The Works of Mr. Robert Gould :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Mr. Robert Gould

In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould]

Gould, Robert

VOLUME the FIRST. [POEMS].

VOLUME the SECOND. [SATYRS].

PROLOGUE To the following SATYRS.

To the Right Honourable CHARLES,

LOVE given Over:

THE POETESS,

To Sr. Fleetwood Sheppard, &c.

A SATYR AGAINST WOOING:

THE STEP-MOTHER,

A Glance at Fanaticism;

Mother Clark's Ghost,

THE MURMURERS, &c.

A SATYR AGAINST MAN.

TO The Right Honourable CHARLES,

THE PLAY-HOUSE

THE Corruption of the TIMES BY MONEY.

JACK PAVY,

THE SKETCH,

Pindarick Poems.

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2. VOLUME the SECOND. [SATYRS].

PROLOGUE To the following SATYRS.

To that Prodigious Height of Vice w'are grown,
Both in the Court, the Country, Camp and Town,
That 'tis of late believ'd, and fix'd a Rule,
Who ever is not Vitious is a Fool;
Hiss'd at by Old and Young, despis'd, opprest,
If he be not a Villain, like the rest:
Vertue and Truth are lost—search for Good Men,
Among ten Thousand you'll scarce meet with Ten;
But Fools and Knaves you ev'ry where may find,
Almost as universal as Mankind.
The other Sex, too, whom we all adore,
When search'd, we still find Rotten at the Core;
Their Love all false, their Vertue but a Name,
And nothing in 'em constant but their Shame.

What Saty'rist then can Honestly sit still,
And, unconcern'd, see such a Tide of Ill,
With an Impetuous Force o'erflow the Age,
And strive not to restrain it with his Rage?
On Sin's vast Army seize, Wing, Reer, and Van,
And, like Impartial Death, not spare a Man?
For where, alas! where is that Mighty He
From Lewdness, Pride, Deceit, and Envy Free?
What better Work can, then, employ our Thoughts
Than to expose their Follies and their Fau'ts;
And set before their Eyes a faithful Glass?
For who won't mend that sees he is an Ass?
And this Design 'tis that employs my Muse,
This for her Daily Theme she's proud to choose;
A Theme that she'll have daily Need to use.
Let other Poets scrape, and fawn and lye,
And eat the ill-got Bread of Flattery;
She yet cou'd ne'er cringe to a Lord for Meat,
Change Sides for Inte'rest, hug the City Cheat,
Nor Praise a Prosperous Villain, tho' he's Great:

Quite contrary her Practice shall appear;
Unbrib'd, Impartial, Pointed, and Severe:
That Way my Nature leans, compos'd of Gall;
I must write sharply, or not write at all.

Tho' Wl---r wings the Air in tow'ring Flights,
And, to a Wonder, Panegyrick writes;
Tho' all along he's Noble and Sublime,
Scarce to be match'd by past or present Time,
Yet what Instruction can from hence accrue?
'Tis Flatt'ry all, too fulsome to be true.
Urge not (for 'tis to Vindicate the Wrong)
It causes Emulation in the Young,
A Thirst to Fame, while some high Act they read,
That spurs 'em to the same Romantick Deed;
As if some pow'rful Magick lay in Rhimes
That made Men braver than at other Times;
'Tis false and fond;—Hero's may huff and Fight,
But who can Merit so as he can write?

To hold a Glow-Worm is the Morning Star,
And that it may with Ease be seen as far,
Were most Ridiculous, so wide from Truth,
It justly wou'd deserve a sharp Reproof.
That Wretch is more to blame, whose Hireling Pen
Calls Fools and Villains wise deserving Men;
Says that the Vitious are with Vertue grac'd,
Judges all Just, and all Court Ladies Chast.

If to be Prais'd does give a Man Pretence
To Glory, Honour, Honesty and Sense,
Cromwell had much to say in his Defence;
Who, tho' his Name does ev'ry Ill Comprize,
Has been extoll'd and lifted to the Skies:
While living (such was the Applause they gave)
Call'd Princely, Pious, Faithful, Wise, and Brave,
And with Encomiums waited to the Grave.
Who then wou'd give this—for a Poet's Praise?
Which, rightly understood, does but Debase,
And blast the Reputation it wou'd raise.

Hence 'tis (and 'tis a Punishment that's fit)
They are reproach'd and scorn'd by Men of Wit.
'Tis true, some Foplings nibble at their Praise,
And think it Great to grace the Front of Plays;
Tho' most to that Stupidity are grown,
They wave their Patron's Praise to write their own.
Yet they but seldom fail of their Rewards;
And, Faith, in that I cannot blame the Bards:
If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue,
If they love Flatt'ry let 'em pay for't too,
'Tis one sure Method to convince the Elves;
For Fools are the best Satyr on themselves.

In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend:
While in huge Volumes differing Sects contend,
And let their vain Disputes ne'er know an End,
They plunge us in those Snares we else shou'd shun;
As Tinkers make ten Holes in Mending One.
Our dearest Friends, too, tho' they know our Fau'ts,
For Pity or for Shame conceal their Thoughts;

While we, who find our Failings not forbid,
Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did.
'Tis Satyr, then, that is our truest Friend;
For none before they know their Fau'ts can mend:
That tells us boldly of our foulest Crimes,
Reproves Ill Manners, and reforms the Times.
How am I then to blame? When all I write
Is Honest Rage, not Prejudice or Spite?
Truth is my Aim, with Truth I shall impeach,
And I'll spare none that come within it's Reach.
On then, my Muse, the World before Thee lies,
And lash the Knaves and Fools that I despise.

To the Right Honourable CHARLES,

Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c.

My Lord,

The Widow's Mite cast to the Store
Was more than all, for she cou'd give no more;
The Rich, indeed, might daily Presents bring,
As flowing from an inexhausted Spring:
I say not so that you shou'd Partial be,
Or think this more because it came from me,
But just to tell, I am as Poor as She:
As Poor, I mean, in Sense, as She in Coin;
Nor is that Mite originally Mine:
'Tis true, a Mite is in it self but small,
But vast the Store that gives a Mite to all:
You are that Store, my Lord, whose boundless Mind,
In Judgment firm, in Fancy unconfin'd,
Distributes Rays of Sense to all Mankind:

With Piercing Wit the very Soul you Charm,
Instruct the Wise, and make ev'n Dullness warm!
It is but just then (as the Gods Inspire
Our Human Clay with this Celestial Fire,
Which, when the Lifeless Carcass finds a Grave,
Returns again to the same Pow'r that gave,)
I shou'd that little—All I have—restore;
But blush to think it is Improv'd no more.

I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's Faithful And most Humble Servant, R. GOULD.

LOVE given Over:

OR, A Satyr against Woman.

At length from Love's vile Slave'ry I am free,
And have regain'd my Ancient Liberty:
I've shook the Chains off which my Bondage wrought,
Am free as Air, and unconfin'd as Thought:
For faithless Silvia I no more adore,
Kneel at her Feet, and Pray in Vain no more:

No more my Verse her Beauties shall proclaim,
And with soft Praises Celebrate her Name.
Her Eyes their usual Lustre cease to bear,
At least, to me, there seems no Lustre there;
Her Frowns no more can cause, or Kindness cure Despair.
I've Banish'd Her for ever from my Breast,
Banish'd the Proud Invader of my Rest,
Banish'd the Tyrant Author of my Woes,
That robb'd my Soul of all it's Sweet Repose:
Not all her Treach'rous Arts, Bewitching Wiles,
Quick-heaving Sighs, or soft deluding Smiles,
Shall my Eternal Resolution move,
Or make me think, discourse, or dream of Love:
The Whining Curse I've rooted from my Mind,
And with it, all Regard of Womankind.
Come then, my Muse, and since th'Occasion's fair,
Against that Sex proclaim perpetual War,
Which may renew as still my Verse is read,
And Live when I am mingl'd with the Dead.

Woman!—Ye Pow'rs! The very Name's a Crime,
Not to be reach'd by Wit, or Spoke in Rhime!
The very Sound, like Pestilential Fumes,
Dispences Plagues and Woes where e'er it comes,
Infernal Clamours, fierce Domestick Jars,
With all the Influ'ence of Invet'rate Stars.
In vain their high Original they boast;
The true Records undoubtedly are lost.
Heav'n must it self (intranc'd) like Adam lie;
Or else some Banish'd Fiend usurp'd the Sky
When Eve was form'd, and with her Usher'd in,
To stock the World, another World of Sin.
The Fatal Rib was Crooked and uneven,
From whence they have their Crab-like Nature giv'n,
Inverting all the Laws of Man and Heav'n.

O Lucifer! Thy Regions had been thin,
Were't not for Woman's propagating Sin;
But for that Sex you might have Room to spare;
Now Crowding's not the smallest Torment there.
To quick Damnation ev'ry Path they know;
So truly Fond of Vanity and Show,
That ev'n to Hell they'll have Attendants too:
The Lame, Dismember'd, Noseless and the Blind,
Recover'd Fluxing, wait 'em close behind:
The Pox, their Usher, passing on before,
Gleans as it goes, and makes their Triumphs more.
In the Obscene and most envenom'd Parts,
The Paphian Boy of late dips all his Darts,
Exposing ev'ry Am'rous Ass to shame;
For Love and Pox are but a Common Name:
But these are Crimes the Sex will Venial call;—
Nay there is hardly one, among 'em all,
But Envies Eve the Glory of the Fall:
Be Cautious then, and Guard your Empire well,
Nor vain your Fear; for shou'd they once Rebell,
They'd surely raise a Civil-War in Hell,
Add to the Pains you feel, and make You know
W'are here above as curst as You below.

But here, since Woman's Lust I've chanc'd to Name,
Woman's unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim;
And prove our Modern Age has brought to view,
What Sodom, when at worst, had blush'd to do.
True I must grant you Rome's Imperial Whore
(More fam'd for Vice than all the Crowns she wore)
Into the Publick Stews disguis'd wou'd thrust,
To quench the Raging Fury of her Lust;
And by that Method bravely got her Name
Born up for ever on the Wings of Fame.
Yet this is Poor to what our Modern Age
Has hatch'd, brought forth, and Acted on the Stage;

Which for the Sex's Glory I'll rehearse;
And make it Deathless, as that makes my Verse.

Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown?)
Our late Illustrious Bewley? (true, she's gone
To answer for the Num'rous I'lls sh'as done;
For if there is no Hell for such as She
Heav'n is unjust—and that it cannot be.)
As Albion's Isle, fast seated in the Main,
Does the rough Billows raging force disdain,
Which tho' they highly threat, and loudly roar,
In vain attempt t'unfix the Rooted Shore,
That Millions of 'em breaks, and calls for Millions more;
So she, with Lust's Enthusiastick Rage;
Sustain'd at once the Lewdness of an Age,
Whole Legions did encounter, Legions tir'd,
Insatiate yet, still fresh Supplies desir'd.
Prodigious Bawd!—O may thy Mem'ory be
Abhor'd by all, as 'tis Abhor'd by Me!
Thou fore-most in the Race of Infamy!
But Bodies must decay; for, 'tis too sure.
There's Nothing from the Jaws of Time Secure.
Yet when she found she cou'd perform no more,
When all her Body was one Putrid Sore,
Studded with Pox and eating Ulcers o'er;
Ev'n then, by her delusive treach'rous Wiles,
For Woman 'tis that Woman best beguiles)
Sh' enrolled more Females in the List of Whore
Than all the Arts of Man cou'd ever do before.
Prest with the Pond'rous Guilt at length she fell,
And thro, the solid Centre sunk to Hell:
The Murm'uring Fiends all hover'd round about,
And with hoarse howls did the Great Bawd salute;
Amaz'd to see a sordid Lump of Clay
Stain'd with more bold and various Crimes than they:

Nor were her Torments less; for the dire Train
Soon sent her howling, thro' the rowling Flame,
To the sad Seat of Everlasting Pain.
Greswel and Stratford the same Footsteps tread;
In Sin's black Volume so profoundly read,
That, when so e'er they die, we well may fear
The very Tincture of the Crimes they bear
With strange Infusion will Inspire the Dust,
And in the Grave commit true Acts of Lust.

And now, if so much to the World's reveal'd,
Reflect on all the Sins that lie conceal'd:
How, oft into their Closets they retire,
Where Flaming D---do does inflame Desire,
And Gentle Lap---d---s feed the Am'rous Fire.
How curst is Man! When Brutes his Rivals prove,
Ev'n in the Sacred Business of his Love!
Unless Religion proper Thoughts instill,
Shew me the Woman that wou'd not be Ill,
If she, conveniently, cou'd have her Will?
And when the Mind's Corrupt, we all well know
The Actions it consents to must be so:
Their Guilt's as great, an Ill resolv'd to do:
As their's who Actually that Ill pursue:
Their Will to have it so their Crime assures;
Thus, if they durst, all Women wou'd be Whores.

Forgive me Modesty, if I have been,
In any thing I've mention'd here, obscene.
And yet, why shou'd I ask that Boon of Thee,
When 'tis a Doubt if such a thing there be?
For Woman, in whose Breast, Y'are said to Reign,
And shew the Glorious Conquests thou dost gain,
Renounce the Virtue, and but court the Name.
Sounds, tho' we can't perceive e'm, we may hear,
And wonder at their Echoing thro' the Air:

Thus, led by what delusive Fame imparts,
We think thy Throne's erected in their Hearts;
But w'are deceiv'd, as all our Fathers were,
For if thou Art at all, 'tis sure thou art not there.
Nothing in that black Mansion does reside,
But Spite, Contention, Luxury and Pride:
PRIDE is the Deity they all adore,
Hardly their own dear Selves they Cherish more:
Survey their very Looks you'll find it there;—
How can you miss it when 'tis ev'ry where?
Some thro' all hunted Nature's Secrets trace,
To fill the Furrows of a Wrinkl'd Face;
And after all their Toil (observe the Curse)
They've only made a Ruful Visage worse:
So some that wou'd have plated Mony pass,
Decrease the Silver, and betray the Brass.
Nay those that have the Blessing to be fair,
And know how Charming and admir'd they are;
Who one wou'd think Created so compleat,
They had no need of Artifice and Cheat.
Yet they, too, in Adulte'rate Washes share,
And wou'd, if possible, be more than Fair.
Deluded Woman! Tell me, where's the Gain
Of wasting Time upon a thing so vain?
Your Precious Time! (O to your Selves unkind!)
When 'tis uncertain Y'ave an Hour behind
That You can call your Own; for tho' y'are bright
As Summer's Sun, and mild as op'ning Light,
Adorn'd by Nature, and display'd by Art
In all the Glories that delude the Heart,
The Frowns of Age no Favourite Charm will save,
Nor all your Sweets Protect You from the Grave;
The Grave which favours not the Rich, or Fair;
Beauty with Beast lies undistinguisht there.

But hold—methinks I'm Interrupted here,
By some Vain Fop I neither Love, or Fear;
Who in these Words his Weakness does reveal,
Exposing Wounds he rather ought to heal.

Soft, Sir, methinks you too Inveterate grow,
And more Your Envy than Discretion show.
Who blames the Sun because He shines so bright
Our weak Perception dazles at the Sight,
When at the self-same time He cheers the Earth
With Genial Heat, and gives all Nature Birth?
How does the Winter look, that Naked Thing,
Compar'd with the Fresh Glories of the Spring?
Rivers adorn the Earth, the Fish the Seas,
The Smiling Flow'rs the Meads, and Fruit the Trees,
The Stars th'Æthereal Fields thro' which they ride;
And Woman all the Works of GOD beside!
Yet the Malicious Satyr won't allow
They shou'd adorn themselves:—Then pray, Sir, now
Produce some Reasons why Y' are so severe;
For, Envious as You are, You know they're Fair.

True, Sir, and Sodom's Apples heretofore
Were Beaute'ous too—But Rotten at the Core.
Nature we grant has all her Offspring Fair,
And well they all their Maker's Pow'r declare;
The Woods, the Hills and Dales their Echo's raise,
The Feather'd Quire to Him direct their Lays,
And Joyful Rivers run his Endless Praise!
But tho' they've held so many Ages on,
All their Inherent Worth is yet their Own.
Nothing but vain fantastick Woman's chang'd,
And quite from all her Native Truth estrang'd:
'Tis true She has the same Alluring Skin;
All Paradise without!—But Hell within.

Her talk of Vertue but a vain pretence,
Her Love a Trade, and Gain Her Innocence.
Nor is it but the Beauteous we deride,
Th'Unhandsom are as much the Slaves of Pride:
The Short, the Straight, the Crooked, Foul and Fair,
Have all Promiscuously an Equal Share:
Not to be vain, and Haughtily inclin'd,
In short, is not to be of Womankind.

But tho' so many of their Crimes are nam'd,
'Tis yet untold for which they most are fam'd;
A Sin, tall as the Pyramids of old,
From whose Aspiring Top we may behold
Enough to damn a World:—What shou'd it be
But (curse upon the Name!) Inconstancy?
O tell me does the World those Men contain
(For I have look't for such, but look't in vain,)
Who ne'er were drawn into that fatal Snare?
Fatal I call it, for He's curs'd that's there.
Inspir'd then by my Fellow Sufferer's Wrongs,
(And glad I am the Task to me belongs)
I'll bring the Fiend un-mask'd to Human Sight,
Tho' hid in the Black Womb of Deepest Night.
No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be
A Simile for their Inconstancie,
For that sometimes is fix't; but Woman's Mind
Is never fixt, or to one Point inclin'd.
Less fixt than wanton Swallows while they play
In the Sun-Beams to welcome in the Day,
Now Yonder, now they're here, as quickly there;
In no place long, and yet are ev'ry where.
Like Ships in Storms their Passions fall and rise;
One while You'd think they touch'd the very Skies,
When in a Moment they the Sands explore;
Lost to their View that stand upon the Shore

Ev'n Silvia, She her Self, the lov'd and Fair,
Whose one kind look cou'd save me from Despair,
Whose Smiles I valu'd at so vast a Rate,
To compass them I scorn'd the Frowns of Fate;
Ev'n She her Self—(But Ah! I'm loth to tell,
Or blame the Crimes of One I lov'd so well—
But it must out---) Ev'n She, swift as the Wind,
Swift as the Airy Motions of the Mind,
At once prov'd Faithless, Perjur'd and Unkind!
Here they to Day Invoke the Pow'rs above
As Witnesses to their Immortal Love,
When, lo! Away the gawdy Fantome flies,
And e'er it can be said to live, it dies.
Thus all Religious Vows and Oaths of late
They think no more than other Common Chat.

Nor is that sacred Idol Marriage free;
Marriage, which Musty Drones affirm to be
The Tye of Souls as well as Bodies,—Nay,
The Spring that does thro' secret Pipes convey
Fresh Sweets to Life, and drives the bitter Dregs away;
The Sacred Cloud, the Guardian Pile of Fire
That guides our Steps to Peace, nor does expire
Till it has left us Nothing to desire:
Ev'n thus adorn'd, the Idol is not free
From the swift Turns of their Inconstancy.
Witness th'Ephesian Matron;—She in whom,
As in a Mirror, thro' all Times to come
We see the Wives Resolve, and Husbands Doom:
To the sad Grave with her dead Spouse she went,
And clos'd Her Self up in his Monument;
Where on Cold Marble She lamenting lay;
In Groans She spent the Night, in Tears the Day,
And seem'd to have no use of Life but mourn it all away:

The wond'ring World cry'd up her faithful Mind,
Extoll'd her as the best of Womankiud!
But see the World's Mistake; and, with it, see
The strange Effects of wil'd Inconstancy!
For she her self, ev'n in that Sacred Room,
With one brisk Vig'rous onset was o'ercome,
And made a Brothel of her Husbands Tomb!
Whose pale Corps trembl'd in its Sacred Shrowd,
Wond'ring that Heav'n the Impious Act allow'd:
Horrow in Robes of Darkness stalk'd around,
And thro' th'affrighted Tomb did Groans resound:
The very Marbles wept; the Furies houl'd,
And in hoarse Murmurs; their amazement told!
All this shook not the Dictates of her Mind,
But with a Boldness, Natur'l to her Kind,
She made her Husbands Ghost (in Death a Slave)
Her Necessary Pimp ev'n in his Grave.
What need I fetch these Instances from old?
There now live Thousands both as bad and bold,
Of Noble Birth, Lascivious, Young and Fair;
But for their Husbands sakes their Names I spare.

Are these (Ye Pow'rs!) the Vertues of a Wife?
The Peace that Crowns a Matrimonial Life?
Is this the Sacred Prize for which we fight,
And hazard Life and Honour with Delight?
Balm of the Day, and Rapture of the Night!
The Reins that guide us in our wild Careers?
And the Supporter of our Feeble Years?
No! no! 'tis Contradiction; rather far
They are the Cause of all our Bosom War;
The bitter Source and Fountain of our Woe,
From whence Despair and Doubt for ever flow;
The Gall that mingles with our Prime Delight,
Rank to the Taste, and nauseous to the Sight;

A Days, the Weight of Care that Clogs his Breast,
At Night the Hag that robs Him of his Rest:
Our Mortal Sickness in the mid'st of Health,
Chains in our Freedom, Poverty in Wealth,
The Eternal Pestilence and Rack of Life,
Th'Original and Spring of all our Strife;
These Rather are the Vertues of a Clam'rous Wife.

Why was it, ye Immortal Pow'rs, Your Will
To mix our Grains of Good with such a Weight of Ill?
Or did You think our Crimes wou'd Soar so high
For Your Corrections handed from the Sky,
And so made them Your Vengeance to supply?
For not the wide destructive wast of War,
Nor yet the smarter Butchery of the Bar,
That Ruin to all Humankind contrives,
And murders more Estates than 'tother Lives;
Nay not the Plague when it does madliest Rage,
And half depopulates a Fruitful Age;
Nor any other Evil we can find
That pains the Body or distracts the Mind;
Not to old Age perpetual Loss of Health,
Nor yet that grinning Fiend Despair it self,
When it insults with most Tyrannick Sway,
Can teeze, or torture Man so much as They!
Urge it no more, they were Created Good,
'Twas not a Moment in that State she stood;
Swift as a Meteor glides thro' Air she fell,
And but for Heav'ns Surmounting Grace had doom'd us all to Hell.

Beware, then, vain and thoughtless Man beware,
Nor let Lascivious Women be the Snare
To make You the Companions of 'em there.
Think what it is in endless Flames to fry,
With Strumpets and their Devils Laughing by:

Think what the Pox, the Stone and Gout are here;
Afflictions scarce to be exceeded there.
Scorn their Vain Smiles; their Little Arts despise
And Peace of Mind, at such a Value prize,
As not to let those Rav'nous Thieves of Prey
Rifle, and bear the Sacred Guest away:
'Tis they that rob us of that Precious Gemm;
We cou'd not lose it were it not for them.
Avoid 'em then, with all the treachr'ous Arts
They daily Practice for Unguarded Hearts'
Avoid 'em as You wou'd avoid there Crimes,
Or they themselves, Hereafter, wou'd my Rhimes,
Design'd to lash 'em down thro' all succeeding Times.

And now shou'd any Coxcomb (for we may
Find yet too many that will own their Sway)
Shou'd such revile the wholsome Rules, I give,
And, in Contempt of what is taught 'em, live
Like base Soul'd Slaves, and Fetters chuse to were,
When they may be as unconfin'd as Air,
Or the Wing'd Racers that inhabit there:
May all the Plagues a Woman can invent
Pursue 'em with Eternal Punishment:
May they—but stay, my Curses I forestal,
For in that One is comprehended all.
But say, Sir, if some Pilot on the Main
Shou'd be so mad, so resolutely vain,
To steer his Vessel on that fatal Shore
Where he had seen ten thousand Wreck'd before!
Tho' he shou'd Perish there, say, wou'd you not
Bestow a Curse on the Notorious Sot?
Trust me, the Man's as much to blame as He,
That Ventures his frail Barque out, willfully,
On the Rough Rocky, Matrimonial Sea;
Selfish, his Heart is with vain Hopes possest,
For why shou'd He speed better than the rest?

THE POETESS,

A SATYR, Being a REPLY to SILVIA's Revenge.

------ Revenge at first, tho' sweet,
Bitter, e'er long, back on it Self recoils:

Mil. Par. Lost.

Why, foolish Woman, are You so Enrag'd
To see my Satyr and your Sex engag'd?
Can one poor Muse sustain so vast a Shock
As they can Frown, and Laugh, and Lye, and Look?
Ten Thousand Aids they to their Side can bring;
The Satyr only but employs Her Sting.
Nor did she Vertue ever yet molest,
But Praise it, Thriving; and Defend, Opprest.

Vice is her Sole Aversion, and 'tis there
Sh' has sworn, tho' ne'er so Mighty, not to Spare;
But Lash, without Distinction, Sex and Age,
While there's an Object left to whet her Rage:
And that, no doubt, there will forever be;—
At least, as long as We are plagu'd with Thee:
Thou ill Defender of a Cause as ill;
Revenge your Motive; and, the Guide, your Will.
Thy Fulsom Pen prepost'rous 'twas to foul,
Since it but shews the Blackness of your Soul;
Which now y'ave prov'd, by this Audacious Task,
Of the same Fiend-Complexion with your Mask:
Mark't for the Stygian Colony below,
It Here does Practice what 'tis There to Do:
All You have Writ does shew Y'are thence Inspir'd,
And only there can hope to be admir'd;
For Men detest Thee; nay, so far y'ave gone,
Y'ave pull'd the Womens Indignation on,
As in the Sequel shall at large be shown.

Of all your Sex, You are the most unfit
To vindicate their Chastity, or Wit:
Among the Rest some Sparks of Worth may shine,
And from their Bosoms dart a Gleam Divine;
But they for ever are Extinct in Thine:
In Thee the Sun of Vertue's Set, and lies
Eclips'd in loose Desires, no more to rise,
And with its Maiden Glories gild the Blushing Skies.
Ephelia! poor Ephelia! ragged Jilt,
And Sappho, famous for Her Gout and Guilt;
Either of those, tho' both debauch'd and vile,
Had answer'd me in a more Decent Stile:
Yet Hackney Writers, when their Verse did fail
To get'em Brandy, Bread and Cheese, and Ale,
Their Wants by Prostitution were supply'd;
Shew but a Tester, you might up and ride:

For Punk and Poetess agree so Pat,
You cannot well be This, and not be That.
Than thou, ev'n these had better Conduct shown,
Preserv'd their Sexes Fame, and half retriev'd their own.

Shew me one Page, of all the Angry Store,
Exempt from Terms like These;—Jilt, Strumpet, Whore,
Hag, Hot-House, Fluxing, Leach'ry, Emp'ricks Bills,
Claps, Cully, Keeper, Pox, and Pocky Pills;
Words that wou'd shock the Modest Matron's Ear,
And make her Blush to think a Female fixt 'em there.—
But what are those You Hag and Harlot Name?
Women! what the Destructive Bawd? The Same:
What Drabs and Maud'ling Gossips? Women still!
Yet Woman You'd defend from being ill.
Methinks I hear the Hebrew Nymphs again—
Thy Thousand Thou, and Thou hast Thousands Slain:
Tho' many Crimes I nam'd, I more conceal'd;
But, there's no counting those by Thee reveal'd!
Which tho' 'its Certain there's not One but True,
Were yet not Things to be disclos'd by You:
You on their Failings shou'd have drawn their Veils,
And not obscenely shewn their Cloven Feet and Tails:
Since complicated Vice in Man appears,
Enough to Exercise thy Rage for Years,
What need so lavishly Exposing Theirs?

Compar'd with Thee, I'm careful of their Fame;—
But sure, You only Scribble for a Name:
And since Y'are fond of it, Your Name shall live;
What You can't give your Self, perhaps, my Lines may give.
Above all former Shame You shall be sham'd,
Till Y'are at last so Infamously fam'd,
That Bawds, thro' all their Brass, shall blush to hear You Nam'd.

Wretched is She that dares to be thy Friend,
But far more Wretched whom You once Commend:
For tho' She might for Modest pass before,
Thy Praise wou'd Transubstantiate her to Whore.
Not One e'er pass'd thy Panegyrick Quill,
Describ'd as Good, but was extremely Ill.
For Proof; what is that Silvia you defend?
What but a Train of Guile without an End?
In Circulating Crimes she round does move,
Thinks Falshood, Prudence; and Her Lewdness, Love.
Expensive, Idle, Arrogant and Vain;
And ne'er had such a Bulk so little Brain:
Not She who in your Commendation writ,
(Whose Worth and Verse with Thine exactly fit,)
Has more of Garbage, or has less of Wit.

But here you'll ask me, by mistaken Rules—
What are the Men that fall in Love with Fools?
But pray Reflect,—When w'are of Cupid's Train
The Motion's just Eccentrick to the Brain:
Nature must Reason from her Seat remove:
If she'd Preside, and give the Reins to Love;
Who, while the Blood her Craving Itch supplies,
Deceives the Crafty, and Confounds the Wise.
Thus, made, by an Insulting Passion blind,
In Silvia's Form I cou'd all Sweetness find,
And all Perfection extant in her Mind.
But now the Am'rous Films are dropt away,
And I can Objects, as they are Survey,
A Thousand Ills I've in that Nymph descry'd,
Which Nothing but a Love like Mine cou'd hide.
Restless her Will, Licentious her Desire,
Now Chilling Ice, and now all flaming Fire.
Her Love so little to her Promise fixt,
That if this Hour is Heav'n, 'tis Hell the next.

Perjur'd from Head to Foot; so strangely foul,
She's blackn'd thoro' to the very Soul!—
Not but that Love, plac'd in a Gen'rous Mind,
With Truth adorn'd, and Chastity refin'd,
Is an Affection of Cœlestial kind;
For then no Guilt it does in Thought contract,
And but Regards the Issue not the Act.
Unlike is Silvia's;—to such Grossness giv'n,
No Thought affects her like a Turkish Heav'n;
Where Sixty Years, She says, must duly run.
Before one Act of dear Coition's done.
Such odious Crimes I Justly Reprehend;
So known a Jilt unjustly You defend:
It speaks Thee plainly to her Guilt a Twin,
In Sense as Shallow, and as deep in Sin,
And perhaps Deeper;—as the World may find
In that Part of Iambic yet behind.

In my most sullen and Invet'rate fit,
(As most of Anger still has least of wit,)
I ne'er said Maiden-Heads were Nothing yet:
Without a Blush thus far with Thee we'll Joyn,
They are meer Nothings all, if all like Thine:
How can you ward the Beaut'ous Sex's Blame
That thro' their Purity wou'd wound their Fame?
Virginity, that Angel State, wherein
Cou'd they but live, (almost) they wou'd live free from Sin
That Charm remov'd, what thoughtless Youth wou'd care,
(Meer Lust excepted) to approach the Fair?
Why are we fond? why Languish and adore
But to have something never had before?
To be the first that Crops the Virgin Flower,
Just in the Critical, and Blissful Hour
When the strong Watchful Guard resign their Pow'r;

No longer by her Ignorance kept in awe,
But side with Hymen's more Seraphic Law;
When in the Blushing Virgin's Kindling Eyes
We see a sort of Yielding Sweetness rise,
When pregnant with a Thousand Nameless Charms,
She dies away, and Sinks into your Arms;
Then Grasps, breaths short, her Glowing Eye-Balls rowl,
And a Convulsive Rapture seizes on Her Soul!
The Certainty they've been of that Possest,
Does make a Calm in ev'ry Husband's Breast;
It gives ev'n Marriage a delicious taste,
And is the Oyl that makes those Colours last.
Who ever tyes that Miserable Knot,
And thinking sure to find it, finds it not,
Words are too Poor to paint his more than Cursed Lot!
For she that let her Tail to hire before,
Has now a Specious Mask to gild the Whore:
But She that brings it to the Nuptial Bow'r,
She that preserves it Sacred to that Hour,
Has in her future Conduct double Pow'r;
For what in Maids Virginity we Name,
In Chast and Faithful Wives does ripen into Fame.

But Thou, accurst, and destin'd for our harm,
Cou'd never find the lucky Hour to charm:
Thou ne'er wert capable to give Delight,
All Lust your Love, as all Your Anger's Spite.
When you were Young, and for a Change might please
Some Fop that did not Fear the foul Disease,
We never heard of Thee in Lines like these;
Then 'twas Amintor, Strephon, Gentle Swain;
And Songs, (writ in a Melancholy Strain)
Made known thy want of Venus thro' the Plain.

Not all thy Prime so fortunate cou'd prove,
Among such Crowds, to give One Creature Love.
What now then when thy Borrow'd Charms have fail'd,
The Paint wash'd off, and all the Fiend unveil'd;
And not a Refuge left to drudge for Life,
(Now past a Bawd) but to Commence a Wife;
A Wife! If any Man so rash will be
To leap that Horrid Precipice for Thee:
That Husband's Fate in Wedlock's hard to guess,
Only thus far—that Hell's a Torment less.

Yet Man You curse; and Woman, his Delight,
He must not see by Day, nor touch by Night,
Why, cou'd You do Your Sex a Plaguier Spite?
Or yet your self? for ev'ry Eye may see
That Curse wou'd fall most heavily on Thee:
From Fifteen on to Fifty thou hast known
What Man was Carnally, nor lain alone
Without one, two, or more, but with Regret and Moan.
But well, You shew Y'are of th'Inconstant Kind,
Your Word a Riddle, and a Whirl your Mind:
For tho' but now so fast Your Clapper ran
To make Your Injur'd Sex abandon Man;
Yet next w'are blam'd, that can so Barbarous prove,
Drunk, to neglect the Great Affair of Love.
Her fulsom Itch is far from being gone,
That loves by Drunkards to be Belcht upon!
What Modest Dame, that had a Spouse so ill,
Wou'd not Implore her Stars to have him still?
This Beastly Animal's beneath our Curse;
But She that then can Fondle him, is worse,
Swine as he is, cou'd he your Appetite
But answer, you'd imbrace him with delight.
As Wine's Provocative You like it well,
But, as it Spoils Performance, hate it more than Hell;

So not meer Drink occasion'd this Disgust,
But as't un-nerves Desire, and baulks Expecting Lust.

Is this the Wife to all Enjoyment lost?
Is this the Female-Innocence You boast?
If this may pass for Vertue, Bawds are Chast;
Hags, grim as Death, are with all Sweetness grac'd;
Beauty, not vain; a thrice-flux'd Actress, just;
And Monarchs shining Strumpets free from Pride and Lust.

But Thou, who in a loose and frontless Strain,
Vertue, and Vertuous Women dost Profane,
Blush first, then hear thy Injur'd Sex complain.
For one, in Rage, is singl'd from the Throng,
In Shape an Angel; and her Heav'nly Tongue,
Her Speech to Thee directed, thus redeems Their Wrong.

Shame of our Sex! What Rage inflames thy Breast?
Or for Inspir'd, have you mistook Possest?
In Maiden Verse, there shou'd no Words be seen
But what reveals the Innocence within.
Of things Ridiculous, I dare maintain
Nothing's so senseless, frivolous and vain,
As thinking all our Fau'ts in Publick shown
When not a Line, but what unveils your own.
A thousand Times be Harlots call'd Obscene,
It no Reproach can to the Vert'ous mean:
Nor does Adult'rous Wife reflect on me,
While I walk Hand in Hand with Modesty;
But she that does resent it, that Ill Wife is She.
The Tender Place will quickly tell 'tis bare;
For if we shrink, the Satyr Lances there:
And this may be laid down a Standard Rule,
Relate to whom it will; Punk, Pimp, or Fool.

What Credit can to thy Defence accrue,
But that his Satyr sat too close on You,
And like Strait Stays made You unlace for Air?
As Pounds imply what brought the Cattle there:
Sated with Lawfull Grass they leap't the Bound:
O never let us quit that Fertile Ground
Where Vert'ous Herbage Springs, and Honour rais'd the Mound.
His Hate of Falshood, not his Love of spite,
Ground his Inveterate Spleen, and bid him Write:
A Perjur'd Nymph depriv'd him of his Rest;
When Her, and all like Her he banish'd from his Breast.
Who dare Accuse Him for so just a Deed,
To save the Corn by Rooting out the Weed?
That Worth's his Care is plainly understood,
For pulling down the Ill must raise the Good.
Yet if You were Resolv'd to write to show
Your Parts, (which don't distinguish Friend from Foe,)
Why was it Rhime? (But Rage all Sense devours)
That scandal to their Sex, and worse to Ours.
'Tis not as formerly, when 'twas the Use
For Verse t'Instruct, as now 'tis to Traduce;
As from your own Example can you plead excuse?
Remember how the Chast Orinda Wrote,
With all the Grace and Modesty of Thought?
Rapt we all stood, nor knew which to prefer,
Whether to read her Verse, or gaze on Her:
Thro' all her works apparently does shine
A Spark that shews her Nature was Divine;
While only Spite and Fury Actuate thine.
Our Female Poesie is chang'd since then;
For Songs Obscene fit not a Woman's Pen:
Nor Satyr is our Province; let 'em throw
Their Darts, while we are Chast we ward the Blow.

O! let us not be Snakes beneath the Flower.
Nor Ill because we know it in our Power;
But keep in thought the last, the scrutinizing Hour:
For after Death a strict Account Succeeds;
Our Idle Thoughts are Punisht with our Evil Deeds.
Then thou dost talk of Love at such a Rate
As drawn by Thee, 'tis what we ought to Hate,
A freakish, Hair-Brain'd, Bess of Bedlam State.
Love, the Soft Seal, by which alone we find
Something of Angel stamp't on Human-kind;
While we, like Wax, to the Impression bow,
And find our Souls are One, we know not how
And, like Translated Saints, Ascending flee,
Rapt up to a Third Heav'n of Extasie.
This is the Fate that Constancy does prove;
And such is always the Reward of Purity in Love.
But in thy Numbers 'tis a Lapland Witch
Sailing thro' Air, astride, upon a Switch,
Mumbling of Wicked, but successless Spells,
And tho' You fail to hurt, it still your Envy tells.
In short, both thine and Ariadne's Rage
Only a General Ruin can Asswage:
Both Good and Bad, at once, must blended go,
And the whole Race be ended at a Blow;
And all your Reason,—You wou'd have it so.
What worst of Furies, (cou'd they have their Will)
Wou'd talk so boldly, and Design so Ill?
Forbear thy Scribling Itch, and Write no more;
When You began 'twas time to give it o'er:
What has this Age produc'd from Female Pens
But an Obsceneness that out-strides the Men's?
Succeeding Times will see the Diff'rence plain,
And wonder at a Style so loose and vain;
And what shou'd make the Women rise so high
In Love of Vice, and scorn of Modesty.

For why are You concern'd a common Whore
Shou'd be turn'd off; and Providence once more
Her Senseless Cully, to his Wits restore?
Of Cashier'd Punks so feelingly You speak,
You have been serv'd, sure, some such Slipp'ry Trick;
And so by Sad Experience (as You sing)
Know but too much of it;—a Barb'rous Thing!
Your Language all along is Loose and Vile,
We see your want of Manners in your Stile.
Your Words Outrag'ous, but their Meaning weak,
And writ with the same Caution Bullies speak.
Coherence their is none; thy Genius warms
No more than now thy Face, at Fifty, Charms.
To all a Nusance, to Your self a Plague;
And but a step between Thee and a Toothless Hag—
But I forbear Thee; and may He forbear
You write against, and not be too severe:
If such Scurrility you long pursue,
No Creature e'er will be so Maul'd as you:
Your Fau'ts and Follies He'll to all make plain;
And in his bold, Satyrick, angry Vein,
Set a worse Mark on Thee than GOD on Cain.
But may He spare Thee—Here she wou'd give o'er:
And I will spare Thee;—for a Whore's a Whore.

To Sr. Fleetwood Sheppard, &c.

