus in Perillus roar,
To gratify a Brother, or a Whore,
Honour disclaim, by Fools and Knaves beguil'd,
Nay, wou'd it pass, deny me for his Child:
Destroy my Right 'gainst God and Nature's Laws,
To prop the falling of their tott'ring Cause:
Pursue a Chace more of the Goose than Fox,
Call'd the shamm'd Story of the blackned Box;
Deny the Truth long in the Ashes hid,
Disowning now what Bishop Fuller did;
How he perform'd the Marriage-Office, e'er
You cou'd enjoy my wronged Mother dear.
All other Terms she scorned with her Soul,
Tho means were us'd with her both fair and foul;
Witness your self what Mother-Queen did do,
Besides the Offers that were made by you;

190

When mighty Passions brought you down so ill,
Your Grief befool'd the French Physician's Skill,
And at grim Death's approaches out did cry,
O! Let me marry with her, or I die:
'Twas then she yielded and became your Wife.
Sir, this is truth, I'll prove it with my Life:
But you may save the Trouble if you please,
Speak like your self, and all the Kingdom ease.
You are my Father, Sir, I'll Duty pay
Unto your self until your dying-day.
But when that falls (which God foreslow) Sir, I
Will take the Name of Royal Majesty,
Without offence to any, as my due,
Giv'n me by God, by Nature, Sir, and You:
Then (if I live) the wronged World shall know,
In Wedlock I was got, and born in't too,
That I am Heir undoubted to the Crown,
And will enjoy it when you lay it down,
In spite of Papists, mauger all their Hate,
Their Hope shall find I am legitimate.
England stand by me with your utmost Breaths,
I'll ruin Rome, or die ten thousand Deaths;
And make France tremble also e'er I've done,
Destroy those Plagues that murder Christendom.
That true Religion in the Land may flow,
Not Forms and Int'rest which are called so:
And shou'd I ever alter what I say,
Let God forsake me on my dying-day.

Enough, brave Prince, we'll take your Royal Word,
And will defend you by the dint of Sword
'Gainst all Opposers whosoe'er they are;
We'll stand or fall, and in your Fortunes share:
And after Charles, who wrongs you of your Crown,
Shall cut a Million of true English down.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.

191

Upon the Dispute in the Choice of Sheriffs, this Paper following was spread abroad, directed to the Worthy Citizens of London.

Respice & Cave.

Gentlemen;

Now is the time, acquit your selves like Men,
Else who can say you'll ever see't agen?
Divide not for your Lives, their Work is done,
Down must the Papists go, and Mouth must run:
Let not his Imprecations us befool,
He's worse than mad that trusts a Yorkist's Tool.
Shou'd he now chuse us Sheriffs, Clodpate Juries,
We fall as Victims to their Popish Furies.
O! Heaven direct us to unite we pray,
Old England's Fate depends upon this Day,
And those unborn too bless or curse us may.

Sir George Jefferies.

Sir William Scroggs.

Idem.

[Lewis of France hath been the Protestants Scourge]

Lewis of France hath been the Protestants Scourge,
And Lewis of London is the Papists Drudg;
One plays the Tyrant to uphold his Lust,
And London's Villain doth betray his Trust.
Tyrant and Traitor Lewis is no less,
And Mouth and Clodpate do make up the mess:
Close up the Poll, or Lewis, by this Light,
Your own shall off, to do the City right.

Sir Simon Lewis then Sheriff of London.

192

*On Dr. Stil****fleet Dean of St. Paul's.*

So have I seen a Dean of St. Paul's,
(Irenicum withdrawn)
Shifting about to blow the Coals
For Rome against dissenting Souls,
And all for Sleeves of Lawn.

An Advertisement to a Protestant Grand-Jury.

Slight not these following Lines,
Or count them idle things:
A Stander-by sees more sometimes
Than those that game with Kings.
Forewarn'd, fore-arm'd.

Mack-Ninnies Case looks desperate,
The Papists Cause the same;
The Traitors struggle with their Fate:
Then Patriots now beware their Hate;
Look to your selves e'er 't be too late,
Or all is on a Flame.

A Country Hodg heard Tories say,
As he was walking home,
October's three and twentieth Day
Began the bloody Irish Fray,
And then to Edg-Hill took its way,
Remember Forty One.

This trusty Roger told for true,
'Tis odds he guesses right;
Mack—had prepar'd his murd'ring Crew

193

At unawares to murder you,
And by that Blow the Land subdue,
As ye sit late at Night.

Unless in time ye him prevent,
Be arm'd against those Fears:
Ne'er trust to Rowley's Compliment,
When Actions speak the ill Intent,
Who never yet lov'd Parliament,
Whate'er he says or swears.

What if 'tis said that Mack—shall go,
The Fool the Knave may trust:
Stand on your Guard, prevent this Blow,
No matter whether he runs or no,
'Tis you must Papists overthrow,
Let Devil do his worst.

Historia Tuta.

Henry the Prince fell by his trembling Sire,
Who by his Recreant Son did next expire.
Proud of his ill-got State, enthron'd he stands,
And on the People lays oppressive Hands.
They unaccustom'd to the heavy Yoke,
Punish his Rapines by a fatal Stroke.
A Brother to the next creates much Strife,
Aims at his Crown, and daily seeks his Life:
Him easy, vain, and weak Court-Pimps deceive,
And Brother's Crimes Priests bid him not believe;
Hence stupid grown, Sloth, Lust, and want of Care
Draw dismal Ruin on him unaware.
This Truth the Roman Poets sang of old,
And in Majestick Satire did unfold:
Kings without Wounds rarely resign their Breath,
And Tyrants never die a Civil Death.

194

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

Sit or sit not, by Law or Sword,
Mack falls as flat as Council-board:
Maintain our Rights, stand fast together;
He hangs, runs, sights, e'en chuse him whether.
Triennial Laws with Resolution
Can cure that Plague of Dissolution.
Let Rowley know unto his Face,
If Law and Justice can't take place,
We'll quit the Land of Bothwell's Race.

The City's Advice to the King.

But t'other day from Exile not by Force,
With shouts of Joy, as Troy their Trojan Horse,
We took thee in and plac'd thee on the Throne,
Prefer'd thy Happiness before our own;
And shew'd the World there is no other thing
Holds half the Plagues in't as a thankless King.

We full of Peace, of Honour, and of Trade,
Were with soft Ease and Riches wanton made;
And such a Surfeit took of Happiness,
'Twas only thou couldst cure our great Excess;
And thy dear Dose hath done it in a minute,
And cur'd us quite, or else the Devil's in it.
We then cou'd go to Bed without the Fears
Of having our Houses fir'd about our Ears.
Secure we slept without the dismal fright
Of Murders, Rapes and Massacres i'th' Night.
But thou, great Prince, hast cur'd us of this Ease,
When e'er we die 'twon't be of that Disease:
For now our Sleep like those in Hell appears,
We always wake with Flames about our Ears.

195

Most graciously we once wholesale were burn'd,
And more than all our City to Ashes turn'd:
E'er since with retail Fires, now here, now there,
As pleas'd Rome's Rage, and as their Mark cou'd bear.

And now the new Health 'mongst the Tory Crew,
Is to our second Conflagration; strange, but true!
Yet these thy Darlings are, and only please thee,
Not one that honest is, in England's easy:
Poor Prince! how hast thou lost thy worthy Braves
For such a cursed pack of Fools and Knaves.
Consider, Charles, was't we, or this vile Rout
Made thy Return, and ev'ry Street to shout?
They drank thy Health, and damn'd themselves or so;
But greater good ne'er did, nor can they do:
What Fund is this for either Peace or Wars?
An Angel's Art can't steer by such Pole-Stars.

Go poll each starved Courtezan and Whore,
Each Clergy Wight and Tory, then give o'er,
For all the Land won't yield thee one Man more.
For ev'ry Soul besides (thine Eyes may see)
Are English now again, thank God and thee.

Betimes consider then thy wandring State,
The Wheel runs swift, it soon may be too late.
Thy People yet would fain preserve thy Throne,
Don't force 'em make thy Brother's Crimes thine own;
For tho they don't believe thee free from Guilt,
Yet they'll ne'er spy thy Faults unless thou wilt.

Close quickly then, let go thy Brother Elf,
Or next remove of Rage may find thy self.
By Nature English People willing are
To whip their Princes Mates, but them to spare:
But if to ruin them their Rulers go,
And will protect their own and Peoples Foes,
No Man (or Men) their Fury then e'er knows.

Take then Advice before the time be gone;
Sad Fate of Father shou'd instruct the Son:

196

The self-same Crew was his delight, are thine;
The best he lowr'd on, and on the worst did shine.
Teagues, Tories, Ruffians pleas'd him to the heart:
But ill-plac'd Pleasures ever end in smart.

How will the Age unborn thy Conduct mock,
If thou shalt split upon the self-same Rock.
As th'ill-skill'd Pilot's blam'd, and not his Luck,
That runs same spot he saw his Lanthorn struck:
So write for Oracle, same Foes, same Friends,
Bring them that follow them, to th'self-same Ends.

On Mun Doyly and Fleet Shepherd, Esquires.

Fat, ruddy, and dull,
With an Inch-thick of Skull;
But false as the Bags of his Brother;
Is that Caterer for News,
In Taverns and Stews,
Mun Doyly the Son of his Mother.

The great Legg hearing this,
Thought all was amiss;
And to run his Intelligence higher,
Resolv'd at a Jump,
To leven that Lump,
With Shepherd that voluble Lyar.

What notable Tools
Are a Brace of such Fools,
In the hands of a young Politician;
When the Colonel did chuse
False Wit, and false News,
Sure he needed much more a Physician.

197

Yet poor Shepherd may prove
In time, by Legg's Love,
As famous as Markham or Needham:
Or Berkinhead the Great,
Who employs all his Sweat
In witty smart Ballads (God speed him.)

Return to the Pot,
Thou damn'd drolling Sot,
In time, lest the Gallows attend thee;
For thou'lt ne'er make so good
A Spy as old Blood,
Tho Billing and Mead do befriend thee.

In Alehouses dipt,
From Oxford thou wert whipt,
For thy witty Deceits to the Tapster:
T' has e'er since been thy way,
Thy best Friends to betray;
Clancy proceeded not faster.

A RIDDLE.

Who's he that's no body's Friend,
Whose Levees yet great Men attend;
Who in Retirement loves to sneak,
Yet for Domesticks oft does seek?
Folly and Innocence do him dread,
He's hated, yet he's followed,
And is interr'd before he's dead.
His Retinue's kept at others Cost,
And when he's curst, he prospers most.

198

ANOTHER.

I stand but on one Leg, yet do sustain
Much Weight, beside a noted Rogue in grain,
And 'twere an ill Wind which blew him no gain.
He gives me Clothes, when fast he'd have me run,
But strips me naked, when his Work I've done.
Then I, with Arms across, expos'd do stand,
Forc'd to submit to ev'ry Turn of Hand,
And to inconstant unseen Pow'rs command.
I once encounter'd was by hardy Fool,
Who'ad got my Namesake lodg'd within his Skull;
He me attack'd in wild and frantick Mood,
And I my Ground, tho in swift Motion, stood.
He from my Arms receiv'd a stunning Blow,
Yet what I was the Coxcomb did not know;
And you're more wise, if you guess what I'm now.

Third Riddle.

Close to my Owner I adher'd,
Till bloody Hands me from him tear'd:
In Warmth and Quietness we liv'd,
And, while together, well we thriv'd;
But naked now Men me expose,
And I excite them too to Blows.
Dumb was I born, still have no Voice,
Yet Courts and Camps I fill with Noise.
I liv'd in Peace, now serve in Wars,
Was Innocent, but now at Bars
Am try'd, where I move endless Jars.
Great Rogues trade in me by whole-sale,
In Parcels too they me retail:
But when their greater use I fail,
Small lowsy Thieves do in me deal,
And serve their Ends of me piece-meal.

199

Song.

[The Widows and Maids]

[_]

To the old Tune of, Taking of Snuff is the Mode of the Court.

1

The Widows and Maids
May now hold up their Heads;
There are Men to be had for all uses:
But who could presage,
That ever one Age
Should be furnish'd with two Tom Lucys?

2

Since his Grace could prefer
The Poulterer's Heir,
To the great Match his Uncle had made him:
'Twere just if the King
Took away his blue String,
And sew'd him on two to lead him.

3

That the Lady was sent
To a Convent at Ghent,
Was the Counsel of Kidnapping Grafton;
And we may now foretel,
That all will go well,
Since the rough Blockhead governs the soft one.

4

Moll Hinton best knows,
Why Newburgh kept close;
But it need never trouble her Conscience:
'Twas Duty to clap
That impertinent Fop;
For it sav'd us abundance of Nonsense.

5

For one that loves Peace,
And would live at his Ease,
Northampton the best way has chosen;

200

Leaves courting the Fair
To his Uncle's Care,
And the combating Part to his Cousin.

6

In Shrewsbury we find
A gen'rous Mind,
So kindly to live with his Mother;
And never try yet
To revenge the sad Fate
Of his Father and only Brother.

7

Thus fighting we see,
With some Folks won't agree;
A Witness a much safer Post is:
And tho my Lord Grey
In the Field ran away,
He could charge in a Court of Justice.

8

'Tis pleasant to hear
An eminent

Sund---land.

Peer,
Make Whoring a Case of Conscience:
When 'tis so well known,
His Favour begun
By pimping to Portsmouth not long since.

9

'Tis a very plain Case,
That the

Dorchester.

Countess's Disgrace
The Catholick Cause advances:
'Tis also as plain,
That Tyrconnel's chief Aim
Was to bring in his Daughter Frances.

10

That Church will dispense
With no Heretick Wench;
And yet we have this for our comfort;
Tho the Priest at the Court
Forbid us that Sport,
The Chancery allows us a Montfort.

201

11

Thrice fortunate Boy,
Who canst give double Joy,
And at every Turn be ready,
With Pleasures in store,
Behind and before,
To delight both my Lord and my Lady.

210

SONG.

[What think you of this Age now]

[_]

To the Tune of, A begging we will go.

1

What think you of this Age now,
When Popery's in Request;
And he's the loyal'st Subject,
Slights not the Laws the least?
When a Torying they do go, do go, do go,
When a Torying they all go.

2

What think you of a Whiggish Plot,
And of their Evidence,
When all the Laws cannot protect
The Peoples Innocence?
When a swearing they do go, do go, do go,
When a swearing they do go.

3

What think you of a

Grey.

General,
That did betray his

Monmouth.

Lord,
For which he does deserve to swing
In Ketch's Hempen Cord?
Such a Rogue you ne'er did know, did know, did know,
Such a Rogue you ne'er did know.

4

What think you to be try'd, Sir,
By Proclamation Laws,
And zealously destroy a

Monmouth.

Prince,
T'advance the Popish Cause?
And to Mass to make us go, us go, us go,
And to Mass to make us go.

5

What think you of the Chancellor?
Besure he'll do the Work;

211

Establish a Religion,
Altho it were the Turk?
And for In'trest he'll do so, do so, do so,
And for Int'rest he'll do so.

6

In Lime-street now we do say Mass,
T'advance the Popish Cause,
And set the Mayor to guard it
Against his Oath and Laws?
To the Court you must bow low, bow low, bow low,
To the Court you must bow low.

7

And what think you of proving
A Popish Army awful,
And bantering the Church with
Arguments unlawful?
But a fiddling let him go, him go, him go,
But a fiddling let him go.

8

What would you give to be, Sir,
In contrite Prance's Place,
And sentenc'd to a Pillory
For one small Mite of Grace?
When recanting he did go, did go, did go,
When recanting he did go.

9

What think you of our Penal Laws,
That made the Pope to bow?
If damn'd Rogues had not betray'd us,
They'd been as penal now.
But their Opinions were not so, not so, not so,
Their Opinions were not so.

10

Yet fear we not, that bug---ing Dog,
That sits in Porph'ry Chair,
That swears he is infallible,
'Cause he's St. Peter's Heir?
'Tis a Lye we all do know, do know, do know,
'Tis a Lye we all do know.

212

A Stanza put on Westminster-Hall-Gate.

When Nature's God for our Offences dy'd,
Among the Twelve one Judas did reside.
Here's Twelve assembled for the Nation's Peace,
Among which Twelve, Eleven are Judasses.
One's true to's Trust, but all the rest accord
With Jews and Pagans to betray their Lord.
What Madness, Slaves! what was't cou'd you provoke
To stoop once more unto the Romish Yoke?
May you be curs'd, and all your Hopes demolish'd,
And perish by those Laws you have abolish'd.

To the Judges.

Dignify'd Things, may I your leave implore
To kiss your Hands, and your high Heads adore?
Judges you are, but you are something more.
May I draw near, and with a rough hewn-Pen
Give a small Draught of you, the worst of Men:
Tell of your Merits, and your mighty Skill,
And how your Charms all Courts of Justice fill:
Your Laws far stronger than the Commons Votes,
So finely flow from your dispensing Throats.
What Rome will ask, you must not her deny;
If Hell command you too, you must comply.
There's none but you would in this Cause combine;
Things made like Men, but act like Brutes and Swine.
Law-Books are Trash, a Student's but a Drudge,
Learn to say, Yes, he's an accomplish'd Judge.
He wins the Scarlet Robe, and wears it too;
Ay, and deserves it well for more's his due:
All that compleats a Traytor, dwells in you.

213

Thus you like Villains to the Benches get,
Where, in defiance to the Laws, you sit,
And all base Actions that will please commit.
There must you toil for Rome, and there must try
Your Irish Sense and Cobweb Policy;
Compleat your Crimes, and then you're fit to die.
True Loyal Babes, Pimps to the Church of Rome,
Tresilian's Heirs, Heirs to his Crimes and Doom.
Was e'er the Hall fill'd up with such a Brood,
All dipt in Treasons, Villanies, and Blood?
Worse than Phanatick Priests; for they being prest
By a wild Prince, preach'd to repeal the Test.
Then here's the Diff'rence 'twixt you Popish Tools;
You're downright Rogues, they only Knaves and Fools.

215

A new Catch.

This worthy Corps where shall we lay?
In hallow'd, or unhallow'd Clay?
Th' unhallow'd best befits him dead,
Who, living, from the hallow'd fled.

Then in the Vestry be his Tomb,
Since that he made his Drinking Room;
While to avoid the Common-Pray'r,
He soop'd off his French Pottage there.

But now alas! near Newgate thrown,
E'er Tyburn could obtain its own,
He's gone to sleep with Brethren blest,
In Baxter's Saints e'erlasting Rest.

Enter Oliver's Porter, Fidler and Poet in Bedlam.

The Scene adorn'd with several of the Poet's own Flowers.
Porter.
O Glory! Glory! Who are these appear?
My Fellow-Servants, Poet, Fidler here?
Old Hodge the constant, Johnny the sincere!
Who sent you hither? And pray tell me why
A horrid Silence does invade my Eye?
Why not one sound of Voice from you I spy?

Johnny.
I come to let thee know the time is now
To turn, and fawn, and flatter as we do;
And follow that which does too fast pursue.

216

Be wise, neglect your Int'rest now no more;
Int'rest, the Prince we serve, God we adore.
I for the Royal Martyr first declar'd;
But e'er his Head was off, I was prepar'd
To own the Rump, and for that Cause did rhyme;
But those kick'd out, next moment turn'd to him
That routed 'em, call'd him my Sovereign,
And prais'd his opening of the Kingly Vein.

Hodge.
I by my low'ring Planets was accurst
To be for barren Loyalty at first:
But when to Noll's our Charle's Fate gave place,
I could abjure th'unhappy Royal Race.
To Noll I all my Fingers skill did show,
And charm'd his Highness with my nimble Bow;
Besides, I serv'd him as a faithful Spy,
And did decoy the Cavalierish Fry.
Gold from his bounteous Highness charm'd my Eyes,
My old Whore Baltinglass did not suffice
For the Expence and Equipage of Spies.

Johnny.
Come join with us to make our Party strong,
And you can never be in Bedlam long.

Hodge.
Where you yet madder, you might serve the State,
And be employ'd in things of greatest Weight.

Johnny.
For, as the Turks their Fantons, we adore
The Fools and Madmen, and their Aid implore.
Such are the Men I sing in Panegyrick Verse:

Hodge.
To such I write, not to Philosophers.

Porter.
Such frequent Turns should you to Bedlam bring,
From Rump to Cromwel, Cromwel to the King;
Then to your Idol Church, next to the Pope,
Which may one day prefer you to the Rope.

217

I among Madmen am confin'd, 'tis true,
But I have more Solidity than you.

Johnny.
A Windmill is not fickle, for we find
That it is always constant to the Wind;
I never change, I am still to Int'rest true;
The Conqu'ror ever does my Muse subdue;
And with whatever Tossing she shall meet,
She, like a Cat, shall light upon her Feet.

Hodge.
How long did I write for the English Church,
Yet now think fit to leave her in the lurch!
Like Will-o-th'Wisp, th'inferior Clergy I
Led into Quagmires where I let them lie:
Some into Bogs and Ditches I have cast,
Where let them flounder what they will, they're fast.
So far Crape Gown is plung'd into the Mire,
It is not possible it should retire.

Porter.
My Spirit boils within my troubled Breast;
These Rogues are come to interrupt my Rest.

Johnny.
When the exalted Whigs were in their Pride,
I spent my Oil and Labour on their side;
Wrote a Whig Play, and Shaftesbury out-ran,
For all my Maxims were Republican.
For the Excluding-Bill I did declare,
Libel'd and rail'd, and did not Monarch spare:
When they began to droop, I fac'd about,
And with my Pen I damn'd the Whiggish Rout.
Nay, ev'ry turn before-hand I can find,
As your sagacious Hog foresees the Wind.

Hodge.
You nimbly turn to that which does prevail,
No Seaman e'er could sooner shift his Sail.

Johnny.
Like a true Renegado still I maul
The Party I forsook with utmost Gaul.

218

Hodge.
So I e'er long shall damn the Heretick Souls
Of my old Comrade Coffee-Priests near Paul's:
Spies upon all their Pulpits I maintain,
And if of Rome, or Slav'ry they complain,
Or for their own against our Church do preach;
I war, as if they did Sedition teach:
I brand the Parson with most venomous Lyes;
If I want Truth, Invention still supplies.

Porter.
[Aside.
O Seed of Locusts! O th'infernal Lake!
You'll raise my Anger, and I'll make you quake.

Hodge.
Long my sly Pen serv'd Rome, and I atchiev'd
Ample Rewards, whole shoals of Priests deceiv'd;
I wrought with such imperceptible Tools,
That I of Heaps of Guineas gull'd those Fools:
The only Bubbles in the World are they,
Who to their Cost must feel before they see.
In publick yet the English Church I own,
Tho I am subtly writing of it down:
For yet it is not time I shou'd declare,
Lest Fools, to whom I write, shou'd be aware.

Johnny.
Men best themselves 'gainst open Foes defend,
But perish surely by a seeming Friend.
One Son turn'd me, I turn'd the other two,
But had not an Indulgence, Sir, like you.
I felt my Purse insensibly consume,
Till I had openly declar'd for Rome.

Hodge.
Now Fellow-Servant, pray at length be wise,
And follow our Example and Advice.

Porter.
What turn to Rome, who did our City burn!
And would our antient Government o'erturn!

Hodge.
Hold! Is not th'Inscription blotted out?

219

Porter.
Therefore who burnt the City, none need doubt.

Johnny.
It was Almighty Fire from Heaven came down
To punish the rebellious stiff-neck'd Town;
All which had perish'd in devouring Flames,
Tho on the Fire you'd empty'd all the Thames:
Had all its Waves been on the Houses tost,
It had but basted them, as they did roast.
But Heav'n a Chrystal Pyramid did take.
Of that a broad Extinguisher did make,
In Firmamental Waters dipt above,
To hood the Flames which to their Quarry strove.

Porter.
A Pyramid Extinguisher to hood!
'Tis Nonsense, never to be understood.

Hodge.
What you believe the Plot of Varlet Oates?

Porter.
Ten Proclamations, and four Senates Votes.

Johnny.
That Godfrey's Life was by the Papists sped.

Porter.
O no! He kill'd himself when he was dead.

Hodge.
To dying Jesuits will you Credit give?

Porter.
Yes, full as much as all the while they live.
But dying Protestants I'll not believe; [Scoffingly.

For they allow of neat Equivocation,
And of flat Lyes with mental Reservation.

Johnny.
Hark Hodge! To gain him we in vain contend;
Our Fellow-Servant is a Wag, dear Friend.

Hodge.
I'll try him farther; for his Parts are such,
To bring him o'er must needs avail us much,
Who are for Rome and France 'gainst English and the Dutch.

220

Come, Fellow-Servant, you'll believe our Plot,
Of Russel, Hambden, Sidney, and what not;
Of Bedford, Walcot, Bow-steeple, and the Rye?

Porter.
For Russel would, but Hambden would not lye,
Rumbald and Walcot too did both deny;
Ayloffe to boot: but Cowards are not brave,
For Fear's a Passion which all Cowards have.
Yet to the Plot I firm Belief afford,
Of th'Evidence I credit not one word.

Johnny.
Can you distrust what Gray and Escrick say?

Porter.
What two such excellent moral Men as they?

Hodge.
Others there are swore home as Men could do.

Porter.
Who for their Lives must swear, swear home, 'tis true.
Against the Popish Crew none ever swore,
But a full Pardon he obtain'd before.
These Swearers are like Cormorants, for they
On Whigs with Ropes about their Gullets prey.

Johnny.
What then! will you not be to Int'rest true?
We both are of the same Belief with you:
But we know better what we have to do.

Porter.
[Aside.
Did ever Hell send such a Brace of Knaves?
Such abject Cowards, mercenary Slaves!

[Exit frowning.
Johnny.
His Looks are wild, his fiery Eye-balls roll,
A raging Tempest's lab'ring in his Soul:
Let's prudently retire.—

[Porter re-enters with a great Bible given him by Nell Gwyn.]

221

Porter.
You pitiful sneaking Rogues! Would you be gone?
Here's that shall knock both you and Popery down.

[He knocks 'em down with the Bible, and stamps upon them: they get up.]
Hodge.
Rash Man! for this I full Revenge will take,
And set our Evidence upon your back.

Johnny.
Audacious Fool! how dare you tempt your Fate,
Provoking me a Pillar of the State,
Who with my Pen alone have turn'd the Scale,
And made the Tories o'er the Whigs prevail?

Hodge.
Your Pen alone?—
Can I this Arrogance endure to hear?
Would you usurp the Garland I should wear?

Johnny.
You with your Forty Eight and Forty One,
With Skrews and Antipendiums plagu'd the Town:
While ev'n the Whigs admir'd my lofty Verses,
Your witless Prose did fodder forty A---

Hodge.
I'll through your A--- touch Honour to the quick,
And find if you have any by this Kick.

[Kicks the Poet.
Johnny.
Kick on, old Fool, till you your Toes do gall,
I have had several Kickings, and have borne 'em all:
So that I'm us'd to't.—

Porter.
Hence, you wretched Slaves,
There is Contagion in such Fools and Knaves.
I'll wring your Necks off, if you ever more
Presume to set your Feet within this Door:
I'm Chief, and have Dominion in this place.

222

Johnny.
I'll spend my gushing Blood upon thy Face;
And if thou dar'st effect thy dire Design,
With my two Hands I'll fling my Head at thine.

Porter.
Halloo! St. Dennis, have at you.

[He kicks and beats them, they run roaring out.]
Johnny.
Murder! murder!

Hodge.
Help, Murder! help!

Porter.
I of these Knaves shall never more complain,
They have call'd back my wandring Sense again. [He pauses, and seems to come to himself.]

Of all Mankind, happy alone are we,
From all Ambition, from all Tumults free:
No Plots, no vile Informers need we fear,
No Plagues, no Tortures for Religion here.
Our Thoughts, nay ev'n our very Words are free,
Not damn'd by Fines, or loss of Liberty.
None here's impeach'd by a vile Table Spy,
Who with an Innuendo backs his Lye:
Words and Lampoons we laugh at, and ne'er care
What's said by Men, if Actions they forbear.
Anger at Words, is Weakness understood,
Since none can ridicule ought that is good:
'Tis womanish, and springs from Impotence,
For no great Man at Words e'er took offence.
When Rome was in her Glory, Words were free,
Just Governments can never jealous be:
But when to Tyranny great Rome declin'd,
Weak Emperors with Delatores join'd
To plague the People, and themselves undo;
For when they're fear'd, they must be hated too:
And whom Men hate with Ruin they'll pursue.

223

One Witness, and a Circumstance for Facts,
Is not enough; we must prove Overt-Acts.
Our happy Government makes no Offence,
But open and rebellious Violence;
Which we to quell no standing Army need,
Nor can Dragoon upon Free-quarter feed.
Booted Apostles we have none, that come
To knock, and beat Men to the Church of Rome.
When its But-end prevails not, Torments will,
For Lewis is not yet so merciful to kill.
Here we, divided from the troubled World,
Rest, and are into no Confusions hurl'd.
For all our Wants does our wise State provide,
Here ev'ry vacant Place is still supply'd,
With Persons that are duly qualify'd.
No Favour raises a desertless Knave,
Nor Infamy, nor yet the Gold he gave.
How would all Subjects envy us, should we
Publish the Secrets of our Hierarchy!

A Farewel to the Church of England.

Go little Brat, respected by the Just,
Hated by Villains, and by Papists curs'd:
Thy Foes are such as Time it self shall hate,
Whose horrid Actions shall compleat their Fate.
Fools, Villains, Traitors, by true Names descry'd;
Were ever Cards with such a Pack supply'd?
But here's the Comfort, go and tell about,
That Fools that put them in, will kick them out;
Give thy self up, be gone, thou'rt call'd away,
For Time and Tide make the whole World obey.
Go tell thy Friends, and let them think upon't,
A Commonwealth's the thing that some Men want.
No Plots grow there, poor Mankind to abuse,
Those little Tricks of State, which Monarchs use:

224

No Cut-throats that do murder with Applause;
No burning Cities to promote the Cause:
No Charter seiz'd for Rome, by new-found Writ;
No City Knights question'd, as they think fit,
By Rogues, made Judges, to determine it.
No Monster of a Mouth we e'er yet saw,
Made Judg of Equity, who ne'er knew Law.
No fawning Statesman, who for treach'rous Gold,
His Country's Rights, and antient Freedom sold:
No Judges are permitted there to live,
That break the Center which the Senate give;
That punish Treason under which they groan;
Villains unparallel'd, excell'd by none!
No trimming Poet trims with every Stream,
And changes Sides as often as his Theme:
No filching Justice there perks up his Head,
Prefer'd to cheat the Church that gave him Bread.
A snarling Cur, kept under Chain and Clog,
Perform'd the Office of a wakeful Dog:
Cambridg, that cry'd him up, now calls him Rogue.
No Priests sit there in Council, nor debate
Their juggling Politicks to plague the State;
The only Curse poor England felt of late.
No Burtons, Grahams, Rogues set up in spite,
To squeeze and plague the People in their Right.
Such Villains in a State are only fit
To grace a Gallows, and hang under it.

To the Haters of Popery, by what Names or Titles soever dignify'd or distinguish'd.

