University of Virginia Library

2. The Second Part. Written during the Reign of K. James the II. against Popery and Slavery, and his Arbitrary Proceedings.

Miscellany POEMS, &c.

The Man of HONOUR.

Occasioned by a Postscript of Pen's Letter.

The Man of no Honour.

The VISION.

The ADVICE.

The CONVERTS.

The humble Address of your Majesty's Poet Laureat, and others your Catholick and Protestant dissenting Rhymers, with the rest of the Fraternity of Minor Poets, Inferiour Versifiers and Sonnetteers of Your Majesty's Ancient Corporation of Parnassus.

Humbly Sheweth,

The LAUREAT.

Jack Squabb, his History in little drawn
Down to his Evening, from his early dawn.

The Vision of Toleration.

Last Night, when I my self to sleep had laid;
Whilst bones did rest, my roving busie Head
Methought, had strangely carry'd me from home,
And I (the Lord knows how) was got to Rome;
It happen'd to be on a publick day,
When Pope and Cardinals were met; not to pray,
That's not their business, but to hold Debates,
How to Rule Kings, and how to Govern States.
Most strange Employments sure for Gospel Preachers,
The Apostles were not Rulers, but Mens Teachers.
When Tripple Crown had took St. Peter's Chair,
(He little thought a Crown should e'er come there:)
The rest to their respective seats repair;
And the first matter they did fall upon,
Was the Affairs of th'Isle call'd Albion:
Methought an horned Legate did present
In Parchment fair ingross'd, a long complaint,
Against the Monster call'd a Parliament:
Which being softly read, Christ's Vicar cries,
Who th'plague has open'd these damn'd Her'ticks eyes?
I thought the sugar'd promise at first made
To them, would the believing Fools perswade
Out of their Bread and Butter; but since jealous
Of Privilege, and for their Church so zealous;
Since we can't overturn this Impious Test,
Of all methods beyond dispute the best:
Since Shams won't take, What must the next be done,
Against our Rival Church of Albion?
His Reverend speech thus ended, whilst each mind
Was busied, some new Stratagem to find;
Ere any spake, there strangely did appear
One cloath'd in black, and stood before the Chair;
All Eyes upon him fixt, and all Tongues mute,
With a feign'd Voice he did them thus salute:
Hail! Reverend Patriarch, and ye that are
Worthy Assistants of St. Peter's Chair:
I from the Author of your Faith am come,
From him first plac'd th'unerring Chair in Rome;
Who gave judicial power to pardon sins,
And to Depose the Unbelieving Kings:
Who you out of your senses does perswade,
Not to discern Flesh, Blood, and Bones from Bread;
Who is your Churches best Friend and Physician,
To cure her Schisms by Holy Inquisition:
Who taught you burning was the Remedy,
Lawful to purge the Church from Heresie:
French Nero taught to manage Hugonaut:
He who all your new Articles has taught;
From him I come, and by Commission tell,
Right Trusty and Belov'd, he greets you well;
Extremely pleas'd with your great pains and care,
T'increase his Kingdom, in this grand Affair
Of Albion. It is his will and pleasure,
That to perfect the Work, you take this measure;
You know as well as he, that in that Nation,
Are many Bastard slips of th'Reformation;
Who, with their Sister have been still at odds,
Because (I wish 'twere true) she serv'd your Gods.
But seeing their mistake, they now begin
To have a good opinion, and come in
To her Communion; and she thereby
Grows daily a more potent enemy.
Now to prevent a Reconciliation,
He bids declare an Act of Toleration;
Let Independant, Presbyter, and Quaker,
With Anabaptist, Muggletonian, Seeker,
Sweet Singer, Family of Love, Fifth-Monarchy;
Give all these whimsy-heads their Liberty,
They'll with each other fall at enmity:
And all against the Church, confirm'd by Law,
Though for no other cause, but 'cause tis so.
If you can but perswade them to Rebel,
Th'King has an Army will make all things well;
In these Directions Expeditious be,
Your time's but short, J. R's past Fifty three.
His well invented Speech thus having ended,
He in a flash of Brimstone fire descended.
They seeing him to vanish in that fashion,
Cry'd out, that 'twas a Divine Revelation.
At which I wondred, for I did not know,
Till then, that Roman Gods had dwelt below.
First sight, I thought him Jesuit, but when
I saw the Cloven-Foot concluded then
He was th'old accuser of the Brethren.
VVhen they a while had on his Speech reflected,
They all agreed 't should be as 'twas directed.
One only, cry'd, more grave, and full of sense,
VVe our designs must colour with pretence;
VVe'll say 'tis tender Consciences to ease,
And to preserve the Government in peace,
VVhich all lik'd well; and bade, 't should be Ingrost,
And sent unto the Nuncio by the Post:
After which order to the Secretary,
They all concluded with an Ave Mary.

On the Bishops Confinement.

Where is there Faith and Justice to be found?
Sure the VVorld trembles, Nature's in a swound;
To see her pious Sons design'd to fall
A victim to Religion; Truth, and all
The charms of Piety are no defence
Against the new-found power, that can dispence
VVith Laws to murder sacred Innocence:
Surely, unless some pitying God look down,
And stem this torrent, it will down
Divinity it self.—
The Bishops Prisoners! Can we tamely see
Those Reverend Prelates bow the knee
To Antichrist? No, mighty Monarch, no,
Though we must pay to Cæsar what we owe,
There is a power supream, by which you live;
VVhose Arm is longer, and Prerogative
Larger by far than yours; whose very word
Can blast your hopes, and turn your two-edg'd sword;
Can make his Secular Vice-gerent know,
Virtue, like Palms deprest, do higher grow.
Though Rob'd in all the Grandeur of your State,
Courtiers, like radiant Stars, about you wait:
'Midst of your glorious joys, when you put on
That awful presence which becomes a Throne;
Belshazzar like, three Words upon the Wall
Shall blast your Joys, and make your Glories fall.
His Holiness, that Patriot of strife,
Though he can grant you Pardons, cannot Life.
Arise then, Mighty Sir, in God-like mien,
As of thy Valour, let thy Truth be seen;
Free from mistrust, let all your words be clear;
By actions, let your promises appear:
Protect that Church which brought you to the Crown;
You know 'tis great and honourable to own
A kindness done; but to reward with death
That happy instrument that gave you breath,
Is mean, and might a Cath'licks Conscience sting,
To cut the hand off that Anoints you King.

The Last Will and Testament of Father Peters.

The Pope's WISH.

The Protestant Litany.

Advice to the Prince of Orange, and the Packet-Boat returned.

Adv.
The year of wonder now is come,
A Jubilee proclaim at Rome;
The Church has pregnant made the Womb.

Pac.
No more of the admired year,
No more of Jubilee declare;
All Trees that blossom do not bear.

Adv.
Orange give o're your hopes of Crowns,
And yield to France the Belgick Towns;
And keep your Fleet out of the Downs.

Pac.
We'll wait for Crowns, not Interest quit,
Let Lewis take what he can get;
And do not you proscribe our Fleet.

Adv.
Ye talk of Eighty Men of War,
Well Rigg'd and Mann'd you say they are;
'Twas joyful News when it came here.

Pac.
Well may the sound of Eighty Sail,
Make England's greatest Courage fail;
When half the number will prevail.

Adv.
But we have some upon the Stocks,
And others laid up in our Docks;
Well fitted out, would match your Cocks.

Pac.
Tack not as if you'd match our Cocks,
And Launch your few Ships on the Stocks;
And if you can, secure your Docks.

Adv.
Besides, we've call'd our Subjects home,
Which in your Fleet and Army rome,
But you, they say, won't let them come.

Pac.
Your Subjects, in our Camp and Fleet,
Whom you with Proclamation greet,
Will all obey, when they think fit.

Adv.
Souldiers and Seamen both we need,
Old England's quite out of the breed;
Feather and Scarf won't do the deed.

Pac.
Of Men and Arms never despair,
The Civiliz'd wild Irish are
Couragious even to Massacre.

Adv.
Now, if you'd be Victorious made,
Like us, on Hounslow Masquerade;
Advance your Honour, and your Trade.

Pac.
Then take this Counsel back again,
Leave off to mimick in Campaign,
And fight in earnest on the Main.

Adv.
Buda we storm'd, and took't with ease;
Do you the same upon the Seas,
And then we'll meet you when you please.

Pac.
The storming Buda does declare,
That you the glorious Off-spring are,
Of them that made all Europe fear:

Adv.
Such Warlike Actions will at least
Inspire each neighbouring Monarchs breast,
Till Lewis shall compleat the rest.

Pac.
Such Camp, such Siege, and such sham Shews,
Make each small State your power oppose,
And Lewis lead you by the Nose.

