 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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
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.
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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.
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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!
| Poems on Affairs of State | |