Thus 'twas of old; then Israel felt the Rod,
When they obey'd their Kings, and not their God:
When they went whoring after other Loves,
To worship Idols in new-planted Groves.
They made their Gods of Silver, Wood and Stone,
And bow'd and worship'd them when they had done.
And to compleat their Sins in every way,
They made the things call'd Priests; Priests, I say,
A Crew of Villains more profane than they.
Hence sprung the Romish Crew, that Spawn of Hell!
Who now in Vice their Pedagogue excel.
Their Church is rul'd by vitious Popes: the rest
Are whoring Nuns, and baudy bug---ing Priests.
A noble Church! daub'd with religious Paint,
Each Priest's a Stallion, ev'ry Rogue's a Saint.
Come you that loath this Brood, this murd'ring Crew,
Your Predecessors well their Mercy knew.
Take Courage now, and be both bold and wise;
Stand for your Laws, Religion, and Liberties:
You have the odds, the Law is still your own;
They are but Traitors, therefore pull 'em down.
They, struck with Fear, seek to destroy the Laws:
On them, you see, they raving fix their Paws,

226

Because from them they fear their fatal Fall,
Knowing that they to death subject them all.
Then keep your Laws, the Penal, and the rest,
And yield your Lives rather than yield the Test.
And thou, great Church of England, hold thy own,
Force you they may; otherwise give up none:
Robbers and Thieves must count for what they've done.
Let all thy mighty Pillars now appear
Zealous and brave, void both of Hate and Fear.
The Popish Fops may grin, lye, cheat and whine;
And curse their Faith, while all submit to thine.
And you, brave Oxford, Cambridge, and the rest,
Great Hough and Fairfax, who dare beard the Beast;
Let all the Just with Thanks record your Name
On standing Pillars of Immortal Fame.

To make a Catholick Pudding.

Of Oats new thresh'd at Tyburn, take two Pound,
Of Chios Wine enough the same to drown:
Of Malmsbury and Hobbs, take Ounces eight,
Of a quack Conscience add an equal Weight:

229

Of Juries finely pack'd, take one Ounce more,
Six Irish Witnesses just come ashore.
Season it all with Atheistick Lyes,
'Twill make a Pudding that shall clear your Eyes.
Here Antichrist may freely treat his own Guests,
For the Receipt is learned Dr. Conquest's.

An Irish Prophecy.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

There was a Prophecy lately found in a Bog,
That Ireland should be rul'd by an Ass and a Dog:
The Prophecy's true, and now come to pass;
For Talbot's a Dog, and Tyrconnel's an Ass.

A new Song upon the Hogen-Mogen.

D'ye hear the News of the Dutch, dear Frank?
Sutterkin, Hogen, Herring, van Dunk:
That they intend to play us a Prank,
Sutterkin, Hogen, Herring, van Dunk,
Hogen Mogen, Hogen Mogen, Sutterkin, Hogen Herring van Dunk.
Hogen Mogen, Hogen Mogen, &c.

But if they boldly dare come ashore,
Sutterkin, &c.
Some may repent themselves full sore,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

For the brave English, Irish and Scotch,
Sutterkin, &c.
Will in their Guts make such a Hotch-potch,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

230

Better they'd stuck to their Herring-Trade,
Sutterkin, &c.
For now in Pickle themselves shall be laid,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

What tho they have laid their Heads together,
Sutterkin, &c.
No Orange can thrive if it prove bad Weather,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

Then woe be to 'em, if Dartmouth the Great,
Sutterkin, &c.
Should fall upon 'em with his whole Fleet,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

Pass not Port-Bay, for fear it should freeze,
Sutterkin, &c.
For then, I'fack, your Orange we'll squeeze,
Sutterkin, &c.
Hogen Mogen, &c.

The Deponents.

The mighty Monarch of this British Isle,
Disturb'd to hear his Subjects prate and smile,
That he is so content to own a Son,
For to inherit th'Imperial Throne,
To please his Queen, and put by both his own:
But finding England not so credulous,
And clear-ey'd Orange more suspect than us,
By Instigation of the Q. and P.
He summons all together as you see,
And there declares his own Sufficiency.

231

He says his Subjects Minds so poison'd are,
They'll not believe God bless'd him with an Heir:
But to convince them they are in the wrong,
In comes the Swearers, and depose as long
A Narrative, as perjur'd O---es could do;
What these propose unquestionably's true,
Our King says so, who dare say other now?

There's Lords, Knights, Ladies, Squires, Quacks, and all
The Papal Locusts that infect Whitehall;
They swear what King would have, to gain their Ends,
Since he's a Prince that ne'er forgets his Friends.
But Witness Bishops, for your Loyalty
He makes you great, he did bestow on ye,
To keep you safe, his strongest, greatest Fort;
While ye were there, the Tower was the Court.
All fled from James, to you for Blessing came;
Imprisonment immortaliz'd your Name:
Bishops of England's Church were Men of Fame.
And since his dire Designs in Law have fail'd,
He seems to smile, you are to Council call'd,
To hear the Worthy Loyal Swearers swear,
That at the Birth of Wales's Prince they were.

And first begins Old England's barren Q.

Q. D**ger.

That at her Sister's Labour was not seen
Till all was past; yet for the Holy Cause
She'll do whate'er she can to blind the Laws
Of England, and doth there declare, and say,
She hasten'd to the Queen that very Day,
And never stirr'd till this great Prince was born,
For th'Nation's Glory, but he proves their Scorn;
Except of these that on him daily wait,
Whose Loyal Love is only to be great.

Next comes Old P---is, who a Story feigns
Of Riff-raff Stuff, to fill the Peoples Brains,
Of what she saw, and knew about the thing;
And in a modest Circumstance doth bring,

232

Of something which into the World he brought,
And by the Doctors gave him, as she thought.
Now as a Governess she tends his Grace,
And would not for all Heaven quit her Place;
So sweet a Babe, so fine a hopeful Lad,
The forward'st Son the Father ever had.

Then A---n's Countess with her Oath comes in,
That at the Prince's Birth her self has been,
And how she heard Complainings from the Queen
Of little Pains, and then the Child was seen:
But, Oh! He did not cry; the Queen baul'd out
For fear 'twas dead, but Granny clear'd the Doubt.
And further Honour this great Lady had;
She saw Smock spoil'd with Milk (the Sign was bad.)

And P---gh could not be beguil'd,
Knowing the Father's Strength (at thought she smil'd)
She saw Queen's Smock, and swears she was with Child.

While pious Sun---nd to Chappel went
On purpose to receive the Sacrament;
Devotion was so great, she disobey'd
Her Majesty; and said, When she had pray'd
She'd wait on her: But hearing that the Prince
Was hastning to the World, this, this Pretence
Soon brought our Saint-like Lady quick from thence.
And from her bended Knees flew to the Queen,
And there saw all the Sight was to be seen.
The Bed was warm'd, and into it she went,
And ask'd the King if for the Guests he'd sent;
And lingring Pain she had, and seem'd to fear
'Twould not be born, till all the Fools were there:
But by her Midwife was assur'd, one Pain
Would bring the Prince into the World amain.
But faithless Queen! The Child did lie so high,
She'd not believe but Judith told a Lye;
And such an Honour to this Deponent granted,
'Tis hardly more by th'Pope for to be sainted.

233

R---mon swears she stood by Sun---land,
Near the Queen's Bed, just by the Midwife's Hand,
And saw His Highness taken out of Bed,
Fit for a Crown t'adorn his Princely Head.

F---gal depos'd, that in the Queen's Distress
She stood at the Beds Feet, just by M---ss;
And saw the Prince into the World did come,
And by D---dy carried from the Room.

Then painted B---ley early in the morn
Came to St. James's, to see his Highness born:
With all the haste she could, she up did rise,
Soon dress'd, she came by Nine a Clock precise,
And found her Majesty was in the Bed,
And groaning dismally, she further said,
Cry'd to the Midwife, Do not the Child part:
Old Granny crav'd her leave: with all her heart
She granted what the Beldame did desire,
And certain 'tis there was no danger nigh her:
Crying, O King, where are you fled?
He said, I'm kneeling, Madam, on your Bed.
This plain Deponent bellows Baudy forth
To be expos'd both East, West, South and North,
Without e'er Fear or Shame; bars Modesty
For to out-face the World with such a Lye.

Then Pocky B---sis the next comes in,
And says she saw the Cast of Charles's Queen;
And hearing that the Q---n in Labour was,
She hurry'd in without a Call or Pass.
With this Excuse (she knew she was forgot)
Where she talks Baudy, shews Impudence, what not?
Expose her self in Print to shew her Love;
Exalted by the King and one above:
She'll lye and swear, forswear, to prop the Cause,
That baffles England's sound and wholesom Laws.

Then Lady W---grave, who was there before
This Royal Babe was launched from the Shore,
And heard her Majesty cry out full sore.

Then C---ne and sottish Went---th say the same,
With S---yer, Wal**ve, D**son, that they came

234

And saw this Wonder which the World won't own,
And blame their little Faith; to think this Son
Is Spurious, and not in truth proceeding
From Majesty, when they all saw him Bleeding;
Nay, gave him of his Blood (squeez'd from the string)
That did the Royal Babe into the World bring.

Then Br---ley, T---ni, and Nan C---ry too,
Swear they saw all the work that was to do,
And more by half is sworn, than they'l prove true.

Then comes Delabady the Great Nurse,
Who with the Queen is all in all in trust;
And swears that Dan---rs, Maid to Princess Anne,
Was joy'd to see this little Royal Man,
With former Mark on Eye, which us'd to be
On all Queen Mary's Royal Progeny.
James seem'd to doubt that which before he knew,
And fear'd this treacherous Nurse not told him true:
But he must peep and see the Royal Elf,
And joy'd as if he got him his own self,

For Mrs. W---ks, who doubts but she would say,
She brought the Prince to Town that very day;
And told the King the trembling Queen did fear
'Twould be hard Labour (tho no Child was there:)
Explains most impudently those Concerns,
That follow Women when they cast their Barns.
And what cares she, the Hereticks she'l blind,
And then we fear the King will prove most kind
To all those Wretches which swear to his mind.

Then comes the Washer-woman Mrs. P---ce,
Who says that to the Queen she's Laundress;
And there declares a Story of Hot-Linen,
That us'd to come just from Child-bearing Women.

Rich***nd and Li---d, and brave Ma---all,
Tho not at Labour, they believe it all;
And fain would be believed, if these Tools
By swearing faslly could make us such Fools:
They give such Demonstrations, that do lie
As much aside, as they do Modesty.

235

Then comes Great George of England, Chancellor,
Who was with Expedition call'd to th'Labour:
The Queen cry'd out as Women us'd to do,
And he believes the Prince is real too,
But not so certain, nor 'tis fear'd so true
As he wears Horns, that were by M---fort made;
Them and his noise makes all the Fools afraid:
Tongue runs at random, and Horns pushes those,
That are so Learn'd his Lordship to oppose.
He fears to act no wretched Villanies,
He dreads no Torments for inventing Lyes,
For he of Heaven is sure whene'er he dies:
Thanks to the care of fond indulgent Wife,
To make atonement for his wicked Life;
Damns her own Soul, and whores with all she cou'd,
To allay th'impetuous Sallies of her Blood.

Lord P---dent comes next, that's now cashier'd,
For only speaking of the Truth 'tis fear'd;
Yet he for to be great again at Court,
Would be forsworn tho he be damned for't.

Then A---del of W---dour, Privy Seal,
Was so concern'd that he her Pains did feel;
And 'tis believ'd this tender-hearted Man
Did feel as much as Majesty did then;
He shew'd indeed concern to mighty W---m,
Who knew too much, to have concern for him:
But satisfy'd the Fool it would be past,
And wonder'd much her Pain so long did last.

Then comes my Lord All-Pride with Modesty,
And seems unwilling to affirm a Lye;
With stately gesture he did himself excuse,
But setting Hand to Paper can't refuse.

Then Foolish C---n comes and doth depose,
A Mark he hath, that he the Prince well knows;
If't be his Lordship's Mark, he ne'er must rule,
For Europe knows that he's mark'd for a Fool.

Then in comes F---sham, that haughty Beau,
And tells a tale of den, and dat, and how:

236

Tho he's no more believ'd than all the rest,
Only, poor Man, he fain would do his best;
And be rewarded as when come from West.

Earl of M---ray, that Alexander Great,
Believes it was the King that did the feat;
And that this Son is true, and not a Cheat.
Then M---ton and M---ford both explain'd
The business which they from the King had gain'd;
As knowing Men, his Majesty did trust
His Consort's Secrets, hoping they'd be just
To his Endeared Son our Mighty Prince,
That as he thought would hide his Impotence:
G---n too, with confidence pretends
It is true born, but 'tis for his own Ends.

And F---x a Story tells of God knows what,
To fool the Nation's all he would be at;
He keeps in Favour with his Princely Grace,
He fawns and flatters for to keep his place.

Then famous Sca---ugh and Wi---ly,
With W---ve, B---dy, and A---nd do lye;
And bring their Circumstances to convince
The World that 'tis a real High-born-Prince:
Thus they stick out at nothing that will do
The Nation wrong, and bring to England woe.
Base mercenary Slaves, for a King's Smile
Would Spurious Issue rear, and us beguile;
That fawn on him, and more observe a Nod
Than fear the Vengeance of an angry God:
And on the turn o'th' times would all fly back,
And let his Highness' Interest go to wreck.

Two Depositions more to Council sent,
Asham'd t'appear to farther the Intent
Of Popish Principles, and Perjuries;
None but the Devil could invent such Lyes.

Then after this the King himself declares,
He don't design with England to make Wars;
But he such Aggravations hath of late,
That he must needs be angry with the State:

237

A specious Prologue he concludes withal;
But ah! the Protestants he vows shall fall
A Sacrifice to Rome, and his Revenge:
Then Soldiers fear not Fools, but scorn to cringe;
Be resolute and stout, and scorn to sell
Your Souls to Rome, but send the Pope to Hell.

A new Song on the Calling of a Free Parliament, Jan. 15, 1688/9.

1

A Parliament with one Consent
Is all the Cry o'th' Nation,
Which now may be, since Popery
Is growing out of fashion.
The Belgick Troops approach to Town,
The Oranges come pouring;
And all the Lords agree as one,
To send the Papists scouring.

2

The holy Man shall lead the Van,
Our Father and Confessor;
In Robes of Red the Jesuit's fled,
Who was the chief Transgressor.
In this Disguise he thought t'escape,
And hop'd to save his Bacon,
But Herbert he has laid a Trap,
The Rat may be retaken.

3

The Nuncio too the day may rue
That he came o'er the Ocean,
In th'English Court to keep's Resort
And teach his blind Devotion.
The Prelates Ellis, Smith and Hall
Have sold their Coach and Horses;
And will no longer in Whitehall
Be making learn'd Discourses.

238

4

The Groom o'th'Stool that play'd the Fool
Full sorely will repent it,
And Sunderland did barefoot stand
For Penance shall lament it.
Melford and the Scotch are fled,
Whom hopes of Int'rest tempted;
Those Lords did turn for want of Bread,
And ought to be exempted.

5

But Salisbury, what cause had he
To fear his Highness' landing?
Who by his A--- and Legs might pass
For one of Understanding.
To take up Arms at such a time
Against the Rules were gave him,
His Head must answer for the Crime,
His Pardon will not save him.

6

The Friers and Monks with all their Punks
Are now upon the scamper;
Tyrconnel swears, and rants and tears,
And Teague does make a Clamper.
The Foreign Priests that posted o'er
Into the English Nation,
Do now repent that on that shore
They laid their weak Foundation.

7

'Twould be a sight, would move Delight
In each obdurate Varlet,
To see the Braves that made us Slaves,
Hang in dispensing Scarlet:
And every Popish Confessor
That for the same Cause pleaded,
Shall all turn off, on the same score
Be hang'd, or else beheaded.

240

Packington's Pound.

1

When the Joy of all Hearts, and Desire of all Eyes,
In whom our chief Refuge and Confidence lies,
The Protestant Bulwark against all Despair,
Has depriv'd us at once of her self, and her Heir,
That hopeful young thing,
Begot by a King,
And a Queen whose Perfections o'er all the World ring;
A Father whose Courage no Mortal can daunt,
And a Mother whose Virtue no Scandal can taint.

2

When Jefferies resigns up the Purse and the Mace,
Whose impudent Arrogance gain'd him the Place;
When, like Lucifer, thrown from the height of his Pride,
And the Knot of his Villany's strangely unty'd;

244

From the Chancery bauling
He turn'd a Tarpawlin,
Men still catch at any thing when they are falling:
But to hasten his Fate, before he could scour,
He was taken at Wapping, and sent to the Tow'r.

3

When Confessor Petre does yield up the Game,
And proves to the worst of Religions a shame,
When his cheating no more o'er our Reason prevails,
But is blasted like that of his true Prince of Wales;
Which was his Contrivance,
And our wise King's Connivance
To establish the Papists, and Protestants drive hence:
But their Cobweb Conception is brought to the Test,
And the coming of Orange has quite spoil'd the Jest.

4

When Peterborough, noted for all that is ill,
Was urg'd by his Wife to the making his Will,
At the hearing which words he did stare, foam and roar,
Then broke out in cursing, and calling her Whore;
And for two hours at least,
His Tongue never ceas'd,
He rail'd at Religion, and damn'd the poor Priest;
And his Friends, who had hope to behold him expire,
Are afraid by this Rout they shall lose their desire.

5

Young Salisbury, fam'd in this great Expedition,
Not for going to War, but obtaining Commission;
'Tis no Mystery to me that his Courage did fail,
When the greatest of Monarchs himself did turn tail:
So if he took flight
With his Betters by Night,
I am apt to believe the pert Spark was i'th'right;
For the Papists this Maxim do ev'ry where hold,
To be forward in boasting, in Courage less bold.

245

6

Nor should Bellasis, Powis, nor Arundel throng,
But each in due place have his Attributes sung:
Yet since 'tis believ'd by the strange turn of times
They'll be call'd to an account for their treasonable Crimes,
While the damn'd Popish Plot
Is not yet quite forgot,
For which the Lord Stafford went justly to pot;
And to their great comfort I'll make it appear,
They that gave 'em their freedom, themselves are not clear.

7

Wi. Williams, that Friend to the Bishops and Laws,
As the Devil would have it, espous'd the wrong Cause;
Now loath'd by the Commons, and scorn'd by the Peers,
His Patent for Honour in pieces he tears:
Both our Britons are fool'd,
Who the Laws over-rul'd,
And next Parliament each will be plaguily school'd:
Then try if your Cunning can find out a Flaw,
To preserve you from Judgment according to Law.

8

Sir Neddy Hale's Actions I shall not repeat,
Till by Ax or by Halter his Life he compleat;
Pen's History shall be related by Lobb,
Who has ventur'd his Neck for a snack in the Job:
All their Priests and Confessors,
With their dumb Idol-Dressers,
Shall meet the Reward that is due to Transgressors;
And no Papists henceforth shall these Kingdoms inherit,
But Orange shall reap the Reward of his Merit.

246

The Farewel.

1

Farewel Petre, farewel Cross;
Farewel Chester, farewel Ass;
Farewel Peterborough, farewel Tool;
Farewel Sun---land, farewel Fool.

2

Farewel Milford, farewel Scot;
Farewel Butler, farewel Sot;
Farewel Roger, Farewel Trimmer;
Farewel Dryden, Farewel Rhymer.

247

3

Farewel Brent, farewel Villain;
Farewel Wright, worse than Tresilian;
Farewel Chancellor, farewel Mace;
Farewel Prince, farewel Race.

4

Farewel Queen, and farewel Passion;
Farewel King, farewel Nation;
Farewel Priests, and farewel Pope;
Farewel all deserve a Rope.

A Congratulatory Poem to his Royal Highness the Prince of Orange.

Welcome, Great Sir, unto a drooping Isle,
Whose Peace a slavish Thraldom did beguile:
Whose native and just Properties infring'd,
Whose Fundamental Laws are quite unhing'd;
Whose Rights are in unequal Ballance weigh'd,
Whose fainting Church cries out to you for Aid.
Welcome thou grand Supporter of her Cause;
Welcome thou great Restorer of our Laws!
Wise Heav'n thought fit that You alone should be
The Antidote against our Misery:
That all our Wishes should in You be crown'd,
That You alone should heal our bleeding Wound.
You are the Rock on whom we do rely,
With You we'll swim or sink, we'll live or die.
You gently rule us with your awful Nod;
You are our Standard, and almost our God.
The State and the declining Church invite
You, the vast Center of their chief Delight:
They beg that you their Darkness would expel,
And make a Heav'n e'en of their present Hell.
'Tis done! Rejoice, the rising Sun appears,
His splendid Rays dry up our falling Tears.

248

We'll hate the meager Looks of Sorrow now,
With Laurel Leaves true Joy shall crown each Brow.

You, mighty Prince, our boasting Foes subdue,
And curb the Pride of all the Popish Crew.
With hazard of your Life our Chains you've broke,
And bravely freed us from the hated Yoke.
With vast Expence you have our Freedom bought;
From th'House of Bondage you our Church have brought.

Hence, Jesuits, ye Instruments of Hell!
Who fill with easy Souls the Devil's Cell.
To cheat and gull the Ignorant's your Trade:
You're subtle Devils all in Masquerade.
Wretches, be gone to some more sensless Land;
'Tis Sacred, hallow'd Ground, on which you stand,
And shall not be profan'd thus basely twice
By such a horrid Trumpery of Vice.
Hence Popery, thou Bane of all our Bliss,
Thou treach'rous Pois'ner of our Happiness.
Unfetter'd now, and free at last from pain,
We'll never reassume thy galling Chain.

Now Petre, die a Martyr for thy Church,
And leave not Holy Mother in the lurch.
Fly swiftly now to Heaven in a String!
But first absolve your poor deluded King.

What Change is this? under a strange disguise,
The great Lord Wem's become George Jefferies.
This is his Fate: he'll dreaded Tyburn view,
And so bid Arbitrary Law adieu,
And make his long-expected Dream prove true.

Then Herbert, Wright, and Jenner steer their Course
The same broad way as you, poor George, did yours.
Then come the rest of the Fraternity,
Sworn, faithful Brothers in Iniquity:
For when their Captain has his Life resign'd,
They, gen'rous Souls, will scorn to lag behind.

249

Repent ye base Betrayers of your Trust,
To your reproaching Consciences unjust;
False to your Country, to your King untrue;
Religion's but an empty Name with you.
Hang now like Dogs, 'tis meet you should inherit
The full and due proportion of your Merit.

Justice is done! I hear Great Orange come,
And with Concern pronounce your fatal Doom.
England rejoice! for now your only Care
Is, but the Burden of your Bliss to bear.
Strip ev'ry Laurel, ev'ry Myrtle Bough,
For Wreaths t'adorn and load his Sacred Brow.
Echo with chearful Shouts his glorious Name,
Th'amazing Wonder and Discourse of Fame.
Ring Bells; a waxen Pope in Fire destroy,
And shew all outward Acts of inward Joy.
The Lambs do play, the Birds by Instinct sing,
As if it were at the approach of Spring:
And ev'ry Creature makes a Melody;
Do all things else rejoice, and shall not I?
I'll be the first, and will in humble Verse
Your noble Deeds and glorious Acts rehearse.

The Prince's Welcome to London.

Hail mighty Prince! this Poem on you waits
As the first Offering that celebrates
Your Welcome to the Town, almost destroy'd
By Priestcraft, and by You again reviv'd.
This glorious Day, in which all Triumphs live,
To Heav'n and You alone, Great Sir, we give.
You from the Dust have rais'd our grov'ling State,
Which hung upon the weakest Wheel of Fate.
An Act so high, and past Mankind's believing,
That none but You could e'er think of atchieving:

250

Yet more! all who this Nation would inthral,
Compleat your Triumph by their wretched Fall.
But what doth Heav'n portend, that they design
To act some thing that's Noble and Divine?
Prophetick Stars this happy time ne'er knew,
This Secret lodg'd in none but Heav'n and You.
Now clear'd from sullen Frowns our Realms are blest,
And in the Umbrage of your Laurels rest.
While Joy, like Lightning in tempestuous Storms,
Dazles the World, and fills it with Alarms.
Joy now to loudest Triumph make its way,
And we no diff'rence know 'tween Night and Day.
Our Souls transported, in strong Raptures move,
And yet united are in artless Love.
Joy now and Love so very well agree,
As if this Year were the Great Jubilee.
To Care and Bus'ness we'll no time allow,
Since deathless Laurels flourish on your Brow.
Go on, brave Prince! What cannot you effect,
Whom Heav'n with prosperous Stars does still protect?
Let France now feel the Fury of your Sword;
Rescue that Kingdom from its Tyrant Lord:
Pull down his haughty Pride, too long secure,
And with his impious Blood Lutetia's Plains manure.

A new Song of the French King's fear of an Orange.

[The First Part.]

[1]

Of a Hectoring Bully,
Dear Muse, let me sing;
Or to speak one's Mind fully,
O'th' most Christian King:
Who subdues Men by huffing,
And converts Men by cuffing;
Yet he fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,
The gay Flow'r-de-Luces will wither and die.

2

He's Son to a chaste Queen,
Tho, if Authors don't lye,
The devout Mazarine
Had a Finger i'th' Pye;
To mould a Church Hero,
More fierce than a Nero,
Who yet fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,
His gay Flow'r-de-Luces will wither and die.

253

3

While he's scaring his Neighbours
With swelling Bravadoes,
We but laugh at his Vapours
And Rhodomontadoes;
Tho Monseigneur the Dauphin
Does new Conquests begin,
Yet they dread if an Orange approaches too nigh,
The gay Flow'r-de-Luces will wither and die.

4

The prodigious Advance
That the Prince here has made,
Makes an Earthquake in France,
And great Lewis afraid.
La Chaise's Address,
And the Jesuits Finess,
Can't hinder an Orange from approaching so nigh,
That the gay Flow'r-de-Luces will wither and die.

5

If a Fury Poetick
Foreknows things to come,
I may dare be prophetick,
And foretel his just doom:
For old Nostradame
Has predicted the same,
That if once the brave Orange approaches too nigh,
The gay Flow'r-de-Luces will wither and die.

The Second Part.

1

'Tis a sport to our Prince
To bridle up a King,
Tho the Beast kick and wince,
His firm Rider to fling;

254

He'll make him curvet,
And so steadily sit,
That an Orange once planted upon the French shore,
The gay Flow'r-de-Luces shall flourish no more.

2

Help, help, some kind Saint,
Holy Church's two Sons:
Help, thou Church Militant
Of converting Dragoons.
Shall Lewis Victorious,
Shall Lewis the Glorious,
See an Orange transplanted upon the French Shore,
And his gay Flow'r-de-Luces then flourish no more?

3

Good Cæsar compound,
Do but trust me once more;
If I'm treach'rous found,
I'm a Son of a Whore.
Let us en bonne Foy,
Our joint Forces employ,
To stave off an Orange quite from the French Shore,
Lest the gay Flow'r-de-Luces should flourish no more.

4

'Tis a cursed ill thing
Makes me rave and run mad;
If I were not a King,
I'd my self fight I'gad:
Beside, riding will pain-o
My Bagpipe in Ano.
Must an Orange be planted then on the French Shore,
And my gay Flow'r-de-Luces thus flourish no more?

5

The wild Worm in my Tail
My Vigour all drains;
Through its winding Canal
I've voided my Brains:

255

And these damn'd Hereticks
Have fool'd my Politicks,
For an Orange once planted upon the French Shore,
My gay Flow'r-de-Luces will flourish no more.

259

Religious Relicks:

or, The Sale at the Savoy, upon the Jesuits breaking up their School and Chappel.

1

Last Sunday by chance
I encounter'd with Prance,
That Man of upright Conversation?
Who told me such News,
That I could not chuse
But laugh at his sad Declaration.

2

Says he, if you'll go,
You shall see such a Show
Of Relicks expos'd to be sold;
Which from Sin and Disease
Will purge all that please
To lay out their Silver and Gold.

3

Strait with him I went,
Being zealously bent,
Where for Sixpence the Man let me in:
But the Croud was so great,
I was all in a Sweat,
Before the rare Show did begin.

4

The Curtain being drawn,
Which I think was of Lawn,
The Priest cross'd himself thrice, and bow'd;
Then with a sour Face,
Denoting his Case,
He address'd himself thus to the Croud.

5

You see our sad State,
'Tis a Folly to prate,

260

Our Church and our Cause are a-ground;
So in short, if you've Gold,
Here is to be sold
For a Guinea the Worth of ten Pound.

6

Here's St. James's old Bottle,
It holds just a Pottle,
With the Pilgrims Habit he wore;
The same Scollop-shells,
As our holy Church tells;
Who denies it's a Son of a Whore.

7

Here's a Piece of the Bag,
By Age turn'd to a Rag,
In which Judas the Mony did bear;
With a Part of his Rope
Bequeath'd to the Pope,
As an Antidote 'gainst all Despair.

8

Here's a Rib of St. Lawrence.
'Tis also at Florence,
And it may be in France or in Spain;
It cures Stone and Gravel,
And Women in Travail,
It delivers without any Pain.

9

Here's St. Joseph's old Coat,
Tho scarce worth a Groat,
Its Plainness does shew he'ad no Pride;
Yet this he had on,
For besides he had none,
The Day that he marry'd his Bride.

10

His Breeches are there,
A plain Leathern Pair,
Come buy the whole Suit if you please:
They'll defend you from th'Itch,
From Hag, and from Witch,
And preserve you from Bugs and from Fleas.

261

11

Here's the Gall of a Saint,
For such as do faint,
Or are troubled with Fits of the Mother;
Nay, if your Breath stink
Worse than Close-stool or Sink,
It will cure you as soon as the other.

12

Here's a Prayer of Pope Joan,
The like to't is none,
If you say it but three times a year,
Three hundred in Grace,
And three hundred 'twill place
In Heav'n, if they ever come there.

13

Here's our Lady's old Shoe,
Which in old time was new,
It will cure all your Chilblains and Corns;
With the Coif of St. Bridget,
To be worn by each Ideot,
Whose Head is tormented with Horns.

14

Here's a Bottle of Tears,
Preserv'd many years,
Of Mary's that once was a Sinner;
Some o'th' Fish and the Bread
That the five thousand fed,
Whom our Saviour invited to Dinner.

15

Here's St. Francis' own Cord,
You may take't on my word,
Who dies in it cannot be damn'd;
Do but buy it, and try
If I tell you a Lye,
Many thousands of Heav'n are shamm'd.

16

Here's his Holiness's Beard,
Of whom you have heard,

262

That the Hereticks call'd Pope Joan;
Yet this I dare swear
Was his nat'ral Hair,
Or else I'll be sworn he had none.

17

Its Virtue is such,
That it if does touch
Your Head, your Face, or elsewhere,
It does straightway restore
More than e'er was before,
Tho by Age, or by Action worn bare.

18

Here's St. Christopher's Boot,
For his right Leg and Foot,
Which he wore when he ply'd at the Ferry,
When on's Shoulders he bore
His blessed Lord o'er,
For the poor Man had never a Wherry.

19

Such as sail on the Seas,
I am sure it will please,
For its Parallel never was found;
Neither Tempest nor Storm
Can e'er do 'em harm,
Nor is't possible they should be drown'd.