While the vain Fop his vainer Mistress sues,
Growing more Slavish as he longer Wo's,
(For she but flies because the Sot pursues)
You, Sir, a safer, nobler Way have ran,
For an ill Age a general Good began,
And shewn the Ways of Liberty to Man.
Unpitied let the Husband mourn his Strife,
That Wo's, and Lyes, and Labours for a Wife.
Mean while to you our Praise we justly pay,
Whom Woman's utmost Art cou'd ne'er betray,
Or all her Charms seduce to quit your Native Sway.
Learning and Prudence rais'd you safe above
The Snares of Wedlock, and the Smiles of Love;
In their Embrace a nobler Prize you sought,
And to their Empire lasting Conquests brought.
'Twas strange to be the Foe of Love so Young.
But stranger to retain the Bent so long.
Nor Heat of Youth, nor yet your Elder Years
(For many a Man is fonder as he wears)
Cou'd ever plunge you in that Sea of Cares.

Constant to Peace, you still avoided Strife,
The Rocks, the Shelves and Quick-sands of a Wife,
That Wak'ner of Despair, and Scourge of Life!
'Twas not because you never saw the Flame;
In Crowds of Beauties you were still the same,
And, looking back, despis'd the following Game:
Thus, flying, you the beauteous Victors beat,
And Parthian like, secur'd the Conquest by Retreat:
Disarm'd of all their Darts, the Fantoms fled,
By your persisting Sense their Pow'r struck dead,
And Wit and Friendship govern'd in their stead.
Friendship! Heav'ns holiest Tye and Balm of Life!
And Wit! that never cou'd consist with Strife.
How are we pleas'd at ev'ry Word you speak!
How do we glow to see the Lightning break!
Inevitable Mirth our Grief controuls,
Shines thro' the Sullen Gloom, and warms our Souls!
Sadness it self does in thy Presence wear
A Pleasing Look, and Poets lose their Care.
There's not a Soul can stir while thou dost stay!
To ev'ry Mind you Life and Light convey,
Just as where e'er the Sun arrives 'tis Day!

Why shou'd not Wit, a Blessing so sublime,
As it from Love, secure thee too from Time?
It will not be!—The Body falls of Course;
But thy Immortal Name's above his Force,

R. G.

A SATYR AGAINST WOOING:

With a View of the Ill Consequences that attend it.

True Love (if yet there such a thing can be)
Is where two Persons mutually agree;
And marry next (to root out all Debate)
Without a Thought of Portion, or Estate:
Then both alike, with cheerful Labour, strive
By Honesty and Industry to Live,
Alike contented, if they're poor, or thrive.
Thus Living Happily and Dying Late,
They scarce find Heav'n a more Exalted State.

But O! Th'Arabian Phœnix is less rare
Than such a happy, such a wond'rous Pair!
Not in an Age a Mutual Couple shown;
And 'tis as certain that the Fault's our own.

We Sigh and Weep, with Hopes and Fears perplex
Our selves, and Deify a faithless Sex.
As Butchers blow their Veal and taint their Ware,
Praise does to Woman what the Breath does there.

Scarce has the Foppling Sixteen Summers seen,
The Down but Just appearing on his Chin,
But he a Tingling in his Blood does find,
And thinks he's fit to propagate his Kind;
And were that all, he shou'd not have our Blame,
Since every other Brute pursues the same:
Enjoy'd, at once they lose their Lust and Strife;
But he more thoughtless, pushes at a Wife,
And thinks Desire will only end with Life.

But e'er he can effect his mad Design,
And in th'unquiet Clam'rous Union Joyn,
The two old Fathers, very gravely, meet
T'adjust the Young ones shaking of the Sheet:
Th'Hereditary Mannor House and Grounds
The Joynture, and in lieu Five thousand Pounds.
What's this but just like Tradesmen bart'ring Ware?
Or cheating Jockeys in a Smith-field Fair,
And even Chop between the Horse and Mare?

The Match thus made up, (thoughtless of th'Event,)
The Noddy's next to get the Nymph's Consent;
In order to't he Powders and Perfumes,
And, three long Hours in Dressing spent, presumes
At last before the Idol to appear,
Bowing, as if the Deity were there:
Not more cou'd be the Rapture had she been
A bright, and just descended Cherubin.
But now the speaking Faculty does seize
The Ass, that breaks out smooth in Words like these.

Madam—What shall I say? or how impart
In Language that may make you feel the Smart,
The mighty Anguish of my bleeding Heart?
Wounded by You, nor able to endure
The raging Pain, I humbly Kneel for Cure.
O let thy Looks thy future Love Declare,
As bright Aurora does a Day that's Fair.
Do not, Ah! do not, in a dismal Cloud
Of gloomy Scorn thy Smiling Mercy Shroud!
But let those Eyes, that can the Sun Controul,
Shine with Enliv'ning Warmth upon my Soul,
And an undone, despairing Lover save,
Whose utmost Glory is to dye your Slave.

O Sot! that knows not Wedlock is a more
Incessant Toyl than tugging at the Ore,
The Joy of which he Dreams to stand possest
A Bed-fellow that ne'er will let him rest;
In fatal Kindness draining of his Strength,
Or Curtain Lectures, fatal for their Length;
Knows all his secret Crimes, his Folly hears,
Lessens his Hopes, and does encrease his Fears,
And Studies how to Plague him forty Years.

Had not a blunt Address been rather fit?
And, at that Juncture, better shew'd his Wit?
Madam (tho' 'tis a Truth that's something bold)
We here are by our Parents bought and sold:
Tho' they are Craz'd, pray let not us be Mad,
But make the best of what will else be Bad:
They've yoak't us, let us go an equal Pace,
'Tis walking Hand in Hand that wins this Race.
Tho' yet of Love we may but little know,
If after Marriage we can Loving grow,
We shall be the first Pair that e'er did so.

But to return—the Fop's Oration 'ore
(To many a Meaner Drab addrest before)
He little thinks what Torment will succeed;
That he so soon shall be a Slave indeed:
That all the Joys and Innocence of Life
Fly their Invet'rate Opposite—a Wife:
That Friendship, Wine and Wit, like Truth to Sin,
All hurry out as Marriage enters in.

Well, but the Lady proud of the Applause,
Her Mouth into a squeamish Posture draws,
And cries, Ah Sir! y'ave learnt the Courtier's Art
To speak fine Words, but distant from your Heart:
These Compliments were better said before
Some Fairer Object, that cou'd charm you more.

O Madam! He Replies, you are unjust,
Can you inevitable Charms distrust?
With Eyes that Languish and with Conquer'd Hearts
We own your Pow'r, your Raptures, Flames and Darts:
Charm more than You? O touch not that extreme!
What Goddess does her own Divinity Blaspheme?

Thus does the Coxcomb entertain the Fair;
Who, at the same time, is so pleas'd to hear,
That she forgets she is to be a Bride,
And loses all her Leach'ry in her Pride.

Impossible a Man shou'd keep up to
That warm Discourse in which he first did Woo:
It can't be always Angel, Love and Dear!
Celestial! Orient Eyes! and Matchless Fair!
These failing, Wedlock grows a thing accurst;
A Wife expects it still as 'twas at first.

Here sinks on Florid Fop—And in his Train,
To the same Snare, comes on the Rhiming Swain;
The Sot that Writes, and is an Ass by Rule,
The Cælia, Silvia, Chloris, Phillis Fool:
Song is his Meat, his Drink, his Mistress too,
For 'tis to shew his Wit that makes him Woo;
Tho' there are better Ways that Gift to prove,
Than wasting time in Courtship, Noise and Love.
No new Collection can of Verse appear,
No Farce, no Comedy thro' all the Year,
But you'll be sure to meet our Coxcomb there:
Proud to his senseless Songs to Print his Name,
And thinks his Whining, Love; and Scribling, Fame.

This bad, and yet that other Songster's worse,
Whose Madrigals flow only from his Purse;
So much for Making he at first bestows,
For Setting next the second Guinea goes;
The singing Master sharps another Spill;
Ah! Sir, he gargling cries,—That Note must kill!
At Midnight he for Serenade prepares,
As if (alike disturbing sickly Ears)
He must ring his Chimes when the Bells go theirs.
In vain this Cost and Toil; for still 'tis found
There's nearer Ways to Wood than going round:
Some Brawny Groom, as thus the Fop hums on,
Has leave to Mount, and the Love-suit is done.
Thus to the Fool the Filly's ready broke,
The Clown her Pleasure, and the Fop her Cloak.

But granting that there were a Nymph so choice,
That lik't her Lover purely for his Voice;
Ev'n granting that, 'twill not be very long
E'er she'll like Something better than a Song.
A Common Singer on the Stage has there
Where Voice will do, th'Advantage of a Peer:

Or tho', by chance, his Lordship led the Way,
What one Fool has possest, all others may.

Next to this Wooer, we the Slave may place
With the sad watry Eyes, and Rueful Face,
That sighs out all his Hours and in the Groves,
Carves on the Beeches his unprosp'rous Loves.
Sot! only fit to make his Court to Trees,
That hopes a Cure, yet tells not his Disease.
If she appears he shakes, a Deathlike Pale
Sits on his Visage—but the mournful Tale
Some Friend, at last, to the lov'd Lady bears,
And with the tender Accents wounds her Ears:
She Melts and now the Joy he wish't is come;
Won without Words, she's born in Triumph home—
Happy! if he wou'd still continue Dumb,
And pray the Pow'rs to take his Hearing too:
And save him from the Clamour to ensue.

If by his Cowardice this gets Success,
The Bully, you may Judge, expects no less:
Mad to enjoy, he ventures Life and Limb,
As if the Nymph were only made for him;
And Marriage were not binding, just, or good,
Unless he cut his Way to it thro' Blood.
Thus the first Hour we loving Fops commence,
Away goes Christianity and Sense.
A Father's Precepts lose their pious Force,
For Counsel makes a hardn'd Blockhead worse.
Still he fights on, and the most Common Drab
He meets with, Courts with Duel and with Stab:
So that at last (from Justice fled for fear)
His Lot does with this double Choice appear,
To starve abroad, or to be truss'd up here.

Vain Man! Is this our Boast of being brave?
Is this the Prudence above Beasts we have?
They tear and gore, and will no Rival bear
In Rutting time,—Our Rutt holds all the Year;
Condemn'd to Drudge in those unfathom'd Mines,
And fonder grow the swifter Life declines.

This brings me to the stale gray Fop in Years,
That daily at the Park and Play appears,
The Scandal and Disgrace of Silver Hairs:
The Ladies Hearts with Perfumes t'engage
Aping in vain the Youthful Lover's Rage,
For Women know too well the Wants of Sapless Age.
'Tis true, some Men t'a Vig'rous Age arrive,
But it is then too late to Woo and Wive.
Who'd shake the Sands when there's so few to run?
And clap on Leeches when the Blood is gone?
Yet e'en in Impotence they're still the same,
And hold the Cards tho' they can't play the Game;
When Nature does in Opposition strive,
And the last rak't up Ember's scarce alive.

With this weak Wretch we may the lean one join
Who (choosing Food that Steels him in the Chine)
Feeds for a Mistress like a fatting Swine
A Starv'ling just before of Meagre Face,
But he crams on and will be brought in Case.
Wisely he lays his Fund for Pleasure in,
He need not fear the being drain'd again.
This Fop of all Fops Ladies most shou'd prize,
Light of their Steps, and Jewel of their Eyes!
Famous as Spouse that all the Gravy Sips,
And like Laborious Bees he lades his Hips;
Tho' he that Eats that way t'encrease his Gust,
Is but a Limbeck for a Woman's Lust.

But what can that Notorious Coxcomb say
That, for a Wife, dissolves his Fat away?
If he so pank't to strike a heat before,
The loss of Spirits will unbreath him more.
The first has some Pretence for feeding high;
The more this wast, the less he'll satisfy:
Or with his Strength shou'd he not lose Desire,
Yet Weakness will not do what she'll require.
Fool! at her Lover's Corpulence to frown,
When she her Self so soon cou'd melt him down,
And all the Pleasure of the Change her own.
But to please her, tho' he was Horse-man's Weight
Full fifteen Stone, he brings himself to Eight;
And thinking this Way to get more in Breath,
Gets a Consumption first, and next his Death:
Happier in that, howe'er, than longest Life,
With all his former Garbage and a Wife.

But the proud Lover now 'tis time to name,
He that beyond his Fortune takes him Aim;
Scorns with Two Thousand Pound the Country Girl,
And all less than the Daughter of an Earl:
There he Addresses, Masks and Balls are made,
But finds 'em all too little to perswade.
Slighting his Love, and Haughty as she's Fair,
What can the Coxcomb do but next Despair?
And where that is the Cause, we know th'Effect
Is Madness—Pride cou'd never bear Neglect.
Hanging, or Poys'ning he does now intend,
Nor does indeed deserve a better end.
If a rich Consort was so much his Care,
Why must she be descended from a P---r?
The greatest Fortunes are not met with there:
Why rak't he not among the City Heirs?
Whence most of our Nobility have theirs;

And by the ill got Portions Spend-thrifts made,
Down to the same Degree their Line degrade,
From Trades-men sprung, and Prentic'd to a Trade.

As mad as this is he to Learning Bred,
That thinks to gain a Mistress by his Head;
When any Block-head sooner shall prevail
The Scorns that Aid, and Courts her with his Tail.
What need of using all the Liberal Arts,
So well receiv'd with our own Natural Parts?
The Fools in Verse enough themselves expose,
Yet are exceeded by this Fool in Prose.
His Love's the very Bird-lime of his Brain,
And pulls some Part away with every Strain.
Wou'd but my Lady's tawdry Woman show
The Billets sh' has receiv'd from Chaplain Beau;
(Who, with his fair Wig, and fine Cambrick Band,
Thinks all the Ladies are at his Command,)
Wou'd she, I say, but deign to let you see
This Rhetorician in his Gaiety,
In all his Tropes and Figures, and the rest
Of those hard Terms in which his Passion's drest;
You'd swear a Woman by such Courtship won,
Wou'd not deny th'Address of a Baboon,
Whose Chatt'ring she wou'd understand as soon.
Beyond her knowledge all her Stile does run,
And if he wins her he's beyond his own;
More dull the deeper in her Books he gets,
That study where the wisest lose their Wits.

But now comes one who (disregarded here)
Flies to the Sea to quench his Passion there;
And does expect from the more faithful Main
A milder Fate than from her cold Disdain:
Farewell, he cries; when of my Death you hear,
In kindness let there fall one pitying Tear;

My Ghost will then to the Elizian Grove
Fly pleas'd, else haunt you for neglected Love;
Away he goes; the Winds, the Rocks, the Sand
Less cruel thinks than her he left at Land:
So far he's well:—but e'er his Travail ends,
To Vex her, he his Patrimony spends.
In France, or Rome, at last his Heart he frees,
His Passion loses, and gets their Disease,
The main Commodity of either Nation,
Here a False Faith, and there a Salivation.
Vain Fool! for such Relief so far to Roam!
He might as well have met that Cure at Home:
Here Quacks in Surgery and Religion too
Abound, which elder Britain never knew;
Produc'd in ev'ry Corner of our Isle,
As Heat does Monsters from the slime of Nile.
Return'd, some second Fair do's now delight;
Proud of the Chance, to his old Mistress sight
He brings the New, and Marries then in Spight.
Exults, and Triumphs in his happy Fate:—
—A Wife, the Pox, and not a Groat Estate.

This Slave's attended by a Wretch as bad,
Who by his Itch of Pleasure is Betray'd:
Woo's for Enjoyment only, and Succeeds;
(For little Courtship that Intention needs)
And, tho' the Mark is what all Coxcombs hit,
He from that Minute dates himself a Wit:
Glories that he the subtle Bait has took
Without the Fate of Hanging on the Hook.
Not Dreaming, Ideot, tho' one Danger's o'er,
He yet is nearer Ruine than before.
For from Enjoyment she has took her Cue,
Do's Kneel, and Pray, and Swoon, and Weep and Wooe;
Since y'ave the Jewel take the Casket too,

She cries, Ah! Can you throw her from your Arms
Whose only Crime was yielding to your Charms?
So sweet you look't, so Passionately swore,
I lost my Breath and could resist no more!
If by such Words he's not prevail'd to stay,
Again she Kneels, again she Dies away.
Thus Night and Day his Privacies she'll haunt,
And make him swear anew to every Grant:
Plies him so hard he's forc'd at last to Yield,
For if he Pities her, he's lost the Field.
Whose Drab a Man may Marry is unknown,
The fatal Proofs of that are daily shown;
But of all Whores I least should wed my own.

In this loose Train the Widower to behold,
Will scarce obtain Belief when it is told:
By his good Fate, and Providence's Care
Freed from the Yoke, who wou'd not now beware?
Sav'd from a Wrack and safely put on Shore,
A thinking Man wou'd trust the Rocks no more.
But Mariners, you'll say must go to Sea,
And there's for Wedlock more Necessity:
Posterity must last, and Bread be had—
And can't this be without my being Mad?
If Trades-men for the meer Support of Life,
Willing to suffer Discontent and Strife,
Let (as their Consorts are cut off and Die)
Another Hydra's Head the Place supply,
What then? Must he that has a large Estate,
And Children too that for Advancement wait,
Adore and be at the same Amorous Pass
As when, at Twenty, he Commenc'd an Ass?
Bring a Step-Mother to his Elder Brood
(A sort of Creature always Poor and Lewd)
And, gratifying her, no Right preserve?
Her's have th'Estate, his former Children starve?

Whoring is bad, it's Consequences worse,
But such a Marriage is the heavier Curse.

But these not all, there's yet one Fool t'appear,
Strutting like a Lieutenant in the Rear:
The witty Fop, I mean that Woo's in jest,
Conceives he's safe, and laughs at all the rest:
Courts all, and all alike; and who believes,
Born to be false, he certainly deceives.
No Marriage comes within his lewd Intent,
Yet talks as if he only Marriage meant.
A Thousand Oaths of Constancy does Swear,
And will be ever tampering with the Snare.
Playing with Love, but makes the Snake grow warm,
And there's a Time we can't avoid the Charm.
His Weakness, or Neglect he'll surely show,
That always will be parlying with the Foe.
Examine all the Annals ever Writ,
You'll still find Woman was too hard for Wit.
As when on Ship-board (as the Tale does run)
The famous Monkey, playing with the Gun,
Upon, now under, and now in wou'd go,
And this so oft repeated by the Beau,
That off went Wisdom, and the Bullet too.
Or as a Moth that round the Taper plays,
Now here, now there it's Mealy Wings displays,
Till bold at length, mistaking Fire for Light,
He meets with Ruine where he sought Delight.
Just so our crafty Coxcomb round the edge
Of Wedlock wantons, till the slippery Sedge
Upon the Bank gives way, and lets him in—
Laugh! Hymen laugh! And let the Satyr grin!

By this time I foresee Objections rise;
A thankless Task the bidding Fools be wise,

What Man, they'll say, can stand upon his Guard
For ever? Such a Watchfulness were hard.
Beside 'tis Nature's powerful Call; nor can
That Sex be seen without Desire by Man.
Not all our Courage, Wisdom, Power, or Art,
Can bring Relief where Love has fixt his Dart.
Ev'n mighty Jove that cou'd the Lightning tame,
Melted himself before this Brighter Flame.
Look but on Woman (for w'are bid increase)
And what hard Heart wou'd have Coition cease?
Angels at first, then Man was form'd by Heaven,
And to 'em both Transcendent Graces giv'n:
The first Created Pure to wing the Skies,
Where Beatifick Visions feed their Eyes.
The last, the Lord of this Creation made,
With such a Look as all the Creatures aw'd.
But in that Sex we Man and Angel find,
In one Compendium both their Graces joyn'd,
Of human half, half of Celestial kind.
In them both Heav'n and Earth at once Unite;
Fram'd fit for Love, and molded for Delight!
Delights that cannot! Shou'd not be exprest!—
O let us pause a while—and wish the rest!

Hold! hold I cry! Or else 'tis mortal War,
Stretch not your bold Hyperbole's too far:
Tho' all in Heav'ns Design at first was good,
It must be with Restriction understood.
Believe not we'd have Propagation cease,
But carry'd on with Innocence and Peace.
And Men of Sense exempted from the Rules
Of wedding Misery, and begetting Fools.
Paul's wishing all like him does make it plain
Those Men that please may single Life retain:
His Words no other Sense but this can bear,
Be free from Woman and y'are free from Care.

'Tis true, we own they were by Nature meant,
A Blessing to us, form'd for our Content;
Made in Prosperity our Joys to share,
And in our Wants to mollify our Care;
Not order'd to command us, but obey,
And are to follow, not to lead the Way:
But we pervert that End, and, born to Rule,
Meanly degenerate into Slave and Fool;
Wast on their gawdy Trappings all our Store,
Then fall down to the Idol and adore.
Hence to so vast a pitch her Pride does rise,
All that deny her Homage she'll despise:
Kind neither to Desert, or Wit, or Wealth;
But hugs the Fool where she can see her Self.
The Mirrour that returns her Image true,
Where, by Reflection, she may have a View
Of something always vain, and always new.
With empty Sound and outward Gesture won,
But bait the Hook with Fool the Work is done.
Fool is their Food, their only dear Delight,
Their daily longing, and their drudge at Night.
The Man of Sense (tho' Marriage he may hate)
Wou'd in his Line continue his Estate;
Ev'n he too, if he wou'd successful prove,
Must Ape the Fool, and seem the thing they Love:
Tho' h'has enjoy'd her he must still adore,
Tho' Master be as servile as before,
Or, chast as Ice, she'll Marry'd turn a Whore.

Well then, you'll say, why all this Discontent?
You do but rail at what You can't prevent.
'Twas never known but Fools were num'rous still,
Wedlock a Snare, and Wives perversly ill.
What Remedy can you to Man propose
That he may not by Love, or Marriage lose?

Cou'd that be done in Vain you wou'd not Write,
Nor Envy say 'twas Prejudice and Spite.

I answer, If Men will their Vice retain,
And, when Convicted, let their Follies Reign;
Ev'n Juvenal himself had writ in vain:
In vain as far as it relates to them
That will not mend, but not in vain to him.
For tho' we can't of Reformation boast
Our well meant Labours are not wholly lost,
Virtue rewards its self; and he that wou'd
Convert the Vitious, then confirms the Good.
But to come closer to you:—Wou'd we use
That Aid we have, and not our Wills abuse,
A Thousand ready Helps before us stand,
Which the most Stupid Idiot might command.
What Man is there that can't forbear to Cringe?
And hang his Hope upon that slender Hinge?
Who need protest a painted Drab's Divine,
When she is daub'd more coursly than a Sign?
Who need at Womens Scorn or Coldness pine,
That may relieve himself with Friends and Wine.
Who'd tear and rave, and think his Fortune ill
Because one won't, when there's so many will?
Why are Rich Presents squander'd every Day?
W' are not oblig'd to throw Estates away.
Why Swearing? And of Lyes a num'rous Rout?
Vertue wou'd think as well of us without.
Superiour we; suppose we equal were,
Why all that Adoration? Standing bare?
Watching their Eyes? And placing (to our Cost)
That Heav'n in them by whom our Heav'n was lost?
May not all these, and num'rous Follies more
(Too shameful here to mention) be forbore?
Convicted thus, ev'n you must give your Voice,
That all our Coxcombs Miseries are his Choice.

Then the Adventurer who wou'd happy be
In Wedlock, must Precepts learn of me.
First, where he likes he must for Marriage sue,
Be true himself, and always think her so.
No Jealousy of Rivals must appear,
For she'll be false if you her falshood fear.
Nor while you Woo be still protesting Love;
Large Promisers the worst Performers prove.
Then after Wedlock, ne'er be heard contend,
Happy! If you can make your Wife your Friend!
Devour her not at once; but so enjoy
As not to feed too sparingly, or Cloy.
By dext'rous Management, you still must shew
Her Good results from her Delight in you.
Give her full Freedom; too severe Restraint
Estranges Love, and makes Affection faint.
Let her wear what she will; your Happiness
Lies in your being easy, not her Dress.
No Sullenness must in your Looks be worn,
And all her Pets must patiently be born,
For y'are her Cuckold if y'are once her Scorn.
If all this keeps her not to Vertue fast,
Conclude no Woman ever yet was Chast:
But if this Usage does her Soul endline
To Truth, she's Happy, and her Joy is thine,
And only so the Marriage Knot's Divine:
For as it stands among the Vulgar Fry
Or Gentry either, where there's Jealousy,
Jack Ketch's Noose is far the Holier Tye.

All this is hard, You'l cry, extreamly hard!
And if such Doctrine met the Worlds regard,
The Trade of Licenses wou'd soon be marr'd.
'Tis what one of Ten Thousand ne'er cou'd do.
—Faith, Sir, I am of your Opinion too.

'Tis therefore I'm so earnest with the Men,
Before they Noose to think—and think agen.
If with a Wife he Happiness wou'd see,
Just such a Creature must a Husband be:
Nay often too with all this Kindness shewn,
His Heir shall be her Bantling, not his own.

Thus, Sir, I've freely answer'd your Request,
Marry, or Marry not, as like's you best.
But now 'tis time some Counsel to bestow
Upon Sir Passionate, the Am'rous Beau,
That he at need may scape a scowring too.
If in his Breast he finds the Poison strong,
H'has then this Comfort, 'twill not Rack him long;
The warmer Love the sooner 'twill be cold,
For no extreme in Nature long can hold.
But if the Venom yet more dang'rous prove,
Take what I here prescribe—and laugh at Love.

First set before your Eyes as fair a Piece
As ever Ancient Rome produc'd, or Greece;
Brighter than Hellen that set Troy on Fire,
And chast as Infants that ne'er knew desire:
That Icy Vertue keeps the Lover warm,
(For nothing that's Immodest long can Charm)
Strip but this Puppet of it's Gay Attire,
It's—Gauzes, Ribbons, Lace, Commode and Wire,
And tell me then what 'tis thou dost admire?
First 'tis her pretty Shooe that so prevails;
The charm can ne'er lie in her Toes and Nails.
Her Leg, long, little, wretchedly compos'd,
Shall hinder what is worse to be disclos'd,
Only her Breasts there is no passing by,
Because made bare to Court th'admiring Eye:
These, when they Lace, up to their Chins they Buoy,
And in short Heavings artfully employ:

There they look well; but when the Night is come
They're down agen just even with the Bum.
Next, let her nat'ral Set of Teeth be shown,
If she's not Thirty, for she then has none;
With eating Sweet-meats rotted from the Gum;
So that her Breath is not the best Perfume.
Her Face, indeed, we own were wond'rous fair,
If there a Head belong'd to't that had Hair.
Upon old Time you may a Forelock find,
But theirs are false, or brought round from behind.
Thus Woman, tho' by Fools and Flatt'rers Fam'd
Let her Defects from Head to Foot be nam'd,
Is the most vain unfinish't Piece that Nature ever Fram'd.

This nice Inspection of her Person done,
Let all her little Implements be shown:
Open her secret Boxes; Patches here
You'll horded find, her Paints and Washes there:
Loves artful Lime twigs, where the chatt'ring Ape
Sits Perch'd, and han't the Judgment to Escape;
Pleas'd with his Station there the Buzzard sings,
But finds his Shackles when he'd use his Wings,
If in her Bed you e'er perceive her fast,
Mind how her Face is crusted o'er with Past,
Or nasty Oils us'd nightly to repair
Her Skin, quite spoil'd—with taking of the Air.
The scatter'd Pieces of her artful Frame
(More than wou'd take up a whole Day to Name)
Lie strew'd around, and such a Prospect yield
As Spoils when Routed Armies leave the Field,
Hip-Cushions, Plumpers, Massy Pads for Stays—
And thousand other Things, dispers'd a thousand Ways.
So that the Fair (like Bone-lace when 'tis wrought)
Can't altogether in one Piece be brought,

(Her Foils in Order, and Her Am'rous Gins)
Without five Hundred Pounds a Year in Pins.
A thoughtful Creature must conclude from hence
The best of 'em not worth that vast Expence;
That the short Snatches of Delight we court
We pay so dear for, that it Palls the Sport.
Then what a Perfume where she comes is lent?
All over Strew'd to hide Her Nat'ral Scent.
So they that Stink of Onions, if they eat
Garlick 'twill make the fainter Smell retreat;
But then a stronger Stench supplies the Room:
And so she cures Her Rankness by Perfume.
Thus Wooing diff'rent we from Hunting find,
For there w'are pleas'd when Puss is in the Wind.

If o'er the Fop his Passion yet prevails,
And He'll weigh Reason only in His Scales,
Neither to be perswaded, forc'd, or Sham'd,
But proud of Bondage, scorns to be reclaim'd,
Let Him Wooe on;—A little time will shew
He is an Ass, and all our Doctrine true.

THE STEP-MOTHER,

A SATYR: Written to a Disinherited Son.

TO My Reverend Friend Mr. ---

Of all the Crimes with which the fairer Sex
Their Selves and us (their Better selves) perplex,
There's none deserve a Treatment so Severe
As those that fall to a Step-Mother's Share:
There's not a Devil damn'd but may as soon
Hope for Salvation—as we'll shew anon.

The Strumpet who by Prostitution lives,
And in that Court, but curs'd, Vocation thrives,
All Arts must try, and all her Snares must lay,
With Pleasures soften, and with Smiles betray;
Now chill her Lover with a forc'd disdain,
And when he can no longer bear the Pain
Look pleas'd, and warm Him into Lust again:

While He, by choice, dissolving in her Arms,
Has not a Wish, or Hope beyond her Charms.

The Bawd, 'tis true, of Subt'ler Venom's made,
A Devil in her Diligence and Trade:
Both Men and Women She at once ensnares,
And the more Beaute'ous, there the least She spares.
In vain the Fair a Vertu'ous Life designs,
Her best Defences soon She undermines:
By what themselves did in their Youth require,
They know the Secret Springs that move Desire,
And make the Tinder fit to catch the Fire.
Secure of them, they next the Coxcomb ply,
And Swear they've brought him a Virginity:
So to the next; and so to ev'ry one,
Till not a Fop has miss'd it thro' the Town.

But what are all this Beldams specious Wiles,
Or yet th'Alluring Harlot's Frowns and Smiles
To Vertue well Resolv'd?—with the strong Arms
Of Chastity we break thro' all their Charms;
Where that Presides, and Honour holds the Rein,
Lust has no Force, and Pleasure courts in vain.

Thus far w' are safe; at least 'tis in our Pow'r,
If we will tread this Path, to walk Secure.
But Ah! What Vertue, Wisdom, Valour, Wit,
Or ought Mankind cou'd ever boast of yet,
Can keep us, with their utmost Caution, free
From a Step-Mother's watchful Cruelty?
When Envy meditates a Secret throw,
And whence it comes we neither see nor know,
It is Impossible to ward the Blow.
Unknown the Cause, we find the Root is dry
That shou'd with Sap our Vital growth supply:

We look like Leaves that are at Autumn seen,
And she like Bays and Lawrel, ever Green.
In her old Dotard's feeble Arms she lies,
And kindly with his Impotence complies;
And when his Vigor's ready to expire,
Molds his cold Clay, and warms it to Desire,
And blows the Ember's till she find the Fire;
At once his Body and his Coffer drains,
And leaves his Purse as empty as his Veins.
Yet still she flatters, fondles and attends,
But shifts the Scene when she has gain'd her Ends:
His former Children then we treated find
As if they were the Monsters of their Kind:
Their Fau'ts, if Mole-Hills, are as Mountains rais'd,
And all their Vertues down to Vice debas'd;
His ever blam'd, and Hers for ever Prais'd.
He hears, believes;—and, last, on Her and Hers
Does Settle all; deprives his former Heirs
Of his Estate, his Blessing, and his Prayers.

Why shou'd long Life so many Myriad's please,
If Age betray us to such Crimes as these?
'Twere better far we with the First had dy'd,
Than with a Second Wife remove so wide
As to admit Injustice for a Guide.
How can we boast of being Good or Wise
(Unless, like Women, we are all Disguise)
When we are Agents in our own Deceit,
And palm upon our Selves so gross a Cheat?
Forget the Ties of Wedlock, Virtue, Blood,
To make a Drab delight in being Lewd?
For of Step-Mothers we ev'n Proof might bring,
That, tho' a Wife's the Name, a Jilt's the Thing.

But least this Truth Extravagant appear,
(For Truth we grant may often be Severe,)

Have Patience, while we faithfully describe
The vilest, and most frontless of her Tribe:
Th'Occasion's fair, the Tragedy is True,
And, what may make it take the more, 'tis New.

Damon, of Gener'ous Parts, was Marry'd Young:
And in Aminta's Arms was happy long:
With her Large Dowry She increas'd his Store;
Happy in that, but in her Vertues more.
Ne'er had a Creature of the Charming Race
More Truth and Sweetness writ upon her Face.
The Fortune which she brought advanc'd so fast,
Like Midas, all he touch'd was Gold at last:
And that which was but a Genteel, of late,
Is now a noble and a vast Estate.
On Her Foundation was the Fabrick built,
Of Thousands not a Farthing got with Guilt.
But Fate's uncertain;—who cou'd ever yet
Enjoy below a Happiness compleat?
For now Aminta chang'd her Earthly State,
Torn from his Arms by a Relentless Fate.
One Weeping, only Son She left behind,
With all her Goodness stampt upon his Mind,
Whom, e'er She dy'd, into her Arms She took,
And thus bespoke her Damon with a dying Look.

Tho' of my Life You'll be this Hour bereft;
This Pledge of my unspoted Love is left;
As He's Your own I know you'll Tender be;
Be not less so when You Remember me.
If dying Words have any Power to move,
If there be Force in Tears, or Charms in Love,
I here adjure You, by our former Joy,
Be kind to this now half-forsaken Boy;
Th'Estate which Heav'n so freely to us gave,
Don't to another Woman's Children leave.

Nor let his Fau'ts, when He's to Manhood grown,
(For who was e'er so Vertu'ous to have none?)
Make You forget He is Aminta's Son!
A Burst of Grief Seiz'd Damon here all o'er;
O Doubt me not, He cry'd,—And cou'd no more!
In Tears he granted what the Dame requir'd,
While in his Arms the best of Wives expir'd.
But Silence will declare his Sorrow best,
For 'twas so Great it cannot be exprest.
In vain he beat his Breast, and tore his Hair,
And call'd on Her that was no more to hear!
Ah! why must Vertue make so short a Stay?
And for so long a Space be snatcht away?
Eternal Darkness! And a Moment's Day!

But where's that Beauty so Divinely Bright,
Who, if She's took for ever from our Sight,
Leaves when She's gone, imprinted on the Mind,
So fair an Image of her Self behind,
That to her Memory we confine our View,
And not look out for Objects that are new?
A Second Choice in Love w'are not refus'd;
That Liberty e'en Wisest Men have us'd;
And so far Damon justly stands excus'd.

But when to fill her Place he had before,
He took a Creature Idle, Proud and Poor,
Lascivious, so by Consequence a Whore;
One that had neither Beauty, Wit, or Youth,
Good Humour, Breeding, Piety, or Truth;
But from the Station rais'd of Wiping Shooes,
To be Successor to so chast a Spouse;
The World may well with it's severest Voice,
As justly tax the Error of the Choice.

Sure there's a Time when all our Vertues keep
A Rest, just as the Body does in Sleep;
When the Neglected Pass unguarded lies,
And one weak Vice does their whole Strength Surprize:
So Damon must be taken, unprepar'd,
When not one Caution stood upon his Guard.
Had He but us'd his Hearing, Scent, or Sight,
He'd not have made a Monster his Delight,
That never Man beside beheld without a Fright;
A Vain, Perverse, Invete'rate Noisy Thing,
And not a Drop of Hony with her Sting.

A while with Art her Nature She conceal'd,
Nor was it till She had a Son Reveal'd;
A Son not gotten with a Lover's Rage,
But piec'd together with the Dregs of Age:
Or rather, as by all 'tis likelier thought,
By some rude Clown with too much hast begot;
Whom she (which was enough to Spoil the Boy)
Did in her Fears of being found Employ,
And snatch'd a crude, and half abortive Joy:
The Issue, like the Sport, (where half was wast,)
Does look as it were molded up in hast:
A Peevish Rittl'ing with a Thousand Ails,
As still 'tis where the Mother's part prevails.
Here Damon did afresh his Weakness shew,
And as he older yet the fonder grew;
And was at last so fatally deceiv'd,
Tho' Hell was scarce so false, not Heav'n was more believ'd.
Here she was safe, her Reign she dated hence;
(The Favorites Reign is fatal to the Prince:)
And first her Son in Law must be remov'd,
Absent, She thought He wou'd be less belov'd:
But tho' abroad with fair Pretences sent,
It might be rather call'd his Banishment.

For now no longer She consulted Fear,
The Way to her Design did Smooth appear,
Which was to put him by from being Heir.
In order to't the Father's Ears She plies,
And loads the Youth with odious Calumnies,
One Truth attended with Ten Thousand Lyes;
Worse than the Devil, her Instructer meant,
And all but what a Woman cou'd invent.
Yet She wou'd Weep her Scandals to relate
Revile her Fortune, and exclaim at Fate
That forc't her such flagitious Truths to tell
Of One, whom she so lately lov'd so well;
Those Truths which He shou'd long before have known,
Had the offending Villain been her Own.
Absent alas! How cou'd he make Defence?
Or Present, what had been his Innocence
Before an Angry Judge? A Witness by,
A Lady of the Post, to vouch the Lye,
And One whose smallest Crime was Perjury.

Wretch'd is He that does too soon believe,
But more accurs'd who does that Wretch deceive;
The Serpent was more Criminal than Eve,
And She than Adam; (Skillful in the Art,
How soon she learn'd to Act a Devil's Part!)
He, with his Rib, had stood, and Damon too,
But for his Wife, had kept the Goal in view,
Nor to that Utmost Bound of Rigour run
Of Casting out so Dutiful a Son.
But as when a Young Criminal is took
In his first Fau't, and having in his Look
Some small Remains of Innocence behind,
He moves the Judge, and makes the Jury kind;
Who, hoping he may Mend, his Pardon Seal;
But his Seducer does their Fury feel:

So Mercy to the Tempted may be shown,
But Tempters, who are Devils, can have none.

Thus won at last as Samson was of old,
(But by an Uglier Jilt, and louder Scold;)
Or rather quite bewitcht, and given up
To tast the Bottom of that Bitter Cup,
Forgets the Chast Aminta's dying Prayer
And makes the Bantling of this Drab his Heir!

The Soul of his Departed Spouse look'd down
On the Rash Deed, and scarce forbore to frown;
Wonder'd how Vows, design'd when they were spoke
To last so long, cou'd be so quickly broke!
But more, a Vitious Woman shou'd have Pow'r
The Harvest of her Labours to Devour,
And blast the Groth of Ages in an Hour.—
But tho' his Fau't did thus her Mind employ
It yet was no Abatement to her Joy;
For if depriv'd but of a Moments Rest,
How can the Saints Eternally be blest?
Thus, all Serene, she let this Language fall,
Soft as the Down of Doves, without a Gall.

'Tis no Surprize, since Man is made so frail,
That Int'rest, Passion, Pride and Lust prevail.
But if, cry'd she, as Sacred Writ does tell,
The Wisest, Strongest, and the Best have fell,
Weakly by fatal Female Charms ensnar'd,
Some took by Force, and others unprepar'd,
And some that Strictly stood upon their Guard;
And if we rather Pity these than blame,
Then Charity for Damon pleads the same.
Beside, tho' all Men fall into Offence,
All Men may rise again by Penitence.