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 them there.
Draw, as the Heralds do, a spacious Field;
And, as directed, so let that fill'd.
First, draw a Popish Army brisk and gay,
Fighting, and beat, destroy'd, and run away.
Then draw a Hearse, 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, or stay and skulk in holes alone:
By them, this Motto, Gallows claim thy own.
Now, to the Life, let thy brisk Pencil shew
Distinctly what they are, and what's their due.
Now draw a crowd of Priests prepar'd to run,
Like broken Merchants when their stock is gone;
Some howling out their Prayers, forget and say,
Save us St. Ketch: Are all our Saints away?
Draw them in hurry, running to and fro,
Posting to Dover, Portsmouth, Tyburn too.
Next draw a croud of Lords. This Label by,
The great Design is lost. Alas, they cry,
Who'd serve a Cause of such curst Destiny?
Now draw four Priests, shew how they Rome adore,
And each mans Scarf hang to be seen before.
Two brace of Bishops, fallen to despair,
Arm'd Cap-a-pe, but running God knows where.
Now shew the Judges, and with them thy skill,
That all who see it done, may 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 dispence with that.
Now draw the little Rogues, the Scoundrel Crew,
Knights, Knaves, and Beggars, they must have their due,
G*db*ry, B*ler, ay, and others too.
Amidst thus croud, on a fit spot of Land,
To crown the work, let a large Gallows stand;
All trembling by, arm'd with their guilt and fears,
Kneel to this Image, and pour out their Prayers,
And then die by Suffocation.

To the ten Dispensing Judges.

Dignify'd things, may I your leaves 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-hew'd 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 he's 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.
Thus you like Villains to the Benches get;
And in defiance to the Laws, you sit,
And all base actions that will please commit:
There must you toil for Rome, and also 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 Treason, Villanies or Blood:
Worse than Fanatick Priests, for they being prest
By a wise Prince, Preach'd to Repeal the Test.
Then here's the difference, 'twixt you Popish Tools,
You're downright Rogues, they only Knaves and Fools.

Religious Relicks:

Or, the Sale at the Savoy, upon the Jesuites breaking up their School and Chappel.

Private Occurrences:

Or, the Transactions of the four last Years.

On PURGATORY.

When the Almighty first his Palace fram'd,
That Glorious shining place he Heaven nam'd;
And when the first Rebellious Angels fell,
He Doom'd them to a certain place call'd Hell.
There's Heaven and Hell confirm'd in sacred story,
But yet I ne're could read of Purgatory:
That cleansing place, which of late years is found,
For sinning Souls to Flux in till they're sound.
In imitation of which 'tis said,
They have the Hummums and the Bagnio's made,
Two Purgatories of a quicker Trade.
There one days Sufferance cures the worst that comes,
And thence they are releas'd for easie Sums.
Oh! Rome, for Price and Time thou'rt too severe,
Keeping an honest Monarch in two year,
That never yet deserv'd to come there.
Priests found out this for good of human Race;
Th'Almighty never thought of such a place.
Oh! Rome, thou art a wise and learned Nation,
To add a place wanting in Gods Creation.

A Stanza lately put upon Tyburn.

Hail Reverend Tripos, Guardian of the Law;
Sacred to Justice, Treasons greatest awe!
Do thou decide the Nations weighty Cause,
And judge between the Judges and the Laws.
So shall no guiltless blood thy Timber e're pollute,
But Righteous Laws shall vouch all thou shalt execute.

Harry Care's last Will and Testament.

A New SONG.

[Wou'd you be a Man of Favour?]

A new Catch in praise of the Reverend Bishops.

True Englishmen, drink a good Health to the Mitre;
Let our Church ever Flourish tho her Enemies Spight Her:
May their Cunning and Forces no longer prevail,
And their Malice, as well as their Arguments, fail.
Then remember the Seven which supported our Cause,
As Stout as our Martyrs, and as Just as our Laws.

A new SONG.

[To our once Loyal Town, is lately come down]

A New Song of the Mayor being tossed in a Blanket, in the North.

From the farthermost part of the North we have News
Of a Man of some Note that receiv'd an Abuse:
For a Dog to be toss'd in a Blanket, 'tis known,
But alas, what is that to the Mayor of a Town?
For a great Magistrate
To be us'd at that rate,
All the World must allow
It is very hard Fate.
Ah! is it not strange? Amongst Wonders we rank it,
That a Mayor of a Town shou'd be toss'd in a Blanket.
Had a drunken Tom Tinker the Penance receiv'd,
Or a Vintner for stumming his Wine, who'd have griev'd?
Had they bolted a Baker for making light Bread,
Or a Taylor for snipping a Yard for a Shred;
Had it been but a Tapster
For Nicking and Frothing,
Wee'd been contented
To take it for nothing.
But as the Case stands, who, alass! don't resent it,
And wish now 'tis done, that it might be prevented?
Diogenes was said once to live in a Tub,
But a Tenement of Blanket is such an odd Job
For a Man of his Rank, we must study the Fact,
Unless 'twas to mind him of the late Woollen Act.
However 'twas unkind
In the midst of his State,
So to trouble his Thoughts
With th'Approaches of Fate.
For Men when advanc'd to the height of their Glory.
Have something to dream on besides Purgatory.
For a new Convert in Relick to be wrapt,
To secure him from Danger, it often has happ'd;
But had this been such, in no story we find
A Mayor to cut Capers like a Witch in the Wind;
Sure there's something exceeding
Must cause this Extream;
Yet if we dare take it,
As Old Wives do Dream,
Unadvis'd mistaking between waking and sleep,
He pounded the Parson instead of his Sheep:
So in that cross Humour they were forc'd for to shake him,
To shew him his Error as soon as they wak'd him.
But now, to conclude, ah! Heaven be thanked,
The Mayor had no harm that was toss'd in a Blanket.

A New Song

[Ho Brother Teague dost hear de Decree]

Tom Tyler;

or the Nurse.

To the Haters of Popery,

By what Names or Titles soever dignified or distinguished.

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 worshipp'd them when they had done
And to compleat their Sins in every way,
They made 'em things call'd Priests; Priests did I say,
A Crew of Villains more Prophane than they.
Hence sprung that Romish Crew, first spawn'd in Hell.
Who now in vice their Pedagogues excell;
Their Church consists of vicious Popes, the rest
Are whoreing Nuns, and bawdy Bugg'ring Priests.
A Noble Church; dawb'd with Religious Paint,
Each Priest's a Stallion, every Rogue's a Saint.
Come you that loath this Brood: this murthering Crew,
Your Predecessors well their Mercies knew.
Take courage now, and be both bold and wise;
Stand for your Laws, Religion, Liberties,
You have the odds, the Law is still your own,
They're but your Traytors, therefore pull them down;
They struck with fear for to destroy your Laws
There, raving mad, you see they fix their paws,
Because from them they fear their fatal fall,
And by them Laws they know you'l hang them all:
Then keep our Laws, the Penal and the rest,
And give your Lives up e'er you give the Test.
And thou great Church of England hold thy own,
Force you they may, otherwise give up none,
Robbers & thieves must pay for what they've done.
Let all thy mighty Pillars now appear
Zealous and brave, void both of hate and fear:
That Popish Fops may grin, lie cheat and whine;
And curse their Faith, while all admire thine.
And thou brave Oxford, Cambridge, and the rest,
Great Hough and Fairfax, that durst beard the Beast.
Let all the Just with thanks record their name
On standing Pillars of immortal fame.

Protestantism Reviv'd:

or the Persecuting Church Triumphing.

A View of the Religion of the Town: or a Sunday Mornings Ramble.

The Papists Exaltation, on His Highness the Prince of Orange, His Arrival in London.

The Explanation.

A New Song on the Prince and Princess of Orange.

Tyrconnel's distracted Readings upon his Irish Forces in England.

In Allusion to Mr. Cowley's Pindarick Ode upon destiny.

A New Litany for the Holy Time of LENT.

The Council.

The Audience.

The Criticks that pretend to Sense,
Do cavil at the Audience,
As if his Grace were not as good,
To bow to, as a piece of Wood.
Did not our Fathers heretofore
Their sensless Deities adore?
Did not Old Delphos all along
Vent Oracles without a Tongue?
And wisest Monarchs did imporune
From the dumb God to know their Fortune.
Did not the Speaking-Head of late,
Of matters Learnedly Debate?
And rendred without Tongue or Ears
Wise answers to his whisp'ring Peers?
And shall we to a living Prince
Deny the State of Audience?
What tho the Bantling cannot speak?
Yet like the Blockhead he may squeak;
Give Audience by Interpreter,
The wisest Prince can do no more.
Fr. man

(P---is)
Who questions t'other?

Dutch-man.]

The States-Man'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 Kalender, humbly offered to the Packers of the next Parliament.