20

Here's an infinite more
I have by me in store,
All which lie conceal'd in this Hamper:
Either buy 'em to-day,
Or I'll throw 'em away,
For to-morrow by Heaven I'll scamper.

21

Our Market is done,
We must shut up at Noon,
We expect 'em each hour at the door:
We are hang'd if we stay,
Nor can we get away,
For none will dare carry us o'er.

263

22

But by the Faith of a Priest,
This is no time to jest,
Since we're baulk'd in our great Expectation:
Before I will swing
Like a Dog in a String,
I'll renounce Transubstantiation.

A new Protestant Litany.

From the Race of Ignatius, and all their Colleagues;
From all the base Counsels of Bougres and Teagues,
And from Popery rampant, and all her Intrigues,
Libera nos Domine.

266

From Cobweb-Lawn-Charters, from sham-freedom Banters;
Our Liberty-Keepers, and new Gospel-Planters,
In the trusty kind hands of our great Quo Warranters,
Libera nos, &c.

From High-Court Commissions to Rome to rejoin us;
From a Rhadamanth Chancellor, the Western Judg Minos,
Made Head of our Church by new Jure Divinos,
Libera nos, &c.

From our great Test Records, cut out into Thrums;
From Waste-paper Laws, us'd with Pasties and Plums,
Magna Charta, Magna Farta, made Fodder for Bums,
Libera nos, &c.

From a new-found stone Doublet, to the old Sleeve of Lawn,
And all to make room for the Popelander Spawn,
To see a Babe born thro Bed-Curtains close drawn,
Libera nos, &c.

From resolving to-night where to lie in to-morrow,
And from cunning Back-door to let Midwife thorow,
Eight Months full grown Man-child born without Pang or Sorrow,
Libera nos, &c.

From a Godfather Pope to the Heir of a Throne;
From three Christian Names to one Sirname unknown,
With a Tyler Milch Nurse now the Mother's Milk's gone,
Libera nos, &c.

From Gun-Powder Bonfires, all turn'd out of play,
Not a poor Window-Candle dare to give a stol'n Ray,
But all kept reserv'd for great Simnel's Birth-day,
Libera nos, &c.

From Dad Petre Pilots at the Helm to befriend us,
With all Hands that Pope, Turk, or Devil can lend us;
And eke from a second Queen Bess to defend us,
Libera nos, &c.

267

From Nuncio's from Rome to consult how to drub
The Protestant Hydra by our Hercules' Club;
And a Warming-Pan Plot, worse than Cellier's Meal-Tub,
Libera nos, &c.

From old hundred of thousand Pound Fines underrated;
Russel's Head for his Common-House Votes elevated,
And Essex's Razor at Rome consecrated,
Libera nos, &c.

From Sampson-Cord Oaths snapt asunder with Ease;
From no Faith in Man; Coleman's Mouth with a squeeze
Stopt to tell no more Tales of Father La Chaise,
Libera nos, &c.

From old Dunkirk sold for a Song and a Dance,
The Protestant long design'd Cause to advance,
By most Christian Reformers, the Dragoons of France,
Libera nos, &c.

From supporting our Church A-la-mode Magdalano,
From Mahomet Monsieur, our new Lord Sultano,
And from English Pipes turn'd to French Fistul' in ano,
Libera nos, &c.

From Tyrconnel's Bogtrotters, at the old Trade of Throat-cutting;
From new conqu'ring Ireland for the English old Footing,
And from Sacrament Oaths of North Heresy rooting,
Libera nos, &c.

From Judges with Empson and Dudley's Infection;
From Knaves in Fools-Coats, by infallible Direction,
Raising Heretick Armies for the Roman Protection,
Libera nos, &c.

From threescore thousand Crowns, under Planet Malignant,
Giv'n Loretto's great Lady, that famous Heav'n Regnant,
To purchase no more than a poor Cushion pregnant,
Libera nos, &c.

268

The Hieroglyphick.

Come, Painter, take a Prospect from this Hill,
And on a well-spread Canvas shew thy Skill:
Draw all in Colours as they shall appear,
And as they stand in Merit place 'em there.
Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field,
And, as directed, so let it be fill'd.
First draw a Popish Army, brisk and gay,
Fighting and beat, destroy'd and run away:
Then draw a Herse, and let it stand in view,
The Mourners more, far more than they're in shew,
Cursing their Fate, their Stars; and in that Fear
Shew, if thou canst, how those damn'd Sots prepare
To run, to stay, and skulk in Holes alone,
By 'em this Motto, Gallows, take thy own.
Now to the Life let thy brisk Pencil shew
Distinctly, what they are, and what's their due.
Now draw a Croud of Priests prepar'd to run,
Like broken Merchants when their Stock is gone.
Some howling do their Pray'rs forget, and say,
Save us St. Ketch: Are all our Saints away?
Draw 'em in hurry, running to and fro,
Posting to Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.
Next draw a Cloud of Lords, this Libel by;
The great Design is lost. Alas! they cry,
Who'd serve a Cause of such curs'd Destiny?
Then draw four Priests; shew how they Rome adore,
And each Man's Scarf hang to be seen before.

270

Two Brace of Bishops fallen to Despair,
Arm'd Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.
Next draw the Judges, and employ thy Skill,
That all may praise thy Work, and say, 'tis well;
In Caps and Gowns as they in order sate,
'Twixt Heaven and Earth do thou them elevate,
For their grave Noddles can dispense with that.
Last draw the little Rogues, the scoundrel Crew,
Knights, Knaves, and Beggars; they must have their due,
Gadbury, Butler, and wise Roger too.
Amid this Croud, on a fit spot of Land,
To crown the Work, let a large Gallows stand:
Let them all trembling with their Guilt and Fears,
Kneel to that Image, and pour out their Pray'rs,
And then die by Suffocation.

A Dialogue between Father Petre and the Devil.

Petre.
O are you come? 'tis more than time;
Your Tardiness is no small Crime:
All our Proceeding's at a stand,
Again they've got the upper hand.
Yet like true Jesuit I have wrought
My Charge up to the height I sought;
Both Sense and Reason quite o'erthrown,
For those we deal with must have none.

Devil.
Is this a Conquest to relate,
Worthy a Jesuitick Pate?
I have more trouble with you had,
Than all the Orders I have made
Besides; I join'd in the Design
One, whose fell Malice equals mine:

271

One so ambitiously inclin'd,
One of so uncontroul'd a Mind,
That let the Gulph be ne'er so deep,
Or Pyramid prodigious steep,
That if in th'Extremes he can disclose
Any that do his Will oppose,
Tho on just Grounds, they meet their Fate
In violent and unbounded Hate.

Petre.
I did not call you to discourse;
We must do something now by Force.
Our whole Society is shamm'd,
And we in our first Founder damn'd.
Did I, tho to my Soul's Perdition,
Act things more black than my Commission?
Gaining Belief among the Great,
Who forc'd upon themselves the Cheat:
While the good Man I kept at th'Oar,
No Gally-Slave e'er labour'd more.
Nor durst I let him pause upon't,
Lest, if he thought, he should recant;
With puzzling Notions still possess'd him,
At once tormented and caress'd him:
Hoodwink'd the Pilot that should steer us,
With our infallible Chimeras.

Devil.
Boast not as if you'ad Conquest won;
You've started much, but nothing done.
Your Order, wheresoe'er they came,
Have set whole Kingdoms in a flame:
Nor Hell, nor Rome, can give you thanks,
For acting thus a Madman's Pranks.
Did I not always to you preach,
The English would you over-reach?
They'll be convinc'd e'er they believe,
Not pin their Faith upon your Sleeve.
Your publick Chappels have o'erthrown us,
Our very Proselytes disown us,

272

And face about to t'other side,
Exclaiming 'gainst the Roman Pride.

Petre.

What! do you now complain of me,
For overacting Villany?
I still consulted you in all,
Did daily for your Conduct call:
And tho, 'tis true, I nam'd the Saints,
Yet 'twas to you I made my Plaints.
I own about the French we fail'd,
But in the Irish we prevail'd.
Propose once more and I'll obey't,
It shall be done if you but say't.
You know in such a holy Juggle,
That my sear'd Conscience ne'er did boggle.
We must not flag, nor sit down here,
That would betray Remorse or Fear;
Which Jesuits do more decline,
Than e'er the Rechabites did Wine.
But I have something to impart,
Which does oppress my tender Heart;
And made me now invoke you hither,
Tho 'gainst your Principles, to gather
The Truth of these important Queries,
So needful in this dubious Series.

First, if in your power it lie,
Tell me what Death I'm doom'd to die;
I dare not hope, 'twill be in Bed,
That sutes not with the Life I've led.
But if I must be hang'd and quarter'd,
Let me be canoniz'd and martyr'd,
With holy Harcourt and his Fellows,
Like them be sainted at the Gallows.
And next I do the Favour crave,
Since I have ever been your Slave;
Unfold the Mystick Book of Fate,
And read me England's future State:

273

Which next shall to the Throne succeed,
The English or Italian Breed.

The Devil answ'ring, laugh'd outright;
Would I these Secrets bring to light,
I should not half that Harvest gain,
For which I've taken all this Pain.
Nor would I, if I could, reveal
That which my Int'rest bids conceal.
Yet I will answer thee in part,
Since I've a Title in thy Heart.
The first peculiar is to thee;
For which thou need'st not trouble me,
'Tis long since thou didst it foresee.
Not is it reason to believe,
Thou should'st the Mobile deceive.
But whether Martyr, or as Traitor,
Thy Ballad will be Truth's Relator.
The Consequence of th'other draw,
By the Success of Great Nassau.

This said, the Devil left the Father,
The Meaning of his Words to gather;
And vanish'd from him down the Stairs,
While he proceeded in his Pray'rs.

The Rise and Fall of the Lord Chancellor.

[_]

To the Tune of, Hey brave Popery!

Good People, pray now attend to my Muse,
I'll sing of a Villain I cannot abuse,
The Halter and Ax no such Men will refuse:
Sing hey brave Chancellor! O fine Chancellor! Delicate Chancellor! O!

'Tis he was the Cause of the Nation's Dismay,
He has e'er been a Knave from his Birth to this Day,
To see the Sot hang'd we will make Holy-day.
Sing hey, &c.

At first I will shew you what he is in grain,
I care not a pin for his Honour's Disdain;
His Deeds now in brief unto you I'll proclaim:
Sing hey, &c.

He was the Inventor of Oates's Punishment
From Newgate to Tyburn, and thither he sent;
To have him well whip'd he gave his consent.
Sing hey, &c.

The good Master Cornish did innocent die,
And all by this Chancellor's curs'd Villany;
His Blood now to Heav'n for Vengeance does cry,
Sing hey, &c.

He was the first Author that open'd his Jaws
To take off the Test and the Penal Laws:
Of beheading Lord Russel he alone was the Cause.
Sing hey, &c.

Then next to the West he hurry'd with speed,
To murder poor Men, a very good Deed!
He made many honest Mens Hearts for to bleed.
Sing hey, &c.

276

The Prisoners to plead to his Lordship did cry,
But still he made answer, and thus did reply,
We'll hang you up first, and then after we'll try.
Sing hey, &c.

Against their Petitions then he stopt his Ears,
And still did create all their Doubts and their Fears;
He left the poor Widows and Children in Tears.
Sing hey, &c.

He was the Inventor that first did promote
The Place that was call'd th'Ecclesiastical Court,
And thither he made the poor Clergy resort.
Sing hey, &c.

Of Magdalen-College he thought it most fit
To turn out the Fellows, a very fine Trick,
And place Father Walker, that curst Jesuit.
Sing hey, &c.

Then next to the Tower our Bishops he pack'd,
And swore he had done a very good Act,
But now shall be try'd for the Matter of Fact.
Sing hey, &c.

And when that the Bishops were brought to be try'd,
To prefer a Petition they humbly desir'd,
He swore he would prove it a Libel to be cry'd.
Sing hey, &c.

What can he say now the Parliament sits?
Alas! they will vote him quite out of his Wits,
They'll make him run mad, or fall into Fits.
Sing hey, &c.

In Wapping he thought for to make his Escape,
A very good Jest, but I'faith it won't take,
His Head on the Bridg must be stuck on a Stake.
Sing hey, &c.

He many seditious Libels hath pen'd,
And sent them to P--- his very good Friend,
My Muse she grows weary, and thus she does end,
With Pox o'th' Chancellor, villanous Chancellor, damnable Chancellor, O!

277

A Letter to the Lord Chancellor.

My Lord,

I'd praise your Lordship, but you've had your share
Of that before, if not too much by far;
And now a nobler Field for Cursing does appear.
Yet I'll not curse, but leave you to the Croud,
Who never baulk their Rage, but speak aloud;
Thro all the Labyrinths of your Crimes they'll track you,
Worse than ten thousand Furies they'll attack you.

We talk not here of Penal Laws, or Test,
Nor how you, King of Terrors in the West,
With more than savage Cruelty oppress'd
Those whose thin Shades now stab your anxious Breast:
To those I leave you; each with brandish'd Dart
Will home revenge his Quarrel at your Heart:
For me, I'll only let your Lordship see
How they resent your chang'd Felicity.

Now may you hear the People as they scour
Along, not fear to damn the Chancellor.
The Women too, and all the tender Crew,
That us'd to pity all, now laugh at you:
The very Boys, how they do grin and prate,
And giggle at the Bills upon your Gate!
Nay, rather than be frustrate of their Hope,
The Women will contribute for a Rope:
And those fine Locks, that no gay Spark might touch,
On this account Ketch may, they love my Lord so much.
O for Dispensing now! Ay, now's the time!
Your Eloquence can hardly blanch your Crime:
And all the Turnings of your Protein Wit,
With all your little Tricks won't help a bit:

278

Nay, that smooth Tongue, in which your chiefest Trust is,
Now can't, altho it sometimes baffled Justice.
No Ignoramus Juries shall perplex you,
But with their Billa vera's now shall vex you:
From their dire Claws no hiding Hole you'll find,
They now will speak their own, and not a Party's Mind.
Not now, as heretofore, when on the Bench.
Flattery and Daubing had such Influence,
And Jefferies for a Bribe would with the Laws dispense.
But granting all our Laws are out of joint,
They fear not still but they shall gain the Point:
A High Commission may the Cause decide;
Your Lordship by a Butcher may be try'd,
When by Commission he is dignify'd,
His Pow'r you must not doubt, if he be satisfy'd:
Of Laws like this we have a Precedent,
Nought will't avail t'appeal to a Parliament;
For they are such damn'd Sticklers for the Laws,
That it is five to one you lose your Cause.

You see, my Lord, the Case is very sad,
Enough to make a wiser Man stark mad:
But I'll advise your Wisdom what to do;
'Tis plain, that they their Madness will pursue:
They hope to see you soon advanc'd on high,
Most sweetly dangling 'twixt the Earth and Sky.
This 'tis they mean, 'tis this they would have done,
But I would chouse 'em ev'ry Mother's Son:
Troth I'd e'en hang my self; 'tis quickly done.
For why should such a Man as you submit
To be the publick Laughter of each grinning Cit?
Else a keen Rasor take, and never fear,
To cut your Lordship's Throat from Ear to Ear;
'Tis feasible enough, you know who did it,
And you are valiant, therefore never dread it:
Fail not to make sure work on't if you can,
Else Essex will be thought the stouter Man.

279

Sir Thomas Jenner's Speech to his Wife and Children.

Dear Wife let me have a Fire made,
I'll tell you such News will make you all glad,
The like for another is scarce to be had:
This it is to be learned and witty.

First, Butler, do you a Glass of Wine bring:
I'll tell you all the great Love of my King,
Which is a dainty curious fine thing.
This it is, &c.

A wise learned Serjeant at Law I was made,
And a dainty fine Coif was put on my Head,
Which is heavier by far than a Hundred of Lead.
This it is, &c.

But soon after this I was made the Recorder,
To keep the worshipful Rabble in order,
And wore a Red Gown with long Sleeves and Border.
This it is, &c.

What Justice I did, my dear Wife, you can tell;
Right or wrong I spar'd none, like the Devil in Hell,
But guilty or not, I sent all to Bridewel.
This it is, &c.

Unless it were those that greased my Fist,
To them I gave Licence to cheat whom they list,
For it was only those my Mittimus miss'd.
This it is, &c.

But then the King dy'd, which caus'd a Pother,
So I went to condole with the new King his Brother,
With Sorrow in one Hand, and Grief in the other.
This it is, &c.

281

For an ignorant Judg I was call'd by the King
To the Chequer Court, 'tis a wonderful thing,
Of which in short time the whole Nation did ring.
This it is, &c.

By Great James I was rais'd to the Common-Pleas Bench,
'Cause he saw I had exquisite Politick Sense,
Which his Wisdom perceiv'd in the Future Tense.
This it is, &c.

At Sarum five hundred Pounds I have gotten,
To save Malefactors from swinging in Cotton,
For which they were hang'd and are now almost rotten.
This it is, &c.

But now, my dear Love, comes the Cream of the Jest,
For the King would take off the Oaths and the Test,
Which I told all his People would be for the best.
This it is, &c.

He had my Opinion that 'twas in his power
To destroy all the Laws in less time than an hour,
For which I may chance to be sent to the Tower.
This it is, &c.

And now to Magdalen College I come,
Where we have turn'd out most, but kept in some,
That so a new College of Priests might have room.
This it is, &c.

And so by that means we left the Door ope,
To turn out the Bishops, and let in the Pope,
For which we have justly deserved a Rope.
This it is to be learned and witty.

282

Popery pickled:

Or, The Jesuits Shoes made of running Leather.

[_]

To the Tune of, Would you be a Man of Favour.

1

Would you have a new Play acted?
Would you see it just begun?
Popery is run distracted,
And the Priests are all undone.
Now you'll see their Beads and Crosses
All lie prostrate on the ground;
They're march'd off like Fools and Asses,
Not one Skulker to be found.

2

Would you see the Great Ones flying,
Leaving a disbanded Court?
There are Monks and Friars crying,
Whither now shall we resort?
Now the Chappel's quite defeated,
And forsaken like the Crown:
Popery is now convicted,
There's no such thing to be found.

3

Would you see the Priests recanting,
Now they fear the English Law?
You shall hear them all a ranting,
Lero, Lero, Bullen-a-la.
Instead of reading Ave-Mary
In their Babylonian Gown,
You will see the quite contrary,
Not a Mass-Book to be found.

283

4

Would you see the Nest a brooding,
Which way they their Course shall steer?
You shall hear them all concluding,
Any where but staying here.
Jefferies was prepar'd for sailing
In his long Tarpawlin Gown;
But his Politicks him failing,
By his bauling he was found.

5

Would you see Tyrconnel sweating
For fear of a final Rout?
Now the great Convention's sitting,
All will soon be brought about.
He must then forsake his Palace,
Just as Petre did his Gown;
Like a Coward fly to Calais,
Where he never may be found.

6

Would you have the Scene now changed,
Stay but while this Act is done,
And see Father Petre hanged
For procuring of a Son?
See the Chancellor a pleading,
Where he Russel guilty found?
When he hears his Sentence reading,
A true Dreamer he'll be found.

Song.

[The Pillars of Popery now are blown down]

[_]

To the Tune of Lilli-Burlero.

1

The Pillars of Popery now are blown down,
One thousand six hundred eighty and eight,
Which has frighten'd our Monarch away from his Crown,
One thousand six hundred eighty and eight.

284

For Myn Heer did appear, and they scamper'd for fear,
One thousand six hundred eighty and eight:
For Myn Heer did appear, and they scamper'd for fear,
One thousand six hundred eighty and eight.

2

That Mirror of Mothers, and Wonder of Wives,
One thousand, &c.
With her Joy of three Titles are fled for their Lives.
One thousand, &c.

3

George Jefferies, who boasted his Face was of Brass,
One thousand, &c.
Is now metamorphos'd into a Welch Ass.
One thousand, &c.

4

That Curse of three Kingdoms, damn'd Petre, is fled,
One thousand, &c.
Who with Rome's Ignis fatuus our Monarch misled.
One thousand, &c.

5

Great Dada, whose Presence made pregnant the Queen,
One thousand, &c.
Now she has withdrawn, is no more to be seen.
One thousand, &c.

6

Old Mordant's good Service shall doubly be paid,
One thousand, &c.
For his fetching the Queen now his Lordship is staid,
One thousand, &c.

7

That Sink of Sedition, the vile Observator,
One thousand, &c.
Shall receive the just Merit that's due to a Traitor.
One thousand, &c.

8

Our Renegade Rhymer, tho cudgel'd and lick'd,
One thousand, &c.

285

For his Hind and his Panther shall once more be kick'd.
One thousand, &c.

9

Now old Obadiah quits Ave-Maria,
One thousand, &c.
To sing Lamentations worse than Jeremiah.
One thousand, &c.

10

That Wittal and worse, who commanded the Tow'r,
One thousand, &c.
With that shrimp of a Soldier sweet Cecil did scour.
One thousand, &c.

11

All our Priests are gone back with our Jesuits and Monks,
One thousand, &c.
And our Nuns to their former Profession of Punks.
One thousand, &c.

12

'Twould tire your Patience to number the rest,
One thousand, &c.
You may guess by the Paw at the Bulk of the Beast.
One thousand, &c.

Tarquin and Tullia.

In Time when Princes cancel'd Nature's Law,
And Declarations, which themselves did draw;
When Children us'd their Parents to dethrone,
And gnaw'd their way like Vipers to a Crown:
Tarquin, a savage, proud, ambitious Prince,
Prompt to Expel, yet thoughtless of Defence;
The envy'd Scepter did from Tullius snatch,
The Roman King, and Father by the Match.

To form his Party, Histories report,
A Sanctuary was open'd in his Court,
Where glad Offenders safely might resort.

286

Great was the Croud, and wond'rous the Success;
(For those were fruitful Times of Wickedness)
And all that liv'd obnoxious to the Laws
Flock'd to Prince Tarquin, and embrac'd his Cause.

'Mong these a Pagan Priest for refuge fled,
A Prophet deep in godly Faction read;
A Sycophant that knew the modish Way
To Cant and Plot, to Flatter and Betray;
To Whine and Sin, to Scrible and Recant:
A shameless Author, and a lustful Saint.
To serve all Times he could Distinctions coin,
And with great ease flat Contradictions join:
A Traytor now, once Loyal in extreme,
And then Obedience was his only Theme;
He sang in Temples the most Passive Lays,
And weary'd Monarchs with repeated Praise:
But manag'd aukardly that lawful part;
For to vent Lyes and Treason was his Art,
And pointed Libels at Crown'd Heads to dart.
This Priest, and others, learned to defame,
First murder'd injur'd Tullius in his Name,
With blackest Calumnies their Sov'reign load,
A poison'd Brother, and dark League abroad;
A Son unjustly topt upon the Throne,
Which yet was prov'd undoubtedly his own:
Tho, as the Law was there, 'twas his behoof,
Who dispossest the Heir, to bring the Proof.
This hellish Charge they back'd with dismal Frights,
The loss of Property and Sacred Rights,
And Freedom; Words which all false Patriots use,
The surest Names the Romans to abuse:
Jealous of Kings, and always Malecontent,
Forward to change, yet certain to repent.

Whilst thus the Plotters needful Fears create,
Tarquin with open Force invades the State;
Leud Nobles join him with their feeble Might,
And Atheist Fools for dear Religion fight:
The Priests their boasted Principles disown,
And level their Harangues against the Throne:

287

Vain Promises the People's Minds allure;
Slight were their Ills, but desperate their Cure.
'Tis hard for Kings to steer an equal Course;
And they who banish one, oft get a worse.
Those Heav'nly Bodies we admire above,
Do every day irregularly move.

Yet Tullius, 'tis decreed, must lose his Crown,
For Faults that were his Council's, not his own;
He now in vain commands e'en those he paid;
By darling Troops deserted and betray'd;
By Creatures which his genial Warmth had made.

Of these a Captain of the Guards was worst,
Whose Memory to this Day stands accurst:
This Rogue advanc'd to Military Trust,
By his own Whoredom, and his Sister's Lust;
Forsook his Master after dreadful Vows,
And plotted to betray him to his Foes:
The kindest Master to the vilest Slave,
As free to give, as he was sure to crave.

His haughty Female, who, as Books declare,
Did always toss wide Nostrils in the Air;
Was to the younger Tullia Governess,
And did attend her when, in borrow'd dress,
She fled by Night from Tullius in distress.
This Wretch by Letters did invite his Foes,
And us'd all Arts her Father to depose:
A Father always generously bent,
So kind, that he her Wishes did prevent.

'Twas now high time for Tullius to retreat,
When ev'n his Daughter hast'ned his defeat;
When Faith and Duty vanish'd, and no more
The Name of Father, nor of King he bore:
A King! whose Right his foes could ne'r dispute,
So mild! that Mercy was his Attribute;
Affable, kind, and easy of Access,
Swift to relieve, unwilling to oppress;
Rich without Taxes, yet in payment just;
So honest that he hardly could distrust:

288

His active Soul did ne'er from Labours cease;
Valiant in War, and sedulous in Peace:
Studious with Traffick to enrich the Land;
Strong to protect, and skilful to command:
Liberal and Splendid, not without Excess;
Loth to revenge, and willing to caress.
In sum, How Godlike must his Nature be,
Whose only Fault was too much Piety!

This King remov'd, th'assembled States thought fit
That Tarquin in the Vacant Throne should sit;
Voted him Regent in their Senate-House,
And with an empty Name endow'd his Spouse,
The elder Tullia, who some Authors feign,
Drove o'er her Father's Corps a trembling Wain:
But she! more guilty! numerous Wains did drive,
To crush her Father, and her King alive;
In glad remembrance of his hast'ned Fall,
Resolv'd to institute a weekly Ball.
She! jolly Glutton! grew in Bulk and Chin;
Feasted in Rapine, and enjoy'd her Sin;
With Luxury she did weak Reason force,
Debauch'd Good-nature, and cram'd down Remorse:
Yet when she drunk cool Tea in lib'ral Sups,
The sobbing Dame was Maudlin in her Cups.

But brutal Tarquin never did relent,
Too hard to melt, too wicked to repent;
Cruel in Deeds, more merciless in Will,
And blest with natural Delight in Ill;
From a wise Guardian he receiv'd his Doom,
To walk the Change, and not to govern Rome;
He swore his Native Honours to disown,
And did by Perjury ascend the Throne:
Oh! had that Oath his swelling Pride represt!
Rome then had been with Peace and Plenty blest.
But Tarquin, guided by destructive Fate,
Wasted the Country, and embroil'd the State:
Transported to their Foes the Roman Pelf,
And by their Ruin hop'd to save himself.

289

Innumerable Woes opprest the Land,
When it submitted to his curst Command.
So just was Heaven, that 'twas hard to tell,
Whether its Guilt or Losses did excel.
Men who renounc'd their God, for dearer Trade,
Were then the Guardians of Religion made:
Rebels were fainted; Foreigners did reign;
Outlaws return'd Preferments to obtain,
With Frogs and Toads, and all their croaking Train:
No Native knew their Features, nor their Birth,
They seem'd the greasy Offspring of the Earth;
The Trade was sunk, the Fleet and Army spent,
Devouring Taxes swallow'd lesser Rent;
Taxes impos'd by no Authority,
Each leud Collection was a Robbery.
Bold self-creating Men did Statutes draw,
Skill'd to establish Villany by Law;
Fanatick Drivers, whose unjust Careers
Produce new Ills, exceeding former Fears.
Yet Authors here except that Faithful Band,
Which the prevailing Faction did withstand;
And some who bravely stood in the defence
Of baffled Justice, and their Injur'd Prince:
These shine to after-Times, each Sacred Name
Stands still recorded in the Books of Fame.

SONG.

[The Gospel and Law allow Monarchs their due]

The Gospel and Law allow Monarchs their due,
If rightfully crown'd and anointed;
The Lawyers are Rebels, and Clergymen too,
On the Bench to defy,
And in Pulpit deny,
Whom the Lord and the Laws have appointed.

The Courts are corrupted, and so are the Schools,
And Truth lies condemn'd as a Culprit;

290

The Bench is invested by Traytors and Fools,
And the Devil's crept into the Pulpit.

Then who'd in this Age go to Law or to Church,
Since Justice in both is so common an Evil?
Truth is made Treason,
By Law without Reason;
And the Clergy that left their poor Prince in the lurch,
Will send their poor Souls to the Devil.

On the Promotion of Dr. T--- to the See of Ca---ry.

When Nebat's fam'd Son undertook the old Cause,
Of delivering ten Tribes from Slavery to Laws;
Lest the Job should be spoil'd, or done but by halves,
He took his Priests from the Mob, and his God from the Calves.
But our Hero more wise, the Deliverers outvy'd all,
Made a Calf the High-Priest, and himself the Calf's Idol.

A Congratulatory Poem to King William, on his Return from Ireland, 1690, after the Battel of the Boyne.

1

Welcome, Great Monarch, to the Throne we gave!
A mean Reward for those you came to save;
And yet in That we gave you all we have.

291

2

The Gods our Offerings ne'er the more do prize,
When Clouds of Smoke obscure their brighter Skies;
A grateful Heart commends the Sacrifice.

3

We'll spare no labour to enlarge your State,
And do not yet our forwards Pains regret,
Tho disappointed Kindness turns to Hate.

4

You have enough your Skill in Battel shown,
Your Courage and your Conduct all must own;
Pray let your Foresight once at home be known.

5

In open Field with open Foes you've met,
Take either side it is an equal Bet;
But here your Enemies dance in a Net.

6

Your Valour shone, when you your Army led,
And dar'd the numerous Foe with Colours spread;
But where's your Guard against an Ambuscade?

7

Your handy-work does all Mankind surprize,
Each fresh Remembrance still new Praise supplies;
But pray, Sir, let us once adore your Eyes.

8

You've Enemies in private, who beset
Your Path to Glory, undiscover'd yet;
And till you've conquer'd them, you'l ne'er be great.

9

No End you'l find to your laborious Work,
(Tho with the Irish you could rout the Turk)
While Gallick Locusts in your Councils lurk.

10

Wherefore to Foreign Dyets shou'd you go,
To undertake a Task you can't go thro,
While those at home unravel all you do?

292

11

Unkennel those State-Foxes first, who spoil
And counterwork the Virtue of your Toil,
And Heaven it self shall on your Labour smile.

12

Let proud C---n your just Vengeance find,
And N---m to his Behaviour bind;
'Tis unsafe marching with two Foes behind.

13

Teach L--- how to mind his Diocess,
To make his Parish-Priests and Curates wise,
And not presume to give the Queen Advice.

14

Let not the Men, who would your Wants supply
With Blood and Mony, unregarded lie,
Because a self-advancing Fop cries, Fie!

E. of P---d.

15

Nor let your self be so impos'd upon,
To fancy those were Commonwealths-men grown,
Who tugg'd so hard to place you on the Throne;

16

On whose Support the Monarchy relies,
Who have no other Aim before their Eyes,
But that your Greatness with their Wealth may rise.

17

When these and some few other things are done,
Your growing Glory like the Rising Sun,
Shall (bright as that) an endless Circuit run.

18

To certain Conquests your swift Arms shall speed,
From those debarring Remora's once freed;
You shall want nothing that you truly need,
Our Purses and our Veins shall freely bleed.