Then since thy Death, O Damon! I fore-see,
(For here our Eyes are clear'd, to view Futuritie;)
Heav'n give thee Grace thy Follies past to mourn,
And see the Wrongs my wretched Son has born;
O do not lightly such a Crime Survey,
But wash in Streams of Tears your Guilt away!
That when you from her faithless Arms disjoyn,
You hither may to Extasies Divine
Ascend, and be once more—and ever—Mine!

Thus Spoke the Shade; a Lambent Brightness round
Her Temples play'd, with Wreaths of Glory bound.
Purg'd from the Dross of a Terrestrial Mind,
The Blest are all Propitious to Mankind:
Who knows but that our near Relations here,
Advanc'd, may be our Guardian-Angels there?
And tho' we don't their Mediation need,
(A Greater having to Himself decreed
That Work for Sinful Man to Intercede;)
No doubt they pray all Blessings Earth can share
We here may have; and, last,—a Crown of Glory there.

But Damon's fatal Hour is now arriv'd;
Too kind, alas! to be much longer liv'd.
To a Step-Mother nothing seems unjust
That does advance her Pride, Revenge, or Lust:
Her End obtain'd, She fears he may Repent,
And takes a black Resolve up to Prevent.
Just so, 'tis thought, a Factious Crew, e'er while,
Did serve a Gracious Monarch of an Isle;
First to preserve 'em, begg'd Him to comply,
And when h'ad set 'em up, they laid him by.
But tho' she thought his Hour of Grace was past
This great Deceiver was Deceiv'd at last:

For something Heav'nly purg'd his Blinded Eyes,
And then He saw Her Love was all Disguise;
He saw her Will was Vain, her Mind Unjust,
Her Idol, Interest, and her Fondness, Lust.
But Frontless, now, as well as Indiscreet,
She took no care to hide her Cloven-Feet;
The Fiend appear'd; and 'twas discover'd plain
Her Joy was heightn'd by her Husband's Pain.
He Saw, but 'twas too Late; his Will was made,
And on his Death-bed he securely laid:
Her Instruments were all Officious round;
But not a Friend of his Admittance found,
To whom he might his Dying Mind declare,
Or call for Mercy in a Mutual Prayer.
Yet, e'er his Lab'ring Heart was wholly broke,
He thus the Monster of her Kind bespoke.

Too late, alass! I find my self deceiv'd,
And at my Dying Hour of PEACE bereav'd;
A Wife's an ANGEL till she is Believ'd;
Grant but that Point, th'Ascendant soon she gains,
And bloody as a GALLICK Tyrant Reigns:
No thought of Right does e'er her Mind possess,
But hardens more, the more she's us'd with Tenderness.
Compare our Faults, Excessive Love was Mine;
The last degree of Bosom-Treach'ry, Thine.
Thy Son's Advance, design'd by Worthy Ways,
Instead of my Rebuke, had met my Praise:
I for thy Issue cou'd have nobly done,
Without my DISINHERITING my Own.
But think not, Barb'rous Woman, Heav'n will still
Assert Your Cause, and Prosper You in Ill:
Think not th'Estate (for Veng'ance is Divine)
Will long Continue in Your Bastard Line;
For ev'n I, Dying, think it none of Mine:

No, no; my dear AMINTA's out-cast Son
Will one Day come to repossess his Own;
There's but a Breath betwixt, e'er He is Due
May come to gain, and thou this Usage rue:—
But I forgive Thee—Heav'n forgive Thee too!
He ended here—a Scene to be admir'd—
She Laught, and He (all Penitence) expir'd.

Thus did the Punk expel the Lawful Heir;
And yet her Boundless Malice Stops not there:
His Fame she hourly Labours to expose
Whom e'er she talks with, or where e'er she goes:
Pursues him with that Rancour, Rage and Spite,
A Basilisk does Poison less with Sight,
And Adders don't with half that Venom bite:
To paint Her in a Word, and shew her whole,
She Thro' his Body strives to Stab his Soul:
And all for fear He shou'd th'Estate attain,
And she be forc'd of Fortune to complain,
Not that She's Damn'd—but that She's Damn'd in Vain.
Mean while the Youth has ever, undismay'd,
A Noble Use of his Afflictions made;
And does his Wrongs so slenderly regard,
He only smiling says—His Case is hard.

Thus far, O Friend, th'Injunction late You laid
Is with Exactest Probity obey'd:
I told You what a Barb'rous Wretch I knew
How from the Dung, She like a Pumpkin grew,
And your Command was Strait to let her know
How far the Satyr's Privilege cou'd go,
To rip her Mind, and all her Vices show:
And one's enough; the Nature of the rest
May from the Wickedness of this be guess'd.

But while this Youth's Misfortunes here are shown
You by Reflection may perceive Your Own:
Your Story is the Parallel of this;
And the two Female Furies of a Piece:
Take then his Course; and tho' a vast Estate
Y'ave lost like Him, Submit like Him to Fate.
Rage is but vain, and needless Grief a Crime;
Who knows what's Rip'ning in the Womb of Time?
Tho' Heav'n may long seem to with-hold his Hand,
'Tis but to hurl with greater Force the Brand;
Then down the Flaming Precipice they'll go,
Ten Thousand Terrors He'll around 'em throw,
And not one Devil will be Damn'd so low.

A Glance at Fanaticism;

A SATYR.

TO The Right Honourable JAMES Earl of ABINGDON, &c. Lord Lieutenant of the County of Oxford .

There is in every one of these Considerations most just Cause to fear, least our Hastiness to embrace a thing of so perilous Consequence shou'd cause Posterity to feel those Evils, which as yet are more easy for us to Prevent, than they wou'd be for them to Remedy.

Pref. to Hooker's Eccle. Pol. Speaking of the Presbyterian Discipline.

Happy the Times when Man Rejoyc'd to pay
All just Obedience to the Regal Sway:
Then 'twas thro' Vanquish'd France our Triumphs flew,
Arms our Delight, our Usage to subdue:
Then 'twas we humbl'd the high Pride of Spain,
And sunk it to the Bottom of the Main.

Nor stop'd our Britons here; but, with the Sun,
Round the vast Circuit of the Globe have run,
And came Home cover'd with the Lawrels won.
But Ah! What are we now become? A Den
Of Murd'rers, Monsters, and Perfidious Men!
What Vict'ries now dost thou, O Albion, win?
As once in Arms so now y'are chief in Sin,
Hiss'd at without, and Damn'd to Strife within.

What Beast so fierce but at the Lion's roar
Becomes as tame, as he was wild before?
Contended to Obey; but Man alone,
Cruel and Faithless, will no Homage own,
But in Contempt of it their Kings dethrone;
Tho' they well know (for Scripture makes it clear)
They stab at GOD in his Vicegerents here.

The Impious Jews that never stopt at Ills,
But trac'd the Bent of their unbounded Wills,
Tho' one perhaps, drunk with Ambitious Rage,
(Whose horrid Thirst Blood only cou'd asswage)
All Ties of Faith and Nature might disown,
And on th'Anointed Blood erect his Throne;
I never read the Factious Chiefs did join,
Associated in one Damn'd Design;
Or that they were such vain Fantastick Things
T'Imagin, Heav'n design'd 'em all for Kings;
As our Flagitions Rebels did of late;
When they at once o'erwhelm'd the Church and State,
And made three Nations groan beneath the Weight;
Brought down their God-like Soveraign to the Block,
And then Proclaim'd 'twas Justice gave th'Inveterate Stroke!

But tell me Feinds, ye Hell-Instructed Crew,
(If Hell can Teach what 'twou'd have blush'd to do)

O tell me! Where's the Fame that does Succeed
That ever to be mourn'd, and Impious Deed!
Or was it done because it was your Will?
That Reason which with you makes Nothing Ill;
O curs'd Effect of Arbitrary Zeal!

I know You'll say 'twas Your Design to be
From hateful Slavery and Oppression free:
But soon, by a Prepost'rous search, 'twas found
You lost the Substance, while You fear'd the Sound:
For when thro' all Your Treach'rous Paths y'ad ran,
Averse to all the Laws of God and Man,
Had you at last, with all the Strifes You wrought,
The ease, the Rest, and Liberty you sought?
Indeed 'twere most Absurd to think You shou'd;
The Way to Peace lies not thro' War and Blood.
No, no; that Mob-Asserter of Your Own,
That Dunghill You'd have lifted to the Throne,
That Idol which with Your own Hands You'd made,
And then with so much Frantick Zeal obey'd,
Did all Your Rights and Properties invade;
Those Properties You had so long enjoy'd,
And cou'd not be but by Your Leave destroy'd;
Those Rights which with an inexhausted Spring,
For ever flow'd from your Indulgent King.
Nay the base Sanhedrim, whose Lawless Pride
Had to their Prince his Regal Dues deny'd,
With open Hands the Tyrant's Lust supply'd,
Who their Proud Stores t'as low an Ebb did bring,
As they flow'd high when they deny'd their King.
So far we of our Senates may presume
Subversion still will be the Nations Doom
When e'er they Grant too much, or else too much assume:
The Balance never can be at a Poize
When Kings Oppress, or Crowds are wrought to Noise:

Curst be the Wretch that does for Gain, or Spite,
Depress, or Raise the Beam, when he may hold it Right.
By such a Crew He did the War Commence,
And made 'em Wretched at their own Expence.
A Just Reward for shedding Civil Gore,
A fond, Imagin'd Freedom to Restore,
When they had all their Hearts cou'd wish before.

But Lo! The Scene begins to shift! And Lo!
His God's, his Prince's, and his Country's Foe,
Whose Treach'ry and whose Guile had flourish'd long,
And been the Theme of many a Laureat's Song,
Has in his height of Grandeur met his Doom,
Prest with Three Kingdoms Curses to the Tomb;
Which cou'd not long such Villany Contain,
But from it's Entrals Spew'd Him back again.
Thus He, who, while He liv'd, no Freedom gave,
Had not, in Death, the Freedom of a Slave,
The slender Pittance of a Six-Foot-Grave.
Let not the Secta'rist urge he pass'd away
In Peace, for where there's Guilt no Peace can stay:
'Twas Heav'ns forbearance so much Time was lent,
To try Him first, and warn Him to Repent,
And next to shew the World He dyd'd Impenitent.
To all Conspic'ous in the Air he hung,
Like Haman the Reproach of Every Tongue.
Ravens, and all th'Insatiate Fowls of Prey,
That us'd to hover round where Carrion lay,
Croak't at the Tyrant, Croak't, and flew away.
And now of all his Noisy Pomp and Fame,
Nothing Survives but a Flagitious Name.
Thus Traitors, tho' they may a while shine bright,
Like Meteors, at a Blaze lose all their Light,
Then Sink to Horrors down, and Everlasting Night.

And now, methinks, I see the Sun appear,
Nor is it only Thought; for Lo! He's here!
With Gentle Beams he first restores the Day,
Then drives at once th'Unwholsome Damps away.
Ah! Welcome Sacred Sir! Welcome as Sight
To those, who from their Births have groap'd in Night,
And never hop'd to see Heav'ns Cheerful Light.
Welcome as Spring after a Bitter Frost!
Welcome as Peace, where Peace has long been lost!
What shall I say? O what Eternal Spring
Can furnish Words, or set my Thoughts on wing
To bless his Welcome, and his Praises Sing?
In vain, my Muse, that Lofty Pitch you'd fly,
Not practis'd yet to range along the Sky.
Now 'twas Offenders to the Covert run,
And blusht at all the Impious Deeds they'd done;
But Deeds of Darkness dare not view the Sun:
Too well they knew the Mischiefs they had wrought
Were Unreveng'd, and trembl'd at the Thought,
As fearing (what indeed the Bad might fear)
The Vengeance due to Treach'ry now was near:
But He, like Heav'n, at our Grand Parents Fall,
Gave 'em an Act of Grace, and Cancell'd all:
An Act that Reason's at a Loss to Scan,
And proves the Giver something more than Man!
Whose Goodness we in vain would Recommend,
For he Forgives as fast as we Offend.
O fatal Kindness! And O squander'd Grace!
Why so much Mercy on a Sect so base,
That ev'n revile his Bounty to his Face?

Say then, Ye bold Fanaticks of the Times,
You that succeed your Fathers in their Crimes,
And learn the Art of Cursing Kings betimes;

What makes you thus Seditiously complain,
And loath the Blessings of a Peaceful Reign?
What you wou'd have we know not—But we know
You might be Happy—If you wou'd be so.
Has not your God (if any God you own,
But I'm afraid you rather think there's none:
For Heav'n from whence the best Instruction springs,
Enjoins a strict Obedience to our Kings:)
Has He not sav'd from Rebels Impious Steel,
And the worse Fury of Misguided Zeal,
This Gracious Prince, and bless'd us with his Reign;
In whom his Martyr'd Father seems to Live again?
A Prince who has thro' all Misfortunes trod,
With the Unshaken Patience of a God:
Not He who liv'd ev'n to his Maker's Heart,
Had more of Trouble, and with less Desert.
Traduc'd both in a Brother and a Wife,
With open Rage pursu'd, and secret Trains for Life.
And as the Ancients tell how, heretofore,
Atlas all Heav'n upon his Shoulders bore,
So He; a Theme for like Immortal Songs,
At once sustains a World—A World of Wrongs:
Yet still Forgives, and Governs still in Peace,
And still the Arts, and still your Gains Increase;
The last too much; aud that, 'tis fear'd, the thing
That makes thee, London, murmur at thy King;
And hold thy Proud Luxurious Head, as high
As it once Low did in its Ashes lie:
When Heav'n whose Will had been so long withstood,
With Plague and Fire reveng'd the Martyr's Blood.
'Tis that inspires thy Crowds with Factious Rage,
The Crowd! Whose Fury nothing can asswage,
Nor Tears of Youth, nor Eloquence of Age:
It rowls o'er all with an impetuous Sway,
Like Rivers when they've forc'd their Banks away:

The Crowd! That does for ever look awry
On those Good Men Desert has mounted high,
And have an Inborn Hate to Monarchy:
And such a Crowd art Thou; A Mass combin'd
Of all Adulterate Mixtures we can find
That Poisons Loyalty and warps the Mind:
No Wonder then, with such a Race o'erspread
The Members shou'd Rebell against the Head.
Those Loyal Men that lodge within thy Wall,
(For some there are (tho' the Account is small)
Some few that never bow'd the Knee to Baal,)
Like Wounded Deer were from the rest Cashier'd,
Or bore the Brunt of all the Brutal Herd:
Witness, for Proof, th'Unparallell'd Abuse
(Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse!)
To your late Chief; which only hence cou'd Spring,
The Man was Honest, and he Lov'd his King:
And O for ever may he be belov'd,
By Albion Honour'd, and by Heav'n approv'd!
Whose Vertues are a Theme for Pens Divine!
And then how far above the Reach of Mine!

Not Envy can it Self this Truth deny,
That (tho' by Birth and State advanc'd so high)
More Pride in Your Humility is shown,
Than is in all his Grandeur on a Throne.
Mark how e'en from the Royal Diadem
His Love descends, the Love which You condemn,
To make You sensible of Yours to Him.
Look thro' Your Thankless Faction far and wide,
What have they ask't Him for He e'er deny'd?
Unless it were (Invincible Constraint!)
What Nature, Law and Conscience cou'd not Grant:
And yet ev'n then (with Anguish in his Eye)
He griev'd that Heav'n forbid Him to comply:

His Brother, too, whom Your Inveterate Hate
Brands with the Name of Traytor to the State,
But falsly;—Not more False was He that made
Perj'ry, that God-less Crime, a Gainful Trade;
That Oath-Monopolist, who quite engrost
Th'Employ himself, while Temple Nights, at most,
Were then but Interlopers of the Post:
So false! Ev'n You your Selves cou'd not deny
But that your Conscience gave your Tongues the Lye:
For why shou'd He Conspire against a Throne
That Legally may come to be his Own?—
No, that's a Work for Him that's born to none.
Has not that Prince our Glory made his Care?
And born with Patience all that Man can bear?
Who, tho' your Envy does his Fame pursue,
He still has Fought both for Your Rights and You.
In Foreign Lands his Conduct He has shown,
And found no Valour Braver than his Own;
Conquest his daily Prize:—and as Success
Crown'd Him at Land, 'twas on the Sea no less:
Where on the Deck, for his Dear Countries Good
Whose Cause He Fought, He has undaunted stood
Amidst the Wildest Rage of Canon's Roar,
Whose Sound has frighted Cowards on the Shore.
One wou'd have thought, who from afar had seen,
They in the Bosom of the Clouds had been,
And round their Heads Light'ning and Thunder flew,
And thro' the Air Ten Thousand Terrors threw:
The Sun himself look't Pale, amaz'd to see
Deaths winged Darts as thick as Atoms flee;
And Nature was Concern'd as well as He.
Not so our Hero; who did still appear
Fierce as a Storm, and was himself a War.
O who in such a Cause wou'd Danger shun,
Blest with so brave a Chief to lead 'em on!

Who scorn'd to check his Rage, or leave the Fray,
Till he had drove their Shatter'd Fleet away;
Too wise to trust th'Event of such another Day:
But having Wasted half their Strength in Fight,
Wing'd by their Cowardice, and Screen'd by Night,
Thought best to save the other half by Flight.
Thus He, sole Victor, did our Fame regain,
And rode without a Rival o'er the Conquer'd Main.

Enrich'd by Princes so profusely Good,
As near Ally'd in Clemency, as Blood,
What Frenzy is it makes You think y'are Poor?
And dream of Want amid'st so vast a Store?
But as when some Wild Rav'nous Beast of Prey
Has seiz'd a Lamb which in his Passage lay,
The Blood's first Suck't; and finding that so Sweet,
He crams his Maw with the Delicious Meat:
Yet the same Moment, painted with the Gore,
Rouzes again, and roams the Woods for more,
So You, flesh'd with your former Royal Bait,
Grow mad, and for another Banquet wait,
In the Subversion of the Regal State.

From whence else can our wild Divisions Spring
But scorn of Truth, and hatred to your King?
Is He your Foe that does your Battels Fight,
And make the Publick Good his chief Delight?
Can it be just, if his Estate shou'd fall,
To Seize it, and bestow on M---h all
His Right? His Scepter, Diadem, and Ball?
What British Soul that has the least Pretence
To Vertue, Honour, Loyalty and Sense,
Will leave the true to serve a Spurious Prince?
The Ancient Heathens, rather than have none,
Wou'd hew their Deities from Wood and Stone:

Dagon, before he took his Fatal Fall,
By his own Votaries was thought Lord of All:
To Him in their Distress for aid they'd fly:
But Israel's only God was hatefull in their Eye.
But Heav'n forbid we shou'd their Steps pursue,
Or, to Adore the False, Blaspheme the True:
Whose Laws, tho' Spurn'd at by Fanatick Spite,
Instruct us to Distinguish Wrong from Right:
Right, when we all the True Succession own,
Wrong, when the Rabble's Patriot mounts the Throne:
Right, when our Gracious Monarch we obey,
Whose Care is as Extensive as his Sway;
But Wrong against such Goodness to declaim,
And with base Libels strive to Wound his Fame;
Which You in Vain wou'd Blast with Envious Rage,
For that shall ever live to shame th'ingrateful Age.

But after all, what can the meaning be
Of Bellowing after Rights and Liberty,
When there's on Earth no Nation, else so free?
Of all the Lands by which Y'are compass'd round,
Point me out one with half your Freedoms crown'd.
Compare our happy State with France, or Spain's;
Here Tyranny, and there the Inquisition reigns.
With their Free States compare, we Win again;
France but one Tyrant has, and there perhaps they've Ten.
'Tis only here where Property can thrive,
Cherish'd and Guarded by Prerogative.
The Young in Wantonness the World may Roam:
But can they find more Blessings than they taste at Home?
The Old and Studious may enjoy their ease,
And this may Plough the Land and that the Seas;
Ev'n Crowds too may almost do what they please:

But Ah! Destructive was that rash Design
That gave 'em Liberty in Things Divine;
To choose their Worship, (their own Judges made,)
As Folly, Fancy, or as Interest Sway'd;
Or, when they thought those did not Guide 'em Right,
To take a Faith in Prejudice and Spite.
O Management! ev'n yet to be deplor'd!
The Harbinger of Murder, Fire and Sword!
Who does not know it Caus'd us heretofore
One Civil War?—and will produce us more.
For when the Conscience it's own Way may go,
How Boundless, Wild a Monster do's it grow!
Pulpits are dwindl'd into Tubs, and Kings
Themselves esteem'd Unnecessary Things.
All wholsom Doctrin's banish'd with the Creed,
And Blockheads Preach that never learn'd to Read.
When e'er the State-Artificer wou'd have
The People Rulers, and the Prince a Slave,
Let Toleration to the Crowd be shewn,
And then the Enthusiast Teachers Loo 'em on,
Confusion Triumphs, and the Work is done:
A Course of many Ages it must be
Before that State again knows Peace and Unitie.
In vain all healing Remedies are try'd,
The more we Labour, they the more Divide:—
'Tis best then when such Liberty's deny'd.
Does not your Land with Milk and Hony flow?
Canaan cou'd scarce such Crops of Plenty show,
Or Jordan's Lov'd and Unpolluted Streams
Produce more Wonders than our Bounteous Thames.
Do not all things that Feast the Eye and Ear,
The Tast and Smell, for ever Flourish here?
Having all this, what wou'd you more possess?
Having so much, why would You make it less?

Why shou'd the pleasant sounds of Concord cease?
Or are you Sated with the Sweets of Peace?
Why do you your Pernicious Doctrin Sow?
And thro' the Land Seditious Libels strow?
Spurn at the Vert'ous, Villify the Just,
As if their Loyalty debauch'd their Trust?
Why all this rank Invet'racy and hate?
Unless you'd trace your Predecessors Fate,
In all the Blood they shed from Forty one to Eight:
For they, like you, mouth'd after Libertie,
And they, like you, were conscious they were Free:
Yet, tho' you know how ill their Fury far'd
(Their Chief Enslaving whom the War had spar'd)
In Opposition to all Sacred Laws,
Once more you wou'd Revive their Impious Cause;
Once more o'erthrow the Church, the State, the King,
And from Blest Order make Confusion Spring:
That wild Confusion that of late did rave,
And sent so many Thousands to the Grave.

But, Cruel Men, be yet advis'd and hear:
The Specious Veil is off, and now quite bare,
Stript to your Guilt, your Cloven Feet appear;
True Fiends all o'er, and only fit to go
And murmur in your Grand Cabal below.
You'd best be Cautious then, and have a Care,
Ingratitude will find no Favour there,
Tho' it has miss'd the Stroke of Justice here:—
As yet I mean has miss'd of;—for I've seen
A Morning, tho' all Cloudless and Serene,
Chang'd from a Glorious to a Gloomy Scene.
The thick'ning Sky has furious Storms foretold,
And Lo! Loud Thunder thro' the Air has rowl'd:
Mountains, which one wou'd think stood firm as Fate,
Have reel'd, as if they bent beneath their Weight,

When Streight the Sun, with his Commanding Ray,
Storm, Wind and Rain has Chas'd at once away,
And with fresh Glories dress'd the New-born Day!
So in the Sad Distractions of the State,
When Mighty Charles shall yield to Mightier Fate,
But may it first be long; (for Monarch's Breath
Is frail like Ours, and must resign to Death;)
What cou'd we wish shou'd that black Hour arrive,
And York, the Nations other Prop, alive?
But that he mount to the Imperial Throne,
By Birth, and by the World's Consent his Own.
What Hero else were fit to carry on
That General Good Charles has so well begun?
In such a Cause like Days bright Lord He'd rise,
And dart his Glories thro' the Sullen Skies,
Dissolve, or Drive the Factious Gloom away,
Unrip Cabals where Treasons brooding lay,
And shew 'em all to the full View of Day;
While by a Justice, suited to the Time,
He Punish'd Treach'ry equal to the Crime:
But Ah! 'twere better, least this Time shou'd come,
Now to turn Loyal, and divert your Doom.

Mother Clark's Ghost,

A SATYR: Occasion'd by a Quaker's Burying his Mother, (a Church of England Woman,) contrary to her Dying Will, in a Plot of Ground purchas'd by them for a Burial Place, before her Interment made use of as a Pound.

TO The REVEREND Mr. Francis Henry Cary, Rector of Brinkworth, IN THE County of Wilts

These be they who Separate themselves, Sensual, having not the Spirit.

Jude ver. 19.

From the Eternal Regions of the Blest,
The Seat of Peace, of Glory, Joy and Rest,
I for thy sake, O Wretch! To Earth repair,
And cease a while to breath Celestial Air,
To cure thy false Belief, and make the Truth thy Care.
Not that You must expect such Gentle Words
As here the Parent to the Child affords;
A faint Reproof that spoils what it endears,
An Anger for Offence that ends in Tears:

A Sharper Med'cine I must now Impart,
That to the very Soul shall Scorpions dart,
And Lance the Core that rankles at your Heart.

Ah! Was it not enough, Ingrateful Child,
That You at first my Early Hopes beguil'd?
And when I'd set Thee in the Only Way,
After an Ignis fatuus falsly stray?
A Flame that is by Envious Spirits driv'n
From Place to Place, and banish'd out of Heav'n:
A Roving Light that drills on Captious Fools,
And leads 'em thorow Hedges, Bogs and Pools;
In the dark Maze of Errour on they Post,
To Reason deaf, and to Conviction lost.
If any Motion rises in their Breast
That says they're wrong, 'tis Certainly Supprest,
So much their Zeal depends upon their Interest.
In vain the Bright and Cloudless Hope appears
That from the Scriptures points us to the Spheres;
A Hope we never heard or read of yet
That any of our Holy Church did quit
On the meer Principles of Grace, or Wit:
Quite thro' and thro' Survey your Impious Train,
And find me One that did our Faith refrain,
Unless for want of Sense, or hope of Gain.

But was it not enough to lose your Way,
And lose it in the open Face of Day
Against the Light of Grace to shut Your Eyes,
And from Eternal Truth Apostatize?
But You must disobey the last Commands
I ever made? And, with unhallow'd Hands,
Throw, like a Dog's, my Corps into a Hole,
And with my Body's Rest disturb my Soul.

Is this the Fruit of my Maternal Care?
Is this the Crop that Luckless Soil did bear?
Is this the Comfort that by Pray'r we gain?
The Pleasure that Rewards a Mother's Pain?
I beg'd a Son, but, as he proves, the want
Had been a Greater Blessing than the Grant.
Who in my stead wou'd now a Mother be?
Ev'n Satan did but fall from Truth like Thee,
And Hell was founded in Apostacie.

Perhaps You'll say (in nothing else accurst
But that and Thee) because I was the first
That in th'unhallow'd Place a Burial found,
You laid me there to Sanctify the Ground:
But that was done (if You cou'd understand
Bare common Sense) already to your Hand:
For was not many a Beast that us'd to stray,
Or Stubbornly wou'd leave the Beaten Way,
In that sad Durance mournfully Confin'd?
And seem'd to Prophesy it was design'd
A close Restraint for a more Brutal Kind.
The Bones of Dogs and Cats have there been thrown,
To make it proper to Receive Your Own;
They have prepar'd Your Way and never yet
Did any Type th'Allusion better fit;
Your Harbingers at once in Sanctity and Wit.

But in this Place methinks Your Blinking Guide,
(Who yet believes there's Nothing sees beside)
Grinning with Virulence, and swell'd with Spite,
Thus speaks, tho' he can hardly Read, or Write.

Sister (and gripes me by the Hand) Y' are wide
Alas! All Ground alike is Sanctify'd:
This is not worse than that, nor that than this,
All made at once, and all are of a Piece.

A Bog-House here, and there a Tow'r-House stands,
And who's not Conscious both were made with Hands?
Who does not both as Human Structures view?
Then if ones Hallow'd 'tothers Hallow'd too.
About Your Burial why d'ye keep this pother?
I had as lieve be put in One as 'tother.
What matter is it where the Body's lain,
Since, cast it where You please, 'twill rise again?
What can the Proudest Edifice do more
Than, at the General Call, their Dead restore?
The Vilest Jakes that Privilege will have;
Why lye You then not Quiet in your Grave?

I've told, I cry, and further yet shall tell
Such usage to a Parent was not well:
But First, e'er more upon that Head I speak,
I'll prove at large Your Arguments are weak.

That God design'd the whole Creation Good
We grant, nor was it Curst while Adam stood
All things were Paradise; to Plough and Sow
Was Vain, Corn did Uncultivated grow.
The Earth was pregnant of her own Accord,
And teem'd with Dayly Wonders for her Lord.
No Floods above their Banks the Rivers rais'd,
In the same Pasture Lambs and Tygers graz'd;
One did not fear, nor yet was 'tother wild;
But God rejoyc'd, and all his Creatures smil'd.—
But soon the Noble Scene was chang'd; and now
Our Bread's the Sweat and Labour of the Brow.
The Sea unruly gain'd upon the Land,
And here vast Desarts lie Immers'd in Sand:
Curst for the sake of Man, the steril Soil
Deceives our Hope and Mocks the Plough-mans Toil:

At best the Cockle with the Corn does grow,
Destroys one half, and keeps the other low.
Enthusiasm so, and Sanguin Zeal,
Once serv'd Religion and the Common Weal.

But, tho' the Curse was Gen'ral, 'tis confest
Some Regions yet scap'd better than the rest.
In Palestine why did th'Almighty place
The Israelites his Sacred Chosen Race,
Unless the more abundantly to show
His Blessings, which did there in Rivers Flow?
Hony, and Milk, and Corn, and Wine and Oyl,
And all that shews a happy Fruitfull Soil,
They had, and these so plentifully giv'n,
They lik'd the Change tho' fed before from Heav'n.

And as some Portions we more Fruitfull view
Than others, so there's some more Sacred too.
When God of old to Moses did appear,
Why did He in the Flaming Bush declare,
Pull of thy Shooes, the Ground is Holy here,
But, where He's more Immediately confest,
To shew the Place more Hallow'd than the rest?
For plucking of the Shooe was then and there
The mark of Reverence, as the Hat is here;
And in the Eastern Parts 'tis (when they'd shew
A Defe'rence to Degree) what still they do.
Why, on Araunah's Threshing Floor to stand,
Was the fam'd Temple Built by God's Command?
It's Fabrick on that very Spot to Rise,
Where Isaac was design'd for Sacrifice?
Unless to shew us from the Faithfull, there
He wou'd Accept the Sacrifice of Prayer;
There be Petition'd, Honour'd, Sought, Ador'd,
For Blessings prais'd, and for our wants Implor'd,
And of all Nations own'd Eternal Lord.

There while that Fabrick stood his Name abode,
Thro' that to Heav'n was made the Publick Road:
Ev'n God Himself, to shew that He had there
His Residence calls it—My House of Prayer.

But that this to our Times may be apply'd,
Our thinking Altars Sacred Justify'd;
Pray let us ask if Piety or Guilt
Was the prime Reason Churches first were built:
Were those Divine and Noble Structures rear'd
That God might in 'em be Blasphem'd, or Fear'd?
You cannot so much Ignorance pretend,
As not to know his Glory was the End.
If then that was their Genuine known Design,
All set apart for Ways and Works Divine;
If to that Use and by Impulse from Heav'n,
They were by Solemn Dedication giv'n;
If still Employ'd for what they first were rais'd,
And never to a Lower Name debas'd;
'Tis what the worst of Heathens wou'd not dare,
So Impious! other Houses to compare
With these of Gods, the Holy Courts of Pray'r:
Holy, as far as Consecration may
(And as it doubtless does) that Grace convey;
And Solomon's was so no other way.

'Tis true that Heav'n has still an open Ear,
But seems to be the most Attentive there:
For tho' the Pious Christian shall be heard,
More, their Petitions meet with more Regard;
And much the Rather if th'Occasion be
By Pray'r t'avert some Publick Misery,
Or Praise, to shew his Blessings we receive
With thankfull Hearts, and Act as we Believe.

Lot tho' a Righteous Person, was but one,
And scarce with much a do preserv'd his own;
But Ten Just Men had sav'd the Cursed Town.
For as we in some Royal Consort find,
Where differ'ing Notes Harmoniously are Joyn'd,
It does our Minds with Nobler Transports fill;
Than if one Play'd, tho' he Perform'd with Skill:
So when the Publick in his Building Joyn
With Praise, Repentance, and in Hymns Divine,
The only Mortal Sounds that charm his Ear,
He bends the Heav'ns, and stoops half way to hear!
Devoted to his Glory, all the Theme
Begins and Ends with his Immortal Name.
Ah! how much better in his Courts a Day
Than Thousands are to those that keep away!
What Malt-house, Stable, Barn, or Common Room
Can with such Cause a Sanctity assume?
Where, whatsoe'er You talk of inward Light,
Th'Adulterer and the Thief may lodge at Night,
Hypocrisy, Detraction, Strifes, Deceits,
False Measures too, and a False Bag of Weights.

But here, perhaps, You'll this Objection Start:
His Chiefest Temple is a Holy Heart;
There 'tis He dwells, nor there in vain Commands;
God's not confin'd to Buildings made with Hands:
The Heav'n of Heav'ns not able to Contain
His Boundless Spirit;—Churches then are Vain.

Ungodly Inference! for if every Where
His Spirit is, by Consequence 'tis There.
But take this Scripture Just as 'twas design'd,
It only shews his Glory unconfin'd;
That we can raise no Edifice to Suit
His Pow'r, and ev'ry Boundless Attribute:

For those in Nobler Instances were shown,
In vaster Piles, and Buildings of His Own,
The Earth His Footstool, and the Heav'ns His Throne.
But tho' this Way exceeds the Pow'r of Man,
W'are not deny'd t'approach Him as we can:
The Heart He loves Obedient and Sincere,
And may be truly said t'Inhabit there;
But must we therefore quit his House of Pray'r?
Search thro' the Sacred Page You'll quickly find
The Coming thither, to all Humankind,
A Thousand Ways inforc'd, a Thousand times injoyn'd;
Our Saviour thither went, the Life! the Way!
And not to follow Him is certainly to Stray.
In vain you then against his House contend;
'Tis there He will be with us to the End:
In vain our Form of Worship You accuse;
How dare You think He will that Pray'r refuse,
Which He himself Instructed us to use?

Refuted thus by Arguments, so clear,
And all our Churches Hallow'd made appear,
Where shou'd the Christian be Interr'd but there?
If there were Nothing else our Wills to awe,
Ev'n Common Decency were here a Law.

But if all this were false, what can You use,
What shift my Disobedient Son t'excuse?
For if, (as You so Brutally maintain,)
It is no matter where the Body's lain,
What need was there t'oppose my Dying Will,
Ev'n where You Own th'Obeying not an Ill?

Your Senseless Guide's Objections thus o'erthrown,
Think not a better Fate attends Your Own.

And since the Scriptures You pretend your Rule,
And all that do not wrest 'em Knave, or Fool,
What Passage there does make You understand
You ought to slight a Parents just Command?
When Jacob dy'd, You see what e'er He Will'd
To the Minutest Circumstance fulfill'd:
And when the Israelites remov'd, we find
The Bones of Joseph were not left behind.
How dare you among Christians shew Your Face,
When ev'n among the Jews, that Murm'ring Race,
We never read of One so void of Grace?

To be by Thee thrown out of Hallow'd Ground,
As if I'd been my Own self-Murderer found:
The Service that our Holy Church Enjoyns
Omitted, Slighted, that and her Divines;
And nothing to distinguish't from the Curse
Of Heathen Burial, but it's being Worse.
The very Memory does with Horror seize
My Airy Form, and frights her from her Ease!

Not but I know You Impiously maintain
That Service Superstitious, fond and vain;
And urge, no Pray'r, or Part of Scripture read,
Is usefull at the Burial of the Dead:
That our Set Form's Illiterate, Poor and Rude,
And all You speak with Heav'nly Pow'r indu'd
And for that Reason, as defective, shun
Our Way of Burial, and extoll your Own:
That since th'Unerring Spirit is your Guide,
All Human Aid You justly lay aside.

But let the Fau'tless Scripture be admir'd,
Whose Holy Pen-Men truly were Inspir'd:
Thro' all succeeding Times, both worst and best,
They have run down and born the strictest Test

100

A Spirit there in ev'ry Line we see
Of Hope, Love, Joy, and Immortalitie.
If then in our Interment of the Dead
Ought never yet was either sung or said,
Deriv'd not from that Source of Pietie,
But took from that, or does with that agree;
What Light so e'er Ye feign Y'ave on your Side,
We, following that, may boast a Brighter Guide.

But now comes on the Test, for all to see
Which Method most with Scripture does agree:
With an Impartial Hand we'll both display,
And Judge your self which takes the safer Way.

View then, some of our Holy Church attend,
To do the Last sad Office for their Friend:
The Priest to meet the Corps advances bare,
As all shou'd be that call on God by Pray'r:
Then, gravely walking on before the Dead,
These few Selected Texts our Rubrick bids him read.

I am the Resurrection, saith the Lord;
Eternal Life the Fruit of my Eternal Word.
Who ever firmly does in Me believe
The Grave shall not confine, nor Hell receive,
But, tho' for Ages dead, shall rise again, and live.
Nor only this; but those that will rely
On what I Teach, Commission'd from on High,
Shall, so Believing, Live; and never, never Dy!

I know that my Redeemer ever lives,
(And happy, happy He that so Believes!
And that He at the Latter Day shall stand
On Earth, Subjected all to his Command:
And tho' in the mean time the Worms destroy
This Body, it shall then arise to Joy:

101

Then, in the Flesh, I shall the Almighty see,
And by his Side the Filial Deitie,
Whom (whatsoe'er w' are by the Scepticks told)
I for my self shall see, and with these Eyes behold.

Into this Wretched World we Nothing brought,
Nor ('tis as Certain) shall we bear out Ought:
Naked we came, and Naked we must go;
So, it has ever been, and ever will be so.
'Tis God that gives, and that Resumes the same,
'Tis He that will again Rebuild our Frame:
And Heav'n and Earth resound his Glorious Name.

While this is said the Body on they Bear
Into the Church it self, and rest it there.
When by the Priest those Sacred Psalms are read
That tell frail Man how fast his Glories fade:
How like the Withering Grass He shrinks away,
No sooner in Perfection, but Decay:
Green in the Morning, in the Ev'ning dry
The Sap Exhal'd that shou'd the Leaf Supply,
And all the Verdure lost that Charm th'Admiring Eye.
There, in Instructive Love, w' are truly told
That 'tis but Wretched living to be old;
Our Joy but Sorrow, and our Strength but Pain,
And all our Human Expectations vain.
Then least we shou'd be taken unprepar'd,
W'are warn'd to Watch, and stand upon our Guard,
To Wisdom all our Faculties apply,
Number our Days, and Practise how to Dy.

Next, (our Attention fixt,) he does repeat
Part of th'Epistle that, (to Corinth Writ,)
Our Resurrection from the Dead asserts,
And with that Hope revives our Doubting Hearts:

102

Tells us frail Man, that Creature of an Hour,
Tho' Sown in Weakness, shall be Rais'd in Pow'r;
And, from his Grosser Part refin'd and gone,
Put the Bright Crown of Incorruption on.
That Christ, Victorious, the great Mystick King,
Has took from Hell its Pow'r, and Death his Sting:
And if we stedfastly his Steps pursue,
We over Death and Hell shall Triumph too.