The State-Holder:

Or, the Prince's Almanack, Calculated for the Meridian of London, and Calling of a Protestant Parliament; being a Counterpart of the States-Man's Almanack.

The ORANGE.

An Epistle to Mr. Dryden.

A Sale of Old State Houshold-Stuff.

The DREAM.

Weary'd with Business, and with Cares opprest,
My faculties were Doz'd and fond of rest,
An unusual heaviness did on me creep,
My Soul Indulg'd it; yet I could not sleep.
Dreams short and frightful vext me all the Night,
I found I was betray'd, and long'd for Light;
The first such Wonders brought within my view,
And when I wak'd I almost thought them true.
Methought I saw great Julius sadly lye
Bleeding from all his Wounds, and Brutus by.
The ungrateful Brutus which he doted on,
With Meager Cassius pleas'd with what he had done,
Crying, the World and Brutus are my own.
I nearer drew to view the Ghastly Trunk,
But oh! the Scene was chang'd, Cæsar was sunk;
'Twas Charles the Second, which lay mangl'd there,
The Sacrificing Tribe too did appear,
Brutus and Cassius, Y---k and Petre were.
Charles weeping, grasp'd his Brother by the hand,
I heard him sighing say, within my Land
A faithful Pious Mother thou wilt command,
Who in the utmost of Extremity,
When all but her and much upbraided, I
Wou'd from the Crown have quite excluded thee,
Preach'd up thy forfeit Title by our Laws,
And in thy banishment maintain thy Cause;
Passive Obedience thou hast much in store,
But do not urge it to thy utmost power:
James to preserve her most devoutly swore,
Charles dy'd, and James discharg'd his Oath next hour,
I saw the Priests flock in: the Bishops out,
Saw Petres cram the VVafer down his Throat,
Tho' dead, it sav'd the Heretick no doubt.
I saw him poorly bury'd in the Night,
A wretched Train, and a more wretched sight;
To me it seem'd a Funeral in Disguise,
For fear his Creditors shou'd his body seize.
I saw him shewn for two pence in a Chest,
Like Monk, Old Harry, Mary, and the rest,
And if the figure answer'd its intent,
In ten years time 'twould buy a Monument.
My fancy brought me back again to Court,
Where only Fools Advise, and Knaves Resort,
Our Kingdoms Curse, and other Nations Sport.
I heard the Jesuits in a grand Cabal,
Resolve to Root out Heresie or fall,
Each his particular Opinion gave,
They cry'd an opportunity we have
To fetter her, who kept us long her Slave.
Immediately they pitch'd upon a Rule,
How to suppress it by a forward Fool,
A bawling blund'ring senseless Tool;
VVhose Mouthing at White-Chappel first began,
VVho regularly to his Greatness ran
Thro' all the vile degrees of Treachery,
And now Usurps the Court of Equity?
He said, if you wou'd bring the Clergy down,
Erect a Court-Commission from the Crown,
And for Dispencing Law let me alone,
They hugg'd their Bubble, and the deed was done.
Petre grew Fat, and with Mandamus's,
Canker'd the VVorthy Universities.
The seats of Learning Black-Heads might command,
Yet the Kings promise to the Church doth stand.
Next, Liberty of Conscience was Ordain'd;
The Bishops for Contempt were then Arraign'd;
The Nobles and the Commons Closetted,
The Penal Laws must be Abolished:
If you refuse, your Principles are base,
Disloyal, and you lose our Royal Grace,
And each that has Dependencies his place.
Rochester fell, the Loyal Herbert starv'd,
Each that forsook his God, his Monarch serv'd:
Somerset lost his Troops, and Shrowsbury,
Oxford was stripp'd to Scarsdal Lumbley;
And many more too tedious to relate,
By whom in safety, James, thou now dost sit.
VVhen thou perceiv'dst no comfort from this Wild,
Thy Dame, immediately was quick with Child,
The Princess at the Bath when it was Born,
The Bishops in the Tower, yet had he sworn
The Church of England never should be wrong'd,
Upon this News the Hot-brain'd Papists Throng'd;
I wak'd, and as I on my Dream Reflected,
My reasonable Notions thus projected:
O King, I cry'd, thy Measures run too fast,
And thou wilt find the curse of it at last;
Why dost thou wrong thy Country, shame thy life,
To please false Priests, and an ungrateful Wife.
A VVife, whose Character has always been
A Fawning Dutchess, and a Sawcy Queen.
How canst thou suffer Petre's Insolence,
VVho only makes a harvest of his Prince.
A Slave, to Rule Three Kingdoms, Govern thee,
Yet ne'er was Master of a Family:
This Serpent envying thy Happiness,
Has crept into thy Eve, whose wilfulness
Has certainly betray'd thy Paradise;
Discerning Hallifax thy fall foresaw,
And early did his slghted Faith withdraw;
He needs no pardon for the advice he gave,
VVhich shews him honester than some that have.
Under the Rose Men use their mind to tell,
But now Myne-Heir 'tis under the Broad Seal;
O Nassaw, with thy promis'd Succours come,
And be to us like Anthony to Rome:
Thy Wife shall young Octavia's place supply,
And those that have betray'd our Country fly,
Unless the King to prove the Prince his own,
Shall to the Lyons-Den present his Son,
And if the Royal Brute do not destroy,
The Infant, by Christ 'tis his none Joy.

The Paradox on the Confinement of the Lords.

Over the Lord D***rs Door.

Unhappier Age who e'er saw,
When Truth doth go for Treason;
Every Blockead's Will for Law,
And Coxcombs Sense for Reason.
Religion's made a Bawd of State,
To serve the Pimps and Panders,
Our Liberty a Prison Gate,
And Irishmen Commanders.
O Wretched is our Fate!
What Dangers do we run,
We must be Wicked to be Great,
And to be Just, undone.
'Tis thus our Sov'raign keeps his Word,
And makes the Nation Great;
To Irishmen he trusts the Sword,
To Jesuits the State.

Over the Lord S---s Door.

If Cevil the Wise,
From his Grave should arise,
And look the fat, B--- in the Face.
He'd take him from Mass,
And turn him to Grass,
And swear he was none of Race.

To the Speaking-Head.

The Ghost.

A Papist dy'd, as 'twas Jehovah's Will,
And his poor Soul went trudging down to Hell!
Where, when he did arrive, just at the Entry,
He found a Mastive Devil standing Centry,
With flaming Eyes, and Face as black as Soot,
A Musqueteer with a great Cloven Foot:
And who goes there? I, a poor Papist Ghost,
That's come to dwell upon the Stygian Coast.
Stay where you are, and do not press so hard,
For I must call the Captain of the Guard;
He gave me Orders to let none come in,
But only such as should have leave from him.
The Captain call'd, accordingly came forth,
A Devil, of Integrity and Worth;
VVho all in Noblest Scarlet being dress'd,
VVith a most delicate fine Embroider'd Vest,
He asks the Ghost with a great Voice, as loud
As mighty Thunder, breaking from a Cloud,
VVhat was the bus'ness? Sir, I am come to dwell,
If you will please to give me leave, in Hell.
Damn you, you whorson Dog, said he to him,
I love my Master, and you shan't come in;
For if above you eat your God, I fear,
Should you come in, youl'd eat the Devil here.

A Dialogue between a Loyal Addressor, and a Blunt Whiggish Clown.

Clown.
But has he not already dam'd the Test?
And sure that Princes VVord is but a jest,
VVho Rules an Army, and Obeys a Priest:
Nor can his Solemn Oath make us much safer;
His Sword is Steel, his God is but a VVafer.

A new Song of the misfortunes of an Old Whore and her Brats.

A New Song.

[Come, come, great Orange, come away]

A new Song of an Orange.

A New Song on the Calling of a Feee Parliament,

January 5th, 1688.

The Second part of Lilli—li burlero Bullen a-la.

The Chancellour turn'd Tarpaulin.

To be a Pris'ner, hated, loath'd, and scorn'd,
With unlamented Plagues, thy fall unmourn'd,
Under approaching Torments keenest Dread,
And 'midst a shouting Crowd unpitied led,
To meet a shameful Death, would seem t'attone
All horrid Villanies except thy own:
But they so numerous, great and loud appear,
They dull Repentance, as they heighten fear.
Curs'd by your King, your Country, and it seems
You're Curs'd too by your own Prophetick Dreams:
Curs'd in your Novice Years and Indigence,
When Railing was your Law and Eloquence.
And Curs'd e'er since for Fraud and Bribery,
Lying, Partiality, and Perjury.
Curs'd by all People, Prosp'rous and Forlorn,
And will be Curs'd by thousands yet unborn.
Curs'd by the Just and Virtuous, and what's worse,
You have your Fathers and your Childrens Curse.
Legions of Ghosts you've murder'd will appear,
And whisper, on the Gallows, in your Ear;
Your Byass'd Judgment's giv'n against the Good,
That you might reek in Mony and in Blood.
The Tyrant, when Perillus brought his Bull,
Made the Inventor prove the first sad Howl.
Your Whipping so (tho late) should well be try'd
(Which you found out) upon your bleeding Hide.
And thus Condemn'd, you'll be rewarded well
With Pill'ry, Carts-Tail, Gibbets, Flames and Hell.
And with your Quarters hurl'd into your Grave,
Let this be wrote, I was both Fool and Knave,
To Law and Drink a Scandal and a Slave.