296

The Pensioners.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Let noble Sir Positive lead the Van,
That only all-doing unerrable Man,
What pity it is that his Life's but a Span?
Which no body can deny.

He's fain to be help'd to get up and ride,
Whene'er his fair Wife he is pleas'd to bestride,
Yet he'd rule the World was it ten times as wide:
Which, &c.

Ch--- M---gue too will lose no more time,
He'll strive to get Pence, and give over his Rhyme,
With Poets no more, but with Knaves he will chime:
Which, &c.

When with underling Members he's pleas'd to carouse,
He modestly tells them he governs the House,
Others say that the Mountain will bring out a Mouse:
Which, &c.

J--- H--- does not in the least think it base
To forswear ever having, and then take a Place,
It makes a Blot in his Name, but no Blush in his Face:
Which, &c.

Sir Wittyfool ------, that frivolous Wight,
He values so little the being in the right,
That for Sixpence a Line a set Speech he'll indite:
Which, &c.

With Paper in hand he'll start up from his Seat,
And prove Excise will beat down the Price of Neat,
Tho he has no Preferment, he's paid for the Feat:
Which, &c.

------ will have no Place, but his Son he puts in,
The Cheat is too shallow, the Mask is too thin,
When the Knave and the Fool are so near akin:
Which, &c.

297

Whate'er the King does is suppos'd to be well,
Or else it with laughing would make the Spleen swell,
That a Boy's made a Teller, that six cannot tell:
Which, &c.

There's H---s is dapper and pert without Wit,
With a Place he sets up for a Politick Chit,
And my Lord my Father says for it he's fit:
Which, &c.

That trifling Projector Squire O---
To make clear with the King was shrewdly put to't,
Now his Debt is discharg'd, and he'as a Place to boot:
Which, &c.

Sir S--- that bluster'd more than the North Wind,
Till the Court without reason became very kind,
Is grown into a Knave from a Clown half refin'd:
Which, &c.

The Scrivener Cuckold so proud he is grown
Of his Wealth and his Place, tho it was never known,
That to such a Toad-stool such Favour was shown:
Which, &c.

Ne'er was better Bargain than for honest H--- G---
His own Conscience to sell other Mens to buy,
There's nothing well done but he's sure to say, fie!
Which, &c.

Vice-Chamberlain in England he waits,
While his Master abroad is expos'd to the Fates,
He's as pert and as simple as Master Bates:
Which, &c.

There's M--- the brisk Knight, and C--- the grave Squire,
At last by Preferment have got their Desire,
All good Men must wish they were yet set higher:
Which, &c.

R--- and L--- those two precious Beagles of State,
Are much overpaid for their sensless Prate,
When Knaves may be had at so cheap a rate:
Which, &c.

298

The one's a plump Sot, th'other foolishly lean,
Tho they ask Men no Bribe, they must know what they mean,
Should you scour 'em all o'er their Hands would not be clean:
Which, &c.

B--- and A--- are hir'd to be in a heat,
They're both so well known, they no Man can cheat,
Yet they're paid by the day, and sometimes by the Great:
Which, &c.

The two Winchester Geese would be just like their Dad,
Could they tell how to get Wit enough to be mad,
In py'd Coats those Bawlers by right should be clad:
Which, &c.

L--- is honest, and A--- is wise,
No Man can except against T---d and G---,
They plainly show all the sure way to rise:
Which, &c.

The Men in blue Coats with their Trowsers all red,
Tho not paid for their fighting, 'tis commonly said
For voting they are not so well taught as fed:
Which, &c.

C--- S--- swears his Luck was not kind,
In being so hurry'd away by fair Wind,
That he left his Father's S--- behind:
Which, &c.

If then he had landed upon the French Plain,
Tho for his own Life he was not in pain,
Yet the Officer kill'd, the Member had been slain:
Which, &c.

His Brother C--- he held up his Nose,
Each Moment his Pride and his Knavery grows,
Yet with all that he looks like the Drawers at the Rose:
Which, &c.

Tom F--- pretends to be wonderful sly,
Yet sure without taking much Labour to pry,
One may see that both sober and drunk he's a Spy:
Which, &c.

299

The Cherry-cheek'd Hero that rules on the Main,
Has just Wit enough not to love to be slain,
Tho he's plump in the Face, yet he's lank in the Brain:
Which, &c.

His soft-headed Cousins have no cause to bemoan,
That the Chief of their Tribe has not his Head on,
His Death got 'em Places, or else they'd had none:
Which, &c.

'Tis enough to throw the Government down,
When 'tis grown the reigning Jest of the Town,
That the P---rs live at the Rose and Crown:
Which, &c.

Death and the Cobler:

Or, A Dialogue between the Meager Duke and Will Green, the Cordwainer at St. James's.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Says his Grace to Will Green, whom he found at his Stall,
Sir, hearing you pay Scot and Lot for your Awl,
I come here in Person, and humbly intreat
You will help little Wat in the Courtier's Defeat.
Honest Friend, here's my Hand, you'll be welcome at Hell,
And shall have all my Custom who pay very well.

The Cobler star'd hard at his Garter and Star,
Quoth he, since your Highness condescendeth so far,
For I am not us'd to see Dukes at my Door,
Tho your Wife and your Daughter have call'd here before,
I promise my Vote if you'll tell me the Case,
Wherein a poor Mouse could so anger your Grace.
You must know I had taken some Gold on account
Of my Favours, or so, as Courtiers are wont;
And this Rogue 'mong the rest did make such a pother,
In bawling for Justice from one House to t'other,

300

They fairly at last put my Friend in the Pound:
That's hard! Nay, what's worse, they made me refund.
But you had it again? Not a Groat by my troth;
Indeed nay, your Grace has cause to be wroth.
But yet, an't shall please you, I wish you prevail:
The Vagabonds scorn your roast Beef and your Ale.
But sure they remember what things have been done
For this Nation by me, my Wife, and my Son.
You know, I suppose, I marry'd the King?
No indeed, tho your Chaplain talks much of the thing:
But my Lord, shall I tell you my Mind very plain,
And they say you love Truth; you tap Ale in vain,
For the Squire will out-poll us, and peach you again.

SONG.

[What a de'el is the Stir we make with War]

What a de'el is the Stir we make with War,
To confound our Estates for Ambition;
With a crafty Pretence of conquering France,
To drill out the Coin of the Nation?

'Twere a muckle thing to exchange our King;
Lubberloons have got well by the Barter:
For th'acute valiant Prince takes the Forlorn of France
As the stout bonny Scot took the Tartar.

De'el faum mine Eyen if e'er I seen
Sike a Parcel of Loons in the Nation,
Since the Lord of the Boyne has cost us more Coin,
They repent of their gude Abdication.

For the Loons of the Kirk do now find the Work
Were a Muckle for their Purses:
And the War that's begun by the good valiant Son
Shall be crown'd with a Trophy of Curses.

301

SONG.

[Ye Members of Parliament all]

[1]

Ye Members of Parliament all,
That quarrel to settle the Nation,
Prepare an Address for White-hall,
And give thanks for your King's Preservation.

2

Last Sunday to Chappel he went,
To hear a sweet Nightingal sing;
God knows whether Treason was meant,
But there happen'd a damnable thing.

3

To the Window his Majesty came
To shew his desirable Face;
When a Lord, whom I list not to name,
Unluckily slipt the Sash.

4

The Portcullice come ratling down,
And threatned the Noddle anointed
Lord! how the blue Bishop would frown,
To see all his Hopes disappointed.

5

Count Landsdown, who gravely stood by,
A snuffing up Politick Powder,
To his Sovereign's Assistance did fly,
A Pox on the Loyal Intruder,

6

For had he but let him alone,
Our Protector had safely been lock'd there,
And in Pillory Penance had done,
Like his Brother-Deliverer the Doctor.

7

Such an Engine in Scotland is known,
And thither he's going 'tis said:
But 'tis thought while he snaps at the Crown,
The Maiden may snap off his Head.

302

8

Never let Over---que boast
Of saving so puny a thing;
He preserv'd but a---at most:
'Twas Landsdown deliver'd the King.

Epitaphium in Vice-Comitem Dundee.

English'd by Mr. Dryden.

O last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign:
New People fill the Land now thou art gone,
New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne.
Scotland and thou did each in other live,
Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee survive.
Farewel! who living didst support the State,
And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.

303

O Raree Show! O Pretty Show! Or, The City-Feast.

On a Day of great Triumph, when Lord of the City
Does swear to be honest and just, as he's witty;
And rides thro the Town, that the Rabble may shout him,
For the wonderful Merits he carries about him;
Being an honester Man, I'll be bold for to say,
Than has sat in the Chair this many a day:
Like the rest of the Fools from the Skirts of the Town,
I trotted to gaze at his Chain and his Gown,
With Legs in a Kennel quite up to the middle
In Dirt; with a Stomach as sharp as a Needle,
I stood in the Cold clinging fast to a Stump,
To see the Wiseacres march by in their Pomp:
At last heard a Consort of Trumpets and Drums,
And the Mob crying out, Here he comes, here he comes.

I was carry'd by the Croud from the Place that I stood in,
And the Devil to do there was all of a sudden:
The first that appear'd was a great Tom-a-Doodle,
With a Cap like a Bushel to cover his Noddle,
And a Gown that hung draggling thro every Puddle;
With a Sword and a Mace, and such Pageantry Pride,
And abundance of formal old Foppery beside.
A Troop of grave Elders, O then there came by,
In their Blood-colour'd Robes, of a very deep Dye,
On Jennets the best that the Town could afford,
As tame all as Lambs, and as fine as my Lord:

304

With very rich Saddles, gay Bridles and Cruppers,
Would ne'er have been made but for such City-Troopers:
Like Snails o'er a Cabbage they all crept along,
Admir'd by their Wives, and huzza'd by the Throng.

The Companies follow'd, each Man in his Station,
Which ev'ry Fool knows is worth Observation,
All cloth'd in Furs in an antient Decorum,
Like Bears they advanc'd, with their Bagpipes before 'em;
With Streamers and Drums, and abundance of fooling,
Not worth the repeating, or yet ridiculing;
So I'll bid adieu to the Tun-belly'd Sinners,
And leave 'em to trudg thro the Dirt to their Dinners.

At last I consider'd 'twas very foul Play,
That a Poet should fast on a Festival-Day:
I therefore resolv'd it should cost me a Fall,
But that I would drink my Lord's Health at a Hall.
For why may'nt a Poet, thought I, be a Guest,
As welcome as Parson, or Fool at a Feast,
For the sport of a Tale, or the sake of a Jest?
I mix'd with the Musick, and no one withstood me,
And so justled forward as clever as could be:
I pass'd to a very fine Room thro a Porch;
'Twas as wide as a Barn, and as high as a Church,
Where Cloths upon Shovel-board Tables were spread,
And all things in order for Dinner were laid;
The Napkins were folded on ev'ry Plate,
Into Castles and Boats, and the Devil knows what:
Their Flaggons and Bowls made a very fine show,
And Sweetmeats, like Cuckolds, stood all in a row.
They walk'd, and they talk'd; after some Consultation
The Beadle stood up, and he made Proclamation,

305

That no one presume, of a Member, till after
He'as din'd, to bring in his Wife or his Daughter.
Then in come the Pasties, the best of all Food,
With Pig, Goose, and Capon, and all that was good:
Then Grace soon was said, without any delay,
And as hungry as Hawks they sat down to their Prey.
The Musick struck up, such a Boree advancing,
As the Polanders pip'd, when their Cubs were a dancing.
Then each tuck'd his Napkin up under his Chin,
That his Holiday Band might be kept very clean;
And pinn'd up his Sleeves to his Elbows, because
They should not hang down, and be greas'd in the Sauce.
Then all went to work, with such rending and tearing,
Like a Kennel of Hounds on a Quarter of Carr'on.
When done with the Flesh, then they claw'd off the Fish,
With one Hand at Mouth, and the other in Dish.
When their Stomachs were clos'd, what their Bellies deny'd,
Each clap'd in his Pocket to give to his Bride;
With a Cheese-cake and Custard for my little Johnny,
And a handful of Sweetmeats for poor Daughter Nanny.
Then down came a Blade, with a Rattle in's Skull,
To tickle their Ears when their Bellies were full:
After three or four Hems to clear up his Voice,
At every Table he made them a noise
Of twenty four Fidlers were all in a row;
Tho the Singer meant Cuckolds, I'd have 'em to know:
Then London's a gallant Town, and a fine City,
'Tis govern'd by Scarlet, the more is the pity.

306

When Claret and Sack had troul'd freely about,
And each Man was laden within and without:
The Elders arising, all stagger'd away,
And in sleeping like Hogs spent the rest of the Day.

Answer to a Poem intitled, A Panegyrick, written in the Year 1691/2,

and printed in the second Volume of State-Poems, Pag. 401.

Hail happy William! thou art truly Great:
The Cause? 'Tis Virtue justify'd by Fate.
For Thee the Parents and their Children sing;
Without Desert thou art no Favourite King.
For Thee the Patriot will maintain the Laws,
For Thee just Judges will decide the Cause.
Prelates thou'st made cannot the Church betray;
Thy Soldiers fight for Principle, not Pay.
By Thee the Freeman's fix'd in his Freehold,
Misers may spend, or else increase their Gold.
By Thee the Merchant multiplies his Store,
By Thee the Tradesman is content, not poor.
For Thee the Senate useless Laws suspends,
And good ones makes for thine and England's Ends.
The chief Design of all their well-weigh'd Votes,
Is to invent new Ways, new Means, to damn new Plots.
Thine and thy People's Credit join'd, must pass;
But that, and Mony, not without thy Face.
Slav'ry and Oppression thou maintain'st no more,
Than Wealth and Liberty the Kings before.
For thee 'gainst Tyranny they all declare,
And only for old England like the War.
Why should this Wonder then so wondrous seem,
When all that's good and kind thou'lt do for them?

307

Rebels and Witches ne'er sign'd William's Rolls:
Those that oppose his Reign, must damn their Souls.

Upon a Medal, whereon two Names were interwoven.

This mystick Knot unites two Royal Names,
Victorious Lewis, and long-suffering James;
Pious and stout Assertors of the Cross,
Whether it be by Conquest, or by Loss:
Their Glory's equal, different their Fate;
Laurels on one, Palms for the other wait.

P. of O's Atchievements in Flanders, in the Years 91 and 92.

The Author sure must take great pains,
Who pretends to write his Story;
In which of these two last Campaigns
He'as acquir'd greatest Glory:
For while that he march'd on to fight,
Like Hero, nothing fearing,
Namur was taken in his sight,
And Mons within his hearing.

308

EUCHARISTICON:

Or an Heroick Poem upon the late Thanksgiving-Day, which was the Vigil or Fast of St. Simon and St. Jude.

'Twas on the Evening of that Day,
That very memorable Day,
The twenty seventh of October,
When none but Jacobites were sober,
That we beheld the Blessed Sight
Of glorious Eucharistick Light.
But that the Morn we may not wrong,
Which usher'd in the Evening Song;
Nor th'Infant Day which grew so great,
After it was regenerate
And re-baptiz'd by Proclamation,
And call'd Thanksgiving-day o'th' Nation;
We shall relate all that was done
In open Face of Moon and Sun.

But, first, 'tis fit that we rehearse,
In bold, but grave Heroick Verse,
Why a Thanksgiving-day was chose,
What were the Reasons, what the Cause;
And why it was resolv'd, at last,
They'd not proclaim this Day a Fast.

First, To the First we should begin,
And the Supports bring after in;
But since Supporting's out of fashion,
By the Wise, Warlike, Belgick Nation;
The Rear shall take the Advance Post,
And shew you how the Fast was lost.

309

In Council grave our Senators were met
About th'important Business of the State;
Bus'ness so weighty, that all Europe stood,
Hoping from hence the Stream of all their Good;
Great Things were mov'd, and mighty Kingdoms flew,
Like sporting Bubbles, round the God-like Crew:
They pufft those Cares away; but fell, at last,
Upon the Bus'ness of the Monthly Fast:
The great Debate was this, Whether 'twas fit
They should for longer time continue it?
Or else adjourn; or else prorogue the Day;
Or throw their Pray'rs and Fastings quite away?
To this hard knotty Question, it was said,
By a most Grave and Venerable Head,
That the Descent was balk'd, and Namur won,
And the Campaign in all appearance done;
That Heaven could not be now besieg'd in Form,
And 'twas too late o'th' Year to take't by Storm;
It would be fruitless too, and serve their turns,
No more than Dixmude does, or little Furnes:
But (in his Judgment) if they'd cast their Pray'r
To Winter-Quarters, till the Spring o'th Year,
They might have need with all their Strength to pray,
And then proclaim a Weekly Fasting-Day.
There was no answering to so plain a Case,
But (with low Bows) the Motion all embrace.
Straight they gave Orders that a Proclamation
Should strictly charge this Praying, Fasting Nation,
That it no more should trouble Heaven's Quiet
With Pray'rs, or Guts croaking for want of Diet.
So much Devotion in this Age we find,
That were it not by publick Laws confin'd,
Our Publick Pray'rs and Fasts would strike us blind.
But see how vain all Mortal Councils are,
We dream of Peace, but feel th'Effects of War;

310

For scarce were these great Orders fully given,
Scarce the black Sheet dy'd with the Stygian Leven,
When Charleroy cry'd out, O help, she cry'd!
The French are plying hard my leaky Side;
Is this a time to give your Praying o'er,
When we are weltring in Confed'rate Gore?
When whizzing Bullets, and the roaring Bomb,
Gall us from Stem to Stern, can you be dumb?
What have your Arms, what hath your Mony done?
Your Pray'rs are all that we depend upon.

She spake; and the amazed Council heard her Tale,
They hung their Heads, and look'd with Envy pale:
Ah cursed French, they cry'd, cannot one Town
Escape your lasting Fury? What Renown
Can you obtain, what Honour get you by't?
'Tis well our Mighty Monarch's out of sight:
Had he been nigh! But 'tis no time to talk,
Post to the Printer, tell him we revoke
Our late delib'rate Orders; we will fast
While Gallick Bullets fly, and pray as fast.
But 'twas too late, for hasty Time had set
His Iron Teeth upon the fatal Sheet:
But Fame (as Goddesses have done before)
Came in the nick, and brought a Story o'er,
That our most vigilant King was gone to fight,
And vow'd t'should not be lost, out of his sight:
This News restor'd us, and with swifter speed
Fresh Posts were sent, to tell there was no need
To stop the Press. But, O ye Gods! how short
Are mortal Joys, how are we made your sport!
Like Tennis-Balls you toss us to and fro;
Or Shittlecocks, driven from Foe to Foe.
Scarce was this Post dispatch'd, when an Alarm
Put all the Council in a new Vacarme;
For it was said, our Conqu'ror was retir'd,
And the unlucky Town again was fir'd.

311

Fast, fast, the Council cry'd, let's pray amain,
Fly to the Press, and bid it stop again.
So on the top of Horeb Moses stood,
Out of whose flinty Side he lash'd a Flood;
Aaron and Hur with him beheld the Fight,
Between brave Joshua and th'Amalekite:
When he held up his Finger, they prevail;
But when he let it down, the Jews turn tail.
During this time, Posts hurry'd thro the Town,
And in their Course fell'd one another down;
Flux, and reflux, of differing Councils dash'd,
And, in rebounding Air, their Orders clash'd:
So rose the Atoms from their Bed of Night,
And in Confusion choak'd the new-born Light.
What Heart could hold to see the sad Distractions,
Which had well-nigh o'er-whelm'd three potent Nations?
The French themselves took pity of our Fear,
And vow'd they'd spare the Town till the next Year.
But now proclaim a Calm; for once more Fame
Post on a Gale of blust'ring Weather came;
And 'midst this Hurly-burly, loudly sings
A Rest to us, and to the best of Kings.
In short, the King (with all his Victories)
Had safely past the dangerous Northern Seas:
What would y' have more? We've got our King at last,
And all must grant 'tis now no time to fast.

Sing then my Muse a Halleluja Song,
Raise up thy Lute, which was to Fasting strung:
Thanksgiving is thy Theme, and lofty Ode,
And Eucharisticon thy charming Mode.
Great in the Field, and subtle in Debate,
The King conven'd his Ministers of State;
Flanders was not nam'd there, nor the Descent,
Whether it was, or was not truly meant:

312

Nor did they speak of the great Siege of Dunkirk,
Nor of their Victory obtain'd at Steinkirk.
But not to spend our Oil and Time, in dwelling
On Negatives, as I was now a telling;
We do affirm, in short, that the sole Cause
Of this August and Grave Assembly, was
How to resolve on this Thanksgiving-Day:
For some still thought we had more Cause to pray.
These urg'd besides, the Saints might think it rude
To make a Feast upon the Fast of Jude.
But the Arch-Haman, whose Advice they took
In all such Matters, first his Noddle shook;
Then cry'd,—Great Sir, Saints neither eat nor drink,
Nor do they care, or know what Mortals think;
To fast before, or else behind a Saint,
Or not at all, we for Convenience grant:
But at the worst, when three Fasts come together,
We may post pone, or else commute at pleasure.
Our Gracious Queen (God bless her) when she spy'd
How well this Man of God could thus divide,
Distinguish, prove, lay open, and decide;
Well spoke, she said, my Vote concurs with yours:
Let sick Men fast for four and twenty Hours,
Because they cannot eat; what's that to those
Whose Health and Strength require a treble Dose?
Besides, the King's return'd, let that suffice
For you, and Us, to dry Our Royal Eyes;
His mighty Self, all o'er with Trophies grac'd,
As sometime Men wore Ribbands round the Waste;
Or like an Orange stuck with Cloves, so thick
Between the Spice, a Pin can hardly stick:
'Tis He's return'd again, and with him brought
Blessings in store, for which he stoutly fought.
But that's your Care, I have another Cause,
And am oblig'd to feast by Nature's Laws:

313

Born for Delight, to eat, drink, sleep and play;
I cannot force my self to fast or pray,
I wish that every one were a Thanksgiving-Day.
All bow'd around, and with submissive Voice
Agreed we had great Reason to rejoice:
But a Debate arose, where they should fix
The main great Cause; for to be too prolix
In Proclamations, 'twould anticipate
Those Rhymes and Pamphlets which on Conquest wait.
Some then propos'd to put the stress o'th' Matter
On his Return: But those who could not flatter,
Own'd 'twas a Cause; but all they stood upon
Was, that 'twas not a Cause sine qua non:
For had he ne'er return'd, no Man will say
There was no Cause for a Thanksgiving-Day.
Kings may be lost, but Kings can never die;
For still successive Kings their place supply:
But if a Battel's lost, or Town be ta'en,
The Devil's in't, how shall we take't again?
High Words had like t'arose; but the wise King,
Who was best able to decide the thing,
Thus spake—My Lords, said he, I would believe
(Howe'er you differ now) you all receive
My Person as a Blessing to the Nation;
'Twas I brought Riches in with Reformation;
'Twas I restor'd you to your Liberties;
'Twas I secur'd your Lives and Properties;
'Twas I kept out the Foreigners you fear'd,
Since that you little French or Irish heard:
'Twas I made Ireland happy, entred France,
Where Schonberg, by my Order, did advance
The Protestant Religion; vow'd, in Print,
That ne'er a Monk or Papist should live in't.
'Twas I turn'd Popery out from hence, and sent
The English-Scottish Kirk to Banishment.
'Twas I turn'd S--- out, and put one in
Who will dispense, as fast as you can sin;

314

Who will not tie you up to the strict Rules
Of Oaths, or Orders, Snares for squeamish Fools:
Unblest, and unbaptiz'd, this Church's Son
Hath all his Mother's Children half undone.
My Countrymen I brought, without pretension
(To serve you here) of either Pay or Pension.
'Twas I that call'd, and kept your Parliament
So pure and free, there's not one Member in't
(God is my Witness if I tell you a Lye)
That e'er took Bribe, Pension, or Salary.
'Twas I that all your Grievances redrest,
And did my self of my own Rights divest.
'Twas I convoy'd, and then increas'd your Trade:
None but my self did e'er your Rights invade.
'Twas I—But 'tis too much, I will not boast
What I have done for you, to your own Cost.
Let it suffice, I'll not put such a stress
On my own Merits, as to clog the Press.
But since I find some of you seem to grutch,
And think the Cause of my Return's too much;
What think you of my Victory at Sea?
Make that the Cause of your Thanksgiving-day.
For my part, I'm indifferent, chuse you whether;
Or if you please, we'll twist 'em both together:
There will enough be left t'expatiate,
For all must grant that this Campaign was great.
'Twas not in hugger-mugger what I've done,
Since all th'World knows 'twas in th'open Sun.
All with deep Admiration were struck dumb,
The King admir'd too what at last would come.
At length, after they'ad gaz'd and gap'd awhile,
A Lord stood up, and with a Courtier's Smile,
Great Sir, said he, 'tis now well understood,
Whate'er your Actions are, your Memory's good:
We now perceive how great's the Obligation,
Which justly's owing to you by the Nation.

315

We're loth to break with you upon that score,
And to our broken Merchants add still more.
But if you'll trust us still (for all that's past)
We may perhaps be even with you at last.
In the mean while,
We will proclaim a Feast in your own way,
And to so joyful a Thanksgiving-day
Whole Tuns of Grease and Kitchin-stuff we'll pay.
'Twas said, and it was done, and strait each Lord
Made his low Exit from the Council-board.

Now good Miss Muse once more bring in your Aid,
And shew your self a well-bred civil Maid;
For I'm oblig'd to squeeze more Reasons out,
How this damn'd Proclamation came about.
Imprimis then (for Method must be chose
Whether we write in Verse, or write in Prose)
We'll take these Matters fairly as they lie,
Not all at once, but each successively:
First then (if I may say't without offence)
'Twere fit to thank the King for going hence;
For had he stay'd, God knows what had been done,
Namur it self perhaps had not been won:
But more of that hereafter. Next let's tell
The sad Disasters which the French befel,
At Sea, I mean; for 'tis well known at Land
They had both Wind and Weather at command:
Their Fleet came struggling 'gainst the Eastern Wind,
And full six Weeks they tack'd about, to find
Our Navy out, which not a hundred were,
And they full four and forty Men of War.
With Insolence upon our Line they bore,
And whole Broad-sides with wondrous Fury pour:
The Fight was sharp, and Fortune doubtful stood
To which she'd give the Empire of the Flood;
When mighty Mars descended in a Mist,
And the fierce equal Combatants dismist:

316

We neither took nor lost a Ship of ours;
Nor were we conquered, or Conquerors.
But Neptune, who of late a Neuter stood
Between the British and the Mogan Blood,
Finding both running in our King, cry'd out,
Return you Tide, and bring the French about:
Since England and my Dutch are join'd, what Foe
Shall dare t'attack them, and unpunish'd go?
I'll beat the French my self, and for their sake
So strong a Tide in Alderney I'll make,
Their Cables all shall drag, and Anchors break.
'Twas said, and it was done; and the poor French
Fir'd sixteen Ships his dreadful Ire to quench.
Thanks to the King then for this Victory won;
For if this will not pass, I'Gad I've done.
Item, the Siege of Namur next comes on,
At last 'twas weak, at first damnably strong:
So Mons at first was held impregnable;
But when 'twas ta'en, Faith 'twas scarce tenable.
But howsoe'er it was, the King was there,
And ne'er express'd a single Mark of Fear:
He heard the Cannons roar, saw the Bombs fly;
And that's a Demonstration he was nigh.
'Tis true the Town was lost; who can help that?
The French stood in his way; so 'twa'nt his fault.
The King of France our Monarch came to meet,
And in the Trenches kiss his conqu'ring Feet;
But our good King thought fitter to forbear,
And, out of Modesty, would not come there:
But Thanks are due, that he was pleas'd to own,
And then depose to th'taking of the Town.
For our Gazettes such strange Relations bring,
A hundred thousand Men might doubt the thing
Without the Attestation of a King.
Item—
Two hundred thousand Pounds to Savoy sent,
I will be sworn that Mony was well spent:

317

For with this Aid, That Duke (like that great Man,
The King of France) with forty thousand Men
Went down the Hill, and so came up agen.
'Tis true Duke S---berg then declar'd in Print,
That to recover our Rights he there was sent;
And promis'd if he took all Dauphiny,
He firmly would establish Popery:
Thanks t'him for that, or we had never known
Who fought for Int'rest, who Religion.
Next, Our Descent at Sea appears, which ran
(So much 'twas nois'd) from hence to Ispahan:
Four hundred thousand Pounds (so great a Sum,
Into a measur'd Verse 'twill hardly come)
Yet this, and more, and much in Debt was spent
To furnish out this well-contriv'd Descent.
Louis, they say, was almost dead with Fear;
And 'cause he thought Versails might be too near,
He soon retir'd still further from the Foe,
And went to hunt and dance at Fontainbleau:
Some say he did not fear; but if 'twere true,
I'm sure our Thanks at least for that are due.
Next bloody Steinkirk comes full in our way,
Pox on't, we fought upon the Sabbath-day;
And that's been ever held a Profanation
By our True Protestant Reformed Nation:
That's the true Reason why we bore the brunt,
We see the Godly Dutch would ne'er have don't;
They stood their ground and pray'd whilst we Fools fought;
But we, forsooth, were better fed than taught:
The French retir'd, and ran away to Mass,
Our Lion's Paw was headed by an Ass.
Well, we were flogg'd and pepper'd too, 'tis true;
But yet to give the Devil and Dutch their due,
Had not they brought us off, we might have lain
Till we'd been wash'd away with Winter's Rain.

318

This then deserves a long Thanksgiving-day;
For tho we lost our Men, we sav'd their Pay.
And now our hand is in, let's not forget
To thank Count S---mes, That we were soundly beat:
Go on, brave Men, cry'd he, Conquer or Die,
The Truth shall not be wrong'd whilst I stand by;
And stand he did, as firm as any Post,
Till he saw all his hated English lost.
Ah, Country-men, had I but time to prove
How well the Dutch our poor three Kingdoms love,
There's not a Man but would forsake his Farms,
And our dear Dutch embrace with open Arms.
Now little Furnes, thou shalt be called great,
And future Ages shall thy Fame repeat;
We little thought that our high-flown Descent
(And now the Riddle's out) for thee was meant:
Some Politicians laid 'twould land at Bolen;
Others as wisely judg'd 'twould sail to Colen:
Some were for Brest, St. Malo, or the Havre,
And laid great odds the French would never save her:
Some for La Hogue; but others with less Malice,
Only pretended to recover Calais:
Some were for Bilboa, but none thought of Thee;
This was Design, this was Sheer Policy:
The rest was given out for a pretence,
First to surprize, and then to nab the French.
And who in War or Poetry would rise,
Take it from me, must do it by surprize.
Thrice little Furnes, and great Dixmude thy Brother,
For whom ten thousand Men made such a pother;
You are the Twins which our Descent brought forth,
The World must grant it was a mighty Birth:
Dunkirk and Ghent were Gossips, and some think
The first may dearly pay the Groaning-Drink.
Then Thanks, Great Monarch, for whate'er they cost,
These Forts declare our Mony was not lost.