From thence the Corps they to the Grave Convey,
Where, with uplifted Eyes, the Priest does say,—
Man that from Woman does his Life receive,
Has, at the most, but a short Time to live;
Fades like a Flow'r, like Shadows, flits away,
Like Ranging Bubbles never at a stay:
So slight his Glories, and so frail his Breath,
Ev'n in the mid'st of Life we are in Death.
Of whom then (Lord!) Shall we for Succour call,
Before whose Feet for Mercy prostrate fall
But Thine? But Thine! (In thy Displeasure just)
Who for our Sins dost humble us in Dust.
Yet Holy, Merciful, Almighty God,
Remit thy Terrours, and with-hold thy Rod,
And yield us not, at our Expiring Breath,
Into the bitter Pains of Endless Death,!
Thou dost (O Lord!) Our In-most Secrets see,
Our Thoughts, our Hearts are open all to Thee:
Shut not, O shut not up thy Gracious Ear!
But spare us! Spare us! and Accept our Pray'r,
Look down in Mercy! and in Mercy hear!
O God most Mighty! O most Holy Lord!
Most Worthy Saviour! Judge! Eternal Word!
O Suffer not, when our Last Hour takes place,
For any Pains of Death we fall from Grace!

103

This said, the Dead they to the Earth commit,
To Earth, once more to be a Part of it;
In full and firm Belief it from the Dust
Again shall rise, thro' Christ, our Hope! Our Trust!
Who our Vile Bodies from their Stains will free,
That they may like his Glorious Body be,
According to th'Almighty Pow'r giv'n
By which, with Him, w'are made Joint-Heirs of Heav'n.

Whom wou'd not here a fervent Love excite
To say, what John Divinely did indite?
I heard a Voice from Heav'n thus crying—Write—
Write—Blest are those that in their Saviour Dy—
Ev'n so, the Sacred Spirit does reply;
No more with anxious Thoughts, or Cares distrest,
Lain down in Peace, they from their Labours rest.

Lastly to God (with whom the Spirits live
Of Holy Man) their Thanks they humbly give,
That did, in Mercy, the Deceased free
From all the Miseries of Mortality.
Imploring that He wou'd (their Trials past)
Th'Elect Accomplish, and his Kingdom hast:
Beseeching further, they by Grace may be
Made of the same Selected Company:
That so, at the Last Trumpet's dreadful Sound,
When the re-quickn'd Dead shall cleave the Ground,
They may not Perish in the wild Affright,
But, rising, be accepted in his Sight:
And from th'Eternal Son that Crown receive,
Which He, Presiding, to the Just shall give;
Pronouncing thus to all that Love and Fear
His Holy Name:—Ye Blessed! Enter here!
Receive the Kingdom from the first prepar'd
For Right'ous Souls—Lo! Here Your Bright Reward!
Your Seat a Throne, and Cherubins Your Guard.

104

What Man cou'd, hearing this be cold in Zeal?
And not a sort of Elevation feel,
When such Divine Discourse his Spirit warms,
His Hope enlarges, and his Patience Arms;
Graving our Ends so deeply on our Hearts,
Not one that hears unedify'd departs.

Our Rubrick thus. Now your Enthusiast view,
And let us see what He can better do,
That Canting Elder of Your Sullen Crew:
Who following all that's Wrong, and leaving Quite
Our Holy Rules, Commenc'd a Saint in Spite:
Then rising up to be by Blockheads priz'd,
All Truth he darkn'd, and all Sense despis'd.
Peevish quite thro'; for never had a Sot
With Intellects so cold a Head so hot;
And from that Spring his Notions bubbling come,
With heat of Brain boil'd up into a Scum.
His Reason does with his Religion Suit,
And shews us that as once a Speaking Brute
Might by his Language for a Teacher pass,
The Man might here be taken for the Ass.
At Riches rails, and yet to Gain a Slave,
Fool to the Core—But less a Fool than Knave
So sour his Look it turns what he does say,
As Runnet Changes Milk to Curds and Whey.
In fine (no longer on this Theme t'insist)
His Dullness is a thick Egyptian Mist,
A Fog that may be felt; a dismal Night
Of Gloomy Error! Total loss of Sight!—
But in our Goshen, Heav'n be prais'd, there's Light.

Thus, Gifted and adorn'd with Graces fit
For such a Charge, methinks I see Him yet,
With the same Dullness pregnant in his Face,
As then when first my Corps was brought in Place;

105

Where what with Nonsense, and most vile Grimace,
He turn'd it from a Funeral to a Farce.

For, of a sudden, glaring with his Eyes,
(A sign the Spirit was about to rise,)
And with his Fist Discharging on his Breast
A peal of Blows, enough it is confest
T'have rais'd a Spirit both in Man and Beast;
For to be soundly Drubb'd, yet Patient be,
Not Balaam's Pad cou'd bear, and why shou'd He?
But suddenly he burst into a Tone,
That yet was neither Talk, or Scream or Groan,
But made of all; and did resemble best
The out-cry of the Gad'aren Swine possest:
While, as He eagerly pursu'd his Tale,
He foam'd as fluently as Bottl'd Ale,
And threw the Froth of Inspiration round,
Like Holy Water on enchanted Ground.

But granting all this while He had his Wits,
What then? can Conscience have Convulsion Fits?
The Hick-up on our Piety take hold?
Or can Religion catch a Hooping Cold?
Thus thus with forcing out, and sucking in
His Nasty Breath, he made this frightful Din;
Screaming as loud as Women in their Pains,
Or, at a Riding, He that flings the Grains:
And all the while his Breast still plying home,
Just as the Devil did the Wiltshire Drum.

So did the Priestess of Apollo rave;
The Fumes ascending strongly from the Cave
O'erpowr'd her Brain; and then the Tempter seiz'd
The Fort, and us'd her Organs as he pleas'd;
While by her Dreadful Voice, and Rolling Eyes,
She does but vouch, and vend His Impious Lyes.

106

Alas! Religion is not to be found
In Fright, Grimace, and in a bellowing sound,
As if 'twere only Noise that Truth adorns;
Like Gelders, pleas'd with winding of their Horns.
Such wild, confus'd, Enthusiastick Starts
Imprint no Charm, or Reve'rence on our Hearts;
But rather shew, as Running Nags and Mares
Must have their Heats, your Teachers, too, have theirs,
And fling, and Switch, and Spur to reach the Goal,
As if they were the Jockeys of the Soul.

Sometimes, indeed, the Spirit, restive grown,
Wou'd sink down Sullen to a lower Tone;
But as a Jade a tiring will not Stir
Unless you freely use the Whip and Spur,
So on his Stomach laying but a Blow,
He made the Stream of Nonsense freshly flow:
So Marrow-bones, if beat, the Oyl will run,
And Thunder drives the Rain the faster down.

Tempests, we read, the very Rocks disjoyn'd,
But God was not in the Tempestuous Wind:
Earth-quakes the Hills did shake, and Centre tear
With dreadful Flaws, th'Almighty was not there:
The Flames did next to the wide Arch aspire,
Nor yet was God in the Avenging Fire;
But in a Sound that sooner reach'd his Ear,
The Still, small Voice of Piety and Pray'r.

Such was his Action, to his Language fit,
For ne'er were Words remov'd so far from Wit.
The Matter such, as nothing did Comprize
But a vast heap of Inconsistencies:
No Method, Nothing congruous in the whole,
No Shape, Connexion, Spirit, Life or Soul!

107

Suppose a Madman, Starting from a Dream,
Shou'd, half awake, assume some freakish Theme,
He sooner wou'd the Parts t'agreement bring,
And make the Whole a more Coherent thing.
Thus (Ramble, Bombast, and all Fume his Brain)
In a most frightfull, wild, and hideous Strain
He talk'd two tedious Hours; but nothing said
That did respect the Living, or the Dead,
That warn'd us for our Changes to prepare,
Or shew'd th'Occasion of their coming there.

While thus He bawl'd, full many a Ruful Sigh
His Hearers gave, as if resigning Life.
Some groan'd aloud, and hardly cou'd refrain,
(Th'Inspiring Vapours rising to the Brain,)
To lanch out in the like distracted Strain.
Others, more mild, remov'd from that Extreme,
Sat sniv'ling as their Faith were turn'd to Flegme.
Some gaping stood as if their Mouths were Ears;
(Tho' there's no other Animal that wears
His Luggs so large, and Visible as theirs;)
That 'twou'd have puzzl'd and confounded Thought,
Which was most Brute, the Teacher, or the Taught.
Nonsense You love, and have what you desire,
As Swine, by Choice, wou'd ne'er be out of Mire.

But tir'd at length, his Fists their Blows forbore;
The Spirit, warn'd by that, did rage no more,
But fainter grew, than with a Hum—gave o'er.
So when a Bag-pipe Player with his Arm
Does cease to ply the Bellows, all the Charm
Is at an end; only the Base does moan
A while, when the In-Breathings lost and gone,
That did Inspire it with the Ruful Tone.

108

To close up all, he lastly made it known
That what he had Discours'd was all his own;
That, till he thither came, he pass'd the Day
Without one Previous Thought of what to say;
That the dead Letter sow'd the Seeds of Doubt,
He better knew the Mind of God without;
Nor had among 'em let one Tittle fall
But what came then from Heav'n, Illumination all!
Here (railing at the Learn'd and better read)
The Dust was tumbl'd in upon the Dead.
Then (ev'ry one first Palming of the Guide)
Stupid, Untaught, and so Unedify'd,
They Zealously went off to Beef and Ale;
The only Prudent Part of all the Tale.

Why (O ye Pow'rs!) does Wretched Man abuse
That Gift he may to such Advantage Use?
Reason! that, like the Star, the Pilot's Guide,
Thro' Faith's unbounded Ocean, deep and wide,
Points out the Way, secure from Storm and Tide:
That Light Extinct, which gives our Faith it's Eyes,
We straight encline to all Absurdities;
On Waves of Pride, or of Presumption toss'd,
And wreckt at last upon the horrid Coast,
For where there is no Reason Hope is lost;
And how of Hope can we Idea's frame,
Or Truth, if in our Intellects w'are Lame?
Without our Reason no Religion can
Be Taught, Defended, or Imbib'd by Man,
That is the Base on which our Faith must stand,
That gone, like Water Grasp'd it quits your Hand.
What Path to Happiness can Ideots show?
Or what can Brutes, who have no Reason, know
Of Saving Faith? Or Children at the Breast,
Or those that are Bigotted, or, all one, Possest?

109

'Tis only those to whom that Guide is giv'n,
And Grace to follow, tread the Path to Heav'n.
That Stamps the Seal on ev'ry Mystery,
Our SAVIOUR's Merits teaches to apply,
To live Resign'd, and so Resign'd to Dy.

Thus Reason join'd with Faith can wonders do,
Take in the whole Creation at a View,
To all past, present, and to come extend,
And hope for Glories that must never end.
But Faith without her Guidance can't subsist,
All then is Errour, Wilderness, and Mist:
From thence the Downfall of Religion flows,
For Nothing he Believes that Nothing knows;
And without Reason Nothing can be known,
Not that our Sight, or Hearing are our Own.

'Tis true, in some things Faith does take a Flight
Beyond her View, but leaves a Track so Bright,
That Reason follows by the Beams of Light.
Tho' Providence her curious Eye does bar
To see thro' Mysteries—there She sees they are,
Commends 'em to our Faith, which to refuse
For false and spurious, and the true to choose;
And not with Modern Guides, and Modern Crimes,
To blend the Truth of Apostolic Times:
For then the Bounds of our Belief were fixt,
Tho' now broke up, and Lyes to Truth annext
By ev'ry mad Expounder of the Text.

But Reason you disclaim, and on your Side
Believe You have ev'n an Unfailing Guide,
A Scheme of Truth by Inspiration giv'n,
And Grace Divine Immediately from Heav'n:
That you as near Communication hold
With God, as Peter, or as Paul of old;

110

So nothing e'er in Publick Teach or Write,
But what th'unerring Spirit does indite.

If so, then all you to the Press commit
Is equally Divine with Sacred Writ:
For all You Teach, like that, must Perfect be,
Done by the same Infallibilitie;
For ev'n those holy Elevated Men,
That Spirit moving, did but hold the Pen.

What may w' expect from them that will maintain
Notions so vastly Monstrous and Prophane!
For if the Faith which they pretend is true,
What might they not for its Promulging do?
Their Pow'rfull Word wou'd Devils dispossess,
Convert ev'n Atheists, and whole Nations bless,
The Lame wou'd walk, the Blind unclose their Eyes,
The Sick recover and the Dead arise!
But you no Miracle for Proof can shew,
But that you dare believe your Doctrin true;
Amidst your Blasphemies forgetting quite,
Tho' you are Blind, that others have their Sight.
For if no Man to Heav'n can have pretence
Whose Guide is Knowledge, and whose Creed is Sense;
If Grace is but Enthusiastick Fits,
And Piety resigning of our Wits,
Then Bedlam must be needs the best of Schools,
Enlightn'd with the Trance and Dream of Fools:
There, in Exactest Colours, You may see
A Scheme of Your Infallibility;
There, and there only, may be always shown
A Church that nearest Parallels Your Own.

For pray, what can their Madness make 'em do
More than your odious Faith exacts from You?

111

Can they be easier to Perversness known?
Or with more Spite the Sacrament disown?
That Institution which our Lord enjoyn'd
To keep his Everlasting Love in Mind.
Can they with the Baptismal Vow dispence
With smaller Zeal, or greater Impudence?
That Vow which brings within the Christian Pale
The Chosen Flock, and, certain to Prevail,
Sets us where Heav'n and Endless Life is view'd,
When in the Sacred Eucharist renew'd.
Can Women there, (to strong Illusions sold,)
By Inspiration, louder Preach and Scold?
Make Reason and Religion clash and fight
With Sharper Fangs? till, work'd into a Fright,
They've lost themselves in Prophecy and Light:
Tho' Paul, of old, the Giddy Freak did blame,
And openly reproac'd it as a Shame:
What is it now then, Inspiration lost?
And they no more of various Tongues can boast
By like Effusion of the Holy Ghost?
For of the Spirit (faithful to their Tone)
So little Sign they have in Language shown,
Your very Teachers cannot Spell their Own.
Can they on Dignity Reproaches throw
With more Inveteracy and Gall than You?
Shew less respect to Place, and greater hate
To Sov'raign Edicts and Commands of State?
Tho' w'are for Conscience sake, by Holy Paul,
Advis'd t'Obedience and Submission all;
Our Saviour too enjoyning to obey,
And what is Cæsar's due to Cæsar pay.
Can they (if they had leave to walk the Street)
Shew less Regard to any Friend they meet?
Pass by a Swine, (tho' but a Sullen Brute,)
He'll grunt, which is his Method of Salute.

112

A Dog to him he knows will wag his Tail,
A Decent Homage that he'll never fail,
How much below a Beast must Mortals be,
If Beasts outdo 'em in Civilitie?
As if, because 'tis said, God do's respect
No Persons, we must utterly reject
All just Behaviour, only meant to shew
Honour, as Paul enjoyns, where Honour's due.
Can to our Priests they viler Language give?
Who by a Law so old their Tithes receive,
And to the Altar bred, must of the Altar live.
True, Scribes and Pharisees by Christ are blam'd;
You call them so who of that Christ are nam'd:
Quite contrary to what our Saviour thought,
And to that Love in which he Liv'd and Taught.
Can they with a more wild and barb'rous Zeal
Think ev'ry Mortal damn'd, beyond Repeal,
That will not walk with them their Rambling Way,
Their Reason quit, and be as mad as they?
Which is so a high a Pitch of Wickedness,
No Thought can reach it, and no Words express;
And, since our Faith began, must be at least
A Million Damn'd for one Believer Blest.
'Tis well for Man that Man's no Deity,
How sad th'Effects of such a Pow'r wou'd be!
Well did that Prince the Gracious Nature scan,
That cry'd, before the Pestilence began,
Let us not fall into the Hands of Man!

Hear me (O Wretch!) this vain Belief give o'er,
And follow thy Fantastick Guides no more:
Back to thy Mother Church and own thy Sin,
She with Extended Arms will take thee in
Weeping for Joy; and, thy Contrition true,
Set the Bright Realm of Glory in thy View:

113

Where for one single Sinner that returns
To God, and all his past Presumption mourns,
There's more Exulting and Tryumphant show
Than on the Days when Kings are Crown'd below.

With Reasons strong and plain, (to which I might
Add many more, of equal Force and Weight,)
I've let you see Your Stream of Faith's impure,
And can't the Test of Truth and Sense endure,
But shrinks before 'em, of a Suddain gone,
Like Darkness when the Tide of Light comes on.

Remember (if the Parable y'ave read)
What Abraham to the Fool in Torment said,
And don't this Message Impiously deride,
Least what he spoke shou'd be to you apply'd.
If to the Word (says he) they shut the Ear,
And Moses and the Prophets will not hear,
They'll never be Perswaded Truth is said,
Ev'n tho' one come to tell it from the Dead.

But see! the Morning do's her Beams display,
And warns me upward to a Brighter Day!
Believe like me, that you may thither rise,
And follow this Ascension thro' the Skies.

[Ascends swiftly out of Sight.

A Name they in Derision give to our Churches.

119

THE MURMURERS, &c.

A SATYR. In Two Parts. Written soon after the late Revolution.

1. [The First Part.]

Who ever for Himself wou'd Safety know,
Shou'd Act, alike, for Publick Safety too;
'Tis there our Private Happiness depends;
From thence it rises, and with that it ends.
In Factious Times, with Violence o'errun,
What Human Comfort can we call our own?
Rape, Plunder, Devastation, Fire and Blood
Rage thro' the Land like an Impetuous Flood,
The more Destructive as 'tis more withstood.
But there where Peace and Mutual Trust preside
Dwells Plenty, Wealth, and ev'ry Joy beside;
Who those Advance, and only those approve,
Begin below the Life they'll lead above:
By Peace the Happiness we hope for there
Descends, and lets us first behold it here.

120

What then must the Flagitions Wretch be stil'd
That wou'd subvert, and make her Nature wild,
Who of her Self's so Gentle and so Mild?
Now at a Time when with her Brightest Charms
She, like a Bride, wou'd Sink into our Arms;
Then dive into the Heart and Triumph there,
To shew She can be fond as well as Fair:
When God-like William, Prodigal of Breath,
To Court her dares the last Extremes of Death;
And Gen'rously again himself exiles
To bring her Home, adorn'd with Foreign Spoils,
And with her here enjoy the Harvest of his Toils.
Curst then be they who, siding with our Foes,
Ingratefully his just Designs oppose,
And to that height of Villany advance
To have Him fall a Sacrifice to France:
In vain—His Genious mounts above their Rage,
Shall Honour this, and Bless the Coming Age.

Let it not here be urg'd in their Defence,
Their Passive Temper shews their Innocence;
No Persons tread so near the Verge of Vice
As those that are most Scrupulously Nice;
Rather than not a seeming Slip avoid
They'll run on Ruin, and see all Destroy'd.
What Tenderness of Conscience can they have
That Thousands wou'd destroy for Three they save?
Such Non-Resistance, rightly understood,
Wou'd draw up ev'ry Sluce of War and Blood.
Let Slav'ry Join'd with Pope'ry but advance,
Led on by the Successful Pow'r of France,
And they themselves wou'd soon and sadly see
The Sanguine wild Effects of Passive Policie.

Ay—But their Oaths;—And grant the Plea were true,
Th'Objection yet wou'd comprehend but few:

121

For one that has a past Allegiance Sworn,
A Thousand Murmur but to serve a Turn.
But say indeed the former taken Vow,
To many, is the Tye that holds 'em now;
Let such Remember by that very Deed
They're bound to those that Legally Succeed:
The Prince that wou'd not Rule by Law is gone,
And, Abdicating, laid his Scepter down.
And that no Man, or Parties may Repine;
In those that now Succeed Him, Heav'n does join
Both the Direct and the Collateral Line.

But let these Cautious Men, that will not Swear,
Be pleas'd to Answer me one Question fair:
Since Scruples only can concern our Selves,
Why wou'd they dash their Neighbours on the Shelves?
Why do they Talk, and Preach, and Write as if
The Present Oath wou'd Ruin all Belief?
Striving to bring (what never can be done,)
(Or, if it cou'd, wou'd yet not better one)
The Size of ev'ry Conscience to their own.
But little is by such that Rule pursu'd,
Of old advanc'd, and thro' all Times renew'd
That Private By-Regards must yield to Publick Good.
The General Voice our Glorious Monarch crown'd,
And still the Few are by the Many bound.
Mark in our Senate when they Laws dispence,
Tho' almost half have, oft, a different Sense,
Yet no Resentment at the Rules express'd,
Because the Major part concludes the rest.
In short, to Sum up all:—The Government
Was alter'd with, or without God's Consent;
If with it then 'tis Impious to complain,
Without, he yet Permits the Present Reign;
So renders either Way their last Engagement vain.

122

But madly we to clear this Point pretend;
Let Truth accuse, and Prejudice defend,
And mark if the Debate will ever end:
No Arguments w'ave yet in Publick shown,
(And in no Cause were better ever known)
Have hitherto so much as but Convicted one:
On Future Mischief bent, they will not see
Their Present safety and Felicity.
What ever Doctrine or Perswasion then,
Was first Imbib'd by these Pernicious Men,
(For such a Creed all Ancient Faith devours)
What ever is their Church—They're not of OURS.

Of OURS! That takes from Scripture all her Rules,
Her Business, saving, not perverting Souls.
Of OURS! Howe'er at home by such decry'd,
Envy'd, or Prais'd thro' all the World beside.
Of OURS! allow'd the Primitively true;
'Tis Insolence and Dullness make the New:
Her Pedigree we from th'Apostles draw,
All the Reformers were but Sires in Law:
They saw the Errors which her Charms did hide,
Impos'd by Rome's Unconscionable Guide,
That grasp'd at Earthly Pow'r with Unexampl'd Pride;
Saw 'em, and of those Failings stript her bare,
When streight, like Op'ning Buds, She did appear
In all the Sweetness of Her Native Dress;
Nor has her Age yet made her Beauties less:
And thus Originally pure, Embrac'd
Her in their Arms, and held the Blessing fast.
Nor does She too much Her own Worth prefer
But owns Her Members, and her Self may err.
What e'er is urg'd by Rome's Pontificate ,
Not Peter ever reach'd a Sinless State;

123

Nor did (by what we in his Writings see)
Assert his own Infallibility.
But let us here the different Ways behold
Of Him that fish'd for Men, and Popes that fish for Gold.
From what He Writes a strict Obedience Springs;
But They set up ev'n for Dethroning Kings.
He as a Servant did himself Survey;
And These assume a more than Regal Sway.
Where e'er He went Attendance still was spar'd;
But They can never move without a Guard.
He with one Sermon did his Thousands save;
And These have made their Thousands Fool and Knave.
He with Contempt did Yellow Earth behold,
For which, with Them Salvation's Bought and Sold.
O Scandal! Which in Ancient Times they ne'er
Cou'd have Conceiv'd wou'd Sit in Peter's Chair!
Thus Pride or Frenzy gave that Notion Birth
That plac'd a Guide Infallible on Earth;
A Grace on Angels not bestow'd, and then
How much less likely to be found in Men?
Search all the Annals since the World began
You'll Sinless find but one,—And He was more than Man.
Th'Eternal Word was with our Nature join'd,
And God Himself Transfus'd into the Mind,
Before that Wonder he was pleas'd to rear
Of Human Birth to reach Perfection here.
'Tis Him we Imitate, and Righteous call;—
But Copies ne'er cou'd reach th'Original:
The Wond'rous Race of Fau'tless Life He ran;
And He's the Wise, the Happy, Holy Man
That comes as near the Pattern as he can:
So to Endeavour Sets all Heav'n in view;
And so t'Endeavour's all we here can do.

Nor let the Private Spirit here oppose
With Canting Terms, and Sniv'ling thro' the Nose;

124

Who tho' it most reviles the Papal Sin,
Sets up a like unfailing Judge within.
Each Sectarist in his Breast believes he there
Has all that Popes ascribe to their Unerring Chair;
And, Unappealable, can there decide
All Truth,—His own Illuminated Guide.
But certainly (if I may Judge for one)
The Mind is best by what it utters known:
If Fau'tless they can live, it follows, too,
They're so in what they Preach as well as what they do:
But in this Point we need but only here
Their Holding forth, and the Conviction's clear.
What e'er they boast of Supernatural Light,
There's little taught but Prejudice and Spite:
One set of Blockheads vending Fustian here,
Another Senseless Class inverting there
Clearness to Doubt, and Comfort to Despair.
So strange a blending we of Doctrines view,
So vilely do they Scriptures dash and brew,
That no Belief is wanting—But the True.
Whatever from their Guide the Rout requires,
All Sense he darkens, and all Ears he tires,
Yet Impudently says he speaks as God Inspires:
Whereas His Spirit Nothing does dictate
But what is Wisdom, Congruous, Fau'tless, Fate,
Unchang'd, Immortal, and Immaculate.
A Glimpse we have of it indeed, a Ray
That like the Magi's Star does point the Way,
And shew, among Opinion's dangerous Shelves,
W'are not in things too deep to rest upon our Selves.
His Spirit all sustains, and all does see;
There's nothing else Infallibilitie.
But grant he were dispos'd that Gift to give,
What Mortal Mind's Capacious to receive?
The Burst of Glory wou'd consume our Frame,
As Wings of Flies singe in a Pow'rful Flame.

125

Enough it is, and shou'd all Doubt decide,
That He has left the Scriptures for our Guide
Dictated by that Spirit, and contain
All Precepts, needful to Salvation, plain.
For Points Abstruse lie out of Human Sight,
And while vain Men wou'd make that Darkness Light,
And, big with Notion into Secrets pry
That have forbid Access to Mortal Eye,
They weave themselves in their own Web so close,
Nor Falshood, Truth, nor Wit can get 'em loose;
From this to that for ever whirl'd about;
Uneasy, in Disputes; yet more Uneasy, out.

Thus, owning She may Err, our Church is Right,
And in that seeming Failing hits the White;
Our Saviour's Blood is then for Sin apply'd,
Or else in vain he Liv'd in vain he Dy'd:
For, as for Merit properly our Own,
Nature and Frailty say we can have none.
A Saviour of Mankind had needless been,
If Human Worth cou'd have aton'd for Sin:
Good Works is but Morality, no more,
In which the Jews Excell'd us heretofore;
And (tho' with Grief we must the Truth allow)
The very Turks, 'tis fear'd, excell us now.
But Christianity, that fines our Thoughts,
Is Faith, Hope, Patience, and Remorse for Fau'ts.
If after Adam GOD must Human be
E'er Man cou'd from that fatal Lapse be free,
It argues our own Insufficiencie.
Boundless Compassion! for by Him w'ave been
Freed from the Forfeit—tho' not freed from Sin.
The Sacred Page says Positively thus—
He bore our Griefs and was Chastiz'd for us,
Which cou'd we Sinless be in very Deed,
Were a Compassion Man wou'd never need.

126

Beside, this Principle is fixt and true,
That what's not Needful GOD wou'd never do;
And thence we to this sure Conclusion run,
That it was Needful, too, because 'twas done:
Then Man must Err;—and Romish Councils had
Retracted many Things perversely bad,
(So by themselves confess'd) but that 'twou'd tell
Their Papal Church was not Infallible;
And make their poor bigotted Followers see
Th'Unerring Chair was all a Fallacie.
Is then that Church Infallible that will,
Owning She Errs, run on in Error still?
That knows not which Her Mighty Guide to call
Whether a Pope, a Council, Church, or all?
How justly then (while thus they disagree
Which is that One) may we Exclude all Three?—
And so Good-Night—Infallibility.

But notwithstanding all the Fau'ts they've shown,
They yet expect in our Demeanour none:
For why that horrid Cry, with Frowning Brow,
Where's (Passive Fops) Your Non-Resistance now?
As if to save our Throats had been a Crime
Unprecedented in all former Time;
Or yet a Mark of Anti-Christ cou'd be
Not to be Slaves, when Heav'n had set us Free.—
But we shall prove, in its due Order shown,
The Fault so little—that perhaps 'tis none.

I say as many of our Church have done,
(We have, perhaps, a Thousand Votes for one)
The Passive Doctrine in the former Reign
Was what cou'd never Settle in my Brain.
What People ever bore all Human Harms
Ev'n then when they cou'd right themselves by Arms?

127

Had I been to have Preach'd up Kingly Right,
I wou'd have blown the Bubble from my Sight;
Nor, puffing up a proud and Dangerous Mind,
Ascribe it Pow'r which Nature ne'er design'd.
A Principle like this defends the Throne,
Tho' Lucifer himself shou'd Sit thereon,
And leaves us Nothing we can call our Own.
It makes the Monarch Arbitrary still,
And sets no bound to a Licentious Will;
Destroys the Magna Charta's sacred Right,
And makes our very Guards against us Fight;
Puts Arms in Tyrants Hands, augments their Pow'rs;
And gives our best Defences out of Ours:
For Non-Resistance is but sitting still,
And let the Men in Pow'r do what they will,
Enslave, Demolish, Ravish, Burn, or Kill.
But say it were a Fault, and Grace we want
In thus Dissenting from the Passive Cant;
Allowing this, why is it push'd so far?
Alas! w'ave own'd already Man may Err.
But since with this You may not be Content,
(For Guiltiest Men can say they're Innocent,)
We'll fairly offer other Argument.

If I'm not culpable by Law to Dy,
(For Lawless Force is not Authority)
Rather than You shou'd take this Life of mine
I'd save it tho' the Struggle cost thee Thine:
At least, so far ev'n Reason bids me Arm;
Divest him of the Pow'r of doing harm.
Nor rises any Error from the Fact,
For Heav'n it self does Authorize the Act.
Nor Laws Divine, or Human, give Pretence
To let him suffer, who thy Insolence
Repressing, kills thee in his own Defence.

128

Well then, we'll put the Case the best we may:—
The Contracts between Kings and Subjects say,
They bound are to Protect and These Obey:
We own our Distance;—they are Seated high,
We lick the Dust;—but e'en they are, thereby,
Not Priviledg'd to do us Injury:
Tho', without Subjects, pray what is a King?
A little, poor despis'd, defenceless Thing:
What e'er is urg'd by Favorites wanting Sense,
It is the General Homage makes the Prince:
In vain their Birth and Soveraignty they boast
The People not assenting all is lost.
Happy! when neither side does Law controul,
Nor these for Liberty, nor those for Rule:
For while they keep within that Legal Pale,
Nor Arbitrary Sway, nor Faction can prevail:
Then Kings are Great, and then their Subjects thrive;
These have their Rights, they their Prerogative.
So that the Monarch Seated on a Throne,
Must weave the Publick Inte'rest with his Own,
Allow the Ancient Rights Prescription gave,
And more than those the Subject must not crave:
For Profuse Princes, if they give too fast,
May whoop for their Prerogative at last.
Now, when e'er Subjects, swell'd with Hate or Pride,
Assume what Law and Nature have deny'd,
Conspire in their Ambition, Rage, or Spite,
And make Attempts upon the Regal Right,
They break the Contract; broken, they are brought
To Punishment Proportion'd to the Fau't:
In such a Case the Soveraign You will find
Absolv'd from his,—it can no longer bind;
And tho' his Oath was to Protect, yet now
He cuts' em off,—nor is it Breach of Vow:
Just as we lop a Gangreen'd Limb away
To save the rest, and make th'Infection stay.

129

With equal Reason then, when Kings themselves
(That shou'd be Pilots) dash us on the Shelves;
Making th'Establish'd Constitution fly,
And shoot the Dreadful Gulf of Anarchy;
Dispence with Laws that long in force have stood,
Meant, made, and prov'd to be for Publick Good,
And side with Principles that strike at Blood;
Pulls down the Good old Frame, a bad one rears,
He breaks the Contract; and it plain appears,
The Subjects then too are absolv'd from Theirs;
And Jointly stand oblig'd by strength of Hand
The Aggressor's Lawless Forces to withstand,
Who Tyrant like, to keep his Slaves in awe,
By Will wou'd rule, and make his Pow'r his Law.
Oppress'd so far, for their Defence they may,
Must fly to Arms, there is no middle Way:
For then 'tis God the Difference does decide,
He who the Great Machine of War does Guide,
And knows the best which is the Juster Side.

But 'tis not now as in our Father's Time,
Their Case was then undoubtedly a Crime;
A Crime, perhaps, ev'n yet not Expiated;
Some fell by Plague and Fire, and some have bled,
And more, more Blood, perhaps, too may be shed.
They fear'd what they'd, indeed, no Cause to fear
They dream'd of Danger that it wou'd appear,
And Knaves and Fools were hir'd to place the Object near.
But we were certain, we both heard and saw;
In vain we pleaded Property and Law:
So sure they were, that the most moderate Mind
Wou'd fairly own our Ruin was design'd.
The Arm was held up and the shining Knife,
With a strong Swing, descending swift on Life:
But who can what Heav'n pre-ordains withstand?
An Angel, as of old, did stop the Hand,

130

And like the Ram caught in the Thorny Snare
Seiz'd them—but us the Sacrifice did spare.
What Safety then had Non-Resistance giv'n
Tho' boasted as a Precept taught by Heav'n?
Our Case (while we the Papal Burthen bore)
Was just like that of Samsons's heretofore.
Our Laws, that shou'd our Properties secure,
Were bound with Cords of Arbitrary Pow'r;
And by a set of Treach'rous Men, were just
Delivering o'er to mad Philistian Lust:
But as He then to hear the Foe but nam'd
Broke from his Bands, to Glorious Deeds inflam'd,
So when from Warlike William, and from Heav'n
The Signal for our LIBERTY was giv'n,
(Like Him endanger'd to the last Degree,)
Exerting all our Strength, we all at once were free.

“Shall I my Mother tortur'd see, or worse,
“Behold her Ravish'd by Insulting Force,
“And not to her Assistance fiercely bend
“Because he is a Prince or was a Friend?
My Country is my Mother, She beset
With Spoilers, jointly to her Ruin met,
And crying out for Succour;—if her Aid
I run not to, or Factious, or Affraid,
Ev'n I am one by whom She is betraid.

How Slavish then, or of a Blacker Dye,
Were those that screw'd the Passive String so high,
And still defend, precarious Pow'r to get,
Perversly what so foolishly was writ?
Our Sons might well have blam'd our Want of Sense,
Had we been Preach'd out of our own Defence,
And to the Papal Rage expos'd their Innocence.
Had they forseen this Change they had not wrote;
Much less wou'd have Imbib'd the Dangerous Thought

131

That true Religion (whence our Freedom Springs)
And Liberty are Inconsistent Things;
Or that no Man a Christian can commence
That shakes not Hands with Honesty and Sense.
O Men in Policy much, much to seek!
So finely Twisted, and the Stuff so weak
No Wonder that this Rope of Sand did break.
But with their Principles we now have done,
And in our Second Part they shall themselves be shown.

132

2. The Second Part.

When Pharaoh's Num'rous Host was now no more,
And Israel's Guide had reach'd the happy Shore,
One wou'd have thought, so many Wonders past,
They wou'd have been all Gratitude at last;
And with loud Voices, in Eternal Lays,
Have Prais'd their God, and kept his Right'ous Ways.

Quite contrary we Read th'Event was found;
In a few Days, thro' all the Camp around,
'Twas Slight, Despondence, and a Murmuring Sound:
Their downward Souls, not daring to be free,
Abhor'd the Hand that gave 'em Liberty.

But never was there known, as Authors tell,
(Gifted alike to Murmur and Rebel)
Before our Times that People's Parallel.

133

What more from Impious Pharaoh cou'd they fear
Than we from Rome's more fatal Slavery here?
Not a worse Scene was the Erythrean Shore
Behind their Tyrant, and the Sea before.
And yet e'er we cou'd think Defence was near,
The Storm was silenc'd, and the Heav'ns were clear;
Away at once the threat'ning Terrors fled,
And Peace and Safety settl'd in their stead.
We all cry'd Liberty! Enfranchisment!
Trade! Plenty! Property! with one Consent;
And Orange under Heav'n was own'd the Mighty Instrument.

The very Men themselves that now we blame
For changing Masters, then believ'd the same;
Their Service in the Common Cause they'd boast,
And argu'd but for Him w'ad all been lost:
Their Danger then had made 'em lose their Spite,
And in their very Fears they found their Sight:
But Cowardice no Gen'rous Fruit can bear,
And a forc'd Duty is the least sincere:
For soon Conversing with the Popish Crew,
(Nor to their Safety, nor their Reason true,)
They left their Party—and their Senses too.

Why else, when so much Publick Good is done,
Is such a strange Dissatisfaction shown?
Why shou'd they wish his Ruin who so late
Sav'd 'em from theirs, and rais'd a sinking State?
Why shou'd they wear so diffident a Brow?
All smiling lately, and all Railing now!
Unless 'twas only Change they aim'd at then,
And, not Preferr'd, are for a Change agen:
More Proud than Just, and more Perverse than Wise,
Nor care if Kingdoms fall so they can rise.

134

But that we may the livelier paint their Crimes,
Once more we'll touch upon the Papal Times.
The Bow stood bent and levell'd at our Lives,
Our Throats were stretch'd beneath the Roman Knives,
While Rape but for the Word expecting stood,
First to begin in Lust, and end in Blood.
The Rights and Freedoms we so much admire,
All Hopeless lay, and Gasping to expire.
Torn Charters fell, thick as a Fleecy Show'r,
Blown thro' the Land by Arbitrary Pow'r.
Reliev'd of all these Evils, who'd have here
Deny'd the Tribute of their Praise and Pray'r?
Quite contrary (with equal Jewish Spite)
These Men are blind amidst the Glare of Light;
And over to a strong Delusion giv'n,
Murmur at Mercies in the Face of Heav'n.

In vain our Hero's happy in his Toils,
In vain the War does spare the British Isles,
In vain Augusta triumphs, and Eusebia smiles;
In all the Blessings Subjects can possess,
Their only Comfort is to make 'em less.

By what strange Witchcraft cou'd their Papal Friends
Work 'em so quickly to their Treach'rous Ends?
Where cou'd they the accurst Ingredients have,
That can so soon compose the Fool and Knave?
Disposing so their Poison thro' the whole;
It quite inverts the Truth, and black'ns to the Soul.

Nor do they only Silly Sheep infect,
But oft the Hand that shou'd those Sheep protect,
Of this we've bloody Instances of old;
But nothing than their last more Base, and Bold,

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Which made us Objects of that Monarch's Hate
Whom we had lifted to the Regal State,
In Spite of Factions, and almost in Spite of Fate.
The Ways and Means we need not mention here,
Seen by all Eyes, and heard by ev'ry Ear,
How e'er our Loyal Deeds had like to cost so dear:
But, hood-wink'd by Apocryphal Divines,
He owes his Ruin to their damn'd Designs.
'Tis true, they Threatn'd, Flatter'd, Brib'd and Writ
But Fools and Women, (which may shew their Wit)
Were all the Proselytes they e'er could get:
Unless by chance, among the Thoughtless Fry,
Some Hireling Pens deserted by the By.
All ways to buoy their Sinking Cause they us'd;
The Bloodiest, Blackest Methods stood excus'd,
If fast to their Design;—which was to do,
Ev'n worse than Lewis by his Hugonot Crew;
Not pack'd us off for Charity to Roam,
But making surer Work, hang'd us like Dogs at Home.

Such would have been the Times, we must allow,
Had that Persuasion flourish'd here till now:
(The Jehu's drove on with a furious Pace,
But by their very Swiftness lost the Race:)
And such will be the Times and such the Reign,
If that curst Doctrin mount the Stage again.
We once oblig'd 'em,—and some Authors say
We then were thought a duller Race than they,
For trusting Wolves, (whose Nature's to devour,)
And putting into dang'rous Hands the Reins of Soveraign Power.
'Tis true, we did so;—nor can sorry be,
For acting by the Rules of Equity;
Possest of all the Glories of a Throne,
He was but yet invested in his own.

136

Nor less her self our Loyal Church appears
To do her Duty, tho' they fail'd of Theirs.
The higher we advanc'd their Wealth and Pow'r,
The more our Treatment was Morose and Sour;
And cou'd they've found the Means to slake their Thirst,
The Arm that rais'd 'em had been Blooded first.
If then upon a just Survey, we find
Them most ungrateful, when we most were kind;
What can w'expect upon the certain Proof
W'are not their Friends—but made 'em glare aloof;
What milder Dealing can Britannia hope
From French Dragoons, and a yet Bloodier Pope,
But Fire and Faggot, Poison, Sword and Rope?