Stafford's Ghost,

February 1681.

On the D---ss of P---th's Picture,

Sept. 1682.

Who can on this Picture look,
And not strait be wonder strook,
That such a peaking doudy thing,
Should make a Beggar of a King?
Three happy Nations turn to Tears,
And all their former Love to Fears;
Ruine the Great, and raise the Small,
Yet will by turns betray 'um All
Lowly born, and meanly bred,
Yet of this Nation is the Head:
For half Whitehall make her their Court,
Tho th'other half make her their sport.
Monmouth's Tamer, Jeffery's Advance,
Foe to England, Spye for France;
False and foolish, proud and bold,
Ugly as you see, and Old.
In a word, her mighty Grace
Is Whore in all things but her Face.

All Shams.

Fumbumbis:

or the North-Country-Mayor. A Ballad.

Essay written over his Door upon an Institution and Induction.

A Heroick Scene.

Enter Oliver's Porter, Fidler, and Poet in Bedlam.
The Scene adorned with several of the Poets own Flowers, known by the Itallick Character.
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
An horrid silence does Invade mine Eye,
While not one sound of Voice from you I spye.

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.
Be wise, neglect your Interest now no more;
Interest! The Prince we serve, the God w' adore.
I for the Royal Martyr first declar'd;
But, e're his Head was off, I was prepar'd
To own the Rump, and for that Cause did Rhime;
But those kick'd out, next Moment turn'd to him
Who routed them: Call'd him my Soveraign,
And prais'd his opening of a Kingly Vein.

Hodge.
I by my Lowring Planets was accurst
To be for barren Loyalty at first;
But when to Nolls, our Charles's fate gave place,
I could abjure the 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 Balt Gl---ss could ne're suffice
For the Expence and Equipage of spies.

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

Hodge.
Were you yet Madder you might serve the state,
And be concern'd in things of greatest weight.

Johnny.
For (as Turks their Santons) we adore
The Fools and Madmen, and their aid implore:
They're such who share my Panegyrick Verse,

Hodge.
To such I write, not to Philosophers.

Porter.
Such frequent turns should you to Bedlam bring
From Rump to Cromwell, Cromwell to the King;
Then to your Idol Church, next to the Pope,
Which may one day prefer you to the Rope:
I amongst 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'm still to Interest true;
The Conquerour 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'-Wispe th'Inferiour Clergy I
Led into Quagmires, where I let them lie;
Some into Boggs 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 Whiggs were in their
I spent my Oyl and Labour on their side.
Wrote a Whigg Play, and Shaftsbury out-ran;
For all my Maxims were Republican;
For the Excluding-Bill I did declare,
Libell'd and Rail'd, and did no Monarch spare:
When they began to droop I fac'd about,
And with my Pen I damn'd the Whiggish rout.
Nay every 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're could sooner shift his Sail.

Johnny.
Like a true Renegado still I maul
The party I forsook with utmost gall.

Hodge.
So I ere long shall damn the Heretick Souls
Of my old Comrade Coffee-Priests near Pauls.
Spies upon all their Pulpits I maintain,
And if of Rome, or Slavery they complain,
Or for their own against our Church they Preach;
I roar as if they did Sedition Teach;
I brand the Person with most Venemous Lies
If I want Truth, Invention still supplies.

Johnny.
But a reserve I kept for Monmouth still,
Should he prevail, I with such equal skill
With Satyr-mingled praise he could not take it Ill.
And had that Prince Victorious been at Lime,
I the Black-Box had justified in Rhime.
I was prepar'd to praise or to abhor him,
Satyr I had and Panegyrick for him.

[Por. aside.]
Oh feed of Locusts, from the Infernal Lake
You'l cause my anger and I'le make you quake.

Hodge.
Long my sly pen serv'd Rome, and I atchiev'd
Ample Rewards, whole sholes 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 they be,
Who, to their cost, must feel before they see:
In publick yet the English Church I own,
Tho' I am subtilly Writing of it down;
For yet it is not time I should declare
Lest Fools, to whom I write, should 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.
VVhat! turn to Rome, who did our City burn?
And wou'd our Ancient Government o'return?

Hodge.
Hold! Is not the Inscription blotted out?

Por.
Therefore who burnt the City none need doubt.

Johnny.
It was Almighty Fire from Heav'n came down
To punish the Rebellious stiff-neck'd Town;
All which had perish'd in devouring flames,
Tho on the fire y'had emptied all the Thames;
Had all its Waves been on the Houses tost,
It had but basted them as they did rost;
But Heaven 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.

Hod.
What, you believe the Plot of Varlet Oates?

Por.
Ten Proclamations and Four Senates Votes.

John.
That Godfreys Life was by the Papists sped?

Por.
Oh, No! He kill'd himself when he was dead.

Hod.
To Jesuits dying you will Credit give.

Por.
Yes! full as much as all the while they live.
But dying Protestants I'le not believe,
For they allow of neat Equivocation,
And of flat Lies, with Mental Reservation.

John.
Hark Hodge: To gain him we in vain contend,
Our Fellow Servant is a Wagg, dear Friend.

Hodge.
I'le try him farther; for his Parts are such,
To bring him o're must needs avail us much,
Who are for Rome & France 'gainst th'English & the Dutch
Come Fellow Servant, you blieve our Plot
Of Russel, H---n, Sydney, and what not?
Of B---, Walcot, of Bow-steeple and the Rye

Por.
For R---l would, but H---n wou'd not Lie,
Rumbald and Walcot too did both deny
Ayloff 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 G--- and E--- say?

Port.
What! two such Excellent Moral Men as they!

Hod.
Others there are swore home as Men cou'd do.

Por.
Who for their Lives must 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 Whiggs with ropes about their gullets prey.

John.
What then? will you not be to Interest true?
We both are of the same belief with you;
But we know better what we have to do.

Por. aside.
Did ever Hell send such a brace of Knaves;
Such abject Cowards, Mercenary Slaves!

[Exit frowning.
John.
His looks are wild, his fiery Eye-balls roul,
A Raging Tempest's labouring in his Soul.
Let's prudently retire.
Porter Re-enters with a great Bible given him by Nell G.

Por.
You sneaking Rogues would you be gone?
Here's that shall knock both you and Popery down.
He knocks them 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.

John.
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're the Whiggs prevail?

Hodge.
Your Pen alone!—
Can I this Arrogance endure to hear,
Wou'd you usurp the Garland I should wear?

Johnny.
You with your Forty Eight, and Forty One,
VVith Screws and Antipendiums plagu'd the Town;
VVhile even the Whiggs admir'd my lofty Verses,
Your VVitless Prose did Fodder Torys Arses.

Hodge.
I'll through your Arse 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 shall maul,
I have had several, and can bear them all:
Besides, 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.

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.
Holloa St. Dennis, have at you.

Johnny.
Murder, Murder!

[He kicks and beats them, they run roaring out.
Hodge.
Help, Help!

Porter.
I on these Knaves shall never more complain,
They have call'd back my wandring sense again. [He Pawses, and seems to come to himself.

Of all Mankind, happy alone are we,
From all Ambition, from all Tumults free:
No Plots nor vile Informers need we fear;
No Plagues, nor Tortures for Religion here.
Our Thoughts, nay even our very words are free,
Not damn'd by Fines, or loss of Liberty;
None here's impeach'd by a vile Table spye,
VVho with an Innuendo backs his lye;
VVords and Lampoons we laugh at, and ne're care
VVhat's said by Men, if Actions they forbear;
Anger at words is weakness understood,
Since none can Ridicule ought that is good;
'Tis VVomanish, and springs from Impotence,
For no great Man at words e're took Offence.
At Rome, in all her Glory, words were free;
Just Governments can never Jealous be;
But when to Tyranny Rome did decline,
VVeak Emperours with Delatores join
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.
One VVitness and a Circumstance for Facts,
Is not enough; we must prove Overt Acts.
Our happy Government makes no Offence,
But open and Rebellious Violence.
VVhich we to quell no standing Army need,
Nor can Dragoons upon free Quarter feed;
Booted Apostles we have none, that come
To knock and beat Men to the Church of Rome;
VVhen its Butt-end prevails not, Torments will,
For Lewis is not yet so Merciful to kill.
Here we divided from the troubled VVorld,
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,
VVith 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, shou'd we
Publish the secrets of our Hierarchy?