Lastly, and chiefly, (for 'tis fit at last
The biggest Plumb should keep our Mouth in Taste)

319

What Thanks are due for the King's Preservation
From the Granvallian Assassination?
It was a strange Escape as e'er was heard;
And yet 'twas strange the King too should be scar'd
With one Gun, who so many Guns had heard.
Nor would we fail to thank that happy Spirit,
Whose Vigilance did such Encomiums merit;
But that he look'd so stern, one scarce could tell
Whether he came from Heaven or from Hell.
If from the last, we ought to thank the Devil,
That to our Monarch was so wondrous civil.
Thank Grandvall's Powder, which mistook its Aim,
And made it self invisible, not him.
Thank Parker that he left St. Germain's Court
Three days before the cautious Witness swore't:
Thanks to the King too, that he took such care
T'escape these private Dangers of the War.
Poor Gentleman, he was much pity'd here;
And these Escapes have cost us many a Tear,
Heaven send him better luck for the next Year.
But hold my Muse, for should our Thanks run on,
They would amaze the all-beholding Sun,
And strike a blush upon the pale-fac'd Moon:
Then modestly take up, and loudly tell
How we set forth our Joys by Candle and Bell.

Scarce did the Polish Northern Star appear,
Which some great Authors call the lesser Bear:
Scarce had the Cock crow'n once or twice at most,
And Phœbus within ken o'th'Eastern Coast:
Or in plain English, scarce had the Clock struck four,
'Tis no great matter whether less or more;
When a litigious jangling ill-bred Sound,
Through all our Hills and Valleys did rebound;
'Twas thought the Devil's Arse o'th'Peak had got
Some rumbling Wind or Cholick in his Gut;
And by successive Raptures did foretel
Downfal of Church, as by the Sound of Bell.

320

Some thought the Body-Politick in a Fit,
And the Soul-Bell knelling its last Exit.
'Twas not ill guest, for Church and State may find
There are strange Sounds in your Rebellious Wind;
And 't might be prov'd by easy Metaphor,
Wind may be said to ring, and Bells to roar.
Others scarce well awake, judg'd it the Groan
Of drowsy Sackbut, or the Bag-pipes Drone:
Some swore (who lately had ta'en a larger Sup)
The Glasses clink'd round the Indented Cup.
In short, they were the City-Choristers,
Which thus untimely lugg'd us by the Ears;
The Bells I mean that early thus were singing
Their Lauds and Mattins, which some Men call ringing.

Thus pass'd the chirping Morn. Now when the Sun
Was driving up to our Meridian,
Some went to Church to hear the New Pray'rs read;
Others, who lik'd the Old, lay close in Bed.
Some shut their Shops, which was a silent Token,
That if those Days came oft, they'd all be broken.
The Cannons from the Tower broke through the Wind,
And roar'd their Thanks, that they were left behind.
Lambeth return'd the Compliment, and fir'd
Volleys of Blessings as they'd been inspir'd.
High Pr--- of Mars, sprung from Samaria's Race,
Thou still dost love t'adore in the High Place;
Thou thunder'st out thy Gospel in our Ears,
And those loud Organs tun'd thy new-made Pray'rs:
Thou worst and first of Canterbury's Race,
That with a Wife divided Lambeth's Grace.
Mars and Bellona ne'er before had met,
Roaring and singing on the High-Priest's Seat.
Thou Man of Faith, could we believe like you,
Who would not turn a Circumcised Jew?

Lastly, for now my Muse is almost weary,
And too much Labour makes a Mare miscarry:

321

I should say something of the blessed Night,
How 'twas set forth with Artificial Light;
'Twas motly at the best, not of a piece,
Some black, some white, chequer'd like Fox and Geese.
The Lights were not of Virgin-Wax, 'tis true,
For Hybla's Bee works not for such a Crew;
Nor of your precious Aromatick Gums,
Nor your sweet Oil which from Oneglia comes.
In short, they were of greasy Kitchin-stuff,
Most proper for th'Occasion; that's enough.
May those who love them see no better Light;
For my part I have done, and so good Night.

On the Death of the Late Queen.

Poema est Pictura Loquens.

[1]

Long our divided State
Hung in the Ballance of a doubtful Fate,
When one bright Nymph the gath'ring Clouds dispel'd,
And all the Griefs of Albion heal'd;
Her the united Land obey'd,
No more to Jealousy inclin'd,
Nor fearing Power with so much Vertue join'd.
She knew her Task, and nicely understood
To what Intention Kings are made,
Not for their own, but for their Peoples good;
'Twas that prevailing Argument alone
Determin'd Her to fill the vacant Throne:
And yet with sadness She beheld
A Crown devolving on her Head,
By the Excesses of a Prince misled;
When by her Royal Birth compel'd,
To what her God, and what her Country claim'd,
Tho by a servile Faction blam'd,
How graceful were the Tears she shed?

322

2.

When waiting only for a Wind,
Against our Isle the Power of France was arm'd;
Her ruling Arts in their true Lustre shin'd:
The Winds themselves were by her Influence charm'd;
'Twas her Authority and Care supply'd
The Safety, which our want of Troops deny'd.
Secure and undisturb'd the Scene
Of Albion seem'd, and like her Eyes serene;
Vain was the Invader's Force, Revenge and Pride;
Maria reign'd, and Heav'n was on our Side:
The Scepter by Her self unsought,
Gave double Proofs of her Heroick Mind,
With Skill she sway'd it, and with Ease resign'd.
So the Dictator from Retirement brought,
Repel'd the Danger that did Rome alarm,
And then return'd contented to his Farm.

3.

Fatal to the Fair and Young,
Accurs'd Disease! how long
Have wretched Mothers mourn'd thy Rage,
Robb'd of the Hope and Comfort of their Age!
From the unhappy Lovers side,
How often hast thou torn the blooming Bride!
Now like a Tyrant, rising by degrees
To worse Extremes, and blacker Villanies;
Practis'd in Ruin for some Ages past,
Thou hast brought forth a general one at last.
Common Disasters Sorrow raise;
But Heav'n severer Frowns amaze.
The Queen, a Word, a Sound,
Of Nations once the Hope and firm Support,
Wealth of the Needy, Guard of the Opprest,
The Joy of all, the Wisest and the Best:
A Name which Echo did rebound
With loud Applause from neighb'ring Shores;
Their Admiration, the Delight of ours,
Becomes unutterable now.

323

The Crouds in that dejected Court,
Where languishing Maria lay,
Want pow'r to ask the News they come to know:
Silent their drooping Heads they bow,
Silence it self proclaims th'approaching Woe;
Even Maria's latest Care,
Whom Winter's Seasons nor contending Jove,
Nor watchful Fleets could from his glorious Purpose move,
Intrepid in the Storms of War, and in the midst of flying Deaths sedate,
Now trembles, now he sinks beneath the mighty Weight.
The Hero to the Man gives way,
Unhappy Isle for half an Age a Prey,
To fierce Dissension, or despotick Sway;
Redeem'd from Anarchy to be undone
By the mistaken Measures of the Throne.
Thy Monarch's meditating dark Designs,
Or boldly throwing off the Mask,
Fond of the Power, unequal to the Task:
Thy self without remaining Signs
Of antient Vertue, so deprav'd
As ev'n to wish to be enslav'd;
What more than Human Aid could raise Thee from a State so low,
Protect Thee from thy self, thy greatest Foe?
Something Celestial sure, a Heroine
Of matchless Form and a Majestick Mien;
Awful, respected, fear'd, but more belov'd;
More than her Laws, her great Example mov'd.
The Bounds, that in her Godlike Mind
Were to her Passions set, severely shin'd;
But that of doing Good was unconfin'd:
So just, that Absolute Command,
Destructive in another Hand,
In Hers had chang'd its Nature, had been useful made.
Oh had she longer staid,

324

Less swiftly to her Native Heav'n retir'd;
For her the Harps of Albion had been strung,
The tuneful Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more lofty and immortal Song.

On the Death of the Queen.

In English.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The Queen deceas'd so pleas'd, the King so griev'd,
As if the Hero dy'd, the Woman liv'd:
Alas! we err'd i'th' choice of our Commanders,
He should have knotted, and She gone to Flanders.

The Weasel uncas'd, or the In and Outside of a Priest drawn to the Life.

A Protestant Priest, a Man of great Fame,
To be Rich and Great was his only Aim,
It was Dr. Weasel, the very same,
Which no body can deny.

This Weasel at first to get him some Grub,
A little small Girl, and a little good Bub,
Diogenes like he preach'd in a Tub,
Which, &c.

Yet in those Days he was very fickle,
And tho he was Head of a great Conventicle,
Yet he had a month's mind to be higher a little,
Which &c.

325

And finding Ambition to grow with his Pride,
And if he'd be Great he must change his Side,
He left all his Flock, and his first Faith deny'd,
Which, &c.

By which they perceiv'd his Heart was grown Evil,
They put forth a Book, which he thought uncivil,
The Title was, Weasel's Dispute with the Devil,
Which, &c.

In which Learned Piece they there discover,
That, like unto Judas, he was a false Brother,
And of a full Bag he is a great Lover,
Which, &c.

To which bloody Charge he answer'd in Season,
And why he left them, told 'em his Reason,
And prov'd all their Tenets did border on Treason,
Which, &c.

And then, like a Hero, he did lay about,
And swore he would preach all their Tub-bottoms out,
And prove them to be a Phanatical Rout,
Which, &c.

And truly he was as good as his Word,
And writ a fine Book, tho by them abhor'd,
The Case of Resistance, which stands on Record,
Which, &c.

In that Loyal Piece, against the Precise,
He proved by all the Grave, Learned, and Wise,
Obedience is better than all Sacrifice,
Which, &c.

And then he proceeded by Scripture and Reason,
To prove Non-resistance always in Season,
And its opposite Doctrine no less than Treason,
Which, &c.

And having observ'd the Laws o'th' Nation,
With those of the Gospel had a Relation,
Said, those that Resist would receive just Damnation,
Which, &c.

326

To strengthen this Point he quoted St. Paul,
St. Peter, St. Jude, our Saviour and all,
Proving none cou'd be sav'd who from that Faith did fall,
Which, &c.

But what will you say of this Weasel stout,
If after all this he shou'd face about,
And in print tell the World in truth he was out?
Which, &c.

Yet Reason and Conscience a War did begin,
And struggled with Pride and Ambition within,
To take the new Oaths he long thought a Sin,
Which, &c.

His Spouse, like Job's Wife, to ease his Heart-aching,
Did press him to swear that he was mistaken,
Tho some think it was for to save his Bacon,
Which, &c.

At first he did doubt, and therefore did pray,
That Heaven wou'd instruct him in the right Way,
Whether Jemmy or William he ought to obey,
Which, &c.

The Pass at the Boyne determin'd that Case,
And Precept to Providence then did give place,
To change his Opinion he thought no disgrace,
Which, &c.

For tho he had done the same Thing before,
Yet now for his Comfort he need change no more,
For his Case of Allegiance will serve for a score,
Which, &c.

For there he has plainly made it appear,
That Strength gives a Right, therefore we may swear
To him in Possession, tho not the Right Heir,
Which, &c.

And shou'd a Fray happen 'twixt Father and Son,
If the Boy beat his Father, and so make him run,
Providence had appointed that Thing to be done,
Which, &c.

327

Besides, he has prov'd the mighty Convenience
Of Subjects transferring their Faith and Allegiance,
To those that can crush 'em all into Obedience,
Which, &c.

So let O. P. or P. O. be King,
Or any one else, it is the same Thing,
For only Heaven does that Blessing bring,
Which, &c.

But this with the Scripture can never agree,
As Hosea the Eighth and the Fourth you may see,
They have set up Kings, but yet not by me.
Which, &c.

Now what need the Prophet there to complain,
If the People's Anointed, and God's were the same?
If so, David's Friends they all were to blame,
Which, &c.

For tho God permitted the People to bring
Good David's Son forth, and proclaim him King,
Yet all the World knows how he punish'd the Thing,
Which, &c.

And may all such Sons enjoy the same Fate,
That dethrone their Father, and him Abdicate;
No doubt it will happen in time, soon or late,
Which, &c.

With one Remark more I'll end this dull Song,
And his fulsom Republican Arguments strong,
Which makes Wrong to be Right, and Right to be Wrong,
Which, &c.

That Famous old Priest, the Vicar of Bray,
Who in all Change of Times knew how to obey,
Was an Ass to the Weasel, if I may so say,
Which, &c.

And truly I think no more need be said,
By a Penny we know how a Shilling is made,
For Priest and Priest-craft is all but a Trade,
Which, &c.

328

And thus I in little have drawn to the Life,
His Flesh and his Spirit always at strife,
But the Flesh did prevail by the help of his Wife,
Which no body can deny, deny;
which no body can deny;

England's late Jury.

A Satire.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Wisely an Observator said,
(Who knew our State full well)
England need never be afraid,
Or seek out any foreign Aid,
Our Dangers to repel.

But then he never did suppose
Our Army near so small;
Or Statesmen to oblige their Foes,
Should with Seven Thousand wipe our Nose:
A Force like none at all.

This Vote made Lewis give a Smile,
And laugh within his Sleeve;
Scarce did he credit it a while,
Britain shou'd for his Glory toil,
Which now he does believe.

But when again such Men were chose,
As did our Force disband;
He found our Ruin follow'd close,
And had no Reason to oppose
Such as went Hand in Hand.

S---r forgets he was a Slave,
When in his younger Years

329

He was the Sp---r and a K---;
And not so much inclin'd to save,
Or think upon our Fears.

But then there lay a Patent by
To gratify his Pride;
On which he often cast an Eye,
And on the Stop did wonder why
Totness was not supply'd.

Resenting an Affront like this,
He forthwith veers about;
Mad that he did Preferment miss,
(A Feather fit for Pride like his)
And courts the fickle Rout.

But his Designs are understood,
The Matter's very plain:
Pretending for his Country's good,
He since has acted all he cou'd
To keep his Prince in Pain.

For a long time he cou'd not Swear,
With a nice Conscience bred;
Nor take an Oath against an Heir,
That to a Monarch did repair,
At least till he was dead.

But when All-conquering Gold was brought,
Which glitter'd in his Eyes;
Quickly a Miracle was wrought,
(Exeter knows it was no Fault)
They that have Wealth are Wise.

M---s---ve has Parts, and Eloquence,
And others say, speaks well;
Tho young Kit met a Recompence,
To bring his Father to his Sense,
Spite did the Guilt repel.

330

Nothing can biass stout Sir Kit,
Civility is Vain,
For he must exercise his Wit,
And sometimes did at random hit,
Which Credit did obtain.

H---rt pretends unto the Law,
And makes a fearful din;
As little Sense as e'er I saw,
His Judgment brittle as a Straw,
And oftner out than in.

F---ch, he has Sense and Rhetorick,
And seems of S---m---rs Kidney;
His Lungs do to the Quarrel stick,
And once was very Politick,
And some think hard on Sidney.

H---m---nd, he runs among the Herd,
Is Violent and Strong;
Wou'd fain seem Grave without a Beard:
But he needs never to be fear'd,
His Judgment is too young.

J--- H--- sets up for one of Sense,
Does for a Patriot stand:
Most wonder at his Impudence!
That he thereto should lay pretence,
Who was the Court's Disband.

He who was reckon'd the Buffoon
In former Parliaments,
Fickle and Changing like the Moon;
Till French Gold came he was undone,
Now vents his Discontents.

331

But most Men wonder that Sir Batt
So eager is to rail:
Yet why should we admire at that?
Since his Profession is to chat,
But seldom does prevail.

Some (he had heard) by Speeches rise,
And to Preferment leap:
But such had Merit, and were Wise,
And did not Foreigners despise,
Nor after Faction creep.

Never for Rebels did harangue,
Nor tenter-hook the Law;
But left the Criminal to hang,
Till one Foot did the other bang,
To keep Mankind in awe.

The fam'd Civilian, who can write
Of Parliamental Power;
If he has Judgment, he has Spite,
And goes beyond the Matter quite,
A sort of second SHOWER.

Upon Records he spends his Ink,
He writes at such a rate:
To prove what few did ever think,
Unless depriv'd of Sense in Drink,
Yet of a plodding Pate.

Gr---nv---le, he strolls unto the Fairs,
To get himself Renown;
Yet for this Faction he declares,
And to their Club at Night repairs,
To regulate the Crown.

332

The times are likely sure to mend,
When Pr---r rules the State;
Pr---r the noble Dorset's Friend,
(For whom the Learned World contend)
Justly deserves his Hate.

Bl---t, with proud imperious Face,
And Forehead made of Brass;
Forgets the Honour of his Place,
Does all true Policy disgrace,
And for a Fool may pass.

P---s shall marshal up the Rear,
With Rhetorick Debate;
And tho good-natur'd he appear,
Yet all his Services will steer
To undermine the State.

These are the Jury which were struck,
To try Britannia's Claim:
And how could we expect good Luck
From such as did with Lewis truck,
To their Eternal Shame?

Conclusion.

Others below the Dignity of Rhyme,
Shall 'scape my Satire till another time:
Twelve Men like these, a Nation might undo,
And let 'em, if again we trust 'em, too.
No, no, fair Britain at her Wrongs awakes;
Finds what ye mean, and other Methods takes.
Your Popularity at last expires,
And Men of better Tempers she requires:
Despis'd at home, mutter your Discontent,
And know the Nation spoke her Mind by KENT.

333

SATIRE.

Declining Venus has no Force o'er Love,
The tender Ganymede now rules above;
By Influence we die for amorous Boys,
Changing to Godlike Pleasures from vain Toys:
Besides, 'tis Interest and by that we steer,
To love with Princes is to gain their Ear.
He's an ill Courtier who can have a Passion
For nauseous Petticoat when out of fashion,
B---s are still the Stamp of Revolution.
Submissive Woman artfully invites
Each gazing Fop, and every Look requites;
Yielding to Nature, is no more confin'd,
Foe to Despair, in all her Actions kind.
Else Yel---ton should never lead the Van,
Stunted throughout, the Miniature of Man:
The Widow Le---son that vain Brat vould charm,
Dil---ds Arrival dreaded for more harm;
But Faustus Farmer by his Magick Art
Levels two Bellies to come at one part.
R---ss is so good, 'tis pity here to name her,
She drinks as well as does, no Soul can blame her:
S---wich is willing, but slow Lovers spoil
Her good Intentions, such are How and Boyle;
Poor Br---don's Fate she loves a batter'd Bully,
An ill Performer, yet by Descent no Cully.
W---ham, incestuous Jew, now Beauty's gone,
Prevails o'er Politicks with grunting John.
Ri---ond could make no Steps, she was so sore,
Where Earls, Knights, Priests and Pox has been before:
So qualify'd, to Grandeur she had claim,
Those Princes never wed to meaner Fame.

334

R---liffe on Mount resembles Whetstone's Park,
Painted and patch'd with Ba---r for her Spark:
So have I seen a Cit at Door with Trull,
By Noon as drunk, and of themselves as full.
Ch---l has lost her long prevailing Art,
And now for Drudgery keeps Booby Hart:
So P---brook sends her unknown Gems to pawn,
To mollify that costive Clown De***un.
Thus Beauty fading, falls from step to step,
At first is paid, then takes its turn to keep,
For Countess Dowagers, and Maids at Court,
The never-failing Lovers of the Sport:
They feel the Malice of despairing Fits,
When ill Success turns Lovers into Wits.
This stingless Satire's Author if you'd know,
The Dial speaks not, but it points

Jack H---.

A new Ballad, call'd, The Brawny Bishop's Complaint.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

1

When B---t perceiv'd the beautiful Dames,
Who flock'd to the Chappel of hilly St. James,
On their Lovers the kindest Looks did bestow,
And smil'd not on him while he bellow'd below;
To the Princess he went
With pious intent,
This dangerous Ill in the Church to prevent:
O Madam! quoth he, our Religion is lost,
If the Ladies thus ogle the Knights of the Toast.

335

2

Your Highness observes how I labour and sweat,
Their Affections to raise, and new Flames to beget;
And sure when I preach, all the World will agree,
That their Ears and their Eyes should be pointed on me:
But now I can't find
One Beauty so kind,
As my Parts to regard, or my Presence to mind;
Nay, I scarce have a sight of any one Face,
But those of old Oxford, and ugly Arglass.

3

These sorrowful Matrons, with Hearts full of Truth,
Repent for the manifold Sins of their Youth:
The rest with their Tattle my Harmony spoil;
And Bur***ton, An---sey, K---gston and B---le
Their Minds entertain
With Thoughts so profane,
'Tis a Mercy to find that at Church they contain:
Ev'n Hen---ham's Shapes their weak Fancies intice,
And rather than me they will ogle the Vice.

4

These Practices, Madam, my Preaching disgrace;
Shall Laymen enjoy the just Rights of my Place?
Then all may lament my Condition for hard,
To thresh in the Pulpit without a Reward.
Then pray condescend
Such Disorders to end,
And from the ripe Vineyards such Labourers send;
Or build up the Seats that the Beauties may see
The Face of no brawny Pretender but me.

5

The Princess by rude Importunities press'd,
Tho she laugh'd at his Reasons, allow'd his Request:
And now Britain's Nymphs in a Protestant Reign
Are lock'd up at Prayers like the Virgins in Spain;

336

And all are undone
As sure as a Gun.
Whenever a Woman is kept like a Nun,
If any kind Man from Bondage will save her,
The Lass in Gratitude grants him the Favour.

Mr. B***ty Vice-Chamberlain.

On the Death of the Queen and Marshal Luxemburgh.

Behold, Dutch Prince, here lie th'unconquer'd Pair,
Who knew your Strength in Love, your Strength in War!
Unequal Match to both no Conquest gains,
No Trophy of your Love or War remains.

On the Report of King James's sending a Plenipotentiary to the Treaty of Ryswick.

King James, say the Jacks, as other Kings do,
To the Treaty must send an Ambassador too.
But where can we find a Person so wise,
As is fit to take on him an Office so nice;
To act from a Prince whom no body owns,
But those whose Advice before lost him his Thrones;
To beg that the Princes would grant him a share
In a Treaty of Peace, who had none in the War?
And since for Religion he quitted his Throne,
And foster'd a Bastard instead of a Son,
To pray they'd consider his Losses at home,
And send him with Passports to Warsaw or Rome,
For a Crown, or a Cap, or some such like thing,
That since he can't live, he may look like a King:

337

For the Kingdoms he lost t'allow him another,
And make him a Monarch of some thing or other:
For truly (an't please you) the Envoy must say,
Our Protestant Friends are hang'd out of the way,
Our Servants forsake us, our Allies deny us;
And if the good Catholicks will not stand by us,
Our Queen will run mad, our self will want Bread,
Our Heir too, in spite of the Bargain we made,
Must home to his Father and work at his Trade.

To the Earl of Portland, on his Embassy to France.

What! Shall each Patron's ripening Smile infuse
A kindly Warmth to each officious Muse?
Shall all be prostitute to Dorset's Name,
Glutted with Praise, and surfeited with Fame?
Shall Spencer peep abroad? and Ormond shine?
Shall Sommers sparkle too, and flame in ev'ry Line?
And not one Muse for sacred Portland's Fame,
To grace his Triumphs, and record his Name?
O cou'd I breathe so soft, so sweet a Tune!
As Phœbus' self might hear, as Phœbus' self might own;
I'd summon all my Fury, all my Lays,
I'd riot on thy Charms, and wanton on thy Praise.
But see! the Bards stand awfully around,
And none e'er yet profan'd the sacred Ground:
With conscious Fear they curb their glowing Fire;
Yet what they dare not praise, they must admire.
Tho most to William, much to you we owe,
In him's our Safety, and our Joy in you:
For ever happy shall we, must we be,
Whilst Albion has her King, and Albion's King has thee.
But which of all thy long, thy numerous Train,
Which Virtue glitters most, and crowns the noble Scene?

338

A thousand thronging Graces justle there,
A thousand Virtues croud and struggle to appear?
Which then of all thy Virtues can I chuse,
To kindly please a wanton sporting-Muse?
Abash'd, like me, the Phrygian Paris lies,
And knows not where to fix his golden Prize.
When Juno tempts with an alluring Bait,
Throws all her gaudy Treasure at his Feet;
When Pallas scorning little sordid Gain,
Would fill and croud his teeming full-fraught Brain;
When Venus crown'd with ev'ry charming Grace,
Comes dazling in his Eyes, and lightning in his Face;
He knows not which is greatest, which is most,
Unfixt, unsettled, variously he's tost,
In Raptures drown'd, in Admiration lost.
But still of all, of all that come in view,
'Tis chiefly yours to be sincere and true.
Fain would I speak of thy well-guarded Trust,
And where I can't be lavish, wou'd be just.
How much he'as suffer'd, and how much deserv'd,
A Faith so often try'd, so well preserv'd:
True to your Trust, and faithful to your Care,
In ev'ry Place you shine, but dazzle here.
In France with equal Lustre you appear,
They all adore your Wisdom and your Care:
Extoll'd by ev'ry Tongue, they all commend
The Prince's Darling, and the Nation's Friend.
William himself thou dost out-do in this,
For he's the Nation's Friend, but thou art his.
Yet Holland, claim not thou an equal Share,
Tho with thee Portland suck'd his Infant Air;
To Albion then thy weaker part resign,
Nor fondly boast that Portland's Virtue's thine:
What tho from thee there sprang his antient Line?
True British Graces in the Hero shine,
True British Virtues crown and stamp him all Divine.
As Holland too, may William hither bring;
But Holland's Prince is lost in Albion's King.

339

Upon the burning of White-hall, Jan. 4. 1697/8.

In English.

While leud White-hall burning in justest Flames,
Heav'n's Wrath 'gainst Force, and Lust, and Fraud proclaims;
In Eagles Shape, the Genius of our Isle,
Clapping its Wings, with Joy flew round the Pile:
No Chappel, Room of State or Ease exempt.
But when the Banquet-house the Flames attempt,
Hold! (cry'd the Angel) for this sacred Place,
Where Ty---t's Blood wash'd out my Isle's Disgrace,
Shall every Fire (but the World's last) outface.

340

Another Version of the same.

White-hall , a Palace impious and accurs'd,
Where bloody Violence, Treachery and Lust
Had revel'd Ages, now her Date expires,
She glows and blazes with revenging Fires.
While Albion's Genius on a flaming Cloud,
Smiling and joyful round the Bonfire rode:
He saw each Building sink its lofty Head,
And cleanse its black Guilt with atoning red.
But when the sacred Pile began to smoke,
That sent the Tyr---t to the fatal Stroke;
Stop here, ye Flames, he cry'd, These Walls must stand
Th' Avengers of our Blood, and Guardians of our Land.

A new Answer to an Argument against a Standing-Army.

Would they who have nine years look'd sour
Against a French and Popish Power,
Make Friends with both in half an hour?
This is the time.
Would they directly break the Sword
By which their Freedom was restor'd,
And put their Trust in Lewis' Word?
This is the time.
Would they leave England unprotected,
To shew how well they are affected,
And get themselves next bout elected?
This is the time.

341

Would they preserve their Wives and Pullets
Against the Soldiers Lusts and Gullets,
And break our Guns to save our Bullets?
This is the time.
Would they oblige a Winter-Sea
Their prudent Orders to obey,
And keep a standing Wind in pay?
This is the time.
Would they but say what they're pursuing,
Whom they're advancing, whom undoing,
What pack of Knaves shall prove our Ruin?
This is the time.
A-God's Name let 'em shew their Games,
And fix to one of these Extremes,
A Commonwealth, or else King James;
For now's the time.

On the Death of Mr. Dryden.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

John Dryden Enemies had three;
Sir Dick, old Nick, and Jeremy.
The Doughty Knight was forc'd to yield;
The other two have kept the Field:
But had his Life been somewhat holier,
He'ad foil'd the Devil and the Collier.

On the Death of the Duke of Glocester.

Thus translated by the Ld Jefferies.

By Dr. Bentley.

342

What reason have I to complain,
Since in all times it has been plain,
That great and weighty things must soon,
Like Jacks with their own Weight, go down?
And Nature when upon her Back
She lays too much, will surely crack.
So little Willy dies, and cares
Neither for Scepters, nor our Pray'rs:
And I shall love him long, for all
The Hopes he gave us were but small.
Or rather God, who gave us Birth,
Being in Wrath with lazy Earth,
Takes this occasion, and prefers
Illustrious Souls among the Stars.
If it be so, I told a Lye,
And little Willy does not die;
But mounts alive, and swiftly flies,
On airy Horseback thro the Skies.
'Tis the same Horse old Enoch rode,
And Asgil keeps to go to God.
Now see the Youth without his Clothes,
How like a new-born Flow'r he shows.

343

See how his rosy Cheeks do shine
Among his Ancestors Divine.
While we poor Mortals here below
Our Sighs and Tears in vain bestow;
And empty Obsequies are paid,
Just as if he were really dead:
Which makes it plain, that living on
A hated Life, now he is gone,
Will be to us, altho our Breath
Should ne'er be stopt, a double Death.

Dialogue between the Ghost of Capt. Kidd, and a Kid-napper.

Kid.
From the Boat of old Charon in the Stygian Ferry,
From my Ship I am come again to my Wherry,
And from thence, my old Friend, with you to be merry:
Which no body can deny.

Nap.
Stand off, thou grand Pirate, I have nothing to do
With such plund'ring Rogues and Robbers as you,
Had I been of your Jury, I had hang'd you too:
Which, &c.

Kid.
How now Brother Napper, why in such a Fury?
It could not have been worse, had you been of my Jury:
But I left you in better Temper I assure you:
Which, &c.

Nap.
But you and the Devil still ow'd me a Shame,
And now with a Vengeance at last it came,
And has quite ruin'd my honest good Name:
Which, &c.

344

Kid.
But Brother, you know that was pretty well gone;
For tho the Seeds of your Honesty often were sown,
I never yet heard that any were grown:
Which, &c.

Nap.
Thou Son of a Boatswain begot in a Skuller,
Thou Dunce of a Pirate, my Head is not duller;
Tho you got your Wealth faster, my Pocket is fuller:
Which, &c.

Kid.
Be not so haughty and angry, good Brother,
If we two Kidnappers understand one another,
There will be no occasion for all this pother:
Which, &c.

Nap.
A Kinsman, but no Cater Cousin I had;
And of such you know I oft ship'd you a Lad,
But this last and the Law have almost made me mad:
Which, &c.

Kid.
I hope you took warning by my woful Condition,
For that good Advice I gave with Contrition,
To take care how you acted beyond your Commission:
Which, &c.

Nap.
A Commission they told me I had of the Peace,
But not to send People away to the Seas,
Which makes me almost to melt in my Grease:
Which, &c.

Kid.
It is time I confess, now you're taken thus napping,
To take care lest you coach it with me to Wapping,
Since you see me trapan'd, some are as good at trapping:
Which, &c.

345

Nap.
'Tis true, Brother Kid, that I live in the Strand,
Where Low-water Mark is the nearer at hand,
You are Pirate at Sea, as I Pirate at Land:
Which nobody can deny.

A Congratulatory Poem to the Right Honourable Sir E. S. &c.