'Tis needful then, we here should scan the Man,
That would retrieve so bad a Cause again:
That cry the BARQUE of State will overwhelm,
If the old PILOT come not to the HELM;
(He that engag'd us among Rocks and Shelves,
Then angry grew we wou'd not Wreck our selves.)
That say the CHURCH is tott'ring and will fall,
And ah!—You see we are divided all;
When they so very far mistake the Point,
There's nothing but their Faction out of Joint.
Imagine one Man worse than all beside,
Made up of Rashness, Virulence and Pride;
Imagine him Licencious, False and Vain,
His Notions wrested, and his Biass Gain;
Conceive him last his Country's Dang'rous Foe,
Without one Grain of Reason to be so:
Blood his Design, Subversion his Delight,
And then you truly paint a Jacobite.

A Jacobite! the other French Disease,
And more Malignant if we let it seize;

137

For fluxing there relieves the Patient's Pains,
But give this Scope, and like a Plague it banes:
Of these there are two Sorts;—and one takes Pride
To shew what t'other strives as much to hide:
But tho' the last demurely Act his Part,
'Tis not for want of Rancour at the Heart;
Tho' what he means to do, he does not tell,
W'ave fatal Proof he serves the Turn as well:
Inveigles, Undermines, Allures, Betrays,
And plies his Task a hundred various ways:
Sad Times he cries;—then let him have our Curse,
That grants 'em wicked, and wou'd make 'em worse.
Thus one's a Bigot at full Length display'd,
While t'other Skulks about in Masquerade:
Yet tho' the first talks loud, and keeps a Pother,
He's not so dang'rous as his Silent Brother.
What Ward for Arrows flying in the Dark?
Or the Sly Cur, that Bites and will not Bark?
Such is this Man,—and can he miss the Mark?

The Bully boldly shoots the Brothel Door,
And mounts the Stairs, Audacious to his Whore;
Nor cares to whom the Impious Crime is known,
But takes his Turn, and instantly is gone:
And tho' the Drab to Truth has no Pretence,
He ne'er Disputes her want of Innocence,
But Ventures Life and Fortune,—all in its Defence.
The secret Leacher, like a Guilty Spright,
Ne'er lets his Strumpet see him till 'tis Night;
And tho' 'tis Dark will yet be in Disguise,
And, Conscious of his Crime, thinks all are Spies.
Pray which of these is worst?—I know you'll say,
The Private Drudge that ply'd his Task till day,

These two Pernicious Monsters paint aright
Our Bare-fac'd, and our Vizor'd Jacobite.

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One is a Papist, careless who does know
That he was bred, and will continue so:
What e'er He's bid the Implicit Fop will do,
Without Examining if false, or true,
And so keeps bright Conviction out of view.
The other in his Conduct shews you Skill,
And is at best but more discreetly ill:
What e'er his Brother openly intends,
He is for bringing round by Private Ends:
(For Your true Rascal must much cunning have
Tho' something still of Fool we find in ev'ry Knave:)
Will not he is of that Persuasion own,
(For little cou'd he serve his Party known:)
But, for a Blind declares He's one of Us;
And whether so, or not, we'll next discuss.

Is He a Protestant that wou'd o'erthrow
The Pillars that support his Being so?
A Child wou'd have the Answer ready—No.
But since so Brief an Answer may not do,
We'll take one other Step to prove it too,
Tho' needless, since so manifestly true.

'Tis a known Lesson in the Roman School,
Who e'er makes one of us Embrace their Rule,
From sure Damnation does redeem a Soul.
Tho' we see thro' the Lawn of this Pretence,
It's want of Truth, of Honesty, and Sense,
Yet they run on; Conversion is the Cry,
And Peter's Keys are his that will comply.
With Truth they never yet one Convert made,
But flatter, threaten, or with Gold persuade;
Weakness may slip where so much Ice is laid:
We saw this Plain; our Chambers ne'er were free
From these loose Emp'ricks of Divinitie,

139

Who mixing the Divine Ingredients ill,
And worse applying, with that very Pill
By which we cure, deprave, insnare and kill:
For Christianity (the Scriptures show)
Needs not the Crutch of Cruelty to go;
She best supports her self; and can aspire
To Heav'n, or to an Humble Brest retire,
Without the aid of Inquisitions, or a Smithfield Fire
These are the gentle Means that Church has took
To gain us; Christian Bowels they've forsook,
And made a Murd'ring Sword of the Mild Shepherds Crook.
Stubborn in Principle, devout in ill,
Of Restless Nature, and Licentious Will.
The only Reformation they advance
Is to turn us from our Allegiance,
Or make the Prince assume a Lawless Pow'r,
While, sparing only them, He does all else devour:
Yet ev'n to Him they their Contempt reveal
In making Popes their Earthly last Appeal;
Transferring so his Rights to Foreign Hands,
For if that Priest but bid, in vain the Prince Commands:
Their Soveraigns thus his Properties are made
Their Royalties usurp'd, the People's Rights betray'd:
For Rome's curs'd Mufti aims but at two things,
The Coin from Subjects, and the Pow'r from Kings.
The Man that does advance a Popish Reign
Wou'd set all these Designs afoot again:
All Sense of Human Shame he then must want
And have, Seven-fold, a Jesuit's Brazen Front,
Who after this concludes himself a Protestant.

Either these Men notorious Coxcombs be,
Or very firmly think, that—such are we:
To bring in Popery, and take off the Test,
Yet of th'Establish'd English Church profess'd,

140

Is Inconsistent with all Reasons Rules;—
But they are Knaves that wou'd have all be Fools.
Some few past Years before your Memory set,
And mark if e'er such Contradictions met.
Engagements, Vows, and Oaths may once deceive,
So far methinks 'tis Human to believe:
But He that does Implicitly run on
When so much Publick Injury is done,
And thinks 'tis for our Safety and our Fame,
Must be an Ass,—or else he wants a Name.

How strangely is the Papal Herd misled!
But what's a Body with so false a Head?
To Heav'n the Holy Scriptures point their way,
And Truth (a greater Light than rules the Day)
Stands for their Guide;—in vain, they will not stir,
But follow One that will not follow Her,
Yet Impiously assert he cannot Err:
Not Err? when in the Eucharist they declare
The Flesh that Suffer'd on the Cross is there?
That tho' we Bread to outward Seeming see,
'Tis yet th'intire Essential Deitie?
No not at all;—nay further (adds the Priest)
'Tis but with Fools that Miracles are ceas'd:
Our Sons will give, (and Credit rightly Plac'd,)
More Faith ev'n to their Teachers, than their Tast.
So the Good Woman, tho' her Husband saw
Her in the Fact, not valu'd it a Straw;
But cry'd, at once to end all future Strife,
What? trust your Eyes before your nown Sweet Wife?

But to return: Suppose the Man we here
Have mention'd, really no Papist were,
He shou'd be ne'er a Jot the less our Fear;
Since all his Actions to their Centre tend,
As fierce an Enemy, as false a Friend.

141

Were I seiz'd by two Ruffians strong and bold,
And one does cut my Throat, and t'other hold,
Or gag me, while he perpetrates the Act;
Which of the two is guilty of the Fact?
Why thus, e'en handy dandy chuse you whether,
For Law will tell you both must hang together.

Well then, if not a Protestant, (as we
Have cause to doubt) 'tis proper now to see
Of whence, and what Communion He can be.
—Not a Fanatick; they his Converse shun,
And fast enough to Wickedness can run,
Without th'Encouragement of Looing on:
Not but thus far we ought to Right their Fame,
The Jesuit 'tis, that finds and springs their Game.
Tho' here he can't devour so much as they,
He yet fills up their Cry, and shoots them at their Prey.
—Nor must he be a Quaker understood;
For 'tho' their bad, he yet is not so Good:
Prepost'rously they both Religion ply;
Those make it Farce, and these a Tragedy.
—Nor is he Baptist, Dryden's Bristl'd Boar,
Who tho' in Germany his Tusks he tore,
His Friends have deeper dip'd their Hands in Christian Gore:
In Piedmont was their Restless Fury try'd,
In Ireland too, their Butch'ry rag'd as wide
Nor only there, but half the World beside:
O blest Religion! sure to gain the Heart,
That wou'dst with Blood and Massacre convert!
Booted Apostles thy Converters are,
But, Search the Scriptures, find such Monsters there.
—Nor is he Turk or Jew—but if we scan
Him Rightly, a much more opprobrious Man;
His Kings and Countreys Traytor, so profess'd,
As he supports the Gallick Interest:

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And who advances that (to name him right)
Must bear the odious Brand of Jacobite,
And next a Papist; half an Eye may see
Two Tallies more exactly can't agree,
Than now a Murm'ring Tongue with Popery.
A Papist to the Common-Weal's a Foe,
By Interest, Nature, and by Doctrine so;
That Common Foe a Villain we may write;
Of that Communion is a JACOBITE.

'Tis time to rouze our Selves, nor longer lie
In the cold Bosom of Indifferency,
While, careless of what Times are comming on,
That Danger seize us which we yet may shun;
For Laughter, Laziness, and Luke-warm Zeal,
Are but weak Mail to keep out Popish Steel.
Who e'er stands Neuter now is doubly base,
Springs from a Traytor's or a Coward's Race,
Thoughtless of Shame and harden'd in Disgrace.
In our Defence half Europe are in Arms,
And all our Enemies have took th'Alarms;
Unanimous as One, then, let us go,
And not be sought but let us seek the Foe:
Our Cause is ripe and Justice is our own;
Freed from our Bondage, let th'Egyptian Groan.
And that to this Great Work we may be gone
The sooner, think Great William leads us on:
Nurs'd up in War ev'n from his tender Years,
As fam'd for Conduct as contempt of Fears;
On that sure Basis he his Glory rears.
A Prince whose Vict'ries we with Wonder view,
And ev'ry Day gives Birth, or Teems with new.
Not a vain Promiser that breaks his Word,
But of a Temper Constant as his Sword;
H'has sav'd two Kingdoms and shall save the Third;

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Nor then the Just, the needful War give o'er,
But, that Reduc'd, go on and Conquer more.
France then, perhaps, tho' now her Airy Pride,
Wrapt in the Clouds, her Tyrant's Head do's hide,
May tumble down, and such a Time behold
As Edward and our Henry shew'd of old,
When in that Countries Bowels they did draw
Their Conq'ring Swords, and gave its Members Law.
'Tis done!—I see 'em Fly, and Dye, and Yield,
As then they did at Crescy's Fatal Field.
Our Courage and our Strength are still the same,
And God-like William as Renown'd a Name,
And stands as fair for Everlasting Fame!

148

A SATYR AGAINST MAN.

TO The Right Honourable CHARLES, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c.

1. The First Part.

I who against the Women drew my Pen,
With equal Fury now attack the Men:
The Charming Sex, that thought us then Severe,
Shall find we'll be alike Impartial here;
That no Regard shall to our Side be shown,
From Him that clouts a Shooe to Lewis on a Throne.

Ye Injur'd Spirits of that Virgin Train
Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain,
Cropt from your Stalks like Roses newly blown,
With all your Beauties, all your Sweetness on!
In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate,
Your Truth cou'd not Protect you from your Fate;

149

Your Truth, too cold to melt th'Obdurate Mind
Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind:
If you, Chast Shades, e'er condescend to know,
Enthron'd above, what Mortals do below;
If still You can your Earthly Wrongs resent,
And wish the Perjur'd lasting Punishment,
Assist the Muse in her Revengeful Flight;
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.

Man is my Theme,—but where shall I begin,
Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin?
Or how shall I get out when once I'm in?
Man! who by Heav'n was made to govern all,
But how unfit demonstrates in his Fall:
Created pure, and with a Strength endu'd
Of Grace Divine, sufficient to have stood;
But Alienate from God, he soon became
The Child of Wrath, of Mise'ry, Pride and Shame.
What Beast beside can we so slavish call
As Man? who yet pretends he's Lord of all:
Who ever saw (and all their Classes cull)
A Dog so snarlish, or a Swine so full,
A Wolf so rav'nous, or an Ass so dull?
What Species of 'em have so far been shamm'd
To think their other Brethren all are damn'd.
So short his Judgment, and so dim his Eye,
He's farthest off when he believes he's nigh.
Pretends to Heav'n your Footsteps to convey
As by and by we'll more at large display;
Then raises Mists to make you lose your Way.
But most the Women his Discourse deceives;
For ever lost the Female that believes!
Assist ye injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.

150

Slave to his Passions, ev'ry sev'ral Lust
Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the Dust:
And Dust he is indeed, a senseless Clod,
That swells, and wou'd be yet believ'd a God.
When e'er in his Gilt Coach the Pageant rides,
(Full of himself, and loathing all besides,)
He must be thought Illustrious, Wise and Brave,
Tho' a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave.
Mean while the Man of Worth, with all his Care,
Shall scarce have Money, in a hazy Air,
To pay the jolting Hackney Coach its Fare.
This shews us Fortune in her Partial Mood,
Is chiefly most unkind, where least she shou'd;
To Merit false, as if 'twere made a Rule,
But faithful as a Saint to Knave and Fool.
Good Heav'n! that such should have so little Sense,
And yet withal so much of Impudence,
To think their Value higher than the rest,
For swearing loud, and being nicelier dress'd;
Yet so it is, the flutt'ring Coxcomb's priz'd,
And the brave threadbare gen'rous Soul despis'd.
The Vertuous Woman too is grown their Jest,
And Heav'n, and Heavenly Things belov'd the least.
But aid, ye shining Train! the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.

Where'er Self-Interest calls, he's sure to go,
But never matters whether Just, or no:
Justice he laughs at as an Idle Tye,
Lives in that Faith, and so resolves to Dye.
As greater Fish upon the weaker prey,
As Wolves on Sheep, that from their Shepherd stray,
So Cruel Men, with utmost Rage and Spite,
Make Violence and Rapine their Delight,
Till with Revenge they've gorg'd the Appetite.

151

Not bounded by Divine or Human Law,
Too Proud to Humble, and too Strong to Awe;
Breaking the Bars, that Natures Hand has laid,
All Wrong they cherish, and all Right invade.
New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore;
His Sea of Villany's without a Shore.
Ev'n in his Dreams, he's laying Snares for Blood,
And waking, he resolves to make 'em good:
Or grant, against his Treach'ry you provide,
It is but having Money on their Side,
And soon the Case 'twill to their Biass draw;
Corrupts the Judge, and he Corrupts the Law.
Witness the present Legislative Train,
Where for one Wise, you have your fifty vain,
And for one Just, a hundred following Gain.
Witness the Crew, that late exulting stood,
And wash'd their Impious Hands in Royal Blood:
If from their Subjects Princes are not free,
What must the Wretch expect of mean Degree?
Not in an Age he sees a happy Hour,
For Poverty is still the Slave of Pow'r;
And oft to satisfie the Tyrants Lust,
Is forc'd to bend, and crawl, and lick the Dust:
The Fair themselves meet with a Fate as course,
And those of 'em it can't betray 'twill force.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.

Deceitful, Slothful, Covetous and Base;
Rage in his Heart, yet Peace upon his Face.
Whene'er he smiles the specious Cheat beware,
Some secret Villany lies lurking there;
Which if it take, (to Lucifer ally'd)
Makes him but Sport for his Revenge and Pride.
Nor are but Fools deceiv'd by the Disguise,
It reaches for above them, to the Wise:

152

Nay ev'n the Learn'd are often Knaves for Hire,
And whither then can Innocence retire?
Friendship, which gain'd of Old Immortal Fame,
Is now, like Justice, nothing but a Name.
Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know
By uncontested Proof he has been so:
In that Disguise the Blackest Deeds are done,
In that Disguise they're hardest, too, to shun.
Who is it makes the Modest Wife a Whore?
Your Friend, for those that hate you shun your Door.
Who is it proves to Oaths and Bonds injust?
Your Friend, Your Enemies you never trust;
Or, if you do, y'are very far from Wise;
And Knave and Fool we equally Despise.
Who is it does your secret Soul betray,
And bring your darkest Thoughts to open Day?
Who is but your Friend? in whose false Breast
You vainly thought they wou'd for ever rest.
The Heart of Man is to it self untrue,
And why shou'd you expect it Just to You?
Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire,
Shine bright a while, and in a Blaze expire:
Ev'n Love it self is now a Flame decay'd;
For whatsoe'er is to the Female said,
It is the Fortune charms, and not the Maid.
Assist, ye Injur'd Train, the Satyr's spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do you Right.

Who most does Promise least shou'd be believ'd,
For first to trust is next to be deceiv'd.
I once my self believ'd I had a Friend,
For boundless was the Love he did pretend:
Riches he did not want, he rowl'd in Coin,
Which oft he Swore was less his own than Mine.

153

He wou'd do Nothing without my Advice,
Friendships best sign; for no true Friend is Nice:
I too ador'd him with so bright a Flame,
Angel to Angel can but do the same.
At his approach all other Joys took flight,
Ev'n Woman I contemn'd; he was the Light
That rul'd the Day, they did but rule the Night;
And that too oft:—upon his gentle Breast
My Cares, and ev'ry Anxious Thought took rest.
It happen'd once my Purse was low in Store;
(And once were well if 'twou'd be so no more:)
In this Affliction 'twas no slender Bliss
I was assur'd of such a Friend as this.
On Him, said I, on Him I may depend,
I cannot need so much as He will lend;
He will be thankful his Esteem is try'd,—
I ask'd him, and, by Heav'n, I was deny'd!
Nor ever since will he so much as Greet,
Or Speak, or Nod, or Name me when we Meet,
But like a Friend, ascance he Darts his Eye,
Or with proud Gesture walks regardless by.
Traytor to Friendship! may thy Spoted Name
Stand branded here with everlasting Shame.
But 'tis no Wonder; search, and You will find
The same Ill Nature runs thro' Humankind.
Not Madmen when they're in the Raving fit,
Reciting Bards, (a Race more frantick yet,)
Or Atheists, that will have Prophaneness Wit;
Not Midnight Drunkards scow'ring thro' the Street,
With Swords advanc'd to Stab the next they meet,
Nor ought be it as horrid as it can.
Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man.
In vain the Widow does Assistance crave;
The Virgin can herself no Pity have,
But once in want, must Whore for Bread, or find a timeless Grave.

154

But aid, ye Injur'd Sex, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage and she shall do you Right.

Not that by this I'd have You prone to lend,
Unless You are sure 'tis to a Real Friend;
If you doubt that, in vain he shou'd intreat,
The Business of Mankind's to Lye and Cheat:
Why then shou'd any be so vain to trust
When 'tis such odds the Debtor proves unjust.
A Friend's a Friend, and so he shou'd be us'd;
But where one finds 'em Just, ten Thousand are abus'd.
The Vows of Men are of the Brittlest kind,
And light as Chaff dispers'd before the Wind;
But made in Sport, and lengthen'd to be Weak;
As Children's Bubbles just are blown to break.
How far their Words are distant from the Heart,
And then how black in the Ingrateful Part
The Fair can best inform, who most have felt the Smart.
What Female has there ever yet been known
That found, by Proof, her Lover all her own?
Much for Inconstancy that Sex is fam'd,
But now in their own Mother-Art they're sham'd:
Swifter than they the Swain can change his Mind,
And most be faithless where they most are kind.
So vastly wide his Language and Design,
He thinks they're Devils whom he calls Divine.
Knows he is Treach'rous yet will swear He's true,
And, which is worse, call Heav'n to vouch it too:
But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his Blood is warm,
And the next Face he fancies ends the Charm.
Assist, ye Injur'd Maids, the Satyr's Spite,
Lend her but Rage, and she shall do You Right.

No Vice so distant but within his view,
Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do.

155

Treason's a Trifle; 'tis a frequent thing
To here the Subject, speaking of his King,
Use viler Terms than Tinkers in their Ale,
Throw on a Trull, too Liberal of her Tail.
Adult'ry but a Ve'nial Slip, no more,
Now grown a Trade, what e'er 'twas heretofore;
For some there are (O where is Vertue fled!
O strange Perversion of the Nuptial Bed!)
Who that way Nightly toil to get their Daily Bread.
Murder and Pox so common, none can be
Admitted Gentleman of Prime Degree,
Till he has thrice been Clap't and Butcher'd Three.
Incest but laugh'd at as a Pleasant Jest;
A Sister now as Gr---y has oft confess'd,
Is e'en as Good a Morsel as the best.
Others, with equal boldness, strip the Lead
From Sepulchres, and Robb the very Dead:
Nay, some the Plate have from the Altar bore.
In which they had Receiv'd but just before.
In short so much their Violence prevails,
Our Churches must be made as strong as Jails.
But You'll object that Persons so inclin'd
Are Scoundrels, and the Fagg of Humankind:
Search then the Roads; and You will quickly see
What we may hope from Rascals of Degree:
A Noble Birth makes but the vitious worse,
And their last Shift is certainly—the Purse:
Extravagantly having spent their own,
They're all for Spoil and Rapine when 'tis gone.
Villains! that strip the Needy Peasant bare,
Tho' what he had he got with Toil and Care;
That Ravish helpless Woman, barbarous Act!
And next Destroy 'em to conceal the Fact.
But what they lightly get they spend as fast,
Their Lives in dissolute Embraces wast,

156

Till they are caught, adjudg'd, their Crimes confess'd,
And then unpitied die;—and so die all the rest.
Go on, my Satyr, and indulge thy Rage,
For never was a more Licentious Age.

Happy our brave Progenitors of old;
What they call Brass, was sure an Age of Gold;
When Man by Active Games was hardy made,
And War believ'd an Honourable Trade;
Not made as now, Religion the Pretence,
To shew our Goodness equal with our Sense:
They fought for Glory, and we fight for Shame;
Our Feud's the Scandal of the Christian Name.
Thro' Hills they hew'd and div'd thro' Seas of Blood,
But all their Toils were for their Countrys Good.
What ever Care was for their Interest shown,
They still preferr'd the Publick to their own.
Factions then strove not to subvert the State,
As they do now, and as they've done of late,
They were not Plagu'd with Jealousies and Fears,
A Priest cou'd not set Nations by the Ears:
Nor ever was that Method to 'em known
Which in these latter Times so oft is shown,
Of fighting for Religion till they'd none.
Thus Honour, Truth, and Justice were their aim;
Their Sons saw this, and follow'd them to Fame.
Quite contrary, our Youths are only made
Harpies of Law, or Prentices to Trade;
Where each of 'em his Term of Years compleats,
To come out last the more accomplish'd Cheats.
Seven Seasons thus Preposterously are spent,
(Their Fathers, Masters, and their own Intent,)
To make one Lye, and 'tother Impudent,
Send 'em, ye Senseless Sires, against the Turk,
'Tis now the Time, and Meritorious Work;

157

It is a Glorious Cause, and let 'em Roam;
Be Judge Your selves which is the Nobler doom,
To fight for Truth abroad, or damn'd for Lyes at home.
Along my Muse, and yet indulge your Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.

But Trade, You'll say, ought not to be despis'd,
So much by wisest Legislators Priz'd:
Whole Millions it employs, who else wou'd know
What strength they had, and into Factions grow;
No other set of Brutes being half so rude,
As your Pretended Christian Multitude.
Beside, by Trade vast Cities thrive and rise
With Monuments and Tow'rs, contiguous to the Skies.
They do indeed; and we may know as well
'Tis Riches makes 'em Murmur and Rebel.
Those Crowds whom You pretend their Trade deterrs
From lanching into Civil Strife and Jars
Make that the Cause of all Intestine Harms;
For 'tis their Chief Pretence to take up Arms:
If they grow Poor with one Resol'v'd Consent,
(Like those who do their Wisdoms represent,)
They lay the Fault upon the Government;
When after all their Clamor, Spite and Pother,
Tis playing their false Dice with one another,
For still the half that fattens starves the other.
But let the Mildest Sense be understood,
That Trade was meant and proves for Publick Good;
What Comfort, or Excuse can it obtain
For Him that is a Private Rogue for Gain?
In Gross, or in Retail, for both Lines meet
And make this Truth their Centre Trades a Cheat.
What difference can there be between the Man
That cuts my Throat, and who does all he can

158

By Specious Guile to take my Bread away,
And Less'ning it a Morsell ev'ry Day?
Which is but Killing a more Cruel Way:
Doubtless, tho' 'tother seems the more accurst,
The secret Trading Villain is the worst.
So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who
Talks as he thinks, tho' Impious and untrue,
Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal
Is but a Cloak his Lusts and Murders to conceal.
But on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Enormous Age.

And here I must with Indignation show
What Ill from Seeming Sanctity does flow:
Wou'd You be something of Superior Rate
Look big, and be distinguish'd by the State?
Wou'd You be follow'd more than Lob or Pen?
(The dullest that, and this the worst of Men)
Be always Canting: 'tis a sure Disguise
That cheats not only Fools, but reaches to the Wise:
Tho' when advanc'd You need no further go,
But lie as still as those that have been so:
'Tis very few can tell, with all their Care,
The Ease and Quiet of an Elders Chair.
Do You for secret Profit lie in wait?
As being Trustee of some large Estate?
Erect your Eyes, and feign a mien Devout,
And from a Thousand they shall pick you out;
Leave to your Management the whole Affair,
Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir.
Are You a Scholar? nay or are you not,
And wou'd have something very quickly got?
Put on a Gown, and go with Looks demure
To Bawds, or Burgesses, that ev'ry Hour
Expect the King of Terrors in his Pow'r:

159

Creatures whose Penitence is only fear;
For, had they Health, they'd soon be as they were:
Go but to these with Fluency of Cant,
Be Impudent withall (a Gift we grant,
Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want;)
Their Hearts shall Yern, and drop you Golden Ore,
While their poor Neighbours Perish at the Door.
In short there's nothing, be it ne'er so Ill,
To Cheat, Forswear, to Ravish, Burn, or Kill,
But if 'tis veil'd with a Fanatick dress,
Is thought by some the top of Godliness:
Not Hell it self contains sufficient Fire
For Teachers who such Principles inspire.
But that the God of Truth we plainly find
In shining Strokes imprinted on the Mind;
And that his Word asserts, with due regard
He'll scourge the Bad, and give the Good reward,
So many Errors has Religion shown,
And it's Professors so Irreverent grown,
I shou'd ev'n think Him happiest that had none.
Proceed, my Satyr, with a Furies Rage
For never was a more Notorious Age.

Go to the Country, if You think to see
The old and so renown'd Simplicity,
A Temperate sort of Men, compos'd and Wise,
That joyn with Truth, and all Excess despise,
You'll be deceiv'd; for You shall quickly think
Both Poor and Rich were all Baptiz'd in Drink.
Eternal Sots! when the Brown Bowl's in use,
Y'ad better meet a Baited Bear broke loose.
Then for Tobacco, ev'ry Ale-house there
Wou'd suffocate ten Coffee-houses here!
A Stupid, Obstinate, Illite'rate Race,
Molded in hast, and Men to their disgrace.

160

The Yeomanry they boast are much the same,
Nor answer the Composure of their Frame,
But have of Human nothing but the Name.
Sermons they fly, or if by chance, they hear,
They truely might as well have stop't the Ear,
And Edify'd at Plough as much as there:
No least delight there in their Bosom Springs
Of Truth and Peace, of Heav'n and Holy Things;
A Treach'rous sort of Men demure in Sin,
The out-side Shepherd, and all Wolf within.
But if the Bumkin we no more admire,
What must we think that viler thing—a Squire?
The Country Beau, who fancies none so great
As those, possess'd of nothing—but Estate.
Let wiser Men abroad for Polish roam;
His business is—to be an Ass at home.
Bar him from talking but of Dog and Horse,
He's totally depriv'd of all Discourse.
As 'tother Triumphs at the rise of Corn,
So all his Glory is the Hound and Horn;
Away upon the Scent they scow'ring go,
Thro' thick and thin, and over high and low;
Where e'er the Fox does fly the Fools pursue.
Oblig'd so little to the Heads they wear,
A breaking Neck is not at all their care;
Till dislocated Bones at length convince
They're Cripples in their Limbs, as well as Sense:
But tho' this Way the Sire is half undone,
It has at all no Influence on the Son,
Who thinking Daddy what we Lordly call,
Drinks, Whores, and Hunts till he has wasted all,
So goes th'Estate by over-reaching got,
Rais'd by a Knave, and squander'd by a Sot.
Justly the Satyr may indulge her Rage.
For never was a more Licentious Age.

161

Such Vices on a Rural Stage to find
Does bring the Monster London to my Mind;
If Wickedness is grown so Prosp'rous there,
To what a Pitch must it arrive at here!
Where, from the Lofty Stand, we have a View
Of ev'ry Villany that Man can do,
An Abstract of all Evils, Old and New;
A Fund Immense! that won't Exhausted be
Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternitie.
All Crimes of Men and Devils here abound,
And none so bad but have Protection found.
The Soil so Rank, no Vice but what does bear,
Nor dully waits for Rip'ning half the Year,
But ev'ry Moment shoots a Harvest here.
To tell 'em singly were a Task as vain
As in a Shower to count the Drops of Rain;
But shou'd a serious Man but truly mark
The Guilt of ev'ry Bully, ev'ry Spark;
Wou'd he Survey their Treach'ry, Oaths and Pride,
A Devil Worship'd, and a God defy'd;
Their Blasphemies, their Murders and Amours,
Lewd City Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores;
Pimps, Pois'ners, Panders, and Luxurious Lords,
With Judges damn'd upon their own Records;
In Courts of Justice little Justice had,
Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad:
Shou'd he these Monsters see, and Thousands more
Of all Degrees; Great, Little Rich and Poor,
What cou'd he think? what cou'd he thence deduce
But Sodom was Reviv'd or Hell broke loose?
His Hair with Horror Stiffn'd, he wou'd say
We Merited the Flames as much as they,
And that the Devils went before but to prepare our Way.
Lash on my Satyr with a Furies Rage,
For never was a more Flagitious Age.

162

Expos'd to Times of such Impietie,
Whether for Succour can the Vertuous flee?
Where can they fix their Feet to compass rest?
How save themselves? or comfort the distress'd?
Severe to Human thinking, is the Fate
That upon Patience, Truth and Justice wait:
Dare to be Honest and You'll quickly find
Y'are beating Chaff, and Labouring for the Wind:
But don't Repine; there must be Joys in store
For Him that can at once be Just and Poor:
'Tis true he does not lie on Beds of Down,
Nor with a Set of Flanders beats the Town;
Keeps not a Cast of Lackques, to declare
To Punks his Vanity, and Pimps his Fear;
Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat
The most delicious, or most Costly meat;
Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the Poor,
First cram'd by them, then empty'd by his Whore:
But tho' his own he can't these Trifles call,
He has a Blessing that out-weighs 'em all,
An Unmolested Conscience, void of stain,
Which Greatness, and which Wealth can never gain;
In vain they'd think there is no Future State,
They feel their Load of Sins and sink beneath the Weight:
While Honest Men—but whether do I Steer?
Why talk of Honesty?—a thing so rare!
So seldom thought of, and in Bulk so small,
'Tis Doubtful if it does exist at all,
Search thro' the Nation, find me if you can,
That Prodigy, a Truely Honest Man;
Let me but see him, let me know his Name,
And it shall be the whole Discourse of Fame:
In the mean time, till such a one is found,
(And he that Searches must not spare for Ground)

163

Justly the Muse might lash the Impious Age,
And with like Fury fill the following Page,
But that we here must Mitigate her Rage:
From change of Precepts fresh Instruction springs;
Here then a while she stoops her weary Wings,
To talk more coolly of some Nicer Things.

2. The Second Part.

Having thus far of Man in General Penn'd
We'll now to some Particulars descend;
To things wherein he most himself does prize;
His Wit, and Learning, Stript of their Disguise,
And see if those will yet confirm him Wise.

Who e'er the Top of Infamy wou'd gain
Must be a Wit—perverted at the Brain:

164

But that we may the Monster undisguise
We'll first, (as in the Scale of Truth it lies,)
Lay open what a Modern Wit implies.
An Impious Wretch that Scripture ridicules,
And thinks the Men that dare not do it, Fools.
A Lustful Goat! who to be fully known
For what he is, does pick and cull the Town
For Maids and Wives—first having Pox't his Own.
If Liberal, it is only in his Wine;
So that his Bounty's Chance, and not Design.
His Mannors he does make th'Attornies Care,
To Rack the Tenant and to Rob the Heir;
And in the Course of Years, to make two Thirds their Share.
Fond of bad Notions, which he oft will strain
With such an Impious Subtilty of Brain,
The Thread at last his Reaso'ning does produce
Is spun so Ill, 'tis of no Human Use;
But Intricately cross'd with Lines and Snares
To Ruin Souls; as Spiders, Flies with Theirs.
In Scoffs upon Religion seldom dull;
Forgeting Sense deprav'd but makes the greater Fool.
His Faith does with the Turkish Creed comply,
Which owns a God, but lays a Saviour by;
So following Arrius, who the Dance began,
He makes the Great Redeemer less than Man.
But that we may his Character comprize
In a few Words, his Talent chiefly lies
In crying down the Christian Mysteries:
With Him the Passion's but a Tale of Course,
The Trinity a Contradiction Worse;
Th'Incarnate God the Cobweb of the Schools,
And rising from the Dead the Dream of Fools:
This is the Wit that makes our Gentry Mad;
And there's a Bastard Sort almost as bad,

165

Which in the Meaner Rout it self displays,
And does exert its Pow'er a Thousand various ways.
In Fools it is the finding Fau't with Sense,
In Courtiers Craft, in Lawyers Impudence;
In Beaus it is to Dress, to Patch and Paint,
In Porters Bawdry, and in Misers Want;
In Poets Flatt'ry, in the Clergy Pride,
In Schismaticks 'tis an unerring Guide,
And Rapine, Spite, Revenge, in all Mankind beside.
When all the while the thing it self's no more
Than a true turn of Thought, not heard before;
A Flash of Sense that darts into the Mind,
Like Starling weighty, yet like that refin'd,
Good Language, Breeding, Vertue, all in one Expression joyn'd.
These three away, whatever Fools profess,
It is no longer Wit, but Wickedness.
Thus chew these Men on Husks instead of Fruit;
And tho' of Reason, Reason they dispute,
They yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.

His Learning 'twill be needless to expose,
As having little Credit there to lose;
And then, the more his Boast the less he knows.
The Face of Heav'n with Constellations, Signs,
Ecliptick, and a thousand various Lines
He Scribbles o'er, and to the Stars does give
A Pow'r by which we either Die, or Live:
But if so vast an Influence they instill
As to be found Superior to the Will,
We can our selves be neither Good or Ill:
And what Absurdities arise from thence
A Child may tell without the help of Sense.
Nor less does the Predicting Coxcomb call
From Man Contempt; and from the Satyr, Gall;

166

Who Insolently in those Leaves wou'd look
Where only God does write, and Fate it self's the Book:
'Tis He! th'Almighty! and 'tis only He
Has Eyes that pierce into Futurity.
And yet our Nostradamus's presume
With Senseless Schemes to tell of Things to come;
When their vain Art there's nothing represents
So near, as Madmen guessing at Events.
Tho' ev'ry Year convinc'd of Judging wrong,
Yet with a frontless Look, and lying Tongue
They still go on, and from the harmless Stars
Fetch Claps and Famine, Duels, Debts and Wars.
Others their Time in Elegance employ,
The Choice of Words and Phrase their only Joy;
Some they Improve, and others Introduce,
And both, perhaps, a while remain in Use;
Till Time, that does all Human Change compleat,
Takes in more New, and makes them Obsolete.
Chaucer but in his Matter lives alone,
The Sweetness of his Matchless Stile is gone.
Thus, thoughtless of the Future on they Post
And ply the Critick till the Christian's lost.
Nor less in History does his Judgment err
Perverting Fact, that Truth wou'd render Clear.
Whatever from him else his Reader draws
He finds; at least He's Faithful to his Cause:
How many Hireling Pens does Lewis fee
To cheat and Misinform Posterity!
A true Impartial Author who can Name
Since Greatness has with Pensions truck'd for Fame?
How many are there at this Instant known,
That will to Future Times be Hero's shown,
Yet are but Sots and Villains in their own?
Or grant he Philosophically spends
His Time, and Nature faithfully attends;
Nature! whose wilie Lab'rinth never Ends.

167

Or be it Physick that employs his Days,
Or Metaphysicks yet more wand'ring Maze;
Or shou'd he on to Alchymy aspire,
And all the Transmutations wrought by Fire,
The Satisfaction can be yet but dry;
One Point obtain'd another's in his Eye;
Another after that; another still
Succeeds, to teaze and baffle Human Skill.
To Numbers an Infinity we give,
But shou'd we for no other Purpose live
But to count on, and wast our Little Span
In Searches Unattainable by Man,
Whatever Doctrin's current in the Schools,
'Twou'd still appear we liv'd and dy'd like Fools.
Thus tho' of Reason daily we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.

But Him that positively Fool we call
Is He that reads, chain'd with 'em to the Stall,
All Authors, and is for digesting all;
When Life it self's not able to attain
Any one Part of any Science plain.
Of Universal Scholar much we hear,
But 'tis a Sound so shocking to the Ear,
The Men of Judgment humbler with their Lot,
Retort more truly—Universal Sot!
When in his Study, where that Term he gains,
How does he work his Thought, and froth his Brains,
His Leisure Squander, and his Spirits wast,
To bring out some Abortive Cub at last?
Or if, by Chance, if does with Life escape,
Whole Years are spent in licking it to Shape:
Tho' after all, perhaps, it's utmost Date
Is one Edition, and it yields to Fate.
But Nothing can in Nature better paint
This Poring Scholar, or this Dreaming Saint,

168

Than when we see his Servant, wild in Looks,
With a large Fox-Tail dusting of his Books;
His Face is soil'd; and as his Work he plies
The more the Feathers, filth, and Atoms rise,
Till he's at last depriv'd ev'n of the Use of Eyes.
Just so his Master (as the Man has been
Without) is serv'd for raising Dust within:
A Thousand Tenets madly he'll maintain,
A Thousand more are whirling in his Brain:
From Shelf to Shelf the Bandy'd Books are thrown;
Confronting still their Notions with his own,
Till losing in a Mist all inward Light,
His Senses clog just like Servants Sight.
In short and let him be examin'd thro'
His Antient Authors, and with them his New;
In all that he has Common-Plac'd, for Use,
Advantage, Pride, Instruction, or Abuse;
And see if, after all his Life he Squares
Much better than your Vulgar Blockheads, theirs.
He talks, perhaps, more freely off at Hand,
But in such Jargon few can understand,
A barbarous Mixture, took from ev'ry Tongue,
To make up one Ridicuously wrong;
A Patch'd and Py-bald Idiom, rent and torn,
The Pedants Glory, but the Poets Scorn.
Beside, what is it from his Learning Springs
That mends his Management in Moral Things?
Can he than others more of Truth maintain?
Has he his Passions faster in the Rein?
Or is he less a Slave to sordid Gain?
Is he to Temperance known a faster Friend?
Or less Resolv'd for Trifles to contend?
Is he (at once) to Vertue more Inclin'd?
Or does he follow less the fatal Kind?

169

But that we may in Little all comprize;—
Were he ten Lives allow'd the Use of Eyes
He'd read, and read,—but never yet be Wise;
Nay rather far (bred up in Hobs's School,
Wou'd prove at last, by Section and by Rule,
An Atheist—that Compleat and finish'd Fool!
Thus tho' of Reason daily he'll dispute,
He yet lets Instinct better guide the Brute.

