Poems on Affairs of State

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.

University of Virginia Library

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

[First Letter]