Tho Poets praise those most who need it least,
These by your Foes must all be Truths confest;
That Nature form'd you vigorous and strong,
And Strength of Nature makes you hold out long:
Who by her sage Dispensing Power obtain'd
More Wit and Sense, than your young Rival gain'd
From all the painful Labours of the Schools,
And made you early talk to Men, not Fools.
With Judgment still, not Heat, your Course you run,
To finish well that Race so well begun;
With equal Pace, and no ill-govern'd Heat,
And with no Pompous Patent, Vainly Great;
With Wealth and Honour, still despis'd, you're crown'd,
Yet want that still, with which you most abound:
Not that a Man knows more their proper use,
Or less those mighty Blessings does abuse.
You in your Merits most unkindly share
Much of that Fate your faithful Friends do here;
To whom the same regard, Great SIR, is shown,
You oft have met with when the Work was done.
In vain, in solid Sense and nervous Prose,
We pour'd our Forces on your Rhyming Foes;
Those made of late few Ministers of State,
Verse was more powerful, or importunate:

346

Verse made th'once humble Mouse a Rat, in haste,
And Verse made him, who made the House at last;
From Channel-Row he ne'er had cross'd the Main,
Nor from flat Rhenish else reach'd brisk Champaign:
Verse made his Pastoral Patron rise apace
With equal Merit, and with equal Grace;
With a more glorious Rod t'adorn his Hand,
Than the Caducean Mercury's Golden Wand.
Black Rods and White oft work most wondrous Things,
When given by Ruling Gods, or Regent Kings.
Verse the Fam'd Fleckno rais'd, the Muses Sport,
From drudging for the Stage, to drudg at Court;
And most deserv'dly crown'd him Laureat now,
Who Sternhold has outdone, and Hopkins too.
Verse like some Spell rais'd old King Arthur's Train,
Made his Round-Table Knights t'appear again,
And dub the Man, who more than Callibourn had slain.
By Verse mad Clito strove t'advance the Cause,
To rhyme away Religion, Kings, and Laws:
'Mongst these the bold Corinthian too might pass,
A Minor Poet of th'Inferior Class,
Who, not like Horace, rais'd his Monument of Brass.
This vast Success of Verse our Poets had,
Statesmen at Home, and Envoys all Abroad;
To which no Prose had parallel Success,
And makes us now accost you thus in Verse.
The best of Princes, who first made you Great,
Whom you best serv'd, and with him too the State,
Dismiss'd you coldly to a kind Retreat—
The following Reign confess'd your grave Advice
Was wanting, in so tender Case and nice,
Where Loyalty the Standard did display,
But wild Destruction charg'd in full Array.

347

Th' unwary Greeks their Errors thus confess,
And still consult Ulysses in Distress;
Thus oft their exil'd Patriots they recal,
And Aristides, when distress'd, their All:
Thus too their Grecian Prince to Ammon straight
Repair'd, for to resolve his doubtful Fate.
Nor could our Monarch thus perplext, advise
In Place more proper, or a Man more wise.
Near to that dangerous Sedgmore down he came,
For to consult an Oracle of Fame;
Where, had your sage Advice been wisely took,
No King had Subjects, Subjects King foorsook.
When to th'Extremes of Conscience, and of State,
The labouring Kingdom was reduc'd by Fate;
You took the wisest, or the happiest Way,
And with your Western Legions join'd Torbay:
For which the Knighted Bard extends your Fame,
And makes th'Old Britons to record your Name.
True to your Country still, true to the State,
[For who can question Truths we prov'd so late?]
All your Designs still honourably Good,
Th' Apostate Statesman, not the King withstood.
Thus spake your Self;—thus to the Conqueror spake,
And pleaded Freedom for Deliverance sake;
Freedom for England, Freedom for her Crown,
[That's most enslav'd, when most precarious grown]
This Service great! with the frank Speech was weigh'd,
And both with equal Courtesy repaid.
Your much lov'd ISCA truly made your own,
And you made Master of your Mistress Town;
Where freed from Cares of State, secur'd to sleep,
The Town's Palladium you might safely keep,
Till Warlike Caledon assum'd the Charge,
And set the confin'd Governour more at large.
Your great Effort of Courage next was shown,
[For bold was he who then dar'd serve the Crown]

348

The Royal Martyr owes his Thanks to you,
Th' Oblivion Act, the Regicide Ludlow too
His old Commission else had been renew'd,
And the Royal Signet seal'd to Royal Blood.
Nor did your English Spirit brighter shine,
In the Defence of England's Royal Line,
Than to your Country's Aid and Interest true,
[So much the Patriot rul'd the Courtier too]
It timely came to aid th'unequal Fight,
And help the injur'd Commons to their Right.
To such great Actions something more is due,
And somewhat more may be reserv'd for You
In a more glorious Reign, than hath been seen
Since bright ELIZA's Days, our English Queen:
Whilst ANNA, like ELIZA, Worth regards,
Only the Valiant, Wise and Good rewards;
With the like awful Grace adorns the Throne,
And makes her Subjects Happiness her own;
With the same Awe, with the like Love obey'd,
And a wise Senate to advise and aid:
Whilst England's Church and State triumphant stand,
And France and Spain dread her victorious Hand,
And ORMOND fills with terror Sea and Land.
Hard would it be to lose then ground at home,
From such good Seed to see th'Old Tares to come;
To see the curst Advice again revive,
And the worst Men again prefer'd and thrive;
See Old and Modern Whigs again prefer'd,
And poor Tom Double fairly hang'd or starv'd.

349

The Negative Prophecy, found under the Ruins of Whitehall.

I sing NOT of Jove's mighty Thunder,
The New-made Lords, or Vigo Plunder;
Nor of the C---ns Godly Frolick,
To settle Christ's Church Apostolick;
Nor of the Pious Convocation,
Clearer than Doves from Gall or Passion:
How those Grave Rabbies, to a wonder,
Kept Heresies and Schisms under:
How Binks and Kimberly did shine
In that dark Orb with Rays Divine;
With what Devotion and Behaviour,
The saucy Priest blasphem'd our Saviour:
How each his Talent did exert
With Arguments not worth a F---rt,
To prove that plainly a Majori,
No Reverence was due Superiori.

Whether it was for Ostentation,
Or to promote our Reformation;
Or to repent for telling Tales,
And drinking N---ts to th'Pr--- of W---s:
That M---w, top full of Grace,
In Royal Chair refus'd her place.
I tell not why the ------ content
To share with her the Government:
Nor do I care how many Scars
Our Beaus do bring from Field of Mars;
Whether the noisy Fops at Wills,
Do go to Hell to pay their Bills.
When they'l take Antwerp or Ostend,
When Matters on the Rhine will mend,
Or when the War will have an End.

350

When Leopoldus will grow Wise,
The Swede lay by his French Disguise;
The Czar well bang'd to make him quiet;
The Poles by Bleeding and low Diet,
With the dull Swiss, restor'd agen,
Shake off the Ass, and act like Men.
Eugenius with his Vet'rans sent,
To make the French a Carpi Compliment;
When we shall get In---e
An A---y, with more Sense:
Courtiers have less Knavery,
Sea-Captains shew more Bravery;
When High-Church Rampant shall agree
T'have Partners in their Roguery,
J--- H--- and S---r, with the rest decree,
Neither to bribe, nor punish Bribery:
When under Cloaks and Cassocks there shall lie
Nothing but Faith and sound Divinity;
Then shall the Golden Age once more be seen,
Then Heaven and Earth shall sing, God save the QUEEN.

Occasional Conformity.

A proper new Ballad. By a West-Saxon.

Occasionly as we discours'd of Queen, and Church, and Nation,
Occasionly we took to view that Engine, call'd Occasion.
Occasion fram'd for nothing else, but to occasion Mischief;
A Cloak to cover Hypocrites, of whom the Devil is chief.
Occasion for a Loop-hole serves, whenever there's occasion,
To leave Plain-dealing in the lurch, and fly to dear Evasion.

351

The Loyalist may hang himself, and damn's Equivocation,
That fusty Ware's now thrown aside, Occasion's all the fashion.
Let England prize her Native Wares, and not be for Outcomers;
We've home-spun Jesuits of our own, more fine than from St. Omers.
These Saints of freshest date devis'd this new Trick, call'd Occasion,
By this they have refin'd upon all former Reformation.
Dull Martyrs spill their Blood in vain for want of this Device, Sir;
By this they might have Heathens been, and Christians in a trice, Sir.
Occasion more Faces has upon Occasion surely,
Than ever Hugh or Burgess had, who taught the Gospel purely.
True Scot, upon Occasion, can look like English Bishop;
And Quack out-does, with Whiggish Wares, all such as come to his Shop.
Occasion can make a Man, with little or no trouble,
Sincere as canting Whitaker, and honest as Tom Double.
Occasion permits the Saints occasionly to lye, Sir;
And fathom Mysteries too deep for such as you and I Sir.
Occasionly they shall conform, occasionly dissent, Sir,
Occasionly shall take an Oath to break it with intent, Sir.
Occasionly shall go to Church, occasionly to Meeting;
Occasionly betray their Lord, while they like Judas greet him.

352

Occasionly deny him too, in open view of Men, Sir;
And where's the harm? for when 'tis fit, they own him can agen, Sir.
Occasionly communicate, occasionly refrain, Sir;
But constantly communicate when 'twill occasion Gain, Sir.
When 'twill occasion Godly Men to Parliament to ride-a,
And there with great Sincerity to take Occasion's side-a.
When 'twill occasion Cheats to scape, and hinder fair Accompting,
When 'twill occasion Lets and Rubs, past Honesty's surmounting.
On such Occasions they can kneel like rankest Idolaters;
But Turn once serv'd, and Place obtain'd, no stiffer Idol-haters.
Thus 'casionly for God they are, and 'casionly for Devil,
Occasionly for Good again, occasionly for Evil.
Occasionly for Heaven bound, occasionly for Hell, Sir;
But surely 'twould be sad to have occasion there to dwell, Sir.

A Consultation of the Bishops.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

To give the last Amendment to the Bill,
Which to the Saints portended so much Ill;
To curb the Commons, and their Ends defeat,
Right Reverend Twelve last night at Lambeth met.
Tho much of Lawn did round the Room appear,
Yet none but modern Men of God were there,
Nor had been mitred more than thirteen Year:

353

The Ten remov'd, the grave Assembly sat,
The Bus'ness of the Day was in Debate:
This way and that their various Censures tend,
And some would pass the Bill, but more would mend.
At length, with usual Vehemence, aloud
A brawny Bishop thus harangu'd the Croud.

Far off from us let Persecution reign;
Slav'ry in France, and Bigotry in Spain.
The best of Kings the best of Gifts bestow'd,
And Toleration by a Law allow'd,
And bid us go to God which way we would.
Must mod'rate Men from top-Preferments fall,
Because they can't agree with us in all?
We may esteem the Ore, yet slight the Dross;
May be good Christians, yet condemn the Cross;
May hate Cathedral Hymns, yet Hopkins sing,
And propagate without the Pagan Ring.
No doubt this Bill by some well-meaning Men,
Was but sent up to be sent down agen.
It needs must give weak Consciences offence,
Rogues can't be so without a vast Expence.
The Sacramental Test caus'd no Debates,
That but their Souls, this touches their Estates.
Should this Unchristian bitter Bill succeed,
'Twould be a Woe to Hypocrites indeed.
Away with't then; 'tis one of Bonner's Bills:
I'm not for saving Saints against their Wills.

This said, they all with a consenting Nod,
The Reformation Writer's Thoughts applaud.
When strait a most melodious Sound was heard,
And lo! in White a Rev'rend Form appear'd:
A Cross his Hand, a Mitre deck'd his Head;
And while sweet Odours round the Room were spread,
Thus to them all the Sacred Shadow said:

354

Since Time at length turns up the happy Hour,
And Providence has put it in your pow'r,
To cote your Flocks, and sever from the Fold
The prowling Wolf, will you your hands withhold?
Forbid it Heaven! it ever should be said,
That the pure Church for which the Martyr bled,
And for which too I sacrific'd my Head,
Should be by'ts Bishops into Bondage led.
Think, such a Time may never come agen,
Seldom such Senates, never such a Queen.
Your Church's Fate you falsly fear from Rome,
Out of the North more likely 'tis to come:
One Faith's Defender having hurt it more,
Than all the Kings that ever reign'd before.
Make then your legal Dams 'gainst Schism so high,
No Spring-tides of Succession may destroy.

He ceas'd; and lo! a Cloud refulgent bright
Bore up the Saint to Realms of lasting Light.
Fear and a just Confusion shook each Soul,
And Samuel's Truth with trembling fell on all.
Shame and Confusion sate on ev'ry Face,
And even S---um felt some shocks of Grace.
The Heav'nly Vision quite had chang'd their Will,
And all without Amendments now would pass the Bill.
When strange!
After an Earthquake and a flash of Flame,
Into the Room a Meager

K. W.

Phantom came;
His bending Bulk, and Purple Robe hung o'er,
And he in's hands the Regal Ensigns bore.
Struck with Surprize each Rev'rence arose,
And Homage paid, and recogniz'd his Nose.
When casting on them all a direful Look,
With Indignation thus the Spectre spoke.

False to your Faith, and your Creation too,
To be to what's against your Int'rest true:
Have I been labouring thirteen Years and more
That to destroy, which you would now restore?

355

Did I not cull you out among the Croud,
To make you all Right Rev'rend Things in God?
Did I not thro the Surplice see the Saint?
Churchmen in show, but Calvins in your Cant;
Forc'd you the Chair Episcopal to fill,
And Mitred you almost against your Will:
And will you now at last Apostatize?
Think better on't; my former Friends be wise;
Is this a Reign in which you e'er can rise?
Can W---ster tell with his Prophetick Vein,
When he shall be Lord Almoner again?
Do G---ter, Br---tol, or St. Asaph know
The happy Time when they shall not be so?
Off with the Mask then; boldly now appear
The very Men the World once thought you were.
This said, in shapeless Air the Royal Bubble broke,
And the thin Form their wond'ring Eyes forsook.

Laud.

Prologue to the Musick-meeting in York-buildings.

By Dr. G***th.

Where Musick, and more pow'rful Beauties reign,
Who can support the Pleasure, and the Pain?
Here their soft Magick those two Sirens try,
And if we listen, or but look, we die.
Why should we then the wondrous Tales admire
Of Orpheus' Numbers, or of Amphion's Lyre?
Behold this Scene of Beauty, and confess
The Wonder greater, and the Fiction less.
Like Human Victims here we are decreed
To worship those bright Altars where we bleed.
Who braves his Fate in Fields, must tremble here:
Triumphant Love more Vassals makes than Fear.
No Faction Homage to the Fair denies,
The Right Divine's apparent in their Eyes.

356

That Empire's fix'd, that's founded in Desire;
Those Fires the Vestals guard, can ne'er expire.

Verses written last Summer at Althrop by the Lord Hallifax,

in a blank Leaf of a Waller, upon seeing Vandyke's Picture of the old Lady Sunderland.

Vandyke had Colours, Softness, Fire, and Art,
When the fair Sunderland inflam'd his Heart:
Waller had Numbers, Fancy, Wit and Fire,
And Sacharissa was his fond Desire.
Why then at Althrop seem her Charms to faint,
In these sweet Numbers, and that glowing Paint?
This happy Seat a fairer Mistress warms;
The shining Offspring has eclips'd her Charms:
The different Beauties in one Face we find;
Soft Amoret with brightest Sacharissa join'd.
As high as Nature reach'd, their Art could soar;
But she ne'er made a finish'd Piece before.

Upon the same Subject;

by a Boy of Fifteen, at Westminster-School.

In happy Days was Sacharissa's Reign,
When Beauty shone, and did not shine in vain:
The Sons of Art could all her Charms express,
And rival Nature in the fairest Dress.
Vandyke and Waller, warm'd with equal Fire,
Touch'd the soft Canvas, and the softer Lyre;
And the fair Nymph defies the Pow'r of Time
In living Colours, and immortal Rhyme.

357

At Althrop now we see a brighter Flame,
And Sacharissa stoops to Churchill's Fame.
But where's the skilful Hand that can present
Her matchless Form in Numbers, or in Paint?
Arts that are rais'd and cherish'd by the Fair,
By too great Excellence oppress'd, despair;
While meaner Faces triumph over Fate,
Superior Beauty has a shorter Date.
Yet happy Churchill, that she can't live long
In Kneller's Oil, or Hallifax's Song.

On the Duke of Savoy's declaring against France.

Long has great Lewis form'd the vast Design,
Europa's Liberty to undermine:
Some he has conquer'd in the Field of War,
Tho still himself he kept from Dangers far:
Others by Bribes he has his Vassals made;
But most of all by Breach of Faith betray'd.
Sov'reigns in Battel fam'd for Sums of Gold,
Their People, Country, and themselves have sold.
Ev'n Savoy's Duke his Neck did seem to bow,
And tacitly an universal Throne allow.
But O! how hard a thing it is to find
A Prince, whom common Principles can bind!
By the Example of his Silk-worms taught,
T'expire in Fetters which himself had wrought.
Of elevated Rank they can despise
Those feeble Chains we call Religious Ties.
For Int'rest Savoy the French side did take,
For Interest as bravely did forsake.
The Monarch thus deceiv'd, cry'd out in Rage,
(Which Maintenon herself could not assuage:)
What! can the Plains of Lombardy produce
A Genius equal to the Flow'r-de-Luce?

358

Can there be near the Alps a Hero found,
Who scorns to be by Oaths and Treaties bound?
A Man of Royal Mould? who wisely knows
That Heav'n does laugh at Kings and Lovers Vows?
My happy Reign has seen its sixtieth Year,
Treaties and Leagues have been my constant care;
Which none e'er knew more artfully to make,
Nor with more Skill and Judgment when to break:
This darling Talent none e'er call'd in doubt,
Tho they have dar'd my Courage to dispute.
Then Lewis fall! then be for ever dumb!
For sure thy fatal Period is come,
When keeping Faith betrays thee—.

The Toasters.

Lady Wharton.
When Jove to Ida did the Gods invite,
And in immortal Toastings pass'd the Night,
With more than Bowls of Nectar they were bless'd,
For Venus was the Wharton of the Feast.

Lady Essex.
The bravest Hero, and the brightest Dame
From Belgia's happy Clime Britannia drew;
One pregnant Cloud we find does often frame
The awful Thunder and the gentle Dew.

Lady Essex.
To Essex fill the sprightly Wine,
The Health's engaging and divine:
Let purest Odours scent the Air,
And Wreaths of Roses bind our Hair.
In her chaste Lips these blushing lie,
And those her gentle Sighs supply.

359

Dutchess of St. Albans.
The Saints above can ask, but not bestow;
This Saint can give all Happiness below.

Dutchess of St. Albans.
The Line of Vere so long renown'd in Arms,
Concludes with Lustre in St. Albans Charms:
Her conqu'ring Eyes have made their Race compleat;
They rose in Valour, and in Beauty set.

Lady Mary Churchill.
Fairest and latest of the beauteous Race,
Blest with your Parents Wit, and her first blooming Face;
Born with our Liberties in William's Reign,
Your Eyes alone that Liberty restrain.

Lady Hyde.
The God of Wine grows jealous of his Art,
He only fires the Head, but Hyde the Heart:
The Queen of Love looks on, and smiles to see
A Nymph more mighty than a Deity.

Lady Sunderland.
All Nature's Charms in Sunderland appear,
Bright as her Eyes, and as her Reason clear:
Yet still their Force, to Men not safely known,
Seems undiscover'd to herself alone.

Lady Harriot Godolphin.
Godolphin's easy and unpractis'd Air
Gains without Art, and governs without Care:
Her conqu'ring Race with various Fate surprize;
Who 'scape their Arms, are Captives to her Eyes.

Dutchess of Richmond.
Richmond has Charms that continue our Claim
To lay hold of the Toast that belongs to the Name.

360

Dutchess of Bolton.
Love's keenest Darts are charming Bolton's Care,
Which the fair Tyrant poisons with Despair:
The God of Wine the dire Effect foresees,
And sends the Juice that gives the Lover ease.

Lady Harper.
In Harper all the Graces shine,
Gay as our Mirth, and sparkling as our Wine:
Here's to the Fair—Were Poison in the Cup,
Might she be bless'd, thus would I drink it up.

Lady Manchester.
While haughty Gallia's Dames, that spread
O'er their pale Cheeks an artful Red,
Behold this beauteous Stranger there,
In native Charms divinely fair;
Confusion in their Looks they show'd,
And with unborrow'd Blushes glow'd.

Mrs. Barton.
Stamp'd with her reigning Charms, this Standard-Glass
Shall current thro the Realms of Bacchus pass;
Full fraught with Beauty shall new Flame impart,
And mint her shining Image on the Heart.

Mrs. Digby.
Why laughs the Wine with which this Glass is crown'd?
Why leaps my Heart to hear this Health go round?
Digby warms both with Sympathetick Fires;
Her Name the Glass, her Form my Heart inspires.

Mrs. Digby.
No wonder Ladies that at Court appear,
And in Front-Boxes sparkle all the Year,

361

Are chosen Toasts; 'twas Digby's matchless Frame,
That Cæsar-like but saw and overcame.

Mrs. Claverine.
Such Beauty join'd with such harmonious Skill,
Must doubly charm, then doubly let us fill.
If Musick be Love's Food, as Lovers think,
When Claverine's nam'd, then Toasting is his Drink.

Mrs. Tempest.
Venus contending for the Golden Ball,
Us'd Helen's Charms to bribe her Judg withal:
Had she been bless'd with Tempest's brighter Eyes,
Unborrow'd Beauty would have gain'd the Prize.

Mrs. Tempest.
If perfect Joys from perfect Beauty rise,
View Tempest's Shape, her Motions and her Eyes:
Undoubted Queen of Love, but Honour's Slave;
While thousands languish, she but one can save.

Mrs. Long.
Fill the Glass, let th'Hautboys sound,
While bright Long's Health goes round:
With eternal Beauty blest,
Ever blooming, still the best;
Drink your Glass, and think the rest.

Mrs. Di-Kirk.
Fair written Name, but deeper in my Heart,
A Diamond cannot cut like Cupid's Dart.
Quickly the Cordial of her Health apply;
For when I cease to toast bright Kirk, I die.

Mrs. Di-Kirk.
So many Charms Di-Kirk surround,
'Tis pity she's unkind;
Her conqu'ring Eyes, not seeing, wound;
As Love darts home, tho blind.

362

Mrs. Brudenel.
Imperial Juno gave her matchless Grace,
And Hebe's youthful Bloom adorns her Face;
Bright as the Star that leads the heavenly Host,
Brudenel precedes the Glory of the Toast.

Mrs. Brudenel.
Look on the loveliest Tree that shades the Park,
And Brudenel you will find upon the Bark:
Look on the fairest Glass that's fill'd the most,
And Brudenel you will find the darling Toast:
Look on her Eyes, if you their Light can bear,
And Love himself you'll find sit toasting there.

Mademoselle Spanheim.
Admir'd in Germany, ador'd in France,
Your Charms to brighter Glory here advance;
The stubborn Britons own your Beauty's Claim,
And with their native Toasts enroll your Name.

Dutchess of Beaufort.
Offspring of a Tuneful Sire,
Blest with more than mortal Fire;
Likeness of a Mother's Face,
Blest with more than mortal Grace:
You with double Charms surprize,
With his Wit, and with her Eyes.

Lady Carlisle.
Carlisle's a Name can ev'ry Muse inspire,
To Carlisle fill the Glass, and tune the Lyre.
With his lov'd Bays the God of Day shall crown
A Wit and Lustre equal to his own.

Lady Carlisle.
Behold this Northern Star's auspicious Light!
Our fainter Beauties shine not half so bright.

363

Form'd to attract, yet certain to repel,
Her Charms are [OMITTED] but she guards 'em well.

Lady Carlisle.
She o'er all Hearts and Toasts must reign,
Whose Eyes out-sparkle bright Champain;
Or when she will vouchsafe to smile,
The Brillant that thus writes Carlisle.

Lady Carlisle.
At once the Sun and Carlisle took their way,
To warm the frozen North, and kindle Day;
The Flowers to both their glad Creation ow'd,
Their Virtue he, their Beauty she bestow'd.

Lady Bridgwater.
All Health to her, in whose bright Form we find
Excess of Charms with native Meekness join'd;
Whose tender Beauty safe in Virtue's Care,
Springs from a Race so fruitful of the Fair,
That all Antiquity can boast no more,
For Venus and the Graces were but four.

Mrs. Dashwood.
Fair as the blushing Grape she stands,
Tempting the Gath'rers ready hands;
Blossoms and Fruit in her together meet,
As ripe as Autumn, and like April sweet.

Lady Carlisle.
Great as a Goddess, and of Form Divine,
Our Heads we bend, and all our Hearts resign:
Like Heav'n she rules with an Imperial Sway,
And teaches to adore and to obey.

Mrs. Dunch.
O Dunch! if fewer with thy Charms are fir'd,
Than when by Godfrey's Name thou wast admir'd;

364

'Tis not that Marriage makes thee seem less fair,
But then we hop'd, and now we must despair.

Mrs. Dunch.
Fair Dunch's Eyes such radiant Glances dart,
As warm the coldest Bosom with Desire:
Those heav'nly Orbs must needs attract the Heart,
Where Churchill's Sweetness softens Godfrey's Fire.

Mrs. Guibbons.
Could Grecian Masters from the Shades return,
To copy Guibbons, 'twould advance their Art;
Theirs never made but one with Passion burn,
But his best Venus conquers ev'ry Heart.

Mrs. Nicholas.
Unrival'd Nicholas, whose victorious Eyes
Love for a Place of Arms with Darts supply'd,
Does on the Toasters like fair Phœbe rise,
To rule their Wines, and Passion's mighty Tide.

Mrs. Barton.
Beauty and Wit strove each in vain,
To vanquish Bacchus and his Train;
But Barton with successful Charms
From both their Quivers drew her Arms;
The roving God his Sway resigns,
And awfully submits his Vines.

Lady Orrery.
Here close the List, here end the Female Strife;
View her the Dawn of Heav'n, and Joys of Life.
Nature to warm the World into Desire,
Makes Dorset's Charms in her soft Sex conspire,
His youthful Form, and his immortal Fire.

Lady Orrery.
Phœbus, from whom this Fair her Wit derives,
No Toast beholds, tho round the World he drives,

365

That charms so much, or has such Conquest won,
As this bright Daughter of his darling Son.

The Witchcraft.

No wonder Winds more dreadful are by far,
Than all the Losses of a twelve Years War:
No wonder P---tes do the Church betray,
And St---men vote, and act a different way:
No wonder Magick Art surrounds the Th---,
Old Mother J---ings in her Gr---e is known.
Old England's Genius rouze, these Charms dispel,
Burn but the Witch, and all is well.

Orpheus and Margarita.

Hail tuneful Pair! Say by what wond'rous Charms
One scap'd from Hell, and one from Greber's Arms.
When the soft Thracian struck the trembling Strings,
The Winds were hush'd, and furl'd their ruffling Wings:
And since the tawny Tuscan rais'd her Strain,
R---k furls his Sails, and dozes on the Main;
Treaties unfinish'd in the Office sleep,
And Sh---el yawns for Orders on the Deep.
Thus equal Charms an equal Conquest claim,
To him high Woods and bending Timber came,
To her shrub H---s and tall N---m.

366

PALLAS.

Pallas , destructive to the Trojan Line,
Raz'd their proud Walls, tho built with Hands Divine;
But Love's bright Goddess with propitious Grace,
Preserv'd a Hero to restore the Race:
So the fam'd Empire, where the Iber flows,
Fell by Eliza, and by Anna rose.

The Austrian Eagle.

By Mr. Stepney.

At Anna's Call the Austrian Eagle flies,
Bearing her Thunder to the Southern Skies;
Where a rash Prince, with an unequal Sway,
Inflames the Region, and misguides the Day:
Till the Usurper from his Chariot hurl'd,
Leaves the true Monarch to command the World.

The Prologue, by way of Dialogue, between Heraclitus Ridens, the Observator, and his Country-man.

Spoken by Mr. Powel, Mr. Booth, and Mr. Pack.
Heracl.
Well—Since we're met, our Business is to try
Which is the better Subject, you or I;
You that by clipping English, clip the Throne,
Or I that regal Power extensive own?

367

Observ.
Thou Slave to Scepters, hug thy pleasing Chains,
And under no Restriction publish Reigns;
Make Crowns unlimited, unquestion'd be,
And blame the Queen's best Friend, in blaming me:
Thy weak Productions nothing fertile yield,
Nor hast thou digg'd like me in Learning's Field.

Heracl.
The Queen! O mention not that Sacred Word!
Thou mean'st the People for thy Sovereign Lord;
The Scum of which thou factiously would'st raise,
And blend with Royalty by dint of Praise.
But thy Designs will unsuccessful prove,
She stands possess'd of Power as well as Love,
Has those that guard her Rights with watchful Eyes,
And sees an Enemy in a Friend's Disguise.

Countr.
An't please your Worship—How this Fellow prates!
He and his Arguments for four Estates:
Down with the Beast of Burden with his Pack,
And lay him, like John's Wife, upon his Back.
Hark you, Friend, whence is this Presumption grown?
I have a hugeous mind to rub you down;
But that would hinder the Design in view,
It is my Master's Task to conquer you.

Observ.
On Chops of Logick have I lately fed,
And quoted far more Books than e'er I read;
Have I pretended Bracton to peruse,
And made the Laws their Explanation lose:
And yet dar'st thou my Knowledg to decry,
And with my Learned Observations vie?
Oh! Barlipton, furnish me with Sense,
And be my Advocates both Mood and Tense;
Assert my Cause, and Fallacies provide,
To vindicate my dear Republick Side,
As I with Major and with Minor rise,
And call the Champion forth to syllogize.

368

Heracl.
I take the Combat, and accept the Strife;
And in the Crown's behalf would wager Life:
As I with Loyal Soul defy thy Spleen,
And all my Wishes center in the Queen;
The Queen descended from so just a Line,
That makes her Claim, as are her Thoughts Divine.

Observ.
Thus by the help of Analytick Sense,
And five Pair of true-blue Predicaments;
I lay down this for Truth in form Categ---
And with Affirmative oppose your Neg.
Those that create, may their own Creature blame,
And call him to account, when lost to shame:
But Kings their Rights from our Creation take,
Therefore we may account with Kings we make.

Heracl.
Your Major's false, as is your Minor bold,
And you Positions most audacious hold:
Kings cannot err like those of vulgar Soul,
All they must needs surpass, that all controul.

Observ.
If the Queen holds her Title from our Choice,
Then Kings are made Elective by our Voice;
But English Senates call'd her to the Throne,
Therefore Crown'd Heads must our Election own.

Heracl.
Grant that their Choice confirm'd the Royal Dame,
Their Choice was not precedent to her Claim.
From Stuart's Race the mighty Princess sprung,
A Race that ever shall demand my Song;
That has her Heroes and her Martyrs giv'n,
And with unnumber'd Princes peopled Heav'n:
Tho blacken'd by thy Pen, their Deeds are stain'd,
And thou no Hero own'st, or Martyr reign'd.

Observ.
Think of my Wrongs, and I must stand excus'd;
How has that Family our Sect abus'd!

369

Suppress'd our Hopes, and our Ambition quell'd,
And Force by Force unhappily repell'd.
How from Sedition has this Land been purg'd,
And I my self been sentenc'd to be scourg'd?
Fin'd for High-Treason, more than I could pay,
And close confin'd with all this Tympany of Clay.