The True Way to Honour.

A New Litany.

A Match, between the keen Rasor, and the dull Ax,

1683.

Occasioned by the death of the Lord Russel and the E. of Essex.

A New Litany in the Year, 1684.

The Fable of the Pot and Kettle,

as it was told by Collonel Titus the Night before he Kiss'd the Kings Hand.

Epitaph on Harry Care.

A true Dissenter here does lye indeed,
He ne'er with any, or himself agreed;
But rather than want subjects to his spight,
Wou'd Snake-like turn, and his own Tail wou'd bite.
Sometime, 'tis true, he took the faster side,
But when he came by suff'ring to be try'd,
The Craven soon betray'd his Fear and Pride:
Thence, Settle-like, he to recanting fell
Of all he wrote, or fanci'd to be well;
Thus purg'd from good; and thus prepar'd by evil,
He fac'd to Rome, and marcht off to the Devil.

A New Way to Honour.

A Lenten Prologue refus'd by the Players,

1682.

Our Prologue-Wit grows flat: the Naps worn off;
And howsoe'er We turn, and trim the Stuff,
The Gloss is gone, that look'd at first so gaudy;
'Tis now no Jest to hear young Girls talk Baudy.
But Plots, and Parties give new matter birth;
And State Distractions serve you here for mirth!
At England's cost Poets now purchase fame
While Factious Heats destroy us, without Shame
These wanton Neroes fiddle to the Flame.
The Stage, like old Rump pulpits, is become
The Scene of News, a furious Party's Drum.
Here Poets beat their Brains for Volunteers,
And take fast hold of Asses by their Ears.
Their jingling Rhime for Reason here you swallow;
Like Orpheus Musick makes Beasts to follow.
What an enlightning Grace is want of Bread?
How it can change a Libeller's Heart, & clear a Laureats Head!
Open his Eyes till he the Mad Prophet see

Medal. p.41.

Plots working in a future power to be
Traitors unform'd to his Second Sight are clear;
And Squadrons here, and Squadrons there appear;
Rebellion is the Burden of the Seer.
To Bays in Vision were of late reveal'd
Whigg Armies, that at Knightsbridg lay conceal'd.

Reher. Com. p. 31.

And tho no mortal Eye could see't before
The Battel was just entring at the Door!

Rehears. Comedy p. 52.

A dangerous Association—sign'd by None!
The Joyners Plot to seize the King alone!
Stephen with College made this Dire compact;
The watchful Irish took 'em in the Fact—
Of riding arm'd! Oh Traiterous Overt Act!
With each of 'em an ancient Pistol sided;
Against the Statute in that Case provided.
But why was such an Host of Swearers prest?
Their succour was ill Husbandry at best.
Bays's crown'd Muse by Sovereign Right of Satyr,
Without desert can dub a man a Traitor.
And Toryes, without troubling Law, or Reason,
By Loyal Instinct can find Plots and Treason.
But here's our Comfort; though they never scan
The Merits of the Cause, but of the Man,
Our gracious Statesmen vow not to forsake
Law—that is made by Judges whom they Make.
Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with ease
Thy turn those Plyant Puppets as they please.
With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed,
Such shall be sure to meet—but when there's Need.
When a sick State, and sinking Church call for 'em,
Then 'tis our Tories most of all abhor 'em.
Then Pray'r, that Christian Weapon of defence,
Grateful to Heaven, at Court is an Offence,
If it dare speak th'untamper'd Nations sense.
Nay Paper's Tumult, when our Senates cease;
And some Mens Names alone can break the Peace.
Petitioning disturbs the Kingdom's Quiet;
As choosing honest Sheriffs makes a Ryot.
To punish Rascals, and bring France to Reason,
Is to be hot, and press things out of Season;
And to damn Popery is Irish Treason.
To love the King, and Knaves about him hate,
Is a Fanatick Plot against the State.
To Skreen his Person from a Popish Gun
Has all the mischief in't of Forty One.
To save our Faith, and keep our Freedom's Charter,
Is once again to make a Royal Martyr.
This Logick is of Tory's deep inditing
The very best they have—but Oaths, and Fighting.
Let 'em then chime it on, if 'twill oblige ye,
And Roger vapour o'er us in Effigie.
Let 'em in Ballads give their folly Vent,
And sing up Nonsense to their Hearts content.
If for the King (as All's pretended) they
Do here drink Healths, and curse, sure we may pray,
Heaven once more keep him then for Healing Ends,
Safe from old Foes—but most from his new Friends!
Such Protestants as prop a Popish Cause,
And Loyal Men, that break all Bounds of Laws!
Whose Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed,
And when they've scarce left him a Crust of Bread,
Their corrupt Fathers foreign Steps to follow,
Cheat even of scraps, and that last Sop would swallow.
French Fetters may this Isle no more endure;
Spite of Rome's Arts stand England's Church secure,
Not from such Brothers as desire to mend it,
But false Sons, who designing worse to rend it
With leud Lives, and no Fortunes would defend it.

Dangerfield's Ghost to J---

The Troop at Beaconsfield and their March.

SONG.

[Keep to the Church, while yet you may]

A true and full Account of a late Conference between the wonderful Speaking-Head and Father Pulton,

as it was related by the Heads own Mouth to Dr. F---r, 1686.

A new Address to Mr. Bays, on his late Conversion to the Church of Rome.

A Short Letany.

Popish Politicks Unmaskt.

On Easter-day 87. this was found fixed on the King's Chappel Door.

When God Almighty had his Palace fram'd,
That Glorious shining Place he Heaven Nam'd;
And when the first Rebellious Angels fell,
He Doom'd them to a certain place, call'd Hell.
Here's Heaven and Hell confirm'd by Sacred Story,
But yet I ne'er could read of Purgatory,
That cleansing place which of late years is found,
For sinning Souls to Flux in till they're sound:
The Priest form'd that for the good Roman Race,
Our Maker never thought of such a place.
Oh Rome! wee'l own thee for a Learn'd wise Nation,
To add a place wanting in Gods Creation.

Vpon K. J. Pistolling a Mastiff Dog at Banbury, in his last Progress.

To the Observator.

Hast thou no Friend so kind, to let thee know
(But thou (lost Wretch) hast neither Friend nor Foe)
That thy insipid Libel's nauseous grown,
No Man will read, or any Party own:
Despis'd by all, who have the least pretence
To Wit, to Business, Learning, or good Sense;
That every little Fool does thee deride,
And ev'n the Clergy have forsook their Guide.
Canst thou no new, no fresh Diversion bring,
But ever fiddle on the self-same string?
A solemn Blockhead, or brisk old Buffoon,
After the Rates of Influence from the Moon.
Tho Mischief dwells in thy felonious VVill,
The Pow'r is wanting, and thou'rt harmless still:
Thou art an impotent, well-wishing Slave,
But Nature made the Fool outweigh the Knave.
Thou shift'st thy Sails, and changest every side,
Art ever labouring to save thy Tide.
In vain thy dulness throws thee still behind,
VVhile nimbler Knaves laugh, and thy Prizes find:
Contemn'd by all, of all Recourse bereft,
Thou leav'st old Friends, and by the new are left.
But since 'twere vain th'abandon'd to advise,
And bid a positive old Fool be wise:
VVere I to answer the Fop Observator,
I'd wipe—with his Works, piss on their Author.

Old Gammer Cook.

The Drinking Song.

A Dialogue between Father Petre and the Devil.

F. P.
Oh, are you come? 'Tis more than time;
Your Tardiness is no small Crime;
All our Designs are at a stand,
They've got again the upper hand;
Yet like true Jesuite, I have wrought
My Charge up to the Point I sought,
Both Sense and Reason quite or'ethrown,
For those we deal with must have none.

D.
Is this a Conquest to relate,
Worthy a Jesuitic Pate?
I have more Trouble with you had,
Than all the Orders I have made:
Beside, I joyn'd in the Design
One, whose fell Malice equals mine;
One so ambitiously inclin'd,
Of such an uncontrouled Mind,
That, let the Gulph be ne're so deep,
Or Pyramids prodigious steep;
If in th'Extreams thou can'st disclose
Any that does her Will oppose;
(Tho' on just Grounds) they meet their Fate
In violent—unbounded Hate.

F. P.
I did not call you to discourse,
We must do something now by Force:
Our whole Society is sham'd,
And we in our first Founder damn'd.
Did I, tho' to my Souls Perdition,
Add 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're labour'd more;
Nor durst I let him pause upon't,
Lest, if he thought he shou'd recant;
With puzzling Notions still possess'd him,
At once tormented and caress't him;
Hood-wink'd the Pilot that shou'd steer us,
With our infallible Chimeras.