But here you'll say, misled by Human Pride,
What? must all Learning then be laid aside?
Yes all I say that leads into Abuse,
For Prejudice and Spite have no Excuse;—
But not that sort which is of Heav'nly Use.
Such as to search the Scriptures, and from thence
To build our Hope on God's Omnipotence;
That God which to our Dust did Being give,
And turn'd to Dust again, again shall make it live:
Why shou'd the Resurrection cause Debate
When to Restore is less than to Create?
To own his Son, the Great Messiah, sent
Our everlasting Ruin to prevent
And by this easie Method—only to Repent.
This is the Learning we shou'd all pursue,
Nor only Learning—it is WISDOM too!
But for that Wisdom which we Worldly call,
'Tis Fraud, Pretence, Design, and Treach'ry all;
While following Lust, or Gain, w'are in a Maze
Of Errors whirl'd a thousand different ways:
These in the Chase of War believe it lies,
That thinks 'tis only found in Ladies Eyes;
This at the Bar the Empty Glare pursues,
While Sots in Taverns think 'tis Wine and News:
Some in the Court, which nothing else employs:
Wou'd have it to consist in Dress and Noise,
In lies, Grimace, and thinking all Disgrace
Beneath a Blockhead of Illustrious Race.

170

Others believe this Wisdom to pursue,
Their being singly Wicked will not do,
So Goad on others to Damnation too.
Advice, Example, nay Rewards are us'd
And Bribes for Sin are seldom known refus'd.
In vain the Prince of Hell his Envoys sends
We do his Work much faster than his Fiends.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better guide the Brute.

But here th'Objector does again oppose—
In vain her Spleen your Wrested Satyr shows;
For Man as much he sees, so much he knows:
What if some few to Scepticism fall?
We for their Errors must not strike at all.
As high as Heav'n his lofty Search he bends,
Then down to Lowest Hell the Line extends,
And his pursuit of Knowledge never ends.
Into his Mind he vast Idea's takes,
And thro' all Arts as vast a Progress makes;
His reach of Thought and Intellectuals fit
For all Attempts of Wisdom and of Wit.
Such FACULTIES wou'd Heav'n to Man produce
And then Maliciously forbid their USE?
Look all around; be FLEETS or TOWNS the Scene,
Or Stately Fabricks, or some vast Machine,
In all his Noble Works his Ample Soul is seen.
What a hard Task has he that wou'd convince
A Fool he is deficient in his Sense?
All sorts of Knowledge, properly of use,
Deserve our Praise, and plead their own Excuse.
But for his Navies and their fatal Sound,
If we examine Christendom around,
The Land does scarce secure so much as they confound.
Then for his Cities who did ever rear
So much as One without all Vices there?

171

Better if yet we wild in Woods did roam.
Made some cool Shades, or silent Cave our home,
Than growing by Society refin'd
Disgrace, Burlesque, and Ridicule our Kind.
As for the Spacious Fabrick that employs
So many Men,—this Builds and that Enjoys.
'Tis matter still of Fact, nor needs Dispute,
Who Labours most does least enjoy the Fruit,
A Curse that God does justly on us throw
For fixing all our Hope on Things below.
As for his Science in it's Noblest Flight,
We have already weigh'd, and found it Light.
Then for his Mind, Capacious tho' it be,
'Tis all a Desart wanting Piety.
And last of all, what with his Boasted Eye
Can he inform us of the Worlds on high,
On which we may with certainty rely?
What is it that supplies the Sun with Flame,
Which, still exhausting still remains the same?
How did the Seeds of Things at first disperse?
And—LET IT BE—Create an Universe?
Or if this seem too high, what does he know
Of Nature in her Num'rous Forms below?
Who ever gave of all that yet have been,
A true Solution but—why Grass is Green?
What Glorious Pencil does the Colours lay
When Beaute'ous Flora breaths her Sweets on May?
Then for himself—how Soul and Body's joyn'd,
This limitted, and 'tother unconfin'd,
Is an Ænigma Man cou'd ne'er unbind.
What secret Cavern, most divinely wrought,
Contains th'unbounded Images of Thought?
Where does th'Immortal Mind in Sleep retire?
Whence has the Eye its Sight, and Life its Fire?
How do the seve'ral Senses inward rowl,
And find their wond'rous Passage to the Soul?

172

If Ignorant then of these, and ev'ry thing
Almost beside, whence can the boldness Spring,
That, with Conceptions Finite, he wou'd stretch
Where but Infinity, it Self can Reach?
And Measure by vain Notions, here Imbib'd,
Th'Immeasurable! God uncircumscrib'd!
Eternity, and so Omnipotence,
Are things Inscrutable to Human Sense.
The only surest thing that here we know,
Is that we were not once in such a State as now;
And that we are not now what we shall be
Hereafter—Lanch'd into Eternity:
Enough alone to make the boldest here
Believe Salvation worth his strictest Care.
But against Natural Light we close our Eyes,
Then greatest Fools, when most we think w'are wise.
Thus tho' of Reason, Reason we dispute,
We yet let Instinct better Guide the Brute.

But then (to such Perverse Extremes we go)
As these wou'd know all things, so some will nothing know.
Why shou'd vain Man, they cry, the Greatest Beast,
Believe his Essence nobler than the rest?
What tho', he high as Heav'n erect can view?
So, when he Pleases can a Monkey too;
That Animal, whom, if we nicely scan;
Has most of Brute as nearest Copying Man.
Search all the Savage Kind both Bulls and Bears,
And find me one perplext with future Fears.
If in some things (tho' 'tis but oft Pretence)
We have th'Advantage, Cloathing and Defence,
They yet exceed Mankind in ev'ry Sense:
This Common Fate, at least, to both is known,
We Propagate our Species and are gone:

173

Alike by Nature form'd; and 'tis as true
We ought, with them, to live by Nature too:
The Faculties we have she bids us use,
And not Obeying, we her Laws abuse.
In short, we nothing more than Brutes can tell
Either of doing Ill, or doing Well;
Nor shall hereafter (as 'twill then appear)
No more than they be blam'd for ought committed here:
The Whips, the Furies, and Eternal Flames
Have all their Substance meerly in their Names.
'Twere most absurd to think th'Almighty heeds
Our Idle, Thoughtless, Casual, Senseless Deeds.
Why shou'd he with such Rage our Race pursue
Who do but what we cannot chuse to do?
Suppose a Man that never saw the Light,
But from his Birth has lain Immers'd in Night,
'Twere hard to damn him for the want of Sight.
Ev'n so, while living in this Mortal State,
Our Minds are darkn'd in a Mist of Fate:
Thro' a false Medium all we see is shown,
And we know nothing as it shou'd be known.
Why then shou'd Heav'n so hard a Law display,
To dimn our Sight and bid us find the Way?
If above Ignorance Man cou'd never rise,
'Tis senseless to Command him to be Wise;
And if by Nature he's, to Errors prone,
Can a Good God expect him to have none?
You'll say perhaps (of all Mistakes the Chief)
All this is even'd in a Right Belief;
That Sanctuary, where You always run
For Refuge when your Arguments are done:
Forgetting quite who Nothing does believe,
By Consequences, there's Nothing can deceive.
The Hell, (so much the fright of Vulgar Elves,)
Is made by Coxcombs only for themselves.

174

How can poor Man, that Creature of a Day,
Frailty thro'out, and molded from the Clay,
In a short Life (how ever vainly spent)
Be guilty of Eternal Punishment?
Such Notions we shou'd, one and all, distrust,
That Stifle Truth, and call a GOD unjust.

Hold! hold I cry;—and poize the Balance ev'n,
As at the first it seems design'd by Heav'n.
Our Knowledge we must Limited confess,
And by abusing it we make it less:
But shou'd we know as much as Angels do
Of Truth, and see by a Cœlestial View;
Were ev'ry Mystery naked to us shown,
As to the Blest they'll be Hereafter known,
What Tryal were there (thus of means bereft
To exercise it) for Obedience left?
Unless 'twere prov'd that willingly we stood,
How cou'd we hope Rewards for being Good?
To ev'ry Man of Common Sense 'tis shown,
Necessitated Vertue can be none:
How can we call him Temperate, Chast and Just,
Who does not what he Wou'd but what he Must?
The Angels that Elaps'd have made it plain
That they, and those whose Purity remain,
Like us, a State of some Probation pass'd,
E're these were Justify'd, and those were Cast.
Without some Care the Wisest cou'd not live
To Skill in Arts with Labour we arrive;
And shall he save his Soul that will not Strive?
Your Notions then we rather shou'd distrust,
Perverting Truth, and calling God unjust.

In vain (for who can rob the Mind of Light?)
You'd throw a Mist of Fate before our Sight;

175

In vain You take, enamour'd of the Kin,
To back your Cause, the Ape your Brother in;
There's something in us that Assent requires
To Heav'nly Things, there fixes and admires,
And thither, like a Flame, by Native force aspires:
No Bounds it keeps, but, scorning all controul,
Asserts a Future State, and half reveals the Soul!
To say we Nothing know then, as the first
Of all your Arguments, is next the worst:
Because, (as 'twere the Porter made to Sin,)
'Tis that which lets all other Vices in:
For were that Notion Settl'd once as true,
There's Nothing but we Lawfully might do:
But of all Errors ever broach'd beside,
There is not one so Evidently wide.
Who knows not? (tho' with Vices, we confess,
Too oft we sink into a Brutal Dress;)
But yet who knows not, (tho' he know the least
Of all Men,) that he's Nobler than a Beast?
His Look, Demeanor, Speech and Form declare
That Man was most the Wise Creator's Care.
The Brute has Being, and 'twill Perish whole;
But 'twas to Man in whom He breath'd a Soul.
The Lab'ring Ox, suffic'd with Natures Store,
Declines his Abject Head, and seeks no more;
Not so contented, Man erects his Eye,
And forward shoots at Immortality:
'Tis true, the common Fate he shares, and dies;
But has the Brute, like Him a Hope to rise,
And, leaving Earth below, with Angels tread the Skies?
Who knows not, when he does the Horse survey
He's to Command, and 'tother to obey?
For Contemplation, Man, and Converse fit,
And they their strength to humble to his Wit.

176

Who knows not, that there's Nothing can efface
Th'Impressions God does in the Conscience place?
There evident they stand, and brightly shine,
When daring Men to Impious Paths incline;
That by their Pow'rful Calls and constant use,
Impenitence may be without Excuse.
These Notions then we one and all shou'd Trust
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.

Then (tho' th'Objector does so dimnly see)
All Men beside must readily agree
Who Nothing does believe can Nothing be.
A thousand Things there are (and so design'd)
That can be Objects only of the Mind.
If on our Beings we reflect with Care,
What but a God cou'd make us what we are?
Yet since from Demonstration not Receiv'd,
It cannot so be known—but must be so Believ'd.
We must Believe 'tis an Almighty Hand
That does the rowling Spheres, and Starry Host Command;
All Times he sees, and does all Places fill,
And when his Thunder speaks, the Trembling World is still:
The vast Extended Heav'ns his Pow'r declare,
And downward look, his Works Assert Him there:
Within, we feel Him press us to Repent;
And He's in Hell ev'n in his Punishment:
Nay if his Word, which You oppose, is true,
That Punishment will be Eternal too.
For tho' the Criminal but Finite be,
He yet offends against Infinity;
Who, therefore, weighing Anger by Offence,
Proportions Justice to Omnipotence.
But since Repentance, as it is our own,
Cou'd not Offences Infinite atone,

177

For Ruin'd Man the Son Devotes his Head,
Transfer'd the Guilt and suffer'd in our stead!
There 'twas that Adam's FALL was Counter-weigh'd,
On his own self the Countless Debt he laid;
So Infinite by Infinite was Paid.
Not that hereby we shou'd presume the least
Without our own Endeavours to be Blest:
In meer Belief but half of CHRIST we view,
Our ev'ry Action there shou'd Centre too:
In vain that Faith which does his God-head own,
But of his Precepts will not Practise one.
Our Notions, thus, are far above distrust,
Asserting Truth and proving God is Just.

Who is it knows not, that the Scriptures View,
The Harmony between the Old and New?
So much the Last upon the First depends,
So much the Last the Former Recommends,
The force of Each without its Voucher ends.
Who sees not there a Gracious Saviour stand,
Kindly Inviting whom He might Command?
Tho' prone to Lapses, there he keeps in view
To trim our Lamps, and wasted Grace renew.
To the most mean Capacity He's shown,
And Ignorance now can be a Plea for None.
His Precepts (writ that all may learn) contain
Our Duty easy, full, and clear, and plain:
His Precepts! all so Pow'rful and Divine,
Conviction rises fresh from ev'ry Line!
And reading there we must determin'd be,
For all's Excess of Love! and Endless Sanctity!
Last, as he freely suffer'd for our sakes,
So now in Heav'n He Intercession makes
For all his Saints, of what Degree so e'er;
Who Imitating his Example here,
Will Reign with him, at last, in Endless Glory there!

178

Let then the Eternal Word be all our Trust,
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.

Here breaks the Dawn of Everlasting Day!
Here Mercy does it self at full display!
'Tis here! and 'tis for ever now to Stay!
The Happy News Reveal'd Religion brings
Angels Rejoyce at, and all Nature Sings!
O Boundless Love! that cou'd from Heav'n descend
And God in Man, on Man Redeem'd attend,
The Judge became the Saviour and the Friend!
What more can Vertue hope or Mercy give
Than that the Just Eternally shou'd live?—
—But Wretched Man, yet wand'ring from the Right,
Will follow Int'rest, Passion, Pride and Spite
And cries He's Blind amidst this Blaze of Light.
Tho' one wou'd think such Mercies shou'd instill
A strength beyond both Appetite and Will:
But above all, that it shou'd quite convince
The Sceptick, and incline him to a Sense
Of the unbounded Care of Providence:
But Spurning at Reproof away he hies,
And has not yet the Leisure to be Wise:
To Things Obscure he will direct his View,
O'er which the Hand of Heav'n a Veil has drew;
Fond of the False, and Doubtful of the True.
His Pleasures call Him, and he must be gone,
And new Enjoyments drive the former on,
Till in a State of Darkness Life is done.
Mean while 'tis plain, whatever Fools distrust,
That God is Great, Omniscient, Wise and Just;
But vain is Man, and most Perverse his Will,
That may be Good, and chuses to be Ill.

179

3. The Third Part.

Thus have we prov'd the Sceptick worse than mad;
And yet to what is said we'll further add,
The Men in Place and Power are quite as bad:
Nay cou'd we paint 'em justly, we shou'd see
That Greatest Names have most of Infamy.

The Politician first does cross our Eyes,
That first of Fools of all that think they're Wise
Sometimes he with a Youthful Face is seen,
At once his Age and Intellectuals Green,
His Notion Moody and uncouth his Mien;
Proud of his Parts he looks to be Rever'd,
As if we never yet in Senate heard
Of Legislative Fops without a Beard.
If twice or thrice he passes in Debate,
He thinks on Nothing but to Steer the State;

180

Forgetting quite no Fame arises thence
Where Arrogance supplies the Place of Sense;
Or when a Lawless Sp---r over rules,
To be his Substitute in Gulling Fools.
Sometimes he like a rough Divine is dress'd,
More Foolish in that Shape than all the rest:
A State above can little be his Care
Who Studies nothing but his Rising here:
Vain the Endeavour and his Notions wild,
That wou'd have GOD and Mammon reconcil'd.
Sometimes he like a finish'd Beau appears,
Prink'd up in Contradiction to his Years;
Sometimes he wears a heavy Gown of State,
With feeble Hams that scarce Support the Weight;
Creeping he Walks, as Tony whilom did,
And in his Breast as deep a Rancour's hid.
But tho' on high the Mace before we find,
And a long Train besmear'd with Gold behind,
Looking, while the Litigious Tribe attends,
Like Lucifer surrounded by his Fiends,
'Tis all but Pageantry; and shewn abroad
To make the Ass Obsequious to his Load.
But these are but a Poor and Mungrel sort
Of Politicians, rais'd or sunk in sport
By those more true ones that Preside at Court
Who make all other Reading Mortal Sin
But Richlieu, Machiavel, and Mazarine,
Or Hobs, their Favorite from another Bent,
Who teaches—after Death no Punishment.
But how can we that Wretch a Patriot name
Whose Guilt is the Foundation of his Fame?
What e'er he may in Cabinet debate,
His Whores have more his Service than the State.
View but at home his Follies and his Crimes,
You'd Swear a Fiend might sooner mend the Times,

181

Want, Rapine, Dunning and Domestick strife
Imbitter all his Hours, and make a Hell of Life.
What care can of his Countries Good be shown
So Mindless, or so Reckless of his own?
His Patrimony he does thus Divide;
One part in Three is Squander'd by his Bride
At Ombre,—and a certain Game beside;
The other Two his Punks and Flatt'rers get;
So all he Eats and Drinks and Wears—is Debt.
At last, (his Children's Marriage grown his Care,)
Resolv'd his Broken Fortunes to repair,
He puts his Prince on Arbitrary Rule,
And turns a Rogue for having plaid the Fool.
His Counsels if but likely to succeed
He cares not who is Ruin'd, who does Bleed.
Whole Subsidies does thro' his Fingers go;
And as a famous Lord was said to do,
The Mighty Mass, regardless of the Laws,
He cross a large Grid-inon slowly draws;
What he brings over, happens to the Crown;
And all that falls between he Pockets for his own.
Mean while, by Wealth Indempnify'd from fear,
The British Glory's not at all his Care;
Nor does he mind our Balance, fam'd so far,
Of weighing out to Europe Peace, or War;
But Bribing high each Legislative Brother
He sinks one half, and stops their Mouths with 'tother.
How can the Senator, tho' wond'rous wise,
See with a Golden Mist before his Eyes?
Secure, it all Assemblies Over-Rules,
But most, 'tis seen in those where Most are Knaves and Fools.
Such Representatives too sadly prove
They Bribe below but to be Brib'd above.
Hence are our present Scene of Ills deriv'd,
And by the accursed Pattern more contriv'd:

182

Hence lie our Armies and our Fleets unpaid;
Hence Spring the Publick Debts, and bane of Publick Trade.
For how can such a Wretch; tho' he may sit
At Helm advanc'd for his pernicious Wit,
Believe a Nation Prosp'rous can be
From Counsels laid, and hatch'd in Villany?
Raising Estates by such Flagitious Ways
As shames the Rapine of all former Days?
Pension'd from Foreign Courts, and taking Pay
Our Country, King, and Councils to betray?
How dare he talk of Conq'ring France, or Rome
That brings us to the last Distress at home?
If 'twere his dearest Brother held the Glass
He cou'd not less than for a Villain pass;
And much a Villain must be more an Ass.
Thus by the Politician we may see
That Greatest Names are first in Infamy.

Th'Ambitious Man do's next ascend the Stage;
The high rais'd Beacons of a Sanguin Age.
Whether by Heav'n they are directly sent
To be a Sinful People's Punishment;
Or whether what the Prince of Hell intends,
To prove some Men more Impious than his Fiends;
Or whether 'tis deriv'd from Noble Blood,
Which least of all Delights in doing Good;
Be it what ever way y'are pleas'd to guess,
'Tis all Transcendency of Wickedness!
Rape, Plunder, Devastation, Fire and Dread
Attend their horrid Steps where e'er they tread;
And like the Sea usurping on the Shore,
They make the affrighted Country fly before.
In vain You urge that there was never known
An Age so Wise and Polish'd as our own,
When the most Learn'd and the Politest Times
Produce the Deepest Plots, and Bloodiest Crimes.

183

From the first William to Eliza read
Our Annals o'er; count ev'ry Wicked Deed
Thro' all those Reigns, of Statesmen, Priest and Prince,
They're nothing to the Tale committed since.
What was it that in James his time cou'd Frame
The Powder Plot? a Crime beyond a Name!
What but Ambition? true, we must confess
To hide the Fraud it took a Priestly Dress;
But underneath the Gown the Ponyard lay,
To make three Glorious Realms at once the Papal Pray.
Had but the Train have taken, where had been
The once so Impious Name of Catiline?
Had He the Empire of the World o'erthrown,
He had long been doing what a Moment here had done:
King, Lords and Commons, high as well as low,
Had all at once been murder'd at a Blow:
But Powder was to Him unknown; the Earth
Had then not teem'd with that Prodigious Birth!
What made the Leaders in this Prince's Reign
Sow Feuds and Sect'aries thro' the British Plain,
But, when the Season serv'd, to reap the Gain?
For Hero's not for Fame alone devour,
As know'ng Profit must be link'd to Pow'r,
If Crowds believe they Act in their Defence,
Weak are the Laws, Precarious is the Prince.
Such were the Times when Charles the Scepter sway'd;
That best of Princes, and the worst Obey'd,
What was it but some few Ambitious Men,
Where yet the Leaders are but Eight or Ten,
That caus'd the War? by which, on either side,
A Hundred Thousand Native Britons dy'd?
Who had their Valour been Employ'd abroad,
France had been humbl'd, and its Tyrant aw'd;
While by a bless'd Prevention, we had sav'd
The Blood that since w'ave lost, and Kingdoms since Enslav'd.

184

What but Ambition, at this Martyr's Fall,
Made an Audacious Senate grasp at all?
And what but That inclin'd their Bloody Chief
To make 'em Fools, tho' rais'd for their Relief?
What but th'Ambition of the Fiends of Rome,
(And Legislative Sots in feuds at home,)
Seal'd, sign'd, and carry'd on the Irish Doom?
A scene of Cruelty exceeding far
All that was ever done by Famine, Plague and War.
And what but that, or yet a worse Pretence,
Has made 'em seek our Ruin ever since?
In secret Murders first they flesh'd their Cause,
In Armies next, and Violated Laws:
With Plots on Plots our Peace they undermin'd,
Which as detected still they more design'd
And tho' so bad, yet worse Remain'd behind:
Till Glorious William did at last appear,
And Leaving Law to lay their Practice bare,
Ended at once their Treach'ry and our Fear.
Nor only them; but, with pernicious Rage,
This Vice does Influence Sex, Degree, and Age.
What have not Wives, what have not Virgins done
To rise, and be the Strumpets of a Throne?
The Country Bumkin, bred with Labour hard,
Thinks all Ambition is to mount the Guard:
But in a little Time he fain wou'd be
An Officer of some advanc'd Degree;
That Officer a General wou'd commence.
And Cromwell like, possess'd of Pow'r wou'd next depose his Prince.
The Nobler born uneasy with delay,
Pursue Advancement by a readier way:
If the old Prince their Proud Demands deny,
(as most of Pride has least of Loyalty)
Without Remorse his Ruin they pursue,
To purchase S---rs and Titles of the new.

185

Cou'd it be known what Villanies are done
To wear a G---rge, and Tye a Gr---ter on,
Our English Annals might of Horrors tell
At once outvying Sodom, Rome and Hell;
No Tye, however Sacred, stops their Course,
But on they furious drive, from bad to worse:
Nor can you Mention any Glorious Ill,
Be it to Ravish, Bugger, Burn or Kill,
But if they have the Means, the'll find the Will.
And thus, by the Ambitious Man, we see
That Greatest Names are first in Infamy.

With these we may the tow'ring Minion place,
Rais'd to a Fa'vorite from a Linage base;
Whether for Merit we'll not here dispute,
Or to Indulge a Vice that ne'er produces Fruit:
But once aloft, the utmost Scorn he flings
On those below, talks proud and mighty things,
And, Elbowing all the Peers, will only Herd with Kings.
The Skies he thinks are by his Footsteps trod;
His Prayers, Extortion, and the Prince, his God.
Some Thousands, hence, we Yearly see undone,
To raise a vast Possession but for one.
No Course he for his Master thinks unjust
That may advance his Inte'rest, Pow'r or Lust.
Conscience and Law he deems as empty things;
And Compacts, Ties beneath the care of Kings.
The Courtier when he frowns their Ruin doubt;
Just as He's pleas'd in Office, or without.
The Nobles of an Ancient Line he hates;
First, aming at their Heads; and next, at their Estates:
Tho' yet perhaps our Annals may allow
That they were rais'd by what he rises now.
Thus does the wretch audaciously drive on,
Careless of Right, and cover'd by a Throne,

186

Nor dreams amid'st his Glories of a Turn;
As now our Wonder, to be then our Scorn.
Unhappy He! and crazy in his Sense,
That rashly strives, in Seasons of Offence,
T'Enslave the People, or mislead the Prince:
They once will meet (as where the Grain has been)
And grind to Dust the Seeds of Strife between:
And just the Fate; that wou'd whole Nations Fool
With Squander'd Taxes, and Despotick Rule.
But tho' this haughty Minion stand so high,
No basest Office must he e'er deny,
But e'en be damn'd without enquiring, why?
The Pleasure of his Prince he must advance
With Strumpets here, or Politicks from France;
As Wolsey did the hard-Mouth'd Henry wait,
His Ev'ning Pimp, and Morning Slave of State.
The way at Court to Grandeur must be sure
When Crimes like these are made the Rise to Pow'r.
Ah Wrethed Man! who, his Paternal Seat
Disdaining, will be Wicked to be Great!
That thinks not, rais'd by Ruin Blood and Strife,
On his late Father's Peaceful Country Life:
Who free from Guilt, and so, of course, from Fear,
Liv'd nobly on Two Hundred Pounds a Year.
And wisely managing that happy Store,
Kept out of Debt, and fed the Neigh'bring Poor,
Without one thought of ever seeking more:
Till reaching at the last an Honour'd Age,
With Universal Praise he left the Stage;
But with this Lesson to his Son behind.—
I leave as I was left; nor more desire to find,
Pervert not the last dying Wills of Men,
Nor hold at Court a Secretaries Pen
With Thousand Mischiefs, You'll be then beset,
Which in this Guiltless Shade I never met.

187

Then You must Bribe a Senator to be,
And Villains of the blackest Infamy,
And yet the Guiltier grow as higher in Degree.
Then Innocence You'll use with utmost Spite,
And with Successful Wrong extinguish feeble Right.
Then to your Side corrupted Votes you'll draw;
False shall usurp on True, and Pow'r shall be the Law.
The Guiltless BARD shall be in Durance thrown,
The Scandal his, and yet the Crime your own.
In short, You then must be Sir S---rs Tool,
Alternate, now a Knave and now a Fool.
In vain, alas! this Good Advice is given;
Father and Son but seldom go to Heav'n.
Quite thwarting of a Dying Parents Will,
And higher rising more confirm'd in Ill,
He shoves along; and Nest'ling near a Crown,
Thinks all the British Dignities his own;
The Bad advances, does the Good depress,
And, like a Devil, proud of the Success:
Thoughtless, amidst his Glories of a Turn,
As now our Wonder to be then our Scorn;
Or that a Future Doom will once Impeach
The Crimes that stand too high for Human Law to reach.
But chiefly for this Pride of Mind he's known
Of carrying thro' all future Ages down
His Riches, Issue, Titles and Renown:
So blest a Fate! that, wou'd he but reflect,
On former Times 'twere Madness to expect.
For where is Gaveston's and Spencer's Name?
Where's Empson, Dudley, N. and Buckingham?
If for those Founders in their several Lines
We deign to look, there's Nothing Dimlier shines;
Vapours, that long ago exhal'd, are gone,
And while they Influenc'd Boding to the Throne.
So that, as Heretofore, we yet may see
The Greatest Names are first in Infamy.

188

You'll say (perhaps) I undistinguish'd strike,
And use the Vile and Worthy both a like;
That many of the Great are truely Just;
And as these dye, by consequence there must
Be others rais'd to Honour, Pow'r and Trust.
Nay, You may further add, we now may view
A set of Men no Nation else can shew,
The least of whom cou'd bear an Empires Weight
And steer the Helm in worst Extremes of Fate;
Men to whose Reach our Foes designs are known,
Yet think so deep no Sight can pierce their own,
Till to the Birth, and level'd Right they come
This Nation to Protect, or That to Doom.
And then as such so well can Counsel, so
There is a Class that can as Nobly do,
Conquer at Land, and Triumph on the Seas.—
And who Detracts from Men so brave as These?
Forbid it Heav'n we shou'd revile the Name
Of Dev---shr, of L---ds and Not---hm,
Of Shr---s---ry, Mar---b---row and Fames early Son
Great Or---nd, and the Prudent Ad---don,
With Roch---ter, the Guardian of the Throne.
Nor must we Thee, O Nor---m---by! omit,
If we'd be just to Worth, or true to Wit:
Tho' high you sit in the Judicial Chair,
You are no less a Legislator here.
With the same Wonder Rome did Horace view
The British Isle shall ever mention YOU!
Scarce cou'd Appollo nobler Laws ordain,
Or write 'em in a more Harmonious Strain:
In all You Teach so Useful Just, and Great,
That 'tis, methinks, Descending to Intend the State.
To Men like these, so faithful in the Cause
Of Royalty, Religion, and the Laws,
We shou'd Address as if above Applause:

189

And well they may the Muses aid disclaim,
That from themselves derive Immortal Fame;
And to be truely Patriots understood,
Nor Value Praise or Blame, or Wealth or Blood,
In Competition with their Countries Good.
But then, on 'tother side, there are a Set
Of Courtiers, only just like Tumors Great;
Bloated with Pride they Lord it o'er their Kind,
And never Just but when 'tis undesign'd.
No real Worth they bear from Top to Toe,
But all's Appearance, Lacquer, Wash, and Show:
Prudence is quite Exploded, Truth defy'd,
And Interest made their Universal Guide:
Stiff in Deportment, Treach'rous in Address,
Crushing the Brave, and barring all Access:
Justling for Place, and eager of a Name,
They drive at all, and shove along to Fame.
Ne'er but in Brib'ry parting with their Store,
Or Feeing Lawyers to defraud the Poor;—
In short, just the Reverse of those we nam'd before
But certainly, to oppress their Fellow-Creature
As he like them, was not of Human Nature;
By Fraud and Rapine vast Estates to get,
Yet never lend nor ever pay a Debt;
On Things Divine opprobrious Terms to fix,
And place all Merit in a Coach and Six;
To ruin Tenants, Witnesses Subborn,
Make Villainy their Care, and Worth their Scorn;
To blast the Vertue which they can't debauch,
In Lux'ry plung'd, and laughing ut Reproach:
Both Friends and Foes relentless to devour.
That stand between 'em and their Rise to Pow'r:
To Sell to France the Fruits of all our Care,
And make a Peace of worse Effects than War.
To think no Glory is on Earth so Great
As that of being nam'd in the Gazette;

190

Where among Spaniels lost their Acts are shown
Equal in Worth, and Rivals in Renown:
To think it Honour only to have Riches,
And Sense to make in S--- Factious Speeches;
Where one bad Man is capable to do
More Mischief, and shall have more Followers, too,
In Faction, Innovation, Strife and Blood,
Than Fifty that design their Countries Good:
So that, perhaps, of late we Judge too wide
To think the most to be the better Side;
True Musick don't consist in Tale of Notes,
Nor Justice in Majority of Votes.
If Office can (I say) such Crimes create,
The basest Life is thus becomming Great:
Mean while we by such Legislators see
That Greatest Names are first in Infamie.

But these are Subjects:—let us next Survey
The Few that have the height of Human Sway:
And first the Gallick Monarch shall appear,
Nor need we mention more; for all we hear
Or read of Tyrant is included there:
A Spacious Kingdom by Descent his Own,
Where he might Reign with Glory and Renown,
May justly be conceiv'd enough for One.
With Peace, with Plenty, Piety and Trade,
How happy might that Ancient Realm be made!
Nor better can a Prince himself secure
Than by his Subjects Love, the surest Base of Pow'r.
Quite Contrary, on Strife he builds his Throne,
Faithless to other States, but Fatal to his own;
Nor any Good has all his Life design'd
But Blood, and the Enslaving Humankind:
In the Black Roll of Tyrants justly first,
As well of Princes, as of Christians worst;
And here shall stand Eternally accurst.

191

What Neigh'bring Nations has he over-run!
What Devastations caus'd! what Mischiefs done!
And for no End but barely to Devour,
And by his Cruelty assert his Pow'r.
Proud as the Angel that from Heav'n was flung.
And threat'ns with the same Audacious Tongue:
But never cou'd his Pride his mind inflame
To Martial Deeds; he shun'd the dangerous Game,
Nor e'er in Fighting Field wou'd dare to purchase Fame
To Cæsar's Glory vainly he aspires,
Who when the Din of War begins, retires:
What Thoughts he has of GOD he does proclaim
In mock Te Deums sung at Notre-Dame;
Where Publickly he does his Thanks address,
When any Treach'rous Action meets Success;
That the Gull'd Subject may from thence be brought
To think he Conquer'd what he basely bought.
What Countless Treasure has he rais'd by Force?
Levy'd by Plunder, yet dispos'd of worse.
In Poys'ning only Millions he employs,
And smiles when he can Kill without a Noise.
Thus Feuds and Murders he thro' Europe sends,
And chiefly Prospers by dividing Friends.
To such a Num'rous Tale his Crimes abound,
That Mercy Shrinks, and Sickens at the Sound!
Who after this, to his Eternal Shame,
Wou'd e'er assume the Peaceful Christian Name?
Most Christian, too!—as if he understood
Our SAVIOUR's Laws were all, like Draco's, writ in Blood.
O Parricide! O eldest born of Hell!
O Arrogance that knows no Parallel!
Remit, O Gracious Heav'n! thy Raging Ire,
And let the Monster now, at last, expire:
Enough, enough of Christian Blood is shed,
Nor can the Grave contain the Crowded Dead.

192

Let Europe her Dejected Visage raise,
Wash of her Gore, and see some Halcyon Days,
And next employ 'em all in thy Eternal Praise.
We own our Sins, the sad Effects we rue;
But take away this Plague and grant a New:
Beneath thy Hand we shall some Favours find,
But nothing from this Scourge of Human kind:
Below some burning Mountain let him Howl,
Eternally convinc'd he has a Soul.
Or, if it better please Thee, let him here
Have first a Tast of what he Merits there:
Tho' now he thinks He's Seated in the Skies,
Precipitate Him down, no more to Rise;
Let Him in vain for past Successes call;
'Twill be a very Hell to see his Fall:
Let him at last perceive, in very Deed,
That rank Ambition is a Poys'nous Weed,
Not of Celestial but Infernal Seed;
And that like Oaks, the more its height ascends,
The more the Root shoots downward to the Fiends.
'Twere loss of Time for further Proof to see;
For here's an Instance in the last Degree,
That Greatest Names are first in Infamy.

4. The Fourth Part.

In Spite of all the Villains last decry'd,
There yet are others that have err'd as wide
From Sanctity misled, and misapply'd:

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The Unity tho' ev'ry Sect'rist rends,
Each on his Faith, as Orthodox, depends;
And give 'em but their way, our whole Religion ends.

Th'Objection here may be—that such as these
Who, just like Madmen, know not their Disease,
But have their Failings rooted at the Brain,
We Lash or Laugh at equally in vain.

I answer, were we sure the Sick wou'd die
Unless we did one Med'cine more apply,
The Indiscretion were not much to try.
The last Extreme has often Wonders wrought,
And made a Cure beyond the Leeches thought:
Who then can tell, when Rage with Truth combines,
Th'Effect of daring, but Instructive Lines?
The World is Madness to the last Decree,
And ev'ry one (but for himself) can see
That all besides are touch'd with Lunacy.
To those in Bedlam some Respect we bear,
There 'tis indeed Humanity to spare;
Especially the Few whose Maladies
From Chance, or Natural Causes did arise.
Besides, the Rest are by a Fate severe
Paying at full for that which brought 'em there;
Love, Jealousy, Ambition, Lust and Pride,
Revenge and Lucre;—or what else beside:
These I shall wave, (as odious to appear
To Human View,) and only mention here
The Folly, Frenzy, Vanity and Sin
Of some without that ought to be within.

Suppose a Heathen on our Sabbath Day
Shou'd all our different Swarms of Sects survey
Flock to their Meetings, or behold 'em come
Hungry with tedious stay and driving home;

194

The Antinomians and Fanaticks there,
The Quaker, Baptist, and Socinian here;
With fifty other sorts too long to name,
Thoughtless of Truth, and Christians to their shame;
What cou'd he say? but with an Angry tone
Cry out—O Jove! is yet the Use not done,
Of Man's believing in more Gods than one!
Or shou'd he hear 'em, with what Virulence
They wrest the Scriptures from their Genuine Sense;
How bitterly th'Establish'd Faith they ply
With Spite, Aspersion and Indignity,
Only because it can't in Fact agree
With Nonsense, Guile and Contrariety;
And, ceasing to be led by Scripture Rules,
Become no Church to pleasure Knaves and Fools.
Shou'd he observe how some Perswasions place
Their Purity in Whining and Grimace,
And all Good Manners in a Sullen Face;
Forgetting quite there can no Error be
In undesigning Looks, and Cheerful Modesty:
Truth and Good Humour cannot be disjoyn'd,
And Vertue must be one with Peace of Mind:
To make Religious and Morose agree,
Has this with that no least Consistency?
Or shou'd we others shew him, all within
(They say) Perfection, and exempt from Sin;
Wrought up to such a Frame of Truth and Love
As can't attain more Purity above;
That thence Inspir'd they nothing say, or do,
But what like God is Just, and more than Scripture true:
Yet all the while such Boobies, Sots and Elves,
Their very Brutes are wiser than themselves:
A Race that Knave and Fool at once commence;
Careless of Church and State, of Priest and Prince,
Nor to be reconcil'd to Manners, Truth, and Sense:

195

Churning their Jaws, when e'er they teach the Rout
Their Light within turns all to Foam without:
Bigotted to that Impudent Degree,
That keeping on their Caps, and Thou and Thee,
They think the utmost Marks of Sanctitie:
So but their Hats refuse the Civil ply,
And the Cravat's so short as just to Tye,
Their Consciences are still, and hear no Call
Mean while Extortion, Slander, Pride and Gall,
Are things they never boggle at at all
In short, were Heav'n by Rancour to be won,
Their Business wou'd Effectively be done,
And all be happy, ev'ry Mother's Son.
But since that Glorious State w'are not to gain
By Dullness, Spite, and Freakishness of Brain;
Since Peace to slight, and Falshood to affect,
Can never be the Marks of the Elect;
Such wilfull Men, in spite of all their Din,
Wou'd seem to any that had Bedlam seen
More Craz'd without than all their Friends within.

But further, were our Ancient next to see
A Set of Teachers all Hypocrisie,
And yet their Flocks the more exactly fit;
A sort of Hearers always mainly smit
With much Inveteracy, and little Wit.
Shou'd he observe (suppose it to him known)
What small Regard is to our Rubrick shown,
And what a Stress is laid on Rambles of their own;
Forgetting He that will in Publick Pray
Without one previous Thought of what to say,
Must be a Sot not worth our while to hear;
And if he thinks before, 'tis not Extempore Pray'r.
Cou'd but the Truth be known, 'twou'd soon be found
The Men that so in Fluency abound,

196

Or rather, that wou'd be so Gifted thought,
Have, at the Bottom, all their Cant by Roat;
And that it does as easily arise
As Rufull Emphasis, and Goggling Eyes;
To which of late they such Regard have shown
As Heav'n were gain'd by Aspect, and by Tone.
But granting what they Use Extempore Pray'r
It yet must be a Form to those that hear,
Because confin'd they to the Words must be,
The very same as to our Rubrick, We:
So that, in short, from Forms away they run,
And follow but a Form when all is done;
Only they take the Worse, and better shun.
We all at once Respond, and know to what;
While they Implicitly, and fond of that,
Return Amen to vain, and oft to Impious Chat.
Alike Perversly, Cassock, Scarf and Gown,
With them are Rags of Rome and Babylon.
But pray where is the Diffe'rence to be found
Between two Garbs, if both must touch the Ground?
Why shou'd the Dress we nam'd be counted wrong,
When their own Teachers have their Cloaks as long?
Thus a Peculiar wear with Us they slight,
Yet a Peculiar wear with them is Right.
But White, that Dangerous Colour, gives Offence,
Tho' meant but to Resemble Innocence,
That Peace and Truth in Worship may be joyn'd
And Decency with Purity of Mind.
The Man 'tis told us, after God's own Heart
In Robes of Linen Sung and Prais'd his Part;
And so the Levites (whence our Usage springs)
When e'er they Taught, or Handl'd Holy Things:
Beside we in th'Apocalypse may read
Who lov'd the Lamb, and for the Lamb did bleed,

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In Heav'n it self that spotless Colour wear;
And why then shou'd it be forbid us here
When thither we, like them, wou'd rise by Praise and Pray'r?
Or lastly, shou'd he see another sort
Of Christians that make all the rest their sport;
But with this Difference be it understood,
'Tis not with Fau'ts and Follies, but with Blood:
Witness their Halters, their Dragoons, and Fire,
By which so many Blameless Souls expire,
Only because they will not quit their Sense,
And let Impossibilities convince.
Fansie our Heathen had at Bedlam been
After his Sight of this so Rufull Scene,
He'd swear these Lunaticks without were worse than those within.