Heracl.
Thy Wrongs dost call what thou shouldst term thy Crimes;
Thou Scandal to the past and present Times;
Thou Western Rebel, undeserving Grace,
Deform'd in Soul, and horrible in Face:
Thou Reprobate from factious Parents sprung,
Whose Father taught for what thy Spouse's hung.
That Prince was gracious, as his Birth was true,
And ne'er did more amiss than sparing you:
Had he but granted what you humbly sought,
And hang'd you like your Kinsman for your Fault,
You had not liv'd to deal about your Spleen,
And wrong him dead in his Remains the Queen.

Observ.
Dare but assert what thou hast lately spoke,
Slaughter's the Word, and wait th'impending Stroke;
With Hand and Heart erected see me frown,
The People I affirm should awe the Crown.

Heracl.
Thy Frowns and Smiles I equally despise,
He that talks most of Fighting oftnest flies:
Cowards are ever Champions in pretence,
As Fools in their Opinion Men of Sense.
Boast of thy Courage where there's none to fight,
Neither thy Pen nor Staff can do thee Right.
What hast thou not malignant daily spread?
How not defam'd the Living with the Dead?
By thee twice martyr'd Royal Charles is known,
And more than twice exil'd his hapless Son;

370

Injur'd, traduc'd in Person and in Fame,
And impiously deny'd a Subject's Claim;
Tho he might undisturb'd in silence rest,
And having suffer'd here, in Death be bless'd.
By thee the Grand-daughter's precarious made,
Able to govern us without thy Aid;
Wise as she's Just, and providently Good,
To save her Peoples Treasure with their Blood.

Observ.
Thou base High-flier, and Tantivy Fiend,
Dar'st thou to Popish Ashes be a Friend?
Know I'll inform, for I am skill'd in Harms,
And when my Foes appear can sound Alarms;
Can swear, accuse the Persons that are clear,
And make great Men 'fore greater Men appear.

Heracl.
Well have I known thy Conduct and thy Life,
Ever contending thou art still at strife;
In all Conditions infamous and loose,
Ready to burst with Hatred and Abuse;
Unlearn'd, yet others eager to direct,
The Laystall to receive the Offals of thy Sect;
Whose idle Schemes thy hungry Labours lard,
And aim at Governments they say they guard.

Countr.
I'faith, the Man talks notably, and well,
And like my Team's Forehorse will bear the Bell;
'Slife, I could almost venture to desert,
And with this oaken Towel take his part.
And so I will—You, Master, may be gone,
Good-night—You are no more to visit Joan—
Dine at my Farm, or feed on Roast and Boil'd,
That have my Loyalty and Truth defil'd.

[Here the Countryman walks off, and compliments Heraclitus.]
Observ.
On pain of Scandal issuing from my Pen,
Return to thy old Principles agen;

371

If thou wouldst follow Precepts just and right,
Without the odious Name of Jacobite.
Not that I want Assistance to defend
Those Arguments no Casuist can mend;
But for thy Good these Precepts I bestow,
Therefore thy wonted Prudence wisely show:
Like the bright Moon at Midnight I appear,
And unconcern'd my wonted Lustre wear;
Tho barking Curs, offended at my Light,
Bawl at my Splendor with successless Spight.

Countr.
Hey day! You're fit indeed to teach us Rules,
And to make Saints of Men, and Men of Fools,
That steal from Sign-posts, and Reproaches take
From Houses fam'd for Custard, and for Cake:
There's not a Prentice-boy, but knows from whence
You borrow this bright Argument of Sense,
That has on Farthing-pyes on Sunday fed,
And on the House's Sign these Lines has read:
Ye bawling Dogs, why bark you so,
Since I am high, and you are low?

Heracl.
Fear not, my Friend, his Doctrines to disclaim,
Yours will the Credit be, and his the Shame;
For Crimes are pass'd Repentance will suffice,
Then as you've been inveterate, be wise;
Be watchful for th'Establish'd Church and State,
And pay Allegiance where you paid your Hate.

Countr.
And so I will—But first it is but fit,
He that has thus seduc'd me, should be beat.
Villain, away—No more Sedition prate,
Spite of thy bulky Club I'll thwack thy Pate.
Hence in an instant to thy Garret gang,
And like despairing Judas, laugh and hang .

372

He's gone—Now Master, I espouse your Cause,
And am a Convert to the Throne and Laws.

Heracl.
Protect them still, ye Powers that both maintain,
And make them flourish in this glorious Reign;
The best of Queens, and most belov'd of Names,
The best of Subjects, and of Wishes claims.

Beats him off the Stage.

The Epilogue upon the Observator.

Spoken by Mr. Powell.

The Stage has been, and yet improv'd shall rise,
Instructive to your Ears and to your Eyes;
Tho factious Pens industrious to their Shame,
Against its Precepts, and its Use declaim;
Well knowing that Our Scenes Their Vice expose,
And Comedy put down, Rebellion rose.

Thus 'twas in Cromwel's Regicidal Days,
Th' Usurper could not bear the Stings of Plays;
Goodness they taught, when Goodness he'd abuse,
And with the Sovereign was exil'd the Muse:
And thus 'twould be again, were Cromwel's Friends
Suffer'd once more to gain their hateful Ends;
Religion with the Drama would decline,
And things Immoral elbow things Divine.

Oh! were he here, that's made the Party's Scribe,
With all the starvling Authors of the Tribe,
Aw'd by your Charms, his Scandal he'd disown,
And humbly for Offences past atone;
As in this Circle, beauteous to the View,
He might see Virtues shine in seeing you;
Tho now he Prynn and Calvin weekly gleans,
And damns his Paper to condemn our Scenes.

E'en let the Fool go on, and snarling grin,
And turn Reformer when he's sunk in Sin;

373

Like Holy Cheats in Times of Forty One,
Who with Heav'n's Name their hellish War begun,
Profanely call'd upon all piercing Eyes,
To see 'em against Heav'n's Vicegerent rise;
As from his Pen Sedition falls in Show'rs,
His Character's so low, 'twill heighten ours.

Yet shall the Wretch not unregarded rail,
Bloated and gorg'd with Impudence and Ale;
But to be fam'd for what he is, be shewn
As Monsters are expos'd to all the Town:
For he can none but Monsters Tempers share,
That starts not to calumniate what is fair;
That slights the Beauteous, and defames the Great,
By calling where you sit, the Devil's Seat.

How can this be the Place the Scribler means?
I see no Presbyterian at our Scenes,
No Commonwealths-man with Geneva Grace,
And all the Saints assembled in his Face.
Hold, let me see—not one in all the Pit—
Except some eighteen Pennymen of Wit—
Sure all the Malice he profusely vents,
Aims at the Tipling-houses he frequents;
Where Smoke, and Derby, Oaths and Nonsense reign,
Fit Places for a Saint of Godly strain;
Where Anarchy confus'dly takes its Seat,
And he sees that in Little, he would see in Great.

It must be so, for nothing else could make
So mean, so scandalous and empty Rake,
So void of Sense, impertinent and dull,
With all the Party's Vacancy of Skull,
That ne'er admitted Modesty or Wit,
Or the least Interval of Learning bit;
That pores o'er Statutes, Statutes to pervert,
And shew his want of Nature and of Art.

You that are here can the best Answers make,
An Audience flings the Scoundrel on his Back;
In a full House his Ignorance will be shown,
And the Malignant's weak Endeavours known:

374

And a full House is in his Audience gain'd,
That lessens Arguments by him maintain'd;
Tho he persists malicious in his Tongue,
And steals from Regicides that justly hung.

Let him write on, your Favour's our Defence,
Well knows the Fool to wage a War with Sense,
To strike at what does base Rebellion blame,
And pays the Regal Throne the Regal Claim;
In your Support we no Assistance want,
Nor dread the wooden Tool with wooden Plant;
Punish'd is he with Scarcity of Brains,
And Penury of Goodness for his Pains:
Just like a Fiend, who in Distraction lies,
And curses Heav'n to which he cannot rise;
As in your Smiles all Goodness he surveys,
And sinks himself beyond the reach of Praise.

A Prologue sent to Mr. Row, to his new Play, call'd, The Fair Penitent.

Design'd to be spoken by Mr. Betterton, but refus'd.

Est & in Obscænos deflexa Tragœdia Risus.

Ovid.

Quacks set out Bills, Jack-Pudding makes Harangues,
And Thief, at Tyburn, speaks before he hangs:
I pray you then give ear to what I say,
For this to me is Execution-day.
Tyburn the Stage is, Boxes, Galleries, Pit,
Where you, our Judges, and our Hangman sit;
Of Nonsense tender, tho severe to Wit.

375

To-day we fear you not, we've hit your Taste,
And when that's pleas'd, we cannot sure be cast.

Meanly contented with the vulgar Way,
Some make the Heroine, Virtuous in a Play:
But the bold tragick Genius of our Stage,
With Novelty resolves t'oblige the Age,
And with a Heroine Punk the Ladies will engage.
He from the Sock, the PROSTITUTE transplants,
And swells the humble Whore with Buskin'd Rants.
His Whore, indeed, repents the slippery Fault;
But, like the rest, it is not, till she's caught.
She is not sorry, that she'as play'd the Whore,
But that, discover'd, she can do't no more.
Thus, while his Punk his Buskins boldly ramps,
Like Bajazet, his Hero cuckol'd stares and stamps.
He with no Laurel Wreaths his Brow adorns,
But, while those vulgar Ornaments he scorns,
Above his Brethren he exalts his Horns.
Confederate Cuckolds then come clap this Play!
Our lucky Bard devotes to You this Day.
No Doodle, Dashwood, Wiseacre is here,
Or any of the puny Race, that us'd t'appear.
The Cuckold now assumes a haughtier Air,
With brandish'd Dagger stabs the yielding Fair,
So little Woman's Frailty is his Care.
Ye horned Herd, from Wapping to Whitehall,
Approach, in Triumph, he invites You all;
So strong a Party made, he cannot fear his Fall.

The Heroine of his Play lies with a Fellow before Marriage, continues the Intrigue two Years after, and is propos'd as the Picture of the Ladies by the Author, &c.

The Comick Cuckolds, which the Stage till now only knew.

Some envious Critick here perhaps exclaims,
If you shou'd punish thus the City-Dames,
You'd make a Desolation in the Land,
And Bars, and Counters, would unfurnish'd stand.

376

But, Ladies, you with Ease that Fear remove,
If you use Caution in the Thefts of Love:
Since only she that's caught that Punishment will prove.
Danger adds Fewel to the amorous Fire,
And Difficulties only raise Desire.

Besides, past Merits you shou'd not despise,
For Solomon, and William in disguise,
From his lov'd Pen regal'd your Ears and Eyes.
What tho nor Art, nor Nature, there were found,
He scorns by Art or Nature to be bound.
Let others toil beneath the Load of Thought
Of what is Just, what Natural, what not;
They're dull, mechanick Things, below Regard,
From such a Bold, and such a Lucky Bard.
Uncumber'd with those Fetters still he'll write,
While Ignorance ensures his hood-wink'd flight.
He fears no Danger, for he none foresees,
In happy Ignorance secure to please,
Without their Foreign Aid, th'Indulgent Town,
With Heroes and with Language, all his own.

The hooded Falcon, so, in haste let fly,
Tow'rs swift aloft, undaunted, to the Sky,
With upright Wing, till lost to human Eye.

In the Step Mother.

Tamerlane.

From THRONES he sauntering, talking Heroes chose,
But for an active Heroine now rakes the STEWS;
And whence he'l fetch the Next—he only knows:
Yet Creswell, sure, of infamous Renown,
Or some more antique Matron of this Town,
May reasonably next invoke his Pen,
To do her Justice in his LOFTY SCENE.

377

Nor can she, sure, his Lofty Scene disgrace,
Since Baud, in breeding, still of Whore takes place.
For Baud's arriv'd to the grave Doctor's State,
While Whore is but an Under-Graduate;
Baud's maudlin Tone, from penitential Cart,
Like Thespis, Founder of the Tragick Art,
Must have the Force to move each amorous Heart.

A famous Baud of 30 Years ago.

But what is it that Poets cannot do,
Caress'd by Us, and so extol'd by You?
T' encourage MERIT nobly you disdain,
It is pedantick, and below your Vein:
And faith, to tell the Truth, We love our Gain.
As with the Saints, so 'tis, we find, with You,
For here, alas! th'Elect are very few,
And those without your Reason, by your Will sav'd too.
The less of proper Merit they can boast,
The more secure they are from being lost.
While Farce and Bombast best can please the Age,
We'll cook no other Dishes for the Stage.
When to your Smiles just Poets you admit,
And flock in Shoals to Nature, and to Wit;
All Poetasters then we will discard,
And here encourage only the true Bard.
For, sure, in Us, it must seem Impudence,
To cherish Merit, and to play good Sense,
When from Your Taste we hope for all our Pence.

378

Epilogue to the Ladies,

spoke by Mr. Wilks at the Musick-Meeting in Drury-Lane, where the English Woman sings. Written by Mr. Manwaring upon the occasion of their both singing before the Queen, and K. of Spain at Windsor.

With Joy we see this Circle of the Fair,
Since the late Trial of the tuneful Pair;
Your Country's Friends, you love the Native Strains
Of Musick here, where England's Genius reigns.
In other Walls tho Harmony be found,
You know it's foreign, and disdain the Sound.
Who haunt new Consorts, Faction would create,
And are Dissenters in Apollo's State:
They shun our Stages where he keeps his Court,
And to some gloomy Meeting-house resort.
While you with Duty own his rightful Cause,
And guard this Place establish'd by his Laws.

But now your Charms a nobler Task pursue,
And Spain a Revolution waits from You;
That blooming Hero you at Courts admir'd,
In Arms must triumph, by your Praises fir'd:
Success is Yours, and Victory inclines
Still to that side on which your Favour shines.
Mars will himself conduct our future Wars,
When every Venus for this Prince declares;
When freely serving this well-weigh'd Design,
Our Nation's Treasure and its Beauty join.
Yet when this happy Scheme by Wisdom wrought,
Is by his Valour to Perfection brought;
And his glad Subjects shall their King receive,
Grac'd with a Crown which Anne alone could give;

379

Reflecting then what Wonders he had seen,
The Court, these Beauties, and our glorious Queen;
That warm Idea he shall still retain,
And think, tho seated on the Throne of Spain,
Tho with the Treasure of both Indies crown'd,
He left a brighter Empire than he found.

Spoken by the Genius of England.

When shall I be at rest? will pleasing Peace
No more return to smile on my Recess?
Must hateful Jars and dire Contentions reign,
And High-Church Parties rule the British Main?
Shall Mother Church be still the specious Bait
For crafty Villains to destroy the State?
And will ye tamely with the Traitors side,
Who thus your Land occasion'ly divide?
Will ye to wreck, ye Britons, give the Realm,
Whilst Bourb—Pilots steer the yielding Helm?
Shall Faction dare to spread its baneful Seed,
And will no Patriot on the Monster tread,
To crush to Atoms its aspiring Head?

For shame, ye Britons, now your Feuds decline,
Nor swallow with such ease a French Design:
Let your just Rage upon your Foes be shown,
In Gallick Blood your just Resentments drown,
But rend not with such Strife the harmless Town.

'Tis you, ye Tories, who this Heat foment,
Railing at Millions by Low-Church-men spent,
Whilst your dear selves have just the same intent.
This is the only difference can be seen,
They spent to keep th'French out, you'd spend to let them in.
Ye are the Church's Bullies, who have made
Such noise to have its Mint and Anice paid;
Whilst Clemency and Peace, its purest Springs,
Ye turn aside as idle useless things.

380

Too long, too long have your pernicious Wiles
Been practis'd on this hapless Land; your Smiles
Suspected grow; nay, e'en a common Eye,
Without a Glass your Actions may descry,
Too deeply ting'd with Fraud and Villany.
Tell us the cause of all your loud Complaints;
We know you well, tho ye wou'd seem such Saints:
Papists Socinians, Atheists, Arians, all
Do for the Church unanimously baul.

Alas, poor Church! how art thou fallen of late,
When such as these must prop thy sinking State!
Lest honest Whigs the Church should undermine
And Anarchy succeed—
Or, what they hate as bad, the lawful Line.

Delude us then no more with idle Tales,
But say expresly, that the Prince of W---
Ye to th'Imperial Power would advance,
And basely court the Grand Monarch of France.

This, Tories, is your Aim, but learn to fear,
Whilst my lov'd Britons Nassau's Name revere;
The Throne shall be secure from spurious Race,
And Perkin shall to Hannover give place.

Prologue spoken at Court before the Queen, on Her Majesty's Birth-day, 1703/4.

Shine forth, ye Planets, with distinguish'd Light,
As when ye hallow'd first this Happy Night;
Again transmit your friendly Beams to Earth,
As when Britannia joy'd for ANNA's Birth.
And thou, kind Star, whose Tutelary Pow'r
Guided the future Monarch's Natal Hour,
Thy Radiant Voyages for ever run;
Only less bless'd than Cynthia and the Sun:
With thy fair Aspect still illustrate Heav'n,
Kindly preserve what thou hast greatly giv'n.

381

Thy Influence for thy ANNA we implore;
Prolong one Life, and Britain asks no more.
For what can Virtue more to Man express,
Than to be great in War, and good in Peace?
What further Thought of Blessing can we frame,
Than that That Virtue should be still the same?
Entire and sure the Monarch's Rule must prove,
Who founds her Greatness on her Subjects Love;
Who does our Homage for our Good require,
And orders that which we should first desire.
Our vanquish'd Wills that pleasing Force obey;
Her Goodness takes our Liberty away,
And haughty Britain yields to Arbitrary Sway.

Let the young Austrian then her Terrors bear,
Great as He is, her Delegate in War;
Let him in Thunder speak to both his Spains,
That in these dreadful Isles a Female reigns.
Whilst the bright Queen does on her Subjects show'r
The gentle Blessings of her softer Pow'r;
Gives glorious Morals to a vicious Age,
To Temples Zeal, and Manners to the Stage:
Bids the chaste Muse without a Blush appear,
And Wit be that which Heav'n and she may hear.

Minerva thus to Perseus lent her Shield,
Secure of Conquest, sent him to the Field;
Told him how barb'rous Rage should be restrain'd,
And bid him execute what she ordain'd.
Mean time the Deity in Temples sat,
Fond of her Native Grecians future Fate;
Taught 'em in Laws and Letters to excel,
In acting justly, and in writing well.
Thus whilst the Goddess did her Pow'r dispose,
The World was freed from Tyrants, Wars and Woes;
Virtue was taught in Verse, and Athens rose.

382

The History and Fall of the Conformity-Bill.

[_]

Being an excellent new Song, to the Tune of Chivy-Chase.

God bless our gracious Sovereign ANNE,
For so I shall her call,
Who ruleth in our English Land,
An English Heart withal,

The Prince, her Turtle Mate, I trow,
I also pray God bless:
And eke the Duke of Marlborough,
Both his and her good Grace.

And now I think within this Realm
I need pray for no more;
For they who do sit at the Helm;
Are two out of these four.

And yet I mayn't omit the Church,
To pray for in my Pray'rs,
Which has of late been left i'th' lurch
By her own Sons and Heirs.

Ah Bishops! Bishops! you I mean,
They say you were possess'd,
As one may say, like Birds unclean,
To foul thus your own Nest.

For unto you a choice Bill came,
Sent from the Commons House,
And yet you did reject the same,
As if not worth a Louse.

383

And now to tell I do intend,
How they this Bill did bring in,
By that you'll find the very end
Of this my Tale's beginning.

Few happy in this World there are,
And fewer in the next;
The first Experience does declare,
The last the Gospel-Text.

And therefore some Great Men of Note,
Whom I shall name anon,
Did in the Senate stoutly vote
For Christian Union.

Now Conscience is a thing we know
Like to a Mastiff Dog,
Which if ty'd up so fierce he'll grow,
He'll bite his very Clog.

Wherefore some wiser Men than some,
Thought they could give good Reason,
How that this Bill just now did come
A little out of season.

Dissenters they were to be press'd
To go to Common-Prayer,
And turn their Faces to the East,
As God were only there:

Or else no place of Price or Trust
They ever could obtain;
Which shews that Saying very just,
That Godliness is Gain.

Now some I say did think this hard,
And strove with all their Might,

384

That Subjects might not be debar'd
Of Freedom, nor of Right.

For who can think our Lord can care
From whence the Voice does sound,
Tho we should pray as Seamen swear,
The Compass Points around?

Sure he, I say, our Pray'rs can hear,
Whenever we do call;
For if so be the Heart's sincere,
Oh that is all in all.

But yet to see how the World goes,
Right is by Might devour'd;
And they who did this Bill oppose,
Alas! were overpow'r'd.

St. Stephen first was in degree,
That Persecution felt;
And persecuted so was he,
He better had been gelt.

Oh! better had it been for he,
I'll say while I have breath,
Ten times unstoned for to be,
Than stoned unto Death.

But let that pass, and mark me well;
For things unknown before,
And strange and true I now shall tell,
Or ne'er believe me more.

How Stephen stoned was you've heard;
Now to atone that Guilt,
A Chappel of those Stones is rear'd,
By which his Blood was spilt.

385

And Stephen's Chappel is it hight,
And stands in Westminster,
Near to that place where want of sight
Makes Justice sometimes err.

Now how these Stones make hard the Heart
Of Burgess, or of Knight;
And do by Influence impart
Their persecuting Spight;

It's hard to tell the Cause thereof,
Like other Mysteries;
Nor would I aim at that, although
That I were ne'er so wise.

But yet 'tis true, or tell me now,
How could such Zeal inspire
Sir E--- S---r, or J--- H---
Of Gloucestershire Esquire;

With divers Men of lesser Note,
Tho equal in Desert;
Who did their Voices for to Vote,
With Clamours loud exert.

None of whose Lives I think can boast,
That they have much Religion;
Or value more the Holy Ghost
Than Mahomet his Pigeon.

Ev'n H---y's self, I say, would scarce
Be made a Smithfield Martyr;
For proof, clap Faggots to his A---
You'll find you've caught a Tartar.

Now this same Bill compleatly cook'd,
To the Peers House is follow'd;
And they who brought it thither look'd
It forthwith should be swallow'd.

386

But as a hasty Pudding's spoil'd,
If there do fall some Soot in't;
Or if burnt to: So this was spoil'd
By Bishop B---t's Foot in't.

For he with Toe Episcopal
Thereto gave such a Zest,
Their Lordships strait grew squeamish all,
Nor could the same digest.

In vain brisk N--- did speak,
Who is so tall and slim;
In vain did G--- silence break,
Who is so like to him.

Their Words, alas! went for no more
Than does the News of Grubster,
Or than in Commons House before
Went H---s Voice the Shrubster.

The wise and valiant Lord of th'North,
With little better Luck,
In windy Words did bluster forth,
So did his Grace of Buck.

For to tell Truth, some Peers did smoke,
That this same Bill's Progression
Might by degrees at length have broke
The Protestant Suc---on.

Such Snakes in Grass were for to bite
Those who could not discern 'em;
Wherefore this Bill was kick'd out quite,
Pro nunc & sempiternum.

Now God preserve our Queen, I say,
And grant her long to reign;

387

And God keep Popery, I pray,
On t'other side the Main.

[And grant Presbytery may stay,
And all the canting Breed,
For ever, and also for ay,
On t'other side the Tweed.]

Sic Cecinit

Rob. Wisdom.

Lackworth's Lively Character.

It shall be known how Lackworth came so Great,
And why he's thought no better than a Cheat.
He has more Faults than I'll pretend to tell;
But this, his Masterpiece, was hatch'd in Hell.
His curs'd Address, address'd a Knight to be,
None but himself could act such Villany.
And now's his time to get, and cheat a Wife,
Which this State-Quack did nicely to the Life.
Madam, quoth he, the King will be more kind,
Some grand Imployment is for me design'd;
And then an Earl, or Duke I shall be made:
Fond to be great, thus greatly she's betray'd.
The M--- Adventure next appears in view;
What Crouds of Fools into that Mine he threw:
Tho then or since he ne'er was on the Spot,
Yet cou'd cut out to every one his Lot,
Thrice fifty thousand Pounds by it he'as got.
Besides what by his Coals he makes a Year,
Transfers and Ways which do not yet appear.
This Pettyfogger thinks he cannot be
Call'd to account by Law or Equity.
But there's a Parliament can give relief,
To those who have been robb'd by such a Thief.

388

And if these will not do, there's one way more
To make him, what he'as basely got, restore.
Should any cheat me thus but of one Groat,
They should repent, or else—
But stay my Muse, and praise him if you can,
He has done more than e'er was done by Man.
Let none doubt that Philosophers of old
Transmuted baser Metals into Gold,
Since this most mighty Briton does much more,
Into coin'd Gold transmutes the Name of Oar.

393

SONG.

[Not, Celia, that I am more just]

Not, Celia, that I am more just,
Or truer than the rest;
For I could change each hour like them,
Were it my Interest.

But I am ty'd to very Thee,
By ev'ry Thought I have;
Should you again my Heart set free,
I'd be again your Slave,

For all in Woman is ador'd,
In thy dear Self I find;
For the whole Sex can but afford
The Handsom and the Kind.

Then why should I seek further Store,
And make my Love anew?
Since Change it self can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.

The Old Man's Wish.

If I live to grow old, as I find I go down,
Let this be my Fate in a Country Town:
May I have a warm House, with a Stone at my Gate,
And a cleanly young Girl to rub my bald Pate.

394

May I govern my Passion with an absolute Sway,
And grow wiser and better as my Strength wears away,
Without Gout or Stone, by a gentle Decay.

In a Country Town, by a murm'ring Brook,
With th'Ocean at distance on which I may look;
With a spacious Plain without Hedg or Stile,
And an easy Pad-nag to ride out a Mile.

May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the best Wits that liv'd in the Ages before;
With a Dish of Roast-Mutton, not Ven'son nor Teal,
And clean tho coarse Linen at ev'ry Meal.

May I govern, &c.

With a Pudding on Sunday, and stout humming Liquor,
And Remnants of Latin to puzzle the Vicar;
With a hidden Reserve of Burgundy Wine,
To drink the King's Health as oft as we dine.

May I govern, &c.

With a Courage undaunted may I face my last Day,
And when I am dead, may the better Sort say,
In the Morning when sober, in the Evening when mellow,
He is gone, and han't left behind him his Fellow;
For he govern'd his Passion, &c.

395

*On the Countess of Dorch***er.*

By the Earl of D***t.

Proud with the Spoils of Royal Cully,
With false pretence to Wit and Parts;
She swaggers like a batter'd Bully,
To try the Tempers of Mens Hearts.

Tho she appear as glitt'ring fine,
As Gems, and Jests, and Paint can make her;
She ne'er can win a Breast like mine,
The Devil and Sir David take her.

A SIGH.

Gentlest Air, thou Breath of Lovers,
Vapour from a secret Fire;
Which by thee it self discovers,
E'er yet daring to aspire.

Softest Note of whisper'd Anguish,
Harmony's refined Part,
Striking while thou seem'st to languish,
Full upon the Listner's Heart.

Softest Messenger of Passion,
Stealing thro a Croud of Spies;
Which constrain the outward Fashion,
Close the Lips, and guard the Eyes.

396

Shapeless Sigh, we ne'er can shew thee
Form'd, but to assault the Ear;
Yet e'er to their cost they know thee,
Ev'ry Nymph may read thee here.

*A F****t.*

Gentlest Blast of ill Concoction,
Reverse of high-ascending Belch,
The only Stink abhor'd by Scotch-men,
Belov'd and practis'd by the Welch.

Softest Note of inward Griping,
Sir Reverence's finest Part:
So fine it needs no pains of wiping,
Except it be a Brewer's F---t.

Swiftest Ease of Cholick Pains,
Vapour'd from a secret Stench,
That's rattled by the unbred Swains,
But whisper'd by the bashful Wench.

Shapeless F---t, we ne'er can shew thee,
But in that noble Female Sport;
In which by burning blue we know thee,
Th' Amusement of the Maids at Court.

397

The Petition of the distress'd Merchants of London, to the Lord High Treasurer, against the Commissioners of the Customs.

From Go---n, that Wasp, whose Talent is Notion;
From snarling Tool Cl---ke, at the other's Devotion;
From Republican Ben, the old Clergy Teazer,
Whose true Christian Name, you must know, 's Abenezer:
From flatt'ring false H---y, who sneeks to Church-Party,
And for but half Salary vows to be hearty:
From fearful proud N---port, who spits out his Curses;
From T---dy Bully C---ford, and the Rogues that he nurses;
From so motly a Crew, so imperious a Board,
Deliver this lab'ring Country, good Lord,
And thy Staff shall like Hercules' Club be ador'd.
And that no grain of Merit fall by this Petition,
Leave Manwaring only to grace the Commission.

398

The Way to Heaven in a String:

Or, Mr. Asgil's Argument Burlesqu'd.

[_]

To the Reader.

We have of late been entertain'd with many pretty Whims in Divinity; but this is the finest of them all: A Religious Piece of Knight-Errantry, to which, if I said any thing at all, I thought it must be in Burlesque; for the Humour is comical enough. Pity it is this wondrous Man had not liv'd in the Infancy of Time, and taught poor Mortals this Lesson, e'er Death for so many Thousands of Years had ravaged the habitable parts of the World, and glutted it self with the Spoils of Mankind. The Scythe of Death had then a long time ago been rusty and useless, and the Sands in the Glass of Time had run to no purpose. But we of these latter Ages of the World must have the only Advantage of his Project, who will not go out of the World in the Common Road of his Neighbours, but in a manner peculiar to himself,
Hinc itur ad Astra.

Bootatus & Spurratus ire ad Cœlum; away mounts our Friend John, and leaves this declining World lessening out of sight.

399

These are the first Lines that ever I attempted in Doggrel, and according to their Reception in the World, perhaps may be the last. The Design will bear a great many more; and my Lines flow as the learned Dr. Bunyan says of his,

They came to mine own Heart, thence to my Head,
Thence to my Fingers ends they trickeled;
Thence to my Pen, and then immediately
On Paper I did dribble it daintily.

There are some things accounted Real,
In which we Mortals do agree all:
Things form'd by cunning Allegories,
We do account to be mere Stories.
Some write of Fights of Mice and Frogs,
And others prate of Mastiff Dogs:
One has the Fairy Queen espy'd,
And told the Tale, as if he ly'd,
Of Tib and Tom, and Mib and Mab,
Names ne'er attain'd by Poet Squab.
But while such Fools do please Mens Fancies
With idle Canto's of Romances,
I'll tell you of a greater Knight
Than e'er made Love, or mov'd in Fight.

He neither was a Priest nor Parson,
Or Warrior's Saddle laid his Arse on;
Yet in Divinity profound,
He could great Sophisters confound;
Knew difference 'twixt the Jews and Turks,
And had read Learned Bunyan's Works:

400

Had Brooks his Golden Pippins read,
And by the wiser Folk 'tis said,
He can as learnedly dispute
As Parson Keith, or fam'd Giles Shute.
He sagely in his Youth foresaw
That Truths Divine need Props of Law;
To study which he did adhere,
And in't became a Barister:
He something else at length became,
An Office got I must not name;
Ne Sutor ultra Crepidam.