D.
Boast not as if you'd Conquest won,
You've started much, and nothing done;
Your Order, wheresoe're they came,
Have set whole Kingdoms in a Flame:
Nor Hell, nor Rome, can give you thanks
For acting thus a mad Man's Pranks.
Did I not always to you preach,
The English wou'd you over-reach?
They'l be convinc'd e're they believe,
Not pin their Faith upon your Sleeve;
Your publick Chappels have o'rthrown us,
Our very Proselytes disown us;
And face about to th'other Side,
Exclaiming 'gainst the Roman Pride.

F. P.

The Devil answering, laugh'd outright:
Wou'd I these Secrets bring to light,
I shou'd not half that Harvest gain,
For which I've taken all this Pain:
Nor wou'd I, if I cou'd, reveal
That which my Interest bids conceal.
Yet I will answer thee in part,
Since I've an Interest in thine Heart;
The first, peculiar is to thee,
For which thou need'st not trouble me,
'Tis what thy self did long foresee.
Nor is it reason to believe
Thou shou'd'st the Mobile deceive:
But whether Martyr, or a Traytor,
Thy Ballad will be Truth's Relator,
The other two will be made plain,
When Belgic Lions cross the Mane.
This said, the Devil left the Father,
The Meaning of his VVords to gather,
And vanish'd from him down the Stairs,
VVhile he proceeded in his Pray'rs.

The Metamorphosis.

Cæsar's Ghost.

Methought I saw a dark and dismal Vault,
Whose Horror cannot be conceiv'd by Thought,
And seem'd by some Infernal Magick wrought:
So vast, and so perplexing intricate,
As if the dreadful Court of Death and Fate;
And yet of Kings the great Repositer,
And only Royal Dust lyes mouldering here.
Amongst these Monuments of Sacred Fame,
Great Cæsar stood; Cæsar, whose deathless Name,
When Shrines decay, triumphant shall remain,
While Sense, good Nature, Wit, and Love shall reign.
VVhile I with awful Fear and Trembling paid
Humble Oblations to the mighty Dead,
Methought the sweating Marble did unclose,
And from Death's Mansion the dead Monarch rose;
His Eyes o're all scatter'd a sullen Light,
Such as divides the breaking Day from Night;
By whose faint Rays the Object I discern'd
All pale—with ghastly Majesty adorn'd.
His stiffen'd Loyns a purple Mantle bore,
His Brows a VVreath of wither'd Lawrels wore,
Such as had flourish'd there in Life before.
Now forth he stalks, silent as Shadows glide,
Or Clouds that skim the Air while they divide,
As quick as thought the faithless Town he pass't,
And towards the Camp of wonderous Fame does hast,
VVhile Midnight Fogs surround his awful Head,
And down his Locks their baneful Poyson shed;
The wandring airy Demons at the View,
And all the Ignis Fatuus's withdrew;
Hecate let fall, her charm-preparing Weeds,
Wondring what unknown Pow'r Earth's Surface treads,
Which more than that which she invokes, she dreads.
She flies all frighted with erected Hair,
And scarce her Broomstaff bears her thro' the Air;
From his dread Presence every Evil ran,
Except that more exalted Evil, Man:
Not the first Race of less corrupted Fiends,
Till taught by Man, knew half their new-coin'd Sins.
Thrice with Majestick Pace he walks the round
Surveying the Pavilions utmost bound,
And useless Grandeur every where he found.
Philippi, nor the fam'd Pharsalian Field,
Did not more Signs of Glorious Action yield;
But this was all for show not Terror made,
'Twas Hounslow Farce, a Siege in Masquerade.
More near he views it yet, and found within,
All the Degrees of Luxury and Sin;
Alsatia's Sink into this Common-Shore,
Did all its vile and nasty Nusance pour;
Fat Sharpers, Broken Cuckolds, Gamesters, Cheats,
What Newgate disembogues find here Retreats;
The Groom and Footman from their Livery stript,
With Scarf, Gay Feather, and Command equipt.
Promotion gives to Sauciness Pretence,
And greatness is mistook for Insolence;
And to evince their Valour every Hour
Bamboo the Slaves that bow beneath their Pow'r;
Yet to the Countrey Ladies these appear
So Novel, witty, beau, en Cavalier,
That scarce a tender Heart is left behind,
Pray God a Maidenhead you chance to find!
The Phantom to that Quarter first resorts,
Where the Illustrious Generals keep their Courts.

I.

Great F--- the Foremost of the Crew,
Whose Uncle Tureign well cou'd fight we know.
He who so often do's repeat the Jest
How he subdu'd the Monarch of the West,
(Or wou'd have done had he not been undrest.)
This rough stern Hero of the British War
To Neighbouring Tents is always born in Chair,
For fear of Incommodement from the Air.

II.

It wonders what did C---ll recommend,
VVho never did to Deeds of Arms pretend:
Love, all his Active Youth, his business was,
Love that best suits his handsom Shape and Face.
But Armies are like Verse, whose Dogrel Lines
Are here for Sense, and there for gingling Rhimes.
(Here where Bellona lays her Armour by,
And learns to be more charming Company,
VVhere the ill-manner'd God has nought to do:)
Some few for fighting are, but most for show;
VVhere rich embroidered Cloaks a la Campagne
So often shine, unless it chance to rain.
Then Lord, how the Sir M. will fret and fling!
Undone, 'tis spoil'd, e're shown before the King;
In perfum'd Beds adorn'd they're basking laid,
As fine as young Brides, on Persian Carpets tread,
That o're the spacious Floor in wanton Pride are spread,
Like Feasting Gods luxurious, and, they say,
As arrant Fornicators too as they.
None come amiss when Lust their Fancies lead,
Alcmena, nor the sweet-fac'd Ganimede;
And, like those Gods, they all are given to Love,
But none we hear e're thunder'd but old Jove.

III.

Here one the Hero acts in Lovit's Arms,
And calls his Passion out in warlike Terms,
Tells of soft Sieges, Batteries and Alarms;
How the Artillery of her Eyes did wound,
And how at the first Onset he gave ground:
He who ne're yet did to a Conqueror bow,
Yet kisses and adores his Fetters now;
VVhile all the Batteeies ever he essay'd,
Have been against some Female Fortless Maid;
But Love-it, who has less of Love than Pride,
Being with guilt Coach and Country-house supply'd,
Makes that attone for all Defects beside.

IV.

There lay a Youth of all his VVits bereft,
Who this Campaign was by his Mistress left;
A nauseous Strumpet, insolent and loud,
False and destructive, basely born and proud.
Oh bubbl'd Fool, thou that hadst seen the Fate
Of Cully-B***shes quietly spent Estate:
Collier undon, and forty Rake-hells more
For an old common o're-grown flabby VVhore,
Whose Bastard Son may vie with thee for Age,
A Trader twenty years upon the Stage:
What from th'expensive Folly couldst thou see,
But shameful Ruine, laught-at Infamy?
Thy Eyes, I know, were open'd long before,
But still the Jilt betray'd thee to the VVhore;
Debas'd thy Noble Spirits to her Rule,
And turn'd thy once fair Fame to Ridicule,
Debauch'd thy Sense with Conversation base,
Whores, Eating Pimps, Players, a numerous Race,
While thou the treating Cully art despis'd,
And Cuckold by the Slaves thou Gormandiz'd.
Return, thou Prodigal, from Husks and Swine,
The Ruine of the first, was cause of thine:
They say thou'rt brave, give us this Proof of it,
And we'll believe thou can'st be braver yet:
Thou'st yet a Nobler Race of Life to run,
Leave Herwood to her now to be undone:
But her kind Keeper gone, his Flame will fade;
Love cools when 'tis an Obligation made.

V.

Here an old batter'd Tangieren he beheld,
More mawl'd by Love than e're he was in Field;
Yet wondrous Amorous still, and wondrous gay,
Old January dizen'd up in May;
His Zeals as Trophies of his Victory Graces,
But all adorn'd with many Looking-glasses,

Col. Sachvil.

In which he practises Bon Mein and Faces;
How well to manage Ogling, and what Air
He shou'd maintain, when cock, when frisk his Hair;
What Affectation best wou'd Youth express,
And least the Ruines of his Age confess;
Half-choak'd with monstrous Crevat-string, Disputes
What Colour best to his Complection suits;
And all in Middle Gallery to pore,
And claim which is his Joy, some low-priz'd Whore
Vain self-admiring Fop, tho every day
Thou dost thy antiquated Form survey!
But to be well deceiv'd, cease playing the Ass
Six hours each Morning before a Looking-glass,
And trust the wiser Valet with thy Dress;
For whilst thou dost not that ag'd Face behold,
Thy Dress may flatter thee, thou art not old.