But Dress, Grimace, and Nonsense may be bore,
There's something yet more dangerous at the Core:
Tho' Harmless in it self to have no Sense,
It may be Fatal in it's Consequence:
For Proof, to Gape and Bawl, and Cry and Whine,
(As Teaching were to them like Storms to Swine)
Is sport at which ev'n Truth it self may smile,
All Fright their Aspect, and all Cant their stile;
So mean, perverse, incongruous, dull and flat,
Their Gossips mend it in their Maudlin Chat!
But then, while this mistaken Worship's shown
Their other secret Ends are driving on;
Designs which from our Fathers Times we rue,
And notwithstanding all the Love we shew;
When e'er they can, they'll certainly renew.
For, first, our Discipline they all condemn,
And think Salvation only meant for them.
Each wou'd Establish what their selves profess,
And still the more their Zeal, their Love is less;

198

Till they at last to such a Pitch arrive,
Whose Creed is not as theirs, is thought too vile to live.
From this bad Mind, took from the Papal Sway,
The Murdering for God's service came in Play,
That Monst'rous Race! and steep'd to that degree
In Blood, as shames all former Cruelty;
Who hating, like Caligula, to do
A Puny Ill, to take a Head or so,
Are still for Chopping off a Kingdom at a Blow.
But why must Murder take Saint Peter's Station?
And Guilt and Rage set up for Reformation?
Some Penal Sums the Civil Power may Rate
Those Factious Men that wou'd disturb the State,
And, in a Church and Nation govern'd well,
Teach Fools to Cant, and Rascals to Rebell;
But what least Shadow of a Reason's giv'n
By Men or Angels, that the Will of Heav'n
Is, These to Those the Doom of Death shou'd give,
For not believing what they can't believe?
If Damnable it is conceiv'd to hold
Some Errors new, or others that are old,
'Tis yet more Damnable by vast Degrees,
On People of a different Faith to Seize,
And, Mercyless, cut off by Pow'r and Passion,
Ev'n when we think their State is Reprobation:
Our Hate we thus to other Worlds pursue,
Exerting, so, the utmost we can do,
To kill at once both Soul and Body too;
When in a little time, perhaps, they might
Have seen their Errors, and Embrac'd the Right;
Or rather did before to that belong,
For Persecution's always in the Wrong.
Copy'd from hence, the Baptist, had his Swill
In German Towns to Ravage, Burn and Kill;
As if their Sacrament they understood
Not dipt in Water, but Immers'd in Blood.

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The Independent and Fanatick here.
Have open'd a like Sluce of Plague and War;
Murders that yet wou'd make the hardest Melt,
Cou'd it be told as truely as 'twas felt.
Thus while they Govern'd with Successful Might,
The Sequestrations were their Chief Delight;
That was Religion, and their Pow'r was Right.
Who that had liv'd in such a Barbar'ous Age,
When all was slaughter, Plunder, Fire and Rage?
Or who that now Surveys a sort of Men,
(From Lob down to the Passive Sons of P---n,)
All eager to revive those Times again?
But must, with Horror in his Face, confess
This Greater Bedlam wilder than the less!

Then for their Disputants, and Terms they use,
Some to Pervert, and others to Abuse,
What do they but make Truth the vastly more abstruse?
A hardn'd Race! who rather than unsay
One Error, will make Thousands go astray,
And hurry blindly on to Sin and Doubt,
Only because they wou'd be thought without.
But God, we plainly may in Scripture see,
Did not intend to poze Mortality;
What Paul does of Himself and Cephas say
Shews CHRIST design'd not each a several Way.
In short the Path to our Salvation's this,
So easie, 'tis not Possible to miss,
Wou'd we the Truth unprejudic'd pursue,
Nor leave the Ancient Rules for Notions vain and new.
These Things (said the Evangelist Saint John)
Are Written, and these Miracles are shown
To fix you in this Faith, and this alone;
That JESUS (He who left the blest Abode,
To dye for Man) was CHRIST, the Son of GOD;

200

And that believing so (that thence he came
A Sacrifice for Sin, and free from Blame,)
You may have Life Eternal thro' his Name.
This is our Faith; and what w'are next to do
Is but to follow one Command, or two;
Be (first) Your Love to each as Mine has been to You:
Performing this, the next You cannot shun,
To do to others as You wou'd have done
To You and Yours,—and endless Life's your own!
In other Words as follows;—wou'd You be
From Present Fear, and Future Danger free?
Wou'd You in both Worlds have Your Soul's Delight?
Keep Innocent and do the Thing that's Right,
And, whether such a Life run slow, or fast,
'Twill meet with Joy, and endless Peace at last.
Here lies the Christian Faith, and Practice all,
Summ'd up effectively, tho' Summ'd in small:
My Soul for Yours, but so Believe, and Do,
'Twill give You Peace below, and Peace Eternal too.
What a strange Race are then these heedless Men
That think Religion's Parrying with the Pen!
As if with us 'twere only Feuds and Jarrs
As with the French, Dragoons and Massacres.
In short, by Steering toward such various Shelves,
We darken, puzzle, and Confound our selves:
Right Reason, which shou'd at the Helm preside,
In all the Purity of Scripture try'd
They will not own, or suffer for a Guide:
Mean while a Thousand different Ways they split,
And Guile and Nonsense take for Grace and Wit.
Those follow Prejudice and Interest there;
These Bigottry, and scorn of Publick Pray'r;
Pride in the Front, and Malice in the Reer.
Others are led by Fury, Foam and Spite.
And a Left-handed Zeal believe the Right.

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In the mean time, with Sorrow 'tis confess'd,
The true Belief's not seen in the Contest,
So many false Ones Arguing which is best.
Ah wou'd they better Live, and Scribble less,
How soon our Sectaries such a Change wou'd bless!
For Printed Disputations have, we find,
Yet more than all distracted Humankind:
In Barns their Hearers doze out half their Strains,
But in these Tracts th'Untemper'd Filth remains.
Impossible we shou'd expose to View
All the Contended Points they dash and brew,
It only shall Suffice to name a Few.
But such, at least, as shall Abhorrence win
From Madmen, and ev'n make their College grin,
To see our Fools without outdo their Freaks within.

What Faith have some to Image Worship paid;
As if the Scene in Ephesus were laid
And making Shrines for Jesus were a Trade;
Kneeling to Stocks and Stones, when nothing more
The Sacred Writ does threathen and abhor.
The Adoration to the Virgin giv'n
But ranks her with Astarte, Queen of Heav'n:
Grant her a Saint, as we must all confess,
The making her a Goddess makes her less.
Then to the Martyrs to address by Pray'r
Was never heard for full five Hundred Year,
Till in the Papal Church they broach'd it there.
Nor yet of their Petitions, for the Dead
Can there be any thing Material said;
For granting 'twere not meerly done for Gain,
Tis but at best, Ridiculous and Vain:
But for their Praying to 'em, it must be
Nor more, nor less than flat Idolatry.

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In such a Scheme of Worship to proceed
Looks as we did no Mediator need;
For if the Saints can do, why did our Saviour Bleed?
How have their Works of Supererogation
Been Trumpeted by Blookheads thro' the Nation!
Strange they shou'd better be than Heav'n desires,
When the least Duty all our strength requires,
And Scripture does so much on this Enlarge,
'Tis Man's the Debt, and Christ that does discharge:
His Wisdom only 'twas that found the Way,
And 'twas his Goodness only that cou'd Pay.
Be Human Life as holy as it will,
At best 'tis but Unprofitable still.
How can our most Subline Endeavours rise
To equal Infinitely Good, and Wise!
Less wou'd not do, cou'd Man for Sin atone,
And fly to Heav'n on Pinions of his own.
O Truth Revers'd! for all the while 'tis thus,
We reach not that, but that descends to us!
But tho' such Faults no Reason can excuse;
'Tis Nothing to the Wonder that ensues;
For, Transubstantiated by a Pray'r
The Priest asserts, tho' Bread does but appear,
The Whole, Entire, Essential Saviour's there;
That Individual Flesh and Blood he wore
When on th'Accursed Cross our Sins he bore:
So that at once, his Double Pow'r to shew,
He makes his God and Consecrates him too:
A Tenet worse than Egypt's wild Opinion
When they Ador'd, among the rest, an Onion;
But never to the Pope's Presumption grew;
They Eat but wou'd not own they made it to:
The Canibals were sure a Race but odd,
But what are these that can devour their God!
Then for Infallibility, the Fruit
It bears is Endless Volumes of Dispute;

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An Errour that does Thousands else comprise,
To that they are Resolv'd, from that they rise;
So wild a Monster! Discord's all her Food,
Devouring much of Ink, but more of Blood.
The Vatican it self contains, if one,
Ten Thousand Authors on that Point alone;
Which were a Man by Scripture Rules to try
And their Deposing Doctrine by the By;
From whence to the King Killing Mufty's giv'n
At once the Crowns of Earth, and Keys of Heav'n;
Dropping to whom he Pleases Kingdoms here,
And to his Perjur'd Sons Salvation there.
Were but, I say, some Good Impartial Man
Such black Assuming seriously to Scan,
He'd soon the proud Infatuation find
To be all Tumour, and Reverse of Mind,
And Rome's Spiritual Bedlam, manag'd thus,
Much Wilder than the Secular with us.

What strange Confusions, next, have taken place
From the Perverse Expositors of Grace!
What Tomes have been produc'd by Reprobation,
Free-will, Election and Predestination!
And this so Positive, as if they'd heard
The plain, Eternal Will of God declar'd,
Before the Earth was form'd or Sun appear'd.
What bolder Crime can be by Man presum'd
Than pointing who are sav'd, and who are doom'd?
Nearly to these are these Disputes ally'd
Of being Sanctify'd, and Justify'd;
So wrested from the Genuine Sense they bear,
'Tis just a Maze by what Preposte'rous Care
It's render'd dark, what Scripture makes so clear.
What Bawling has the Private Spirit made
By Fumes and Guesses to the Brain convey'd,
And calling in of Nonsense to her Aid?

204

Unerring Conduct she believes her Due;
In Rome 'tis false, but in herself 'tis true;
So Rails against it, and Asserts it too.
Some upon Tracts of Inspiration fall,
As if they'd been in the Third Heav'n with Paul,
When all they Teach is Rancour, Spite and Gall.
Others Election to that height profess,
That, Good or Ill, they're sure of Happiness;
Nay, tho' they dy'd both in their Sin and Shame,
Without ev'n hearing a Saviour's Name,
They yet assert their Bliss wou'd be the same.
Some lose themselves in a like dangerous Mist,
That Justice, and that Mercy can't consist,
And Schemes wou'd lay by finite Human Sense,
For an Exacter Sway by Providence.
Some to their Pray'rs so scurvily will fall,
In Streets and Markets they presume a Call;
And some more Wild, are for no Pray'rs at all.
Mean while their Leaders Snarl, and Grin, and Jar,
And press with Reams of Pamphlets to the War.
Added to these, what Volumes may we see
Where Paul and James but seem to disagree?
While Faith and Works by different Lights are shown,
Confounding two that must be always one;
For He that has not both, had e'en as Good have none.
From these Divisions, hateful to the Sight,
(And many we have nam'd and more we might)
Revenge, Contention, and Dislike arise,
Boil in our Blood, and Lighten from our Eyes
Driving along, till they Obliterate quite
The very Notions both of Wrong and Right.
The Scripture that we quote we turn to Gall;
On Heav'n we look, but thence for Fire we call,
And Heat, and Pride, and Frenzy govern all:

205

So that but go to Bedlam, You wou'd Swear
Much less of Blood and Ruin wou'd appear,
Of Rage, of Virulence, of Hate and Sin,
If those were out, and all our Sectaries in;
From whom cou'd we, but so, the Future Ages free,
How wou'd they bless the Care we took of Lunacy!

Unhappy Church of England!—but the best
That ever yet the Christian Name Profess'd:
From Earliest Times she does her Worship draw,
Her Linage just as Ancient as her Law.
By Test of Scripture all her Doctrine's try'd,
And only follows as th'Apostles Guide;
So that She can't be Judg'd of modern date,
Unless Saint Paul and Peter were of late.
Fathers She quotes, and on their Sense relies
For the first Five and purest Centuries;
Councils She owns for Publick Service meant,
Not such as the last Monster was of Trent.
The Mitre too She wears, the Crosier holds,
But uses all her Power in saving Souls.
So far her Mind from Persecution's found,
She trembles at an Inquisitions sound,
And wonders Meekness shou'd so much Decrease
To raise Confusion from the Sourse of Peace.
Not that she wants a Power Judicial, when
Her Constitution's Min'd by Treach'rous Men;
But then, ev'n that Judicial Pow'r is Judg'd
Best in the Civil Administration lodg'd;
Because (Intent on Things of Greater weight,)
The Church shou'd still be guarded by the State:
From hence her Tests and Penal Laws arose,
Not that her Will's to threaten, or Impose,
But to be screen'd from her Inveterate Foes;
Fixt in which Circle, She, in that Redoubt,
Can ward against the Schismaticks without;

206

But if beyond the Ring they dare descend,
They clip her Right;—and Right she may defend:
For Passive tho' she be (as knowing well
Her Duty is to suffer, not Rebell)
Yet when Commands by Lawless Pow'r are laid,
That wou'd break God's Commands to have Obey'd,
She first Refuses, as her Scripture Right;
And Urg'd beyond, Opposes Might to Might:
Not that this Needful Doctrine current runs,
Or has been sided with by all her Sons:
By that indeed her Laicks stand or fall,
But she, what e'er th'Extremes, is yet for suffering all:
Her Seculars, when Boundless Pow'r appears,
Oppose against it, Buckler, Sword, and Spears;
But all her own Defence is Fasting, Pray'rs and Tears.
What e'er Scurrility her Foes invent,
This is her Use in turns of Government:
And tho' so oft they've strove to pull her Down,
They find her yet Inseparate to the Crown.
Then for her Rites, and Moderate Discipline,
Religion never drew a Nobler Scene:
So Cautious Wrong with Rigour to pursue,
She never suffers, but she Pardons too.
From needless Ceremonies wholly free,
For those she has are kept for Decencie;
So both the dangerous Rocks does wisely shun,
Of Using Many, and of having None.
But for her Form, her Heav'nly Form of Pray'rs,
What Infidel without Devotion hears!
The best that ever Reach'd th'Immortal Ears!
Not crudely thought of, and compos'd in hast,
But wrole in Words that will like Language last:
Solemn, Engaging, Weighty and Divine,
Agreeing with, or took from Scripture ev'ry Line.

207

O Holy Composition! Sacred Charm!
That can our Minds of all their Fears disarm!
O make, at first, then keep our Spirits ever warm
That ev'ry time thy Duties we attend,
Our Souls may rise, till they at last ascend
Where Pray'r and Praises never! never are to end!

Yet O unhappy Church! surrounded by
So many Sects and Sons of Enmity;
And more Unhappy, as shall next be shown,
From Faithless Friends and Sons suppos'd her Own;
Who yet more Dang'rous Notions have Imbib'd
Than all the Knaves and Fools before Describ'd.

5. The Fifth Part.

Hail Sacred Mother, Guardian of the Land!
Thou stand'st, and may'st thou yet for ever stand:
A Nursing Mother Heav'n has rais'd, to be,
As thou to us, the same Defence to Thee:
What Blessings art thou likely now to Gain
From Anna's Gentle, and Auspicious Reign!
In her the State and You are doubly best
At once the Greatest of her Sex, and best:
By all belov'd, by all with Rapture seen!
Nor know we which excels the most, the Christian or the Queen.

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Early thy Sacred Doctrine she Embrac'd,
And ever since has held the Blessing fast.
What ever Plots against thy Frame combine,
They first must reach her Peace to Ruin thine.
Ev'n to her own she thy Repose preferrs,
As knowing well thy deadliest Foes are hers.
A Subject she, thy Rules subjected lay,
The Scoff of Atheists and the Secta'ries Prey,
Who watch'd thy low Estate, and Justl'd for the Sway;
But when her Fortune did, Auspicious, rise
(The Care of Heav'n, and Darling of our Eyes!
She fill'd the Gap, and stood in our Defence;
As great her Pow'r as late her Innocence.
And now, securely Seated on the Throne,
She Cultivates our Vertues with her own.
Forward she Swift to Reformation drives;
And, that the Fair may shew it in their Lives
She makes her self the Pattern for the Wives;
And Copies at one Draught the Lamb and Dove;
Like this her Purity and that her Love,
Of all the Human Joys we stand Possess'd,
The kind the chast Domestick Life is best,
And gives the Softest Toils and Sweetest Rest!
For where two Hearts meet, just like Tallies, ev'n,
'Tis there we find below a Tast of Heav'n!
Such is the Life, and such the happy State
Of our Illustrious Princess and her Mate:
To Unmolested, Mutual Joys they go,
Tho' little Copy'd in their Train below.
Not that the Blessings of the Marriage Life
Makes her decline the Hero's Martial strife,
When a Just Cause, where she has pass'd her Word,
Or there where Peace must be by War Restor'd,
Bids her Unsheath her slow, unwilling Sword;
But ground as keen and as undaunted born,
As that by Cyrus, or by Cæsar worn:

209

Nor is her General, for his time, behind
Those Hero's in Success and Presence of the Mind:
Nor e'er did they, to such a Num'rous Foe,
Strike at one Heat a more Decisive Blow.
In the Late Reign his Fate refus'd to Rise,
Nor had he yet attain'd the Glorious Prize,
But for the Influence of a Woman's Eyes!
No less Success cou'd he Expect to Meet
From so much Worth, and from a Mind so Great!
Anew she, thus our Nerves for Conquests strings,
As when our Great Plantiagnets were Kings.
O Glorious Reign! that ev'ry way Succeeds,
And neither Counsel, Men, or Mony needs;
But all, officious round about her wait,
As truely Good, to make her Truely Great.
At home she wou'd our Sons of Strife compose,
Abroad she Guards the Nation from our Foes,
And still shall Guard, till, with Eliza's Fate,
The Gallick falls, as then the Spanish State:
A Work Reserv'd by Heav'n for Her alone,
To drag th'Audacious Monster from a Throne,
Confound their Salique Law, and make the Rule her own.
O may that famous Institution there
Have now it's just Reverse Establish'd here;
That on the British Throne may still be seen
A Female Race,—and long the Present Queen;
That all w'ave lost her Conduct may Regain,
And only Woman! Glorious Woman Reign!

Secur'd and blest by such a Sacred Head,
What, O Eusebia! can'st thou further dread?
I form'd, indeed, but now a Gloomy Scene
Of Clouds and Storms; but all is now Serene.
By her Example taught their Rage and Spite
The Sectaries lose, and in Her Praise unite:

210

Or granting (as we doubt) their Love they feign,
You yet are safe in this Auspicious Reign:
Not but perhaps (tho' now the View is Rest)
It may a Blessing prove to be Oppress'd:
Whom Heav'n does love it does with Stripes Chastise;
'Tis hard without Affliction to be Wise.
Thus God, perhaps, permits these Knaves and Fools,
And long may do, so that the Humbler Souls
May cleave, with Thee, the stricter to his Rules,
To Conquer all ev'n Isra'el was debarr'd,
Their Dang'erous Inmates had some Cities spar'd;
Left of set purpose, shou'd they prove Unwise,
To goar their Sides, and Prickle in their Eyes:
For when that stubborn Nation did offend,
'Twas nothing but Affliction made 'em mend.

But as to what thy Faithless Friends impose,
What shall we say? or what Defence from those
Who at thy very Vitals lie unseen,
And darkly Act their treach'rous Parts within?
Are they thy Sons who at this Time unite
With the High-flying foolish Perkinite?
How can a set of Men thy Peace intend
Whose Counsels Ruin what thy own Defend?
For where is the Religion, or the Sense,
Of bringing in a Spurious, Popish Prince,
When all the Three Estates (the Legal Sway)
Had turn'd the Current quite another Way?
Which certainly they never wou'd have done
But that they saw the Rocks we ought to shun,
Tho' to the Men of shallow reach unknown:
Let Fools be to their own Conceits inclin'd;
'Tis God himself that tunes a Nations Mind.
What have we then to do but to comply
For Conscience sake, with Pow'r and Equity?

211

And fix our future Hope, as late decreed,
On that Illustrious House that must Succeed.
But first, O let our Interest first be weigh'd!
To Anna all our Loves and Vows be paid,
And that Succession Ages yet delay'd.
In the mean time we see by the Design
Of such as wou'd thy safety undermine,
That they're Ungrateful Sons;—if they are Sons of Thine.

But if so high some of thy Children go
There yet are others that descend as low.
So hard their Privilege the former Strain,
That, if it break not, yet 'tis render'd vain;
And these are always for a slacken'd Rein:
What ever turn of Government befall,
They scarcely ever look, but leap at all.
Those think that Oaths beyond their Nature bind,
Beyond the Sense for which they were design'd;
And these believe they're things beneath a Man to mind.
Those to that height advance Monarchal Sway,
That, notwithstanding all the Scripture say,
It is Damnation yet to disobey.
But on this Side there are a sort of Elves
So cool, they'd dash their Princess on the Shelves,
So in her Ruin they cou'd raise themselves.
So odd their Sentiments of Regal Sway,
Cou'd they but easy live, and little Pay,
Were Noll again to Rule, they'd readily obey.
In short the two Contenders (now our Themes)
Were still, and will be ever in Extremes.
The first to Papal Counsels seems inclin'd
And tother's Calvin half, with Luther join'd.
Thy Moderation Vehemently they blame,
But that's no Christian Truth, that is not still the same.

212

Mean while we see, tho' they will never joyn
In ought beside, they in thy Fall combine;
So are but Treach'rous Sons,—if Sons at all of thine.

Others among thy Prelates may be found
That nothing else but Comprehension sound;
And to that end Destructive Tracts prepare,
That give thy Sanctions quite another Air:
Thy very Articles themselves they seize,
And make 'em speak whatever Sense they please;
Such as in Scripture can't be found, if sought,
And what their first Compilers never thought.
With Schemes of Latitude they court the Rout,
Which follow'd, soon wou'd bring this Change about,
To let the Sectaries in, and drive thy Vot'ries out.
Thou that the best of Churches now we own,
Wou'dst then be found the very worst,—or None.
'Tis to be wish'd, indeed, that all Mankind
In matters of Belief were always of one Mind:
But since below w'are never like to see
A Perfect, Universal Unitie;
A Bliss reserv'd for the bright Realms above,
Where all is Rapture, Purity and Love,
Or for the bless'd Milennium; (if so be
Our Hope of that is not a Fallacie;)
What can we think of those, but that they err,
Who wou'd by Anarchy erect it here?
And quite dissolve thy Principles and Rules,
To flatter Villains and encourage Fools?
Denying Entrance is, they cry, a Sin,
Pull down, and let at once the Sectaries in;
Why is your Stubborn Will the Cruel Cause
So many Brethren break the Sacred Laws?
Remove the Fence, that Justice may prevail;
Nor keep so many Souls without the Pale.

213

Forbid it God, 'tis answer'd, we shou'd be
Justly accus'd of such Barbarity;
Let 'em Retract their Errors; when 'tis done,
Both they and we will be for ever one.
But here they Answer:—What You bid them do
Is a most Glorious Work reserv'd for You:
The Points they argue are of Highest Weight,
You only for Indiffe'rent Things debate;
There all your Arguments and Stress You lay;
By Rigidness You move, by Conscience they;
The things they'd have you grant 'em are but small,
And lay those by, You have 'em at a Call;
Your Duty's, then, to make Concessions to 'em all.
That ever Men so Positive shou'd be
Their Cause is Truth, when 'tis Conspiracy!
But that at once, we may the Point discuss,
Are we gone out from them, or they from us?
If they from us, then thence this Answer springs,
'Tis they that break about Indifferent things.
As to the Points that we with them debate,
We'll prove 'em of the highest Force and Weight;
And that if those Concessions they desire
Our Church shou'd grant, she must of Course expire;
Or if she did exist, she cou'd but be
A Complication of Absurdity,
Made up at once of Christian, Turk and Jew;
A Thousand Tenets false, for one that's true.
For Proof, to please the bold Socinian,
We first must own our Saviour meerly Man.
With the Perverse Fanatick to comply,
We must abolish next, our Liturgy.
To joyn the Quakers, e'er it can be done
We must at once both Sacraments disown;
Make Truth an Unintelligible Din,
And call abusive Nonsense Light within.

214

To come up to the Baptist, Women, Men,
Must all Consent to be Baptiz'd again,
Or pass, at best, but for a Heathen Race,
Till by Immersion they have div'd for Grace.
In short to please 'em all of ev'ry Station,
We must Renounce our Pow'r of Ordination;
Leave ev'ry Man his Errors to Instill,
To Hear, Believe, and Worship what he will,
Till Truth and Purity are Banish'd quite,
And all to salve that specious Word,—Unite.
Well did the Graver (waving the abuse)
Picture the Church of England like a Goose;
The Sectaries all around with Haggard Hair,
Pulling the Feathers off to make her bare;
And on her Head the Jesuits and their Train
With Bills like Woodcocks, pecking at her Brain:
For such, O British Church! thou surely art,
If from thy Needful Barriers thou dost part,
Set up to Guard thee from a Lawless Rout,
Who wou'd get in but just to drive thee out.
In short a Comprehension to Design,
Be who they will that in the Project joyn,
Does prove 'em Treach'rous Sons,—if Sons at all of Thine.

Others there are in Sacerdotal Wear,
That quite Disgrace their Sacred Character;
In Sports and Revels they their Time employ,
As they were made for Laughter, Love and Joy.
But slenderly those Sons observe thy Rules
That only herd with Women and with Fools,
And totally forgets—his Cure of Souls.
Another does his Scripture Theme disgrace,
And makes a Pulpit War with Hudibrass:
(Poor Hudibrass! to whom they grudg'd his Bread,
Neglected Living, and revile him dead:)

215

A Third in Taverns passes half his Days,
Or runs disguis'd to Brothels and to Plays.
How oft, O London! in thy Streets is found
(Thy Streets which so with Pimps and Punks abound!)
The Youthful Teacher picking up the Trull,
Regardless of his Coat—and more than Fool!
Others thy Coffee Conventicles Use,
And run distracted after Lyes and News,
When any needy Hawker if they please,
Wou'd ev'ry Day, and for a Penny fees,
Bring to their House the cure of that Disease.
They'll urge, perhaps, they may Diversion use;
And any just Diversion we excuse:
To Walk, to Ride, to visit Learned Friends,
Is what the Muse not blames, but Recommends.
But what in their Defence can any say,
Who, Farmer like, clad in a Coat of Grey,
And long Cravat, ne'er miss a Market Day?
That Corn and Beeves, and Managing their Ground
Make their Employment all the Year around;
As if there were no laymen in the Way
To rent their Glebe, and make 'em Honest Pay?
Mean while their Books (where safely they reside)
The Dust does cover and the Cobwebs hide;
Their Unfrequented Studies Silence Rules,
And leaves to their Pursuit the Muck of Fools.
What e'er they to their Families design,
With those we nam'd before we these may join;
All very shameless Sons,—at least if Sons of Thine.

As these the Church now under our debate,
Some Laicks are as fatal to the State;
And may be, secularly, understood
Always Dissenting from the Publick Good:
That from the Crown Prerogative wou'd tear,
The Oldest and the Brightest Jewel there.

216

Not that the Muse the English does deny
To be Tenacious of their Liberty:
Far be our Conduct from those slavish Souls
Whom Lewis by his Lawless Pow'r controuls:
Licking the Dust, they tremble to the spurn,
As only made to serve a Tyrant's turn.
So little they of Human Comforts share,
What we call Property is Treason there:
Nor yet the Subject his Condition rues,
Tho' nothing's left but want and Wooden Shooes.
Fertile their Land, yet on Brown George they Dine,
And Drink but Water tho' they Swim in Wine.
A tedious Slav'ery thus, by Proof, we find
Conveys its base Effects into the Mind,
Till it at last forgets, or will not see
The Gain of Trade, and Sweets of Liberty:
Or that when e'er a Nation has the Will
To shake a Tyrant off that Governs ill,
That wou'd their Laws Subvert, and Rights devour,
That Will can never be without the Pow'r:
How can the Art or Strength of One Prevail
Against whole Millions in the other Scale?
Unhappy People! that of Conquest boast,
When all they get is to their Tyrant lost!
Never before did Gallia know a Reign,
That bled 'em ev'ry Purse and ev'ry Vein:
But Patient, and for Asses only meant,
Implicit they obey; alike Content
With Cheats of Faith, and Cheats of Government.

More madly yet the Briton plays his Game;
Much better us'd and so the more to blame.
A Restless Mind amid'st our S---te reigns,
Either still Fearing, or Imposing Chains;
And Chains, perhaps, we all might quickly wear,
Were not our Rights become a Wiser Care;

217

For 'tis the L---ds who, hating to Enslave,
Preserve our Liberties to keep us Brave;
While standing as a Barrier, or a Tow'r,
Between our Tribunes and the Kingly Pow'r,
They from the Insults of either keep us free,
When these wou'd clip Prerogative, or that our Property:
For King and Commons, in their first Intent,
Are the two Scales of British Government;
But Scales that soon wou'd err to an extreme,
Did not the Nobles fix and pin the Beam:
A Counterpoize, when e'er the Storm is Great,
To trim the Vessel, and to save the State:
Not that this Character of all is meant;
For some there are that never were Content
With any Prince, or any Government.

O happy Constitution! on a Frame
Establish'd that wou'd Ages last the same,
But for the Pride and Rancour of a few
Who wou'd dissolve, and cast it all anew.
To Wicked Men all things alike are just,
If this Promote their Spite, or that their Lust:
Perish the Nation, let the French Succeed,
So but the Beau can Whore and Glutton feed;
Or Bumkin Members, at the Vine or Rose,
Can Tost at once their Mistress, and their Nose;
Then home returning raise their Tenants rent
To make amends for Sums profusely spent.
Where yet much worse their Senses they expose
To tell the Reasons of their Ay's and No's,
Which tho' but Speeches short, have yet the Weight,
If Misapply'd, to Ruin Church and State.
Men so Entrusted shou'd to Truth be bent,
And have clear Thoughts to Judge of the Event.
But these are a Morose and sensual Rout,
All Mute within, and endless, Chat without:

218

Their Wit, Detraction; Honesty, Disguise;
As Bessus, Brave; and their Electors, Wise:
Thoughtless of Right, or Wrong; and not Content
With Law, Religion, Prince, or Government.

But as these six on Methods Lewd and Vain,
Another Class are all for Pow'r and Gain:
These are the Men the Nation most shou'd doubt
That thrive within, and starve the Fools without;
Their Master, Herd; whose Fleece they ev'ry Year
Take off, and in the Publick Pocket share
What we ev'n Groan to see, and they shou'd blush to hear.
What Care can of the Common Good be shown,
Where most have separate Interests of their Own?
He that on self Advancement does depend
Directs his Counsels only to that End.
If Father S---r (who abounds with Gall,
At once disdaining, and disdain'd by all,)
At any time a Party-Friend can serve,
He cares not if a Thousand Worthier starve;
Oblig'd so far, they'll any Dangers face;
And Vote to keep themselves and Him in Place:
While the Gull'd Country part with all their store
To pay them Pensions but to Tax it more.
And yet ev'n these, if once got out of Grace,
(Loyal no longer than they keep in Place,
And H--- himself's an Instance of the Case,)
They Rave! they! Rail and will not be Content
With Law, Religion, Prince, or Government.

We grant indeed that, mixt with these, there are
Some Worthy Men, who all self-interest bar:
So Wealthy, that they'll Nothing base advance,
So Honest, as to Curse the Bribes of France.
At once both to their King and Country true,
The Mutual Good of either they pursue,

219

And Lives and Fortunes cheerfully wou'd set
To make one Prospe'rous and the other Great.
Their Counsels always to our Glory tend
Sharp to discern, and ready to defend.
And yet, Alas! what Common Good can rise
From those that are Sagacious, Just and Wise,
When the dead Weight of Number shall prevail,
Tho' Law and Gospel lie in 'tother Scale?
In vain the Poor on Innocence depends;
Justice is there Majority of Friends.
What can we from the Martyr's Fate infer
But a sad Instance that the most may Err?
In ev'ry Age we find that Men are Men;
And some are now as bad as others then.
Wou'd it not grieve the Heart and shock the Ear
That Feuds and Factions shou'd be cherish'd there
Where they are sent but only to agree,
And keep the Land as Friendly, as 'tis Free?
Which way can Heats, that ev'ry Year encrease,
Be argu'd to promote the Publick Peace?
If Parties strive, tho' this, or that Succeed,
It is the People that both Pay, and Bleed.
In the late Times the Royalists Pretence
For cutting Throats was to defend their Prince;
The Godly Army, Thirsting after Blood,
Plunder'd and Murder'd for their Countries Good.
The Knaves of either Party play'd the Game,
While their trim Speakers (and w'ave yet the same)
In S---te were the Breath that fann'd the Flame.
Can true and false be one? or Love and Hate?
No less can Peace and Factions in a State.
Accurs'd be they that sit in safety there
And thence eject the Seeds of Strife and War,
Which falling on the People, up there Springs
Two Parties, this, their Countries: that their Kings:

220

But were the Cause by Justice to be try'd,
And the true Means for Publick Peace apply'd,
The Hot-heads shou'd be Hang'd on either Side,
That others may be warn'd to rest Content
With the true Line, and Legal Government.

Where can the Good of Separate Interest be?
Can it be fatal not to disagree?
Or do they think (because it is agreed
That, now and then, a Vein may Breathing need)
The Body Politick for Health must Bleed?
As sure it will, unless some speedy Care
Is took, such Jehu's may not drive too far:
W'are to the utmost Verge of Danger run,
And must be now United or Undone.
For some there are, like Junius Brutus sour,
That wou'd at once all Regal Right devour,
And some, again, are for Unbounded Pow'r.
Some wou'd a Scheme of Rule from Holland draw,
And some wou'd have the Sword of Lewis, Law.
Others to Tracts of Rome and Greece repair
For some old Forms, and wou'd new vamp 'em here.
Some wou'd as useless have the L---ds laid by,
The Gloomy Politicks of Anarchy!
Others from Faction do this Inference draw,
That 'tis a Balance to keep Kings in awe,
Confin'd by that within the Bounds of Law;
So raise a Danger nothing can suppress
Only to make their fear of Danger less;
The very last Extreme of Sottishness!
Thus while all Parties each with each contend,
They do but widen what they're call'd to mend.
Ev'n in Debate they can't forbear to bite,
On this side Rancour and on that 'tis Spite,
And all have Friends to say they Voted Right.

221

From this Spring-head of Interest and Ill-will,
Does all their Venom on the Mob distill,
Till we, at once, can rife amongst 'em see
Revenge, and Guile, and Fear, and Jealousie:
Nor less does Pride, Hypocrisy and Hate
Inflame the Gentry, and disturb the State:
Inward Convulsions in her Breast she feels,
And tho' she does not Fall, she often Reels.
All sorts of Rabble, Mouth to fill the Cry,
And Roar, and Thrust, and Swell, and Mutiny,
If any Publick News but go awry.
The very Sweepers of the Jayls and Halls,
The Inhabitants of Cellars, Bulks and Stalls,
Carmen and Coblers, Scavengers, a Rout
That will but look in Hell as now without;
All, Copying from their Patrons, vent aloud
The base dislike of an Ungrateful Crowd;
And not of Thousands scarce is one Content
With any Prince, or any Government.

But throw, my Muse, a Veil upon our Fau'ts,
And throw, beside another on thy Thoughts;
Shou'd you speak more it might be dang'rous here;—
So pass on now to Rascals less our Fear.

222

TO The Right Honourable CHARLES,

Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c.

With leave at last to come to Publick view,
This Trifle for a Refuge flies to You;
To You, my Lord, in whom we best can see
What ev'ry Other British Peer shou'd be:
Firm to their Honour, to their Prince sincere,
Kind to Desert, the Poor their Daily Care;
But to the Fawning Sycophant, severe:
'Tis Him we ought to fear of all Mankind,
For only Mischief Animates his Mind:
The sweetest Accents hide the sharpest Gall,
And 'twas a charming Outside damn'd us all.
But such You Scorn, and with Contempt repell;—
Less charge a Coach and Six, than using Flatt'rers well.

The Man that nobly strives to raise his Name
By making Worth the Centre of his Aim,
Can never miss of an Establish'd Fame:

223

He marks the Vices that disgrace the Age,
Flutter to Court, and flourish on the Stage,
And shuns 'em all; ties up the Clam'rous Tongue,
And rescues Injur'd Honesty from Wrong.
This is the Man to whom our Praise is due;
And this Man treads in the same Path with You.

There hardly ever was so good a thing
But felt th'Envenom'd Point of Envy's Sting;
Seldom she meddles with Inferiour Game;
But Truth and Sense are her Inveterate Aim.
Yet here we may (as 'twere by Heav'n design'd)
say more of You than of all Humankind;
Y'are Envy Proof; and so is all Y'ave Writ;
For no Man e'er was so presuming, yet,
To fix a Brand on Your Unquestion'd Wit.
So Good! I dare ev'n hope You will excuse
This rude Address of my Illiterate Muse,
What Greater Proof?—Who in Return will raise
Her Wings above the usual Pitch to sing her Patron's Praise.

Your Actions, in their very Rise, confess'd
They took their being from a Generous Breast:
A Breast that all the full blown Worth displays
That can Transmit a Name to after Days:
Your easy Converse and Instructive Mind
(This always Vertuous, That as much Refin'd)
Made up of all the Charms that can Delight Mankind.
Ready to Pardon Enemies their Crimes,
And strictly Loyal in Rebellious Times:
Then 'tis He who a Heart unshaken brings
Is touch'd, found right, and fit for Glorious Things;
Stands Bulwark in the Gap, and ev'n Obliges Kings.

224

Reflecting on all this, how dare I bring
To Your strict View so mean an Offering?
Yet since 'tis only Truth, perhaps you may
In its Perusal throw an hour away.
For here, my Lord, You'll meet with Knaves Chastis'd
Buffoons and Bullies, equally despis'd:
Ill Plays and Doggrel Poets damn'd in shoals,
With their Admirers, Women, Fops and Fools.
But this, perhaps, might make its Value less,
And for the Publick thought too fit a Dress;
For Truth does least of all Employ the Press.

I am, My LORD, Your Lordships most Humble and truly devoted Servant R. Gould.

227

THE PLAY-HOUSE

A SATYR.