He never bow'd his stubborn Knee
In any Feats of Chivalry,
Despising such Knight-Errantry,
Where People for the very nonce
Do fracture one another's Bones;
As Bullocks fight in Marshes fed,
To try which has the hardest Head.
He never lov'd the dismal Sounds
Of murd'ring Guns, of Blood and Wounds:
He still abhor'd the frightful Sight,
The sad Effect of cruel Fight.
He never got a broken Head,
Or for a Wound had Plaister spread;
Had no Mischance in any Points,
To dislocate his nimble Joints;
But such Disasters as befal
In Battels Metaphysical;
Which, tho securing Head and Snout,
Do craze the Brains, not beat 'em out.

By a deep Insight in Religion
He found how Mahomet, and his Pigeon,
Did fly from hence to blest Abodes,
Translated to the very Gods;
With ev'ry Pinion not unhing'd,
And not one Feather of 'em sing'd.

401

In Sacred Scripture he had read
How Enoch and Elijah fled
To Heav'n by Faith, and in their flying
Disdain'd the common way of dying;
Which does Mankind in Thraldom fetter,
Only because they know no better.
He and his Printer did agree
To set Men from this Bondage free;
And now Sir Knight has got a Squire,
As fit as e'er he could desire:
To preach this Doctrine would be vain,
Disturb the Head, and Lungs would strain.
Let Parsons preach, and Clerks go whistle,
They'll do the Business by Epistle,
Which has of late gain'd Proselytes
Of Tolandists and Asgilites,
Who form new Articles Divine,
Exceeding far our Thirty Nine.

In London Town there's scarcely found
One Corner of that fertile Ground,
Which does not to the Age afford
New Sects all founded on the Word;
Who like Logicians do dispute,
And one another still confute;
All of 'em Orthodox, and all
Alike are Apostolical.
But tho they make such zealous pother,
Some do thrive better than the other;
As Plants more generous are found
To flourish best in fattest Ground:
Some tall ones scatter do their Seed,
And new ones do as Maggots breed;
Whilst these to height are always shoving,
Some others only are improving.
St. Paul's scarce outdoes Salters-Hall,
Tho its high Roof be far more tall:

402

Octavo Band, and Cloak Divine,
As Folio Cassock is as fine:
The little Roundhead looks as big
As Bishop in his powder'd Wig.
And eke a wondrous Reformation
Is happen'd in this godly Nation.
After a many stubborn Greetings,
The King is pray'd for in the Meetings,
That he may live long in the Nation;
Of publick Funds a long Duration:
For these no King did e'er adore,
But what increas'd their private Store.
Pardon, good Reader, I digress,
'Tis common in Pindarick Verse,
And eke in this it must be too,
If I but please to make it so;
And I, without a Reason for't,
Will make 'em long, or cut 'em short.
Poets are Princes in their Station,
Altho they govern not the Nation;
No Man their Power did yet dispute,
But always held 'em absolute.

Now had Sir Knight his Brain imploy'd
How he might conquer, and avoid
Old Death, that cunning subtle Fox,
Who lays Mankind in earthly Stocks:
Says he, good Squire, it is but Folly
To sit thus pensive, melancholy;
Put but my Notions into print,
We'll conquer Death, or Devil's in't.
I am Robustick, tho I'm Civil,
And grown a Match e'en for the Devil.
The crooked Serpent, who by Lying
Entices Mankind into Dying,
So far does foolish Men deceive,
They cannot the dull Custom leave.

403

Had they but Faith, they need not die,
Like Enoch might ad Astra fly,
And view the Regions of the Sky.

But here the Squire to Knight reply'd,
You have not yet your Notion try'd:
Your mighty Faith your Sense enthrals,
'Tis Philosophically false;
For what is born must surely die,
Or else Philosophers do lye:
All that is nourish'd is unstable,
And is revera corruptible;
And Death, deciding of the Strife,
Is but Corruption of our Life.
You must not Notions, Sir, espouse
That do the Bonds of Nature loose;
And with such Vehemence dispute 'em,
When e'ery Church-yard does confute 'em.
Besides, Sir, where is your Protection
Against received Resurrection?
For it appears to all the Wise,
If we don't die we shall not rise.
You may for this be brought in Court,
And there be made to answer for't;
They'll use you there like any Dog,
When you're once seiz'd by Robin Hog:
For, Sir, the Liberty to scribble
Allows you not at Church to nibble;
And there I'll leave you in the lurch,
When you plant Cannons 'gainst the Church.
Such things as these would whilome tear yo,
In the late Reign of Great Rogero:
Not that Rogero of great Note,
Of whom Orlando justly wrote,
Who with Alcyna did discourse
By Assignations of Amours;
But that Rogero which did fill
The World with Observators ill;

404

Who such ill Tenents to redress,
Was made Oppressor of the Press;
Who tho he's outed of his Reign,
His Squire's Power does still remain.

To this reply'd the doughty Knight,
Thou shalt not me with Fancies fright.
Nought that's heroick, or that's rare-a,
But was atchiev'd by Great Don Zara,
Whose Actions gave his Name a Hogo,
He got the Title of Del Fogo;
And tho he was a Man of Valour,
He oft was squeez'd by Fortune's Squallor;
And Sancho too (his Fates be thanked)
Was sadly tossed in a Blanket:
Yet these did ne'er repine at Fate,
To keep off Blow would scarce guard Pate.
I will encounter Jews and Turks,
Defy the Devil and his Works,
Both thy Rogero, and his Squire,
And their Ecclesiastick Fire.
Roger belong'd unto that Priesthood,
Which never yet did do the least good:
He was a Light to the Dark-Lanthorns,
Which neither Sockets have, nor han't Horns.
If these my Notions do molest,
It's Persecution, Sir, at best;
Of modern Date a Law too saith,
No Man shall suffer for his Faith.

Here did the Squire long stand amaz'd;
And after on the Knight had gaz'd,
Quoth he, it is not Persecution,
When against you in Execution:
Our Laws do only favour weak
And infant Christians, who can't take
The stronger Meats; but you are strong,
Almost Omnipotent in Wrong.

405

Your self-applauding Vanity
Is mere downright Profanity:
You know a wondrous deal of Faith,
But not one word the Scripture saith.
'Tis true, good Enoch and Eliah
Alive to Saints above did fly-a;
And this was done by Faith and Prayer,
But neither of 'em was a Lawyer;
They of Canary took no Dose,
Nor tippl'd Claret at the Rose:
They in their Lives were exemplary,
Seldom or never did miscarry.
We can't in you like Faith believe,
Unless you like Example give.

Quoth Knight, my Friend, thou'rt very dull,
Good God! full fill thy empty Skull.
Those Tenents which from Faith arise,
To Mortal Men are Mysteries:
It is not likely they should know
The way translated Men do go;
They cannot see the upper Skies,
Because they look with dying Eyes;
They can no more such Truth unriddle,
Than Story of the Bear and Fiddle,
Was sung, but broke off in the middle.
As for my way of living, wou'd
It were as pious Enoch's good.
But here, my Friend, you do me banter,
For you do know I am no Ranter:
Altho for Grace I don't much stickle,
And sigh and groan at Conventicle;
With little Band am seldom found,
Or Locks are circumcised round.
Yet tho I do not cant and pray,
I am not half so leud as they:
And godly Looks do ne'er impart
The secret Treasure of the Heart;

406

Which, if it does once entertain
Vile Thoughts, Religion is but vain.
I in a Band could look as grave
As any Conventicle Knave,
Cou'd wring my Chaps into Grimaces,
And make a hundred godly Faces;
Cou'd sit as dull as any Log,
And grunt and groan like any Hog.
But these are odd sorts of Religions,
Contriv'd by Knaves for foolish Wigeons;
May be for them a godly Fashion,
But are not fitted for Translation.
All my Disciples must be airy,
And dance as nimble as a Fairy;
Must never think of sordid Dying,
But practise must the Art of Flying.

On a Blush.

Written by a Lady.

Can my own Blood betray me to Disgrace,
Fill me with Shame, then triumph in my Face?
Thou base Deserter of my better Part,
That hast so long inhabited my Heart,
To leave thy dearest native Mansion-Seat
Unguarded and expos'd to Love and Fate;
Had you but kept the Place, no room had bin
For any Damon to have sally'd in:
But while in Pomp you in my Cheeks were set,
He the Possession of my Heart did get.
Now you, my treach'rous Wanderer, may stay,
And new Confusion to my Heart convey:
You've Bus'ness now of Consequence to tell,
But see the gentle Tale you manage well;
Appear not you in all your furious Flame,
And you may give a Charm as well as Fame.

407

Thou Tell-tale of the Mind, that wilt reveal
The very Truth I charge thee to conceal.
If secret Joys from Damon's Sight arise,
You I suppose will tell it at my Eyes.
I could forgive you too, did you proceed
From real Cause, or some inglorious Deed:
I would be still asham'd of doing ill,
And Compensation make by blushing still:
But e'en in Innocence you're still my Foe,
And what I do not, or I would not know,
Still in my Face a seeming Guilt you show.
And while it pleases you to take these Airs,
I am abandon'd to a thousand Fears.
Shame and Confusion dwell upon my Face,
While ev'ry one their different Censures pass:
Fie Damon! 'twas a treach'rous Coward's part
To seize an empty and unguarded Heart.
You watch the Sentinel abroad, and then
Surprize his Box e'er he come back agen.
Come on Lucinda, Trick for Trick say I,
Since he's got in, there keep him till he die.
There is no Blood you say; then stop it close,
Let none return, and I'll engage he goes:
For without Blood he can no more live there
Than Sparrows in Boyle's Glasses without Air.
And if henceforth your Blood should upward move,
Say 'tis for Joy and Triumph, not for Love.

The Character.

Martilla 's prudent, wise, discreet,
For a Queen's Privy-Council fit;
Calm and serene; her Features sweet,
Her Judgment strong, and sharp her Wit.
Her Breast no ruffled Passion knows,
No angry Furrows on her Brows:

408

No pining Envy, servile Fear
E'er met with a Reception here.
But glorious Virtue fills her Mind,
And all that's good in Woman-kind.

Masia is lovely, young and fair,
Her Aspect charming, mild her Air;
Sweet Modesty, that blushing Grace,
Reigns triumphant in her Face:
She is all Innocence and Love,
The Darling of the Gods above.

Grippina's courteous, brisk and kind;
Her Face declares her easy Mind:
She's always gen'rous, bold and true,
What's mean she cannot, will not do.
Whene'er she sings all silent are,
None dare their Tunes with hers compare;
The feather'd Songsters of the Air
Correct their erring Notes by her.

Where three such Nymphs are to be found,
Sure it is hallow'd, sacred Ground:
And Temples may erected be,
For all to worship there with thee.

SONG.

[The Cestrian Roach will prove a fine Fish]

The Cestrian Roach will prove a fine Fish,
And Game not in season will make a good Dish
For the Court of St. Germains, if serv'd up in state,
With forty four Covers of Cornish Church-Plate;
And guarded by Scots, that are highly provok'd,
With design that a Female of Note may be choak'd.
The Sauce takes its Relish from the Hogo of How,
And S---r the Coals of the Kitchin will blow.

409

The Grace will be said by nonjuring Ken,
And all the High-fliers will soon say Amen.

Tofts and Margarita.

Musick has learnt the Discords of the State,
And Consorts jar with Whig and Tory Hate.
Here Devonshire and Somerset attend
The British Tofts, and ev'ry Note commend;
To native Merit just, and pleas'd to see
We've Roman Arts from Roman Bondage free.
There fam'd L'Epine does equal Skill imploy,
While list'ning Peers croud to th'extatick Joy.
B---d to hear her Song his Dice forsakes,
And N---m's transported when she shakes:
Lull'd Statesmen melt away their drousy Cares
Of England's Safety in Italian Airs.
Who would not send each Post blank Passes o'er,
Rather than keep such Strangers from our Shore?

An Address.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Madam,

We address you to-day in a very new Fashion,
And tell you of nothing but Force and Invasion,
Tho some Folks will laugh when they hear the Occasion.
Violation's the Word: not a Tittle o'th' Church;
For, as Johnny says plainly, you've left us i'th' lurch:
The Sham's at an end which made such a pother,
And we're plaguily put to our Trumps for another.
But since the curs'd Lords have thrown out the Bill,
And chose a Committee that piss in a Quill;

410

Who, if we be silent, will find out the Plot,
Then N---m's Merit will soon be forgot,
And some of us surely must then go to pot:
We are forc'd to invent in this dang'rous Crisis,
Some pretty new Whims to confound their Devices.
Why, Madam, you're ravish'd, your Queenship's invaded,
And we must squeel out till of this you're persuaded.
But who are the Villains, perhaps you will ask;
If we did not tell you, 'twould be a hard Task
To guess, or perceive you had any Abuse,
So we come on purpose to tell you the News:
'Tis the whole H--- of Lords, those damnable Lords,
Who have done the sad thing on most of our Words.
O, Madam, take care of your Prerogative Royal,
We ne'er were before so confoundedly Loyal,
For extending your Power to be humbly addressing,
And you see we conform on Occasion so pressing;
To glut our Revenge, Moderation to foil,
The Peers to affront, the State to imbroil.
This glorious Quarrel we come to advance,
Which is as dear to us as that against France.

The Rising Sun:

Or, Verses upon the Queen's Birth-Day. Celebrated Apr. 30. M.DC.XC.

By John Hamden Esq;

Great Soul of Nature, Source of all our Joys,
Monarch of th'Universe, whose genial Rays,
Of Motion and of Life the only Spring,
Entitle Thee, with Justice, to be King

411

Of all that lives, breathes, or moves here below,
Since from thy Heat and Light all theirs do flow:
How well thou'rt made the Emblem and Device
Of that Celestial Nymph, whose glorious Rise
Ennobles this blest Day, chasing our Night,
Doubling the Glory of thy Sacred Light!
How lately we in Darkness were involv'd!
Our British World ready to be dissolv'd;
Our Laws, our Liberty did gasping lie,
And we for Help in vain did sigh and cry:
When all our Patriots loudly did proclaim
Help and Deliverance from no other Name
They could expect than this blest Princess, when
She was desir'd by all good English-men,
More than the rising of her Planet was
By all those Persians, who at once did gaze
To see that Sight, which who could first behold
Was to be circled in th'Imperial Gold.

When we had suffer'd long enough to know
The Value of that Good Heav'n would bestow;
Within our Hemisphere this Star appear'd,
And put an end to all the Ills we fear'd.
Preceded by her Morning-Star, and led,
(The worthy Partner of her Throne and Bed)
Our Glorious Sun on our Horizon rose,
Scatter'd all Mists, satisfy'd all, but those
Whose Deeds had made them hate the Light, whose Crimes
Sought the Confusion of the darkest Times.
At first the Blessing seem'd beyond Belief:
All wish'd and pray'd for't; few could Credit give.
But when we saw Heav'n meant in truth to lend
Assistance to us, and by her to send:

412

When she descended on our happy Isle,
(A certain Gage of Providence's Smile)
When we beheld her mounted on the Throne,
Expressing all those Graces which alone
In her concentred, set her far before
The Heroines so vaunted heretofore:
When she and her great Consort did receive
The greatest Present mortal Men can give;
And at their Feet the Nation's Wisdom laid
That Crown, which scarce their Labours fully paid:
With what Transports of Joy, upon her Face,
We all admiring saw that charming Grace
To her peculiar? where her Piety
And Modesty plainly appear'd to vie
With Love to sinking England, whose Demand
Of Help and Succour from her Royal Hand,
Determin'd her that vacant Seat to fill,
Assigned unto her by Heaven's Will;
Pronounc'd by th'best Explainer of God's Choice,
And surest Evidence, the People's Voice.
Blest Contest! where the Terms, Country and Wife,
Strove with her Love to him that gave her Life!
And more blest Vict'ry, where Love to Mankind
Triumph'd o'er all things in her vertuous Mind!

Nor did the Progress any way allay
Our Hopes so rais'd by what we saw that Day.
The Order introduc'd in every part
Where she concern'd her self, the happy Art
So little practised in former Reigns,
Of making use of all her Courtiers Chains
For Cords to draw them to adorn her Court,
By all that's vertuous and of good Report,
Shew'd us how great a Blessing Heaven intends
For those to whom it such a Princess sends.
No Scandal, no Offence within her Walls:
Under her Care and Conduct all that falls
Admits no Blemish, all things are secure
Under her vig'lant Eye, and all things pure.

413

Her Virgin's Chastity no Guard requires,
Their tender Souls acquainted with no Fires,
But with that Ardour which does them inflame
To honour their great Mistress, and her Fame
Still to advance, teach what by daily Use
Such Precepts and Example can produce:
Their Wants her bounteous Hand so well supplies,
Their Wishes she so fully satisfies;
Should Jove from Heav'n come in a Golden Shower,
He'd find no Danae within that Bower.

Is any Sick, Distressed, Lame, or Poor?
Their natural Resort is to her Door.
Where Limbs, and Health, and Succour they all find,
So like her Saviour's is her pious Mind;
So universally she casts her Eyes
On all that need her Help; it does suffice,
To be in Misery, to have a right
To her Protection, and her helping Might.
Her Piety looses the Captive's Chains;
From offer'd Thanks her Modesty refrains.
So affable, so courteous, that her Mouth
The Law of Kindness gives. From North to South
No Character like hers you'll ever see,
Such Sweetness mixt with so much Majesty:
To that degree, that Envy's worst Effort
Ne'er feign'd in her Faults of another sort,
But only this (ridiculous Device!)
That she too good, too condescending is.
An English Fault, which in her Royal Mind,
With English Virtues happily conjoin'd,
Such as good Nature, and good Temper are,
Do all produce in her a Character
So great as, if compared, will pull down
All those of other Heads that wear a Crown.
Th' Exactness of her Judgment's understood
By those whose Fortune makes them have the good
To stand before her, and those Accents hear,
Those charming Accents, those Decisions clear,

414

Abounding in good Sense, and Judgment sound,
When she thinks fit false Notions to confound.

But above all, her Piety prevails,
That Crown of Virtues, that which never fails,
That which will make her happy, when the Law
Of frail Mortality shall her withdraw
From all our longing Eyes, and shall unite
Her precious Substance to that Globe of Light,
Which I her Greatness to adumbrate use,
Loth to her Merit Justice to refuse.
Who ever knew her fail an Exercise
Of Piety? Who ever saw her Eyes
Wander, or any other Action prove
Want of Devotion, or Defect of Love?
And yet her greatest Heat of Zeal none saw,
Or ever could observe from her to draw
Those superstitious Cringes, which such Fools
Are wont to use, that Priests have made their Tools.
Her Sovereign Judgment shews her how to take
The Temper just, what difference to make
Between a solid Piety, and that
Which Bigots counterfeit, a spurious Brat,
Not got 'twixt Heaven and a virtuous Soul,
Nor made our vicious Passions to controul;
But of base Fear and corrupt Policy,
The nauseous Fruit, and Nurse of Tyranny.
She knows in such divided Times as these,
Like a true Nursing-Mother, how to please
Her wrangling Children; and when those did come
To bid their long'd-for Princess welcome home,
Who in some lesser things dissent from those
Our Laws the Pulpits to supply have chose;
Far from insulting, or despising such,
Who came her Golden Scepter's Top to touch,
That under her a Life from Force secure
They now might lead, in her Protection sure,
To them she stretch'd the evil-charming Rod,
And did encourage them to serve their God,

415

And to acquit their Conscience. Then (said she)
It is my Wish, and shall my Bus'ness be
To end Dissent in Church (as well as State)
And all your bleeding Wounds consolidate.
From Cyrus nor from Artaxerxes' Throne
More pleasing Oracles the Jews had none.
And when her peaceful Lips had thus dispell'd
Those venerable Persons Fears, and quell'd
Their Apprehensions, she did not disdain
To ask their Prayers for her happy Reign.
Heaven hear those Prayers, and plentifully shed
A Shower of Blessings on her Royal Head,
Such as its choicest Fav'rites do partake,
And for her own, and her dear Country's sake,
Lengthen the Course of her Prosperity;
And rather than our Hopes with her should die,
Take from our Years to add unto her Days
Too happy Victims! Fate above all Praise!

Her Virtues Politick come next in view:
The Difficulty here's not to say true,
But 'tis to say enough. If strong Desire
To save her Country from the raging Fire
Which had almost devour'd it; if Success
Obtain'd by this new Esther's warm Address;
If Days consum'd in Prayers, and Nights in Tears,
That we might be deliver'd from our Fears;
If utmost Hazards run upon the Main,
And more than this, if yielding to constrain
Her pious Inclinations for our sake,
Can on our grateful Hearts th'Impression make
Such Actions call for; if her Modesty
And Self-denial can but make us see,

416

How she our Peace prefers before her Power,
And what new Debts we owe to her each hour,
To some degree at least, we may pretend
Our matchless Queen's Deserts to comprehend.

In the last Century, when this our Land
Submitted to a Virgin-Queen's Command,
And when our Ancestors by her were sav'd
From Popery, and kept from being inslav'd,
How did they all conspire to raise her Fame?
How dear to after-times will be her Name?
And yet to those who estimate things right,
To those (I say) whose penetrating Sight
Enables them to judg of the Degrees
Of Virtue, which accordingly they prize,
It will appear our Modern Heroine
Beyond Elizabeth as far does shine,
As her bright Luminary does outvie
The pale-fac'd Cynthia's conquer'd Deity.
'Tis true, she once gave back a Subsidy
Unto her People, and so made them see
She ask'd their Treasure for no other end,
But that with it she might their Rights defend;
And when Necessity did not require
The Purse-strings should be open'd, her Desire
Was rather them her Treasurers to see,
Than she the Fleecer of the Flock should be:
Richer in their Affections than their Gold,
A Heritage not to be bought or sold.
This was a great Example, I agree;
Elizabeth approv'd her self to be
Fit for a Place in that Ring where the Names
Of Princes good must eternize their Fames.
But when there's Names enow to fill each Place,
MARY's the Jewel that the Ring must grace:
She, not content a Subsidy to give,
For England's Good; that by which she must live,

417

Her whole Subsistence rather chose to lose ,
Than give pretence to any to suppose
An Interest distinct from him whose Star
Has blest him by uniting him with her,
Or rather than the least pretext afford
To the Opposers of their blest Accord.
To good Advice Elizabeth gave ear;
For Counsellors she singled such as were
Friends to the Nation's Int'rest, not for show;
But by their help to be directed so,
That she might feed the People for their Good,
Not Poison ministring instead of Food.
She rul'd by Law, nor thought it a Disgrace
Our Laws and Reason in a higher place
To set, than that Parasites use to give
To what they call Royal Prerogative.

MARY, not only willing to have Bounds
Fixt to that Torrent which all things confounds;
Not willing only to be ty'd by Law,
And govern so as all our Hearts to draw,
Tho crown'd and recogniz'd by full Consent,
Tho on her Head the sacred Oil was spent;
Altho a Sovereign and a Regnant Queen,
Yet this great Princess, that it might be seen
How she despis'd her Greatness in compare
With those whose Welfare was her chiefest Care,
Surpassed Henry's Daughter more alone
Than she had pass'd all that before had gone.
For she, to manifest what Love she bare
Unto the English Nation, and what care
She took that Union strict to entertain,
Which makes a happy Land, and glorious Reign;

418

And then at once her deep Respect to show
To him whom Hymen's Bands had join'd her to,
Suspending the Effect of Heaven's Call,
Did quite sit by, not governing at all.
And tho we all Allegiance to her swore,
Our Laws and Coin her Name and Image wore,
Love to her Husband, and her Native Land,
Made her contented nothing to command.
'Twere easy by this Parallel drove on,
To shew how much this Queen has that out-done.
And if her dawning Light produce such things,
What shall we think her Noon-day Lustre brings?
Those that would know what future Times contain,
Take a fore-taste of her auspicious Reign,
Be told what Conquests she's to make abroad,
(Our Christian Semiramis) what Road
To Glory's Temple must her Chariot lead,
Have nothing else to do but only read
What Foreign Bards of this Great Queen do sing ,
Renewing under her th'Eternal Spring
Which made the Beauty of the Golden Age,
And fills each Poet's Heart-enchanting Page.
They shew who shall to her dread Scepter bow,
What Laurels flourish on her Sacred Brow,
And what a croud of Blessings do attend
Those People who upon her Laws depend.

419

But there's no need at all of Foreign Praise
The Glory of this Peerless Queen to raise,
Did not we see prostrate before her fall
Those Subjects of her own who heard the Call
Of Heaven from another World, and came
To her, that they might abdicate their Name ,
Henceforth their Country MARYLAND to call,
A thing agreed upon by Great and Small?
And 'tis no wonder, since that pow'rful Charm
Must fill their Country, and their Foes disarm.
That Clemency, that Goodness which did shine
When she receiv'd their Homage, that divine,
That noble Air of Greatness which appear'd,
And made her lov'd at once no less than fear'd;
Had they still Savages or Rebels been,
Would have reduc'd them under such a Queen.

Thus her great Deeds, from my Poetick Vein,
Lead me to write the Annals of her Reign:
But that's a Work must crown with lasting praise
The Livys and the Camdens of our Days.
This flying Leaf containing, without Art,
The Sentiments of a submissive Heart
With admiration struck, and Joy to find
Such radiant Virtues in a Monarch's Mind,
(Where nothing is but naked Fact laid down,
By none contested, and to few unknown)
Shall end with Wishes, such as flow from Men,
Whose fraudless Souls are painted by their Pen.

May this bright Day, when Heaven made to this Land
The choicest Present of its liberal Hand,
Be multiply'd so often, still abound
With fresh Successes; may it still be crown'd
At home with Palms and Olives, and from Climes
Remote with Trophies deck'd so many times,

420

Till thou (Great Queen) thy Ancestors in years
Exceed'st as much as does thy Virtue theirs.
And when thy Crown, transform'd into a Star,
Shall equal shine with Berenice's Hair,
May still this lower Orb thy Glory fill,
Thy Praises echo from the forked Hill:
And may thy Birth an Epoch settled be,
By those who write our English History;
An Epoch more illustrious than those
Of Nabonassar, and of him who chose
Hope for his Portion, knew the worth of Praise,
Gave all away, only reserv'd the Bays,
And Envy bore to Thetis' Valiant Boy
More for his Homer than his War with Troy.
Thou art a Queen by God and Man design'd:
Choice with Succession's in thy Person join'd.
The Patriarchal Right and Genarchy
With Institution do in thee agree.
Thou hast both Law and Nature on thy side,
And that by which we most of all are ty'd,
Is that we judg thee, by all we have seen,
A Natural and a Platonick Queen.
May Heav'n and Men by joint Consent maintain
The Product of them both, thy glorious Reign.
And since the Will of thy Great Spouse so well
Is seconded by both the Houses Zeal,
Who now do call thee to exert that Power
Which latent in thee did reside before;
May all thy Subjects Thee as well obey
As he that celebrates this happy Day:
May'st thou with such Applause ascend the Throne,
So exercise the Government alone;
That when again Victorious he shall come
From Lands ne'er conquer'd by the Antient Rome,

421

That Diadem he still may brighter find
Which does (Great Queen) thy, Sacred Temples bind,
And more resplendent far than when the Charms
Of Martial Glory drew him from thine Arms.
In Silks and Shades let other Queens express
Virtues which thou so fully dost possess .
Let others shew, by working Beasts and Men,
How far the Needle does out-do the Pen .
Let neighb'ring Monarchs pass their precious Hours
In viewing Medals, and in planting Flowers.
Let them with wild Chimera's fill their Brains,
Employ the Poet's and the Painter's Pains,
Imaginary Conquests to declare,
For forc'd Conversions Monuments to rear;
And let their Brain-sick Fancy them persuade
Gods are made by Le Brun and La Feuillade.
Do thou thy Mind and Thoughts (Princess) apply
To rule thy Kingdoms all with Equity
(These are thy Arts) of Peace to give the Rule,
To spare the Humble, and the Proud controul.
And since thy lovely Sex, so full of Charms,
Has been to us so happy; in our Arms
Planted the Lillies, since it did unite
In lasting Bands the Red Rose and the White;
May'st thou reconquer Lands, for which the Sword
Unto the Distaff could no help afford:
New Agincourts and Cressys may'st thou gain,
To shew the Salique Law was made in vain.
And may'st thou by a nobler Union far
Than that which joined York and Lancaster,
Fix in thy Subjects Hearts such Harmony,
That they again may never disagree.

422

And last of all (to draw unto a Close
Upon a Subject which no Limits knows)
May this great Festival reserved be
For Births of numerous Heroes, which from Thee
May spring, in these our Days, to represent
The Williams, Maurices, Colignys, sent
From Heav'n, oppressed Nations to relieve;
Heroes, whose glorious Actions may revive
The Brave Plantagenets and Tudors Sage,
And the Great Bourbons of our Father's Age:
Whose Glory to the highest pitch may rise,
The Seas their Empire bound, their Fame the Skies.

See Burnet's Papers, and others, which were filled with Discourses of the Hopes we had in the Succession of the Princess of Orange.

See her printed Answer to Dr. Bates's Speech, made in the Name and Presence of a great Number of Nonconformist Ministers.

When the Parliament would have given her a distinct Maintenance, and she declar'd she would have nothing but from the King.

See a Magnificent Panegyrick written lately for the King, and sent to him by a Learned Man in Swisserland, named Holtzhalbius, heretofore a Regent in the College at Orange. In this Poem, speaking of the Parliament's presenting the Crown to their present Majesties; he has these Verses, to shew the admiration the World has of the Queen's Virtue, and other great Qualities:

Conveniunt Regni Proceres, faustisq; Triumphis
Wilhelmi applaudunt Magni, revocantq; MARIAM,
E Batavis Sponsam, Regnis tantóq; Marito
Dignam quæ reliquas mirandæ lumine formæ,
Diviniq; animi præclaris dotibus omnes
Præcellit Nymphas, ut stellas Luna minores.

See the Address presented to the Queen at Kensington, by the Deputys of New-England.

Plato says, there are some, who, by the Excellency of their Endowments, are Kings by Nature. So that a Platonick Prince is one who is worthy to be such. This is a Notion much insisted on by Col. Sidney, in his Answer to Filmer.

Mary Queen of Scots, who wrought a Suit of Hangings for a Chamber at Hardwick, where all the Virtues are represented by Symbolical Figures.

Catherine de Medicis, who spent many Years in working some Beds, now in the French King's Garde-meuble.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

III. VOL. III. From the Year 1640. to the Year 1704.

On Purgatory.

Satire upon Romish Confessors.

The Robber robb'd.

PARADOX.

That Ambition, or the Desire of Rule and Superiority, is a Virtue.

BRUTUS.

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5.

ODE. In Answer to the former.

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A Preparative to Study:

Or, the Virtue of Sack.

ODE.

Written soon after O. Cromwel's Death.

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A Dialogue between two Zealots, upon the Et cætera in the Oath.

Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.

Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford.

On the Death of K. Charles the First.

A Lenten Litany.

To the KING,

On his Majesty's happy Restoration.

Satire on the Scots.

Satire upon the Dutch.

Vox & Lachrymæ Anglorum.

Or, The true English-man's Complaint, humbly offer'd to the serious Consideration of their Representatives in Parliament at their next sitting in the Year 1667.

To the Parliament.

Vox & Lachrymæ Anglorum.

POSTSCRIPT.

Upon the Proroguing of the Parliament; or, The Club of Unanimous Voters.

A New Ballad, call'd, The Chequer-Inn.

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The Answer.