6.

Chett, that Scundrel, he whom Nature made
An arrant Fool, although a Rogue by Trade,
Which he industriously improv'd so well,
He does in nicest Villany excel,
And from the Trumpet rais'd the Colonel;
Yet lives a double Scandal in his Race,
His Morals are as odious as his Face:
Tho Knave and Coward in his Front be writ,
He has one Vertue recommends him yet;
A Passive Valour that can kicking bear,
A Caution that secur'd him in his Fear
Behind the Canon in the Western War.
And farther to this Honour has Pretence,
Can cheat his Men with matchless Impudence:
But that's the general Cry, While no bold Tongue
Is found to tell Augustus of their wrong.

VII.

Next a Grabesious Allonier, who sat
Like Bacchus on his Tun in drunken state,
With all his mellow Gang encompass'd round,
In high Debauch of Wine and Bawdry drown'd.

VIII.

That Monster G---dy of prodigious size,
A Body fitted to his beastly Vice;
A Face to all more formidable far
Than Gorgon's Head, or to that Coward Warr;
In youth mean Cheats and Rooking was his Trade,
Now (starving) got Command—for Drink—not Bread.

IX.

V--- our new Troy's Hector, and it's hope,
Preferr'd from Tail of Coach to Head of Troop;
'Twas no true Valour got him first a Name,
But some Welsh Fury did his Blood inflame,
And sure he never fought when he was tane.
No Brutal Coward Tyrant Algerien
E're healed Slaves so ill as his have been;
As if to him Authority were new,
It is but damn the Rascal, and a Blow.
For they so oft false Musters we observe,
Rather than follow him the Rogues will starve;
And wou'd, if e're indeed there came a War
Be justly shot like wry-neck'd Chevalier,
By some of his own Soldiers in the Reer.
But V---n's not alone, more of his stamp,
That better merit Tyburn, rule the Camp.

X.

Among this Crew M---ll that Fornicator,
Incamp'd with Grandam Doxy and her Daughter;
The good old Soul he loves because she's handy,
Can joque and smoak, and hold him tack with Brandy;
Full threescore years in wise Experience bred,
Preferr'd from drawing Ale to M---ll's Bed;
She's old enough to witch, and by her Art
Has struck some crooked Pin quite through his Heart.
Or has some damn'd Infirmity unseen,
That makes him dote on such a rivell'd Queen.

XI.

Among this Drunken Club was Beau Sir Tom,
Dub'd for his Brother's Merits, not his own;
From drudging City Prig advanc'd to be
Right Worshipful, in Place of High Degree,
But knew not how to manage Quality.
And thought the nearest way was to be lewd,
While all Degrees the Debochee pursu'd;
But like true Cit did always over-do,
As well in Lewdness as in Fashions too;
Drinking's his leading Vice, his Darling Sin,
That pumps his duller Inclination in;
Then loud as Storms, incourag'd for all evil,
Swears and invokes by Healths his Guardian Devil.
By chance the Poet Elcanah was there
To make 'em sport, for 'twas not yet the Fair;
VVith many more too scandalous to name,
VVhose Talents are to swear, whore, drink and game;
At a large Table they were seated round,
VVith Bottles, Snush, foul Pipes and Glasses crown'd,
Boxes and Dice—but whether false or true,
I leave it to the Fools that Night shall rue;
For there was Country Squire and City Cully,
That came to see the Show, look'd to by Bully,
VVhere bubbl'd of their Coyn, they healed are
A la Campagne—that is, with Chear entire:
Damme, cries Grab, each Prig his Buttork bring,
And let us forthwith fall to managing;
When I am boozing, clear old Dudgeon's Drolish,
Then let my Natural be a Jump, a Polish,
I sink her down—Then makes some nasty Jest,
And Crowns it with a Bumper to the Best;
(And calls for Link-boy, swears his Pego's nice,
And therefore cannot deal in common Vice.)
Then to the Height of Lewdness they retire,
And Venus must extinguish Bacchus fire.
Thus 'tis when Men forsake an honest Trade,
How much a better Pedant thou hadst made;
Or (bilking sharp) hadst bully'd up and down,
And scar'd the Trembling Mortals of the Town?
This was thy Talent, this thy proper Sphere;
Yet still this Part of thee remains while here,
That thou canst cheat, oppress, and domineer.
Tho thus much by thy Foes must be confess'd,
Of all thy roaring Tribe thou art the best.
The rest such Cowards, Sots, such hard'ned Rogues,
Blasphemers, Villains, Rake-hells, Swines and Dogs,
Have newer Sins than were to Sodom known,
And if just Heav'n shou'd send his Vengeance down,
There's not one Lot to save a sinking Town.
But numberless and endless 'twere to tell
All the rank Vice that fills this Local Hell.
All which the Phantom does in hast survey,
He scents the Morning Air, and must away,
And on the Eastern Hill he views the breaking day.
Yet e're he goes with a Remorse extreme
Looks back and sighs o're this Jerusalem;
Nor cou'd depart till like the Prophet too,
In whispering Our pronounc'd thrice—wo, wo, wo;
And then methought I hear'd a Hollow Sound,
Like Ecchoes that from Caves and Rocks rebound;
And thus it spake—Full five and twenty years
I Reign'd, without the Noise or Toil of Wars,
Bore all th'Indignities of Factious Power,
And saw my Life in danger every hour;
Yet rather had resign'd it up in Peace,
Than ow'd my Safety to such Brutes as these;
At best a Scare-crow Rebels to affright,
Put them to Action, and scarce one will fight.
Ah, great Augustus! thou deserv'st an Host
Of Heroes, such as ancient Rome produc'd;
When each Commander should like Scipio be;
Or rather like the yet more Godlike thee,
Brave, Temperate, Prudent to the last degree.
The common Rout all Sceva's in the Field,
Who bore a thousand Arrows in his Shield.
At least they shou'd have Souls to be inspir'd,
And by thy great Example to be fir'd;
Thy Constancy and Valour imitate,
And raise at once thy Glory and the State.
This said, and parting with a pittying Look,
Tow'rds his Eternal Hope his way he took,
And blest his Fate he cou'd again return
To the blest Confines of his peaceful Urn.

The Fourth Satyr of Boileau to W. K.

1687.

Believe me, Will, that those who have least Sense,
Think they to VVisdom have the sole Pretence;
And that those VVretches who in Bethlem are,
Deserve it less than those who put them there.
The haughty Pedant, swoln with Frothy Name
Of Learned Man, big with his Classick Fame;
A thousand Books read o're and o're again,
Does word for word most perfectly retain,
Heap'd in the Lumber-Office of his Brain;
Yet this cram'd Skull, this undigested Mass,
Does very often prove an arrant Ass;
Believes all Knowledge is to Books confin'd,
That reading only can inform the Mind;
That Sense must Err, and Reason ramble wide,
If Sacred Aristotle ben't their Guide.
While, on the other hand, a Flutt'ring thing,
VVith a full Roll, and three pil'd Crevat string,
Whose Life's a Visit, who alone takes care
To say fine things, write Songs, and count the Fair;
Laughs at the musty Precepts of the School,
Calls the Learn'd Writer an Authentick Fool;
Swears that all Learning is a thing unfit
A well-bread Person, or a Man of Wit;
Names proper only to the Sparks o'th' Town,
And dams his Scholar to his Colledge Gown.
The sharpest Satyrist with Poetick Rage
Strives to reform the Vices of the Age;
Laughs at the Fool, and at the Villain rails;
Yet Folly reigns, and Villany prevails;
VVhile the crack'd Skull shows all that has been said,
Leaves Marks on nothing but the Poet's Head:
For partial Man, try'd by himself alone,
Protesting every Sentence but his own;
Severe to all Men, to himself too kind,
Sees others Faults, but to his own is blind.
The sordid Miser, a meer lump of Clay,
Form'd into Man e're from its gross Allay,
It was refin'd by the Souls Heavenly Ray,
VVhose Thirst of Wealth encreases with his Store,
And to spend less, does covet to have more;
VVho Midas-like, to feed his Avarice,
Starves in the enjoyment of a golden wish;
Thinks himself wise, boasts of being provident,
And down-right Scraping calls good Management.
The Love of VVealth is madness, and I hate
The very trouble of a great Estate:
'Tis perfect Dirt, cries the vain Prodigal,
Mad till 'tis gone, and when he has spent all,
The beggar'd Fool calls himself Liberal.
Now weigh them both, and tell me, if you can,
VVhich of the two seems the most prudent Man:
The Gamester swears both shou'd in Bethlem be,
That Fortune-monger, maddest of the three,
VVhose Life, whose Soul, whose very Heav'n is Play,
At which the Bubble throws them all away;
Who every moment waits his Destiny
From the uncertain running of a Die;
And, if he chance to lose, then how he stares!
Then how the Fury, with his bristled Hairs
Curses his Fate! Earth, hell, and Heaven defies,
And with Oaths heap'd on Oaths, he storms the Skies.
I could name thousands more, but to draw all
The Shapes of this false Reasoning Animal,
Wou'd be as hard, as to count all that die
Each Spring and Fall by Low'r and Mercury:
Or say how of th'impatient Heir, to have
The Old Man's wealth, has wisht him in his Grave:
A Drudgery so great my Pen declines,
Content to sum up all in these four Lines.
Greece boasts seven Sages, but the Story lies,
For the whole World ne'r saw one truly VVise:
All Men are Mad; and the sole Difference
Lies in the More, or the Less, want of Sense.

A Cawdle for a Sick Jesuit.

From Rome's Infallibility take a Grain,
Two Drams of Inquisition fetch from Spain;
Of Dr--- Honesty one Mite engage,
Dr--- the Glory of the British Stage!
O're Flaming Coals in [OMITTED] let 'em blow it,
Till the all-conquering [OMITTED] dissolve the Poet.
Add, that the Fire and Brimstone be not dull,
Two Grains of VVit drain'd from an Irish Scull,
VVith Conscience galling for those senseless Gulls,
To see th'untimely Fate of twenty Bulls.
From Statute-Shelfs pull down the Acts, and drain
The Twenty Fifth of old Queen Bess's Reign;
Set those on Coals of Purgatory-Fire,
The space the Devil napping catch'd the Frier;
'Twill cure all Maladies, tho conceal'd in Closet,
And 'tis the true Catholic-Cordial Posset.

A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the Prince of Orange, his coming into England.

A Congratulatory Poem to the most Illustrious Queen Mary, upon her Arrival in England.

MADAM,

Ode on the Anniversary of the King's Birth.

An Ode on the Queens Birth-Day, Sang before their Majesties at Whitehal.

By Tho. Shadwell.

The Oservator.

Or the History of Hodge, as reported by some; from his siding with Noll, and scribling for Rome.

Stand forth thou grand Impostor of our time,
The Nations scandal, Punishment and Crime;
Unjust Usurper of ill gotten Praise,
Unmatch'd by all but thy leud Brother Bays;
How well have you your sev'ral Gallants chose,
Damnably to plague the World in Verse and Prose.
Like two Twin Comets: when you do appear
We justly may suspect some danger near.
He lately did under correction pass,
Honour'd by that great hand that gave the Lash,
A doom too glorious for that cursed head,
And unproportion'd to the Life he lead,
But you are to a viler fate design'd,
To suffer by a vulgar hand like mine,
We'll tear your Vizard and unmask your shame,
And at each corner Gibbet up your name.
Expose you to the Scorn of all you meet,
As Dogs drag grinning Cats about the Street.
Under Usurping Noll you first began
To rear your Head and shew your self a Man;
Unpittying saw the Royal Party fall,
And Danc'd and Fiddled to the Funeral;
Disclaim'd their Interest and renounc'd their side,
And with the Independant straight comply'd;
Officious in their Service wrote for Hire;
A brisk Crowdero in the Factious Quire:
Your nimble Pen on all their Errands run;
The Horoscope still opens to the Sun.
There 'twas in those unhappy days,
You laid foundation for designed Praise;
By disrespect ignobly purchas'd shame,
And damn'd your Soul to scandalize your Name:
When Charles at length by Providence came in,
You fac'd about and quickly chang'd the Scene;
Turn'd to new Notes your mercenary strings,
Began to play Divinity of Kings:
Your former Master straightway is forgot,
Stil'd Villain, Rogue, Thief, Murderer, what not?
Such recompence he doth deserve to have,
Who for his Interest durst employ a Knave.
Now 'twas a time you thought to take your ease,
After such great Exploits perform'd as these:
Applauding to your self your own deserts,
You strait set up for a vain Ass of Parts;
Resolving that the Ladies too should know,
What other Tricks and Gambals you could do.
Was there a skipping Whore about the Town?
Or private Baudy-house to you unknown?
Here for a Stallion, there for a Pimp you went;
To do both Drudgeries alike content.
But Ill success you had with Madam C---k,
Whom in the Act her Husband took:
Strong Bastinado o're your shoulders laid,
Made you a while surcease that letcherous trade,
Till growing old in customary sin,
You with a Chaster Lady did begin,
Whom when you found she all Assaults refus'd,
And would not yield her self to be abus'd;
Down on your Knees you presently was laid,
And thus (O righteous Heaven) devoutly pray'd:
Since you disdain the kind request to grant,
Dear Madam let me lay my hand upon't.
This is the Man whose whole Discourse and tone,
Is Honour, Justice, Truth, Religion;
Was such a Godly Rascal ever known?
But now reform'd by indigence of Gold.
Your former wanton course grew slack and cold,
For 'twas at first indeed too hot to hold.
Now new expedients must employ your Brain,
And other Methods for advance of Gain;
Something contriv'd in private, touch'd the State,
Which made you timely think of a retreat;
Beyond Sea then the wretched Caitiff flies,
A guilty Conscience has Quick-sighted Eyes.
When you return'd, you fell to work amain,
And took up your old Scribling trade again;
Some sorry scandal on Fanaticks thrown,
And viler Canting upon Forty one;
You thought sufficient to oblige the Crown;
Then who but you, the World was all your own.
Now for the Church of England you declare,
A witty zealous Protestant appear;
Your secret spies and emissaries use
To pay for false Intelligence and News:
When nam'd in two Diurnals you dispence
Equally void of Reason, Truth, and Sense.
Guinea's now from every quarter came
To pay respect to your encreasing Fame,
While you at Sam's like a grave Doctor sate,
Teaching the Minor Clergy how to prate,
Who lickt your Spittle up and then came down,
And shed the nasty Drivel o're the Town.
Ay these were blessed times and happy days,
When all the World conspired to your praise:
He who refus'd and would no Token send,
Must be traduc'd as the Dissenters Friend:
And that your Greatness no regard might lack,
You got a Knighthood chopt upon your Back.
But something now has stopt that rapid stream,
And you have nothing more to say for them:
Your piercing Eye discovers from a far,
The glittering Glory of some further Star,
Which bids you pay your adoration there.
Inconstant Rover, whether do'st thou tend?
When will thy tedious Villanies have end?
Whither at last do'st thou intend to go?
Of which party wilt thou e'er prove true?
To Turk, or Pope, to Protestant or Jew?
Should I here all thy Villanies recount,
To what a mighty summ do they amount?
Thy solemn Protestations, Oaths and Lies,
Devices, Shams, Evasions, Perjuries,
My Paper to a Volumn would exceed,
Of greater bulk than Hollingshead and Speed.
For thou art now so scandalously known,
And so remarkable in Vice alone,
That every one can find a stone to throw
At such a snarling pimping Cur as thou.
But wretch! if still thou art not past all Grace,
And wholsome counsel can with thee find place;
If thou at last sincerely wouldst attone,
And expiate thy former mischiefs done,
Like dying Judas render back thy pelf,
Recant thy Books and then go hang thy self.

The Farewell.

The SCAMPERERS.

The Miracle;

How the Dutchess of Modena (being in Heaven) prayed the B. Virgin that the Queen might have a Son, and how our Lady sent the Angel Gabriel with her Smock; upon which the Queen was with Child.

DIALOGUE.

M.

J.

The Prophesie.

An Excellent new Ballad, call'd, the Prince of Darkness;

shewing how three Nations may be set on Fire by a Warming-Pan.

As I went by St. James's I heard a Bird sing,
Of certain, the Q. has a Boy in the Spring,
But one of the Chair-men did laugh and did say,
It was born over Night, & brought forth the next day;
This Bantling was heard at St. James's to squaul,
Which made the Q. make so much haste from White-H.
Peace, Peace, little Master, and hold up thy head,
Here's Money bid for thee, the true Mother said;
But no body knows from what Parish it came,
And that is the reason it has not a Name.
Good Catholicks all were afraid it was dying,
There was such abundance of sighing and crying;
VVhich is a good Token by which we may swear,
It is the Q---s own, and the Kingdoms right Heir.
Now if we should happen to have a true Lad,
From the Loins of so wholsom a Mother and Dad,
'Twere hard to determine which Blood were the best,
That of Southask, or the Bastard of Est;
But now we have cause for Thansgiving indeed,
There was no other way for mending the Breed.

A New SONG.

[Our History reckons some Kings of great fame]

A New SONG.

[In Rome there is a most fearful Rout]