1. The First Part.

Since of all things which at this Guilty Time
Have felt the honest Satyrs wholsom Rhime
The Impious Play-House has been most forborn,
(Tho' it of all Things most deserves our Scorn)
We'll do at last what Justice does require;
And strip it bare of all the Gay Attire
Which Women love and Fools so much admire.

Aid me, Ye Scorpions with Inveterate Spite,
Instruct me how to stab with ev'ry Word I write;
Or if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem,
Lend me Your Stings, and I will wound with them:
Each home-set thrust shall pierce the vitious Heart,
And draw the Poison from th'envenom'd Part;

228

Lash ev'ry Fop and ev'ry Drab expose,
And to the World a hideous Scene disclose:
While the Proud Mimicks who now Lord it so,
Become the Publick hiss where-e'er they go,
Their Trade decay and they unpitied Starve;
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.

The Middle Galle'ry first demands our View;
The filth of Jakes, and stench of ev'ry Stew!
Here reeking Punks like Ev'ning Insects swarm;
The Polecat's Perfume much the Happier Charm.
Their very Scent gives Apoplectick Fits,
And yet they're thought all Civit by the Cits;
Nor can we blame 'em; for the Truth to tell,
The want of Brains may be the want of Smell.
Here ev'ry Night they sit three Hours for Sale;
The Night-rail always cleanlier than the Tayl.
If any Gudgeon bites they have Him sure,
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.
Discreet in this, their Faces not to shew;
The Mask the best Complexion of the two.
Their Noses falling and their Eyes sunk in,
A wrinkl'd Forehead and a Parchment Skin:
Their Breath as hot as Ætna's Sulph'rous Fire;
Yet cold as Ice compar'd with their Desire.
The Physick each has singly swallow'd up,
Produc'd again, wou'd stock ev'n Chase's Shop.
Yet such as these our Modern Fops admire;
Perhaps to be Inur'd for hotter Fire.
A Woman's ne'er so Wicked, but she can
Find one as Wicked, or much worse in Man,
To satisfy her Lust, obey her Will,
And at her Nod perform the greatest Ill:
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,
And Dog-like, fetch and carry as they're bid;

229

But, naming Dogs, did You yet ever meet
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the Street?
Shock, Mastiff, Mungrel, Spaniel Blithe and Gay
With Brandish'd Tails, and panting e'er their Prey,
Have You observ'd with what Obsequious Art
They make their Court? So Am'rous at the Heart,
The more their Mistress snarls the less inclin'd to part.
This is an Emblem of our Gall'ry Ware,
The Scene we may see Nightly Acted here
Not but we must give Dog and Bitch their due,
As much the Chaster Creatures of the two;
Their Season past they're cool;—'tis only here
The Commerce holds, Insatiate, all the Year.
About one Jilt a Hundred Apes shall move,
And which is strange, at once all Chatt'ring Love:
So loud the Din, that who the Play wou'd hear
Might be as well Inform'd at Home, as there.
At last they to the Rose direct their Way
(It's Staple Trade such Customers as they)
To end th'Intrigue agreed on at the Play.
Luxurious, there they Gormandize at large,
And all at the Licentious Cully's Charge;
Till drain'd both Purse and Chine he does retire,
And within three Days finds He's all on Fire:
The total, thus, of all Venereal Jobs
Begin in Whore, and Terminate in Hobs.
If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his Moan,
He toils in vain,—the Bird of Night is flown:
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er,
He must repeat the Dang'rous Bliss once more,
But still finds harder Usage than before.

Hence 'tis our Surgeons and our Quacks are grown
To make so great a Figure in the Town;

230

Heaping up large Estates by our Debauches;
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:
Their Consorts so Extravagantly Gay,
You in their Dress behold their Husband's Pay:
But backward look, you'll find it is the Stage
That makes these Locusts swarm upon the Age:
There 'tis the fruitful Bane is plough'd and till'd,
But these have all the Harvest of the Field.
There's many of 'em for their single Share,
Pocket, 'tis said, some Thousands ev'ry Year:
Nor is it strange in such a spreading Crime,
Where half the Town is Fluxing at a Time:
Wide as the Grave to take its Comers in,
Their Gates stand open for the Sons of Sin:
But then the Tales deliver'd out again,
Just as the Parson has his One in Ten:
And they so pale and Meagre, you'd swear
A Ghost were Weightier, tho they're nought but Air.
So craving too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown.
Live ye, or Die, they make the Cash their own.
Expensive Malady! where People give
More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live!
Some get Estates when others drop, but here
The very Dying does undo the Heir.
O that the custom were again Return'd,
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd
The Pestilential Vapours which the Sun
Sucks from the Ground, and thro' the Air are thrown,
Giving all Catching Plagues and Fevers Birth,
Are only Steams Exhal'd from Pocky Earth:
From whence this Town we may conclude accurst,
For here few Die but are half Rotten first.

Nor is this Middle Gall'ry only found
With Drabs of Common Trading to abound;

231

But, to the Eternal Scandal of their Race,
Her Honour often, and as oft her Grace
Sail hither, Mask'd and Muffl'd in Disguise;
And with pert Carriage and their smart Replies
Set all the Men agog, who strait agree
They must of course, be Punks of Quality;
So lead 'em off to give their Longings vent,
For 'tis presum'd they came for that Intent:
At least, if not for common Use, t'employ
Some Friend assign'd, and take their Swill of Joy.
How often, Cl---d, hast thou here been found
By a Lascivious Herd encompass'd round?
How often have you hence retir'd, and lain
A Leash of Stallions breathless on the Plain?
Then back return'd; another Leash enjoy'd;
Another after that, when those were cloy'd;
And so elsewhere, and here, has half your Life employ'd.
Till not a Drab appears in History,
So Shameless and Libidinous as Thee.
Scarce does an Ev'ning pass thro' all the Year,
But many of the highest Rank are here:
True, if discover'd, for a blind they'll say,
They only came to take a strict Survey
If Whores cou'd be so bad as some Report;—
And that they might as well have known at Court.
But they're but Flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,
Since fed the higher 'tis the oftner frail.

Withold, ye Citizens, Your Wives from hence,
If You'd Preserve their Fame and Innocence,
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's Row;
There is not yet one Precedent to show
Our Wives by coming here can Vertuous grow:
That Plays may make 'em Vitious, Truth assures;
Especially, so much Inclin'd as Yours.

232

The London Cuckolds they all Flock to see,
And Triumph in their Infidelity:
In vain Your Counsel;—Nothing can reclaim
A Wife that once has shaken Hands with Shame.
If e'er they take their Ply th'Adult'rous Way,
The Devil may as soon recant as they:
To sure Destruction wilfully they run;
In View of Hell, and yet go daring on.

Choak't with the stench of Brimstone, 'twill be fit
To Visit next the Boxes and the Pit,
And for the Muse a Nobler Scene prepare,
And let Her breathe awhile in Milder Air.
But such a sudden Glare invades her Eyes,
So vast a Crowd of diffe'rent Vanities,
She knows where not to fix her Rancour first;
So very Wicked all, that all are worst!
Here painted Ladies, aiming at the Heart,
Their Graces Arm, and all their Charms exert:
Dress'd, one and all, with Nice Exactness there,
But Mobb'd like Dowdies at the House of Prayer.
How diffe'rent will the Scene at Night be shown!
When they restore to ev'ry Box it's Own,
When like themselves th'affrighting Things appear,
Divested of their Patches, Gemms and Hair:
This sight th'Obsequious Coxcombs shou'd attend;
Like a Death's Head 'twou'd warn 'em of their End:
But they, alas! for vainer things design'd,
Fix here their Hopes and Nothing Future Mind.
Between the Acts they to the Boxes throng,
With Whining Voices warbling each his Song:
Their Own, You may besure; for none but such
Can write what cou'd Delight that Sex so much.
Some few soft Lines (but such as well express
Their Wit is as much Borrow'd as their Dress)

233

Does set 'em up for Poets; all their Time
Supinely trifl'd off in Love and Rhime.
These are the Womens Men, their dear Delight;
For just as Ladies Chatter, Coxcombs write.

Not far from hence, another much distress'd,
At once makes Cupid and himself a Jest:
With a low Cringe, Her Vanity to Please,
He Drawls his Passion in such Terms as these.

MADAM! by Heav'n You have an Air so Fine,
It renders the least thing You do—Divine!
We dare not say You were Created here,
But dropt an ANGEL from th'ÆTHEREAL SPHERE!
Ten Thousand CUPIDS on Your FORE-HEAD Sit,
And shoot resistless Darts thro' all the PIT.
Before Your Feet, see! Your Adorers lie,
Live, if You Smile; and if You Frown, they die!
Ev'n I, Your true Predestinated Slave,
Rather than meet Your Hate wou'd meet my Grave:
Ah! Pity then, Bright Nymph the Wound You gave!

Thus sighs the Sot, thus tells his Am'rous Tale,
And thinks his florid Nonsense must prevail;
Bows, and withdraws: And next to prove his Love,
Steals up, and Courts the Fulsome Punks above.
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks
Big as Wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books;
Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace,
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;
Does in her Glass her self with Wonder view,
And fancies all the Coxcomb said was true.
Hence 'tis the Whiffling, Vain, Fantastick Chit
Is the Fair Ladies only Man of Wit.
With Servile Flatt'ry sleeking his Address,
Where e'er he goes, he's certain of Success.

234

Speak Truth to our fine Women, and you'll find,
Of all things, That the least can make 'em kind:
Nor can we blame 'em; for it calls 'em plain,
Deceitful, Idle, Foolish, Fond and Vain.
Wit in a Lover more than Death they fear;
For only Witty Men can tell what Trash they are.
But a pert, airy, empty, Noisy Ass,
In their Esteem does all his Sex Surpass:
Believ'd a Hero, tho' by Heav'n design'd
The Grin of Wit, and Scandal of his Kind.
Such Giddy Insects here for ever come,
And very little Dare, but much Presume:
Perpetually the Ladies Ears they ply,
And Whisper Slander at the Standers by:
Then laugh aloud; which now is grown a part
Of Play-house Breeding, and of Courtly Art.
The true Sign of Your Modish Beau Garson
Is Chatt'ring like a Ladies lewd Baboon,
Shewing their Teeth to charm some pretty Creature;
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dress'd,
As if they'd sworn to be a standing Jest,
Ap'd into Men for Pastime to the Rest.
Observe 'em well, You'll think their Bodies made
T'attend the Empty Motions of the Head;
If that but wags the whole Machine does move,
From top to Toe devoted all to Love.
Their Whigs and Steinkirks to that height refin'd,
They dare not tempt their Enemy—the Wind;
Of the least slender puff each Sot affraid is,
It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies.
So stiff they are, in all Parts ty'd so strait,
'Tis strange to me the Blood shou'd Circulate.
But leaving these Musk-Cats to publick Shame,
I'll turn my Head and seek out other Game.

235

In the Side-Box Moll Hinton You may see,
Or Howard Moll, much wickeder than she;
That is their Throne; for there they best Survey
All the Young Fops that flutter to the Play.
So known, so Courted, in an Hour, or less,
You'll see a Hundred making their Address;
Bow, Cringe and Leer, as supple Poets do,
The Patron's Guineas shining in their View:
While they, Promiscuous, let their Favours fall,
And give the same Incouragement to all.
Harlots of all things shou'd be most abhorr'd,
And in the Play-house nothing's more ador'd:
In that lewd Mart the rankest Trash goes off,
Tho' rotten to the Core, and Death to Cough;
Tho' Ulcers on their Lungs as thick take Place
As Firey Pimples on a Drunkards Face.

Discharg'd of these, observe another way
The Fops in Scarlet swearing at the Play:
Nor yet unduly they themselves acquit,
For Fustian on the Stage, too, goes for Wit.
A Harmless Jest, or Accidental Blow,
Spilling their Snuff, or touching but the Toe,
With many other things too small to name,
Does blow these Sparks of Honour to a Flame:
For such vile Trifles, or some Viler Drab,
'Tis in an Instant Damn me, and a Stab.
No mild Perswasion can these Brutes reclaim;
'Tis thus to Night, to Morrow 'tis the same.
What a long List might Justice here Produce
Of Blood, of Fighting, Banning and Abuse?
What Weekly Bill, for Number, can compare
To those that have been basely Butcher'd here,
Within the Compass but of Twenty Year?
One Actress has at least, to name no more,
Been her own self the Slaughter of a Score.

236

Murder's so Rife, with like Concern we hear
Of a Man kill'd, as Baiting of a Bear.
All People now, the Place is grown so ill,
Before they see a Play shou'd make their Will:
For with much more Security, a Man
Might take a three Years Voyage to Japan.

Here others, who no doubt believe they're Witty,
Are hot at Repartee with Orange Betty:
Who, tho' not blest with half a Grain of Sense
To Leven her whole Lump of Impudence,
Aided by that, perpetually's too hard
For the vain Fops, and beats 'em from their Guard:
When fearing the Observing few may carp,
They laughing cry, egad the Jade was Sharp:
Who'd think with Banter she shou'd Us outdo?
Nay more, be found the better Punster too?
When, without Boasting we may safely Swear
We thought w'ad gain'd the Height of what these Arts cou'd bear.
Yet these true Owphs wou'd think it an Offence
More than all Human Wit cou'd Recompence,
Not to be rank't among the Men of Sense.
Were selfish Coxcombs truely what they thought,
They'd first be Gods, and next with Incense sought.
But 'tis a Truth, fixt in Apollo's Rules,
Your Wou'd-be-Wits are but the Van of Fools;
The very same that we in Armies find;
The Apes in Office worse than all behind:
Who tho' they fiercely look and loudly roar,
A Game Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score.

Another Set together whispering run,
Where they may best Debauch when Farce is done:
Th'Agreement made, out Pander'us whips before
To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore:

237

There they till Midnight Soak, and Cram and Drench,
The Bumper now in Use, and now the Wench.
Top-full at last, away they Scow'ring run,
And leave no Mischief in their Pow'r undone.
The Cries of Martyr'd Watchmen now You'll hear,
As soon, Demolish'd Windows clattering there.
Whose ever Fate it is to walk the Street,
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,
They must avoid, or else be sure to feel
Deep in their Lungs some Villains fatal Steel;
Villain, I say, that for a Cause so small
As not t'Uncap, or reeling to the Wall,
And yet much oftner for no Cause at all,
Shall those poor Innocents of Life disarm,
That neither Spoke, Design'd, or wish'd 'em harm.
Like any Hero these will Foam and Fight,
When they're urg'd on by Strumpet or by Spite;
But if their King and Country claim their Aid,
As none cou'd threaten more, there's none so much afraid.
Not One will move, not one his Prowess show,
But stand stock still, when Honour bids 'em go.

A Hundred Others, had they but their due,
Of such as these, we shou'd expose to view;
But, with what's past, too feelingly perplext,
We'll shew the Crimes of Plays and Players next.

An adjacent Tavern.

A famous Surgeon.

238

2. The Second Part.

No longer in the Streets, my Muse, appear,
But back, a Fury, to the Play-house steer;
We have not yet, done half our Bus'ness there.
A Thousand Crimes, already, we've expos'd,
A Thousand more remain, not yet disclos'd.
On boldly then, nor fear to miss your Aim;
Don't want for Rage, and we can't want for Theme.

Here a Cabal of Criticks you may see,
Discoursing of Dramatick Poesie.
While one, and he the wittiest of the Gang,
(By whom you'll guess how fit they're all to hang)
Shall entertain you with this learn'd Harangue.

They talk of Ancient Plays, that they are such,
So Good, they ne'er can be admir'd too much:
'Tis all an Error.—In our present Days,
I grant, we've many claim Immortal Praise.
The Cheats of Scapin, One; A Noble Thing;
What a throng'd Audience does it always bring!
The Emp'rour of the Moon, 'twill never tire;
The same Fate has the fam'd Alsatian Squire.
Not Jevon's Learned Piece has more Pretence
Than these, to Fancy, Language and Good Sense.
And here, my Friends, I'd have it understood
The Age is nice; what pleases must be Good.

239

Again, for Instance, that clean Piece of Wit
The City Heiress, by chast Sappho Writ:
Where the Lewd Widow comes, with Brazen Face,
Just reeking from a Stallion's rank Embrace
T'acquaint the Audience with her Filthy Case.
Where can you find a Scene for juster Praise,
In Shakespear, Johnson, or in Fletcher's Plays?
The Modest Poet always will be Dull;
For what is Desdemona but a Fool?
Our Plays shall tell you, if the Husband's ill,
The more the Wife may prosecute her Will.
If jealous, they must date Revenge from thence,
And make 'em Cuckolds, in their own Defence.
A Hundred others we might quickly name,
Where the Success and the Design's the same;
Writ purposely th'Unwary to entice,
Enervate Goodness, and encourage Vice:
And that the Suffrage of both Sexes wins:
But see! The Curtains rise, the Play begins.

Thus holds the Ideot forth;—the other Sparks
Applaud, and hug him for his Wise Remarks;
Swear that such things must ev'ry Humour fit,
And Universally be Clap'd for Wit;
But most the Ladies please; who here are taught
That Truth's a Sham and Lewdness not a Fau't;
That Wit, is Infamy on Worth to fix;
And an Unblemish'd Fame, a Coach and Six.
But let the Flatt'rer feed their Endless Pride,
And, if he please, all their Desires beside;
Here let 'em with their Utmost Lustre Shine,
Believ'd by Coxcombs and themselves Divine;
To those that clearly see, and rightly know,
'Tis all Destructive Glare, and hideous show:
The true Renown which all the rest Exceeds,
Is that which is Deriv'd from Vert'ous Deeds.

240

What a fine Set of Criticks all the while
Are these? and what the Audience that can smile
At things so mean, Ridiculous and Vile?
Farce has of late almost o'erwhelm'd the Stage;
But foolish Writers suit a foolish Age:
Our topping Authors oft descend so low,
That Hains and Ho---rd pass for Poets too!
How can Instruction from their Works proceed
Whom 'tis a Mortal Breach of Wit to read?
Not but we grant they yet Admirers gain—
But such as have the Rickets in the Brain;
A weakly Race who only Judge by Rote,
And have no Sense to tast a Beauteous Thought:
Thus heavy Fops the heaviest Authors prize:—
But at the Theatre the fair Disguise
Deceives the Brave, the Witty and the Wise:
Struck with the Presence of so bright a Show,
They like the Punk, tho' they despise the Beau.
'Tis hard for Youth and Beauty to escape
Destruction, dress'd in such a pleasing shape:
It gilds their Ruin with a specious Baite,
Too quckly Swallow'd and observ'd too late;
Too late their Perish'd Vertue to recall—
There is no rising from so sad a Fall!
Their Fate the worst the more they have of Sense,
For Wit does deepliest Rue the loss of Innocence.

Nor only Farce; our Plays alike are Writ
With neither Manners, Modesty, or Wit,
Rais'd with their Authors, to the last Excess
Of Irreligion, Smut and Beastliness.
Not that I'd have You think I'm so severe
To damn all Plays; that wou'd absurd appear:
Beside, of Writers, some adorn the Stage,
And Southern is the Credit of his Age:

241

In short, I court the Good, and loath the Ill,
Let the Presuming Bard be who he will.
Tho' a Lord Write, I'll not at Random Praise,
Or flatter Dr---n tho' he wear the Bays:
Or court fair Sappho in her Wanton fit,
When she'd put Luscious Bawdry off for Wit:
Or pity B---ks in Tatters, when I know
'Twas his bad Poetry that Cloath'd him so:
Or Commend Durf---y to Indulge his Curse;
Fond to write on, yet Scribble worse and worse:
Or Cr---n for blaming Coxcombs, when I see
Sir Courtly's not a vainer Fop than He:
Or think that Ra---ft for Wise can pass,
When Mother Dobson says he is an Ass;
That damn'd, ridiculous, insipid Farce!
Or write a Panegyrick to the Fame
Of Sh---d---l, or of Starving Set---'s Name,
Who have abus'd, unpardonable things,
The best of Governments, and best of Kings.
But Thee, my Otway, from the Grave I'll raise,
And crown thy Mem'ry with Immortal Praise;
At least, Sweet Bard, it shou'd Immortal be,
If I cou'd reach the Clouds, and Charm the Ear like thee!
Thy Orphan and Venetian Piece Sublime
Shall ever stand, and dare the Teeth of Time.
Th'Ammonian Youth and Mithridates, LEE
In spite of thy Unhappy Lunacy,
Shall yield another Deathless Name to thee.
But honest Truth obliges me to tell,
Your other Tragick Plays are not so well;
Not with that ease and that Exactness writ,
With less of Nature too;—and Nature here is Wit:
Not but they may assume a decent Pride
To vye ev'n with our Noblest Plays beside.

242

The Name of Etheridge next renown'd we see
For easy Stile, and Wit in Comedy,
Tho' not so strong as that of Wycherley:
His Play of Manly (ne'er to be out-writ)
A Prodigy of Satyr, Sense and Wit!
In all the Characters so just and true,
It will be ever fam'd, and ever New!
And justly with the rest our Laureat claims
To take his Place among Immortal Names:
For Oedipus (tho' Sophocles and Lee
Share something of the Praise, but not so much as He)
Our Fear and Pity does advance as high
As ever yet was done in Tragedy.
His All for Love, and most Correct of all,
Of just and vast Applause can never fail,
Never! but when his Limberham I name
I hide my head and blush with Friendly shame,
To think the Author of both these the same:
So thick the Smut is spread in ev'ry Page,
'Twas Actually the Brothel of the Stage.
If (as some Criticks fancy) Witty 'tis,
It shou'd be fluxt for the Obscene Disease:
For as the Pox to ev'ry Part does go,
So that's with Lewdness tainted thro' and thro'.
Not but sometimes He to the Clouds does rise,
And sails at pleasure thro' the Boundless Skies:
Born up on Indefatigable Wings,
He greatly thinks and as Divinely Sings.—
But then his Plays in Rhime (with all their Rules)
Only chime in the Women, and their Fools,
Who see with Joy their Favourite Ebb and Flow,
Now above Reason, and as soon below:
This part they Great, and that they Tender call;
When first to last 'tis, oft, Unnatural all.

243

His Hero, too, outdoes all Homer's Gods;
For 'tis a turn of State when e'er he Nodds.
Thus tho' in Time and Place they boast their Skill,
For Five good Poets there's Five Hundred Ill.
Fly then the reading Plays so vain as these;
Such Jingling Authors nor Instruct, nor Please.

But if with Profit you wou'd reap Delight,
Lay Shakespear, Ben, and Fletcher in Your sight:
Where Human Actions are with Life express'd,
Vertue advanc'd, and Vice as much depress'd.
There the kind Lovers with such Zeal complain,
You in their Eyes behold their inmost Pain,
And pray such Truth may not be Plac'd in vain.
There Natures secret Springs may all be view'd,
And, when she doubles, how to be pursu'd.
There Art, in all her subtle Shifts display'd,
There ev'ry Humour You may see pourtray'd,
From Legislative Fops down to the Slaves of Trade.
There all the Passions, weak, you'll first espy,
Hate, Envy, Fear, Revenge and Jealousy;
And by what Fewel fed to flame at last so high.
While Wit attending You'll for ever see,
Faithful amidst this vast Variety;
Like Proteus, but affording Nobler Game,
She ev'ry Shape assumes, and yet Remains the same.
In short, none ever Wrote or will again
So useful things in such a Heav'nly strain!

When e'er I Hamlet or Othello read,
My Hair starts up, and my Nerves shrink with dread!
Pity and Terrour raise my Wonder high'r,
'Till betwixt both I'm ready to expire!
When curs'd Iago cruelly I see
Work up the Noble Moor to Jealousy,

244

How cunningly the Villain weaves his Sin,
And how the other takes the Poison in;
Or when I hear his Godlike Romans rage,
And by what just degrees He does Asswage
Their Angry Mood, and by a Secret Art
Return the mutual Union back to either Heart;
When these and other such like Scenes I scan,
'Tis then, Great Soul, I think thee more than Man!
Homer was Blind, yet cou'd all Nature see;
THOU wert unlearn'd, yet knew as much as He!
In Timon, Lear, the Tempest, we may find
Vast Images of thy Unbounded Mind:
These have been alter'd by our Poets now,
And with Success, too, that we must allow:
Third Days they get when Part of THEE is shown,
Which they but Seldom do when All's their own.

Nor shall Philaster, The Maids Tragedy,
Thy King and no King, Fletcher, ever dye,
But reach, with like Applause, to late Posterity.
'Tis true, they're Censur'd by a Modern Wit;
But he shou'd not have blam'd, or not have Writ:
For after all his Scandal on 'em thrown,
'Tis certain they're Superiour to his Own.
We grant he has the Languages at Will;
But some have Blessings, and they use 'em ill:
The Usurer's Poor in spite of all his Pence,
And so your Linguists may be lean of Sense.
Let then this Maxim never be forgot,
An Arrant Scholar is an Arrant Sot.

Thee, Mighty Ben, we ever shall affect,
Thee ever Mention with profound Respect,
Thou most Judicious Poet! most Correct!
I know not on what single Piece to fall,
Sublimely Writ, and admirable all.

245

Yet we must give Thee but thy just Desert;
Y'ad less of Nature, tho' much more of Art:
The Springs that move our Souls thou did'st not touch:
But then thy Judgement, Care and Pains were such,
We never yet did any Author see
(Nor shall, perhaps, thro' all Futurity)
That wrote so many Perfect Plays as Thee.
Not one vain Humour thy strict view escapes,
Or Folly, in their Thousand Various shapes:
The Lines You drew did ev'ry Blemish hit,
Your Dresses ev'ry Knave and Coxcomb fit;
So vast the unbounded Ward-robe of Your WIT!

Hail Sacred Bards! Hail ye Immortal Three!
The British Muses Great Triumviri!
Secure of Fame, You on the Stage will live
Whilst we have Wits to hear, and they have Praise to give.
'Tis some where said our Courtiers speak more Wit
In Conversation than these Poets Writ:
Unjust Detraction! like it's Author, base;
And it shall here stand Branded with Disgrace.
Not but they had their Failings too;—but then
They were such Faults as only spoke 'em Men;
Errors which Human Frailty must admit,
The Wanton Rovings of Luxurious Wit.
To the Judicious plainly it appears,
Their Slips were more the Ages Fault than theirs:
Scarce had they ever struck upon the Shelves,
If not oblig'd to stoop beneath themselves:
Where Fletcher's loose, 'twas Writ to serve the Stage;
And Shakespear play'd with Words to please a Quibbling Age.

If Plays you love let these Your thoughts employ;
When Wit is read by Wit 'twill never cloy,

246

No other Poets so sublimely tell
The useful, happy Art of Living Well:
All strew'd with Morals, thick in ev'ry Page
Alike Instructive both to Youth and Age.
'Tis certain on a Mistress and a Friend
The chiefest Blessings of our Lives depend;
And by their Draughts we may exactly find
If that be Faithful, or if this be kind.
There You may breath the Air of ev'ry Clime
And make Remarks on Custom, Place and Time.
Thro' ev'ry Stage of Life You there may View
What Ills t'avoid, what Vertues to pursue;
And so with Pleasure reap Advantage too.
Unlike the Authors that have lately writ,
Who in their Plays such Characters admit,
So Lewd and Impious, they shou'd Punish'd be
Almost as much as Oates for Perjury:
With equal Scandal both supply the Age;
He has disgrac'd the Gown, and they the Stage.

Think, Ye vain Scribling Tribe, of Shirley's Fate,
You that Write Farce, and You that Farce Translate;
Shirley! the Scandal of the Ancient Stage,
Shirley! the very Drf---y of his Age:
Think how he lies in Duck-lane Shops forlorn,
And never mention'd but with utmost Scorn.
Think that the End of all your boasted Skill,
As I presume to Prophesy it will,
Justly—for many of You Write as ill.
Change then Your Bias and Write Satyr all;
Convert the little Wit You have to Gall.
Care not to what a Bulk Your Labours swell;
The Fame in which the Happy Few excell
Lies not in Writing Much, but Writing Well.
This Point obtain'd, attack the Impious Stage,
Which You have made the Nusance of the Age;

247

Nor fear but in th'Attempt Applause You'll get;
Their Cause is Infamy, and ours is Wit.
Lash the Lewd Actors—but first stop Your Nose
The Stench is strong; and much wou'd discompose
All but Your Selves—almost as bad as those.
This Thought shou'd raise You to th'Extremest Pitch.
Their Laughing at the Want that makes 'em Rich:
Not more You Labour to increase their Store,
Than they, Inhumanly, to keep You Poor;
Making You dance Attendance, Cap in Hand,
That once, like Spaniels, were at Your Command;
Wou'd cringe and fawn, and who so kind as They?
Exalted with the Promise of Your Play.
But since Hart dy'd, and the two Houses join'd,
What get ye? what Incouragment d'ye find?
Yet still You Write, and Sacrifice your Ease,
And for no other Gain—but what they please;
Expell'd the House, unless you give 'em way
To bilk You of Two Thirds in ev'ry Play.
Let nothing then Your sense of Wrong asswage;
The Muses Foes shou'd feel the Muses Rage:
But then be just to Truth; for only that
Is what th'Impartial Satyr levels at:
Go not beyond; all base Aspersion shun;
Let Justice and not Malice lead You on.
To please, for once I'll give You an Essay,
And in so good a Cause am proud to lead the Way.

Prepare we then to go behind the Scenes,
There to Survey the Copper Kings and Queens,
Strutting in State, tho' Slaves by Nature meant,
As they were truely those they Represent:
But most the Women are Audacious seen,
All Paint their Out-sides and all Pox within.

248

Here 'tis our Quality are fond of such,
Which ev'n their Wiser Footmen scorn to Touch:
Divested of the Robes in which they're Cas'd,
A Goat's as sweet, and Monkey's are as Chast.
Not that they want, when they their Looks wou'd Arm,
The Art to make, or keep their Cullies warm.
With faint Denyals they inflame Desire,
Till the hot Youth burns in his Am'rous Fire,
Then wantonly into their Shifts retire:
Spurr'd on by Lust the Dunce pursues the Dame,
Careless of Health, and thoughtless of his Fame:
Their Nightly She Majestically rules;
Like Gallick Princes, all her Subjects, Fools.—
But talking of their Shifts I mourn, my Friend,
I mourn thy sudden, and disast'rous End:
Here 'twas You did Resign Your Worthy Breath,
And fell the Victim of a Cruel Death:
The Shame, the Guilt, the Horror and Disgrace,
Light on the Punk, the Murderer, and the Place.
What Satyr can enough the Villains Sting
That fight and stab for so abhor'd a Thing?
A ten times cast off Drab, a Hackny Whore,
Who when Sh'has ply'd the Stews and tir'd a Score,
Insatiate as a Charnell, yawns for more.
Her ev'ry Act in the Vene'real Wars
Who e'er wou'd count, as well may count the Stars.
So Insolent! there never was a Dowd
So very basely born so very Proud:
Yet Covetous; She'll Prostitute with any,
Rather than wave the Getting of a Penny:
For the whole Harvest of her Youthful Crimes
Most frugally she hoards for Future Times,
That then her Life may be with Lux'ury led,
The hatter'd Carcase with Abundance fed;
So damns the Soul to get the Body Bread.

249

Yet in her Morals this is thought the best,
And it is only Hell can Match the rest.

An Actress now so fine a thing is thought,
A Place at Court less eagerly is sought:
As soon as in that Roll the Punks engross'd.
Some Reverend Bawd does thus the Drab accost,
Now is the Time You may Your Fortune raise,
And meet at once with Pleasure, Wealth and Praise;
'Tis now, like Nell you may Immortal grow,
Fam'd for Your Impudence, and Issue too;
Posterity, if well You Play Your Part,
Will call You Prudent, and Your Rise, Desert.—
But the true Sense is this:—'Tis now your time
(For only Vertu'ous Fools neglect their Prime)
With open Blandishments and secret Art
To glide into some Keeping Coxcomb's Heart,
Who neither Sense or Manhood understands;
And Jilt Him of his Patrimonial Lands:
Others this Way have reach'd the top Extreams;
Think of Ned Bush—then think of Mistress James:
Some such like Cully to Your Share will fall;
The Knight has nothing and the Punk has All:
Twas by this Conduct B---y grew so Rich;
Preferment You can't miss and be a B---.
Th'Advice is took; and she hurries on,
Fond to be kept, and in her Chariot shown;
While Vulgar Drabs must meanly Trapes the Town.
Against the Consequence she shuts her Eyes,
For none at once were ever lewd and Wise:
Thoughtless (like merry Andrew in his Pride)
The higher Mounted we the more deride.
In short the Stage (as Dorset-Court assures)
Is but a Hot-Bed rais'd to force up Whores:
Nor can the Soil so fast their Growth supply,
As City, Camp and Country crowd to buy.

250

How great a Beast is Man!—A Vertu'ous Dame,
Unblemish'd in her Fortune and her Fame,
They fly, as if she were the worst of Harms,
And think a thrice Fluxt Actress has more Charms.
Yet tho' so much they slight the Chast and Fair,
No other Curses may they ever share,
But only to Continue—what they Are.

Now for the Men; whom we alike shall find
As Loose, as Vile, and Brutal in their Kind:
Here one who lately, as an Author notes,
Hawk'd thro' the Town, and cry'd Gazettes and Votes,
Is grown a Man of such Accomplish'd Parts,
He thinks all Praise beneath his just Deserts:
Rich as a Jew, yet tho' so wealthy known,
He rasps the Under-Actors to the Bone.
Not Lewis more Tyrannically Rules,
Than He among this Herd of Knaves and Fools.
Among his other Vertues, ne'er was Elf
So very much Enamor'd of Himself;
But let Him if he pleases think the best
Upon that Head; and we'll Supply the rest.
What if some Scribblers to his Sense submit?
He is not therefore only Judge of Wit:
Approving such, betrays a Vitious Tast:
For few can tell what will for ever last,
If all cou'd Judge of Wit that think they can,
The Vilest Ass wou'd be the Wittiest Man.
In Company, with either Youth or Age,
H'has all the Gum and Stiffness of the Stage:
Dotard! and thinks his haughty Movements there,
A Rule for his Behaviour ev'ry where.
To this we'll add his Lucre, Lust and Pride,
And Knav'ry, which in vain He strives to hide,
For thro' the thin Disguise the Canker'd Heart is spy'd.

251

'Tis true, his Action Merits just Applause;
But lies the Fame most in th'Effect or Cause?
If from good Iustruments fine Musick springs,
The Credit's chiefly his that tun'd the Strings:
Thus, tho' they Speak, they speak Another's Thought;
As Monkey's Grin, and Parrots learn by Rote.

Another You may see, a Comick Spark,
That wou'd be Lacy, but ne'r hits the Mark,
Not but his Making Sport must be confess'd,
For where the Author fails, he is Himself the Jest.
To be well laught at is his whole Delight,
And there, indeed, we do the Coxcomb Right.
Tho' the Comedian makes the Audience roar,
When off the Stage, the Booby tickles more:
When such are born some easy Planet rules,
And Nature, dozing, makes a Run of Fools.

A Third, a punning, drolling, bant'ring Ass,
Cocks up, and fain wou'd for an Author pass.
His Face for Farce Nature at first design'd,
And match it, too, with as Burlesque a Mind:
Made him, as vilely born, so careless bred,
And gave Him Heels of Cork, but Brains of Lead.

To speak 'em all were tedious to discuss;
But if You'll Lump 'em, they're exactly thus:
A Pimping, Spunging, Idle, Impious Race,
The Shame of Vertue, and Despair of Grace:
A Nest of Leachers worse than Sodom bore,
And justly Merit to be Punish'd more,
Diseas'd, in Debt, and ev'ry Moment dun'd;
By all Good Christians loath'd, and their own Kindred shun'd.
To say more of 'em wou'd be wasting Time;
For it with Justice may be thought a Crime
To let such Rubbish have a Place in Rhime.

252

Now hear a Wonder and 'twill well declare
How resolutely lewd some Women are;
For while these Men we thus severely use,
Our Ladies differ hugely from the Muse;
Supply their wants, and raise 'em from Distress,
Advanc'd ev'n for their very Wickedness.
Goodman himself, an Infidel profess'd,
With Plays reads Cl---d nightly to her Rest:
Nay in Her Coach she whirls Him up and down,
And Publishes her Passion to the Town,
As if 'twere her Delight to make it known:
And known it shall be, in my Pointed Rhimes
Stand Infamous to all succeeding Times.

'Twere Endless Work, describing ev'ry Vice
That from the Play-house takes Immediate Rise,
The Devil has on Earth no Magazin
That opens to us such an Impious Scene,
Or where, for Store, he lays more Lewdness in.
Not in the Inns of Court we hardly see,
At once, a Vaster Reach of Villany;
Tho' with the Lawyer the Belief does reign—
No Hell but Poverty, nor God but Gain.
Here Murder, Lust and Blasphemy are found,
And all the Crimes with which the Times abound,
To wheel in Circles an Eternal Round.
As the New-River does from Islington,
Thro' several Pipes, serve half the Spacious Town,
So the Luxurious Lewdness of the Stage,
Drain'd off, feeds half the Brothels of the Age.
In short (nor will it bear the least Debate)
Unless these Vices we cou'd Regulate,
The Play-house is the Scandal of the State.

But here it was (with drowsy Fumes oppress'd)
I dropt my Pen, and nodded into Rest;
When Fancy, willing to Improve my Spleen,
Set in my View this Visionary Scene.

Plain Dealer.

A Famous Tragedian.

253

3. The Third Part.

On a Sweet Verdant Plain methought I stood,
Just by a Hill crown'd with a Spacious Wood:
One lonely Path (which now I'd enter'd in)
Led from the Lawn up thro' the Silvan Scene.
On Pleas'd I went directly to the Grove,
The Silent kind Retreat of Rural Love.
The Rising Sun had now its Entrance made
Ten thousand ways, and Chequer'd all the Shade.
Thick lay the Dew, and, just like Diamonds Bright,
Sent thro' the leafy Arch reflected Light;
High on the Boughs were pearch'd the Feather'd Choir,
Their more Ambitious Notes ascending higher:
Each Emulating each, and plac'd apart,
Try'd all the sweet Contentions of their Art:
Now I observ'd the Tuneful Challenge here
Then how in Heav'nly Strains 'twas Answer'd there;
Neither the best, yet both above Compare.
Mean while, as with Design, a Balmy Breeze,
Rising and falling Gently by degrees,
Fann'd all the Sweets of Flora thro' the Trees.
Nothing there wanted but the Fruit of Gold
To vye with the Hesperian Grove of old.
Ah! Heav'n, I cry'd, what Happiness there dwells
In Humble Huts and unfrequented Cells!

254

In some low Cottage by this Copses side,
How safely does the Country Swain reside!
How undisturb'd when down to Rest he lies!
How Joyful when the Glorious Sun does rise!
This Musick in his Ears, this Scene before his Eyes!
Ah! might I once so blest a Fortune know,
How Gladly I'd the Chase of Fame forgo?
No more I wou'd the Stingy Great rehearse,
And sing their Names in Panegyrick Verse:
No more I wou'd attempt the Tragick Strain,
When (after all th'Expence of Time and Pain)
One Female Player's Breath makes all my Labours vain.

With Contemplations such as these I pass'd
Thro' the Steep Glade, and reach'd the Top at last;
Then, looking down, beheld below a Scene
Of Booths and People stragg'ling on the Green;
A various Mixture of each Sex intent
I drinking saw, and wonder'd what it meant.
Advancing nearer, soon the Cause appear'd
That drew together the Promiscuous Herd;
'Twas Water, Dullwych Waters, which they quaff'd
As Porters do their Belch—a Pint a Draught:
Till gorg'd at length, in Squadrons they withdraw
T'emit their Grief,—nor Decency a Law:
So thick they under ev'ry Bush appear,
You'd verily believe the Town was clear,
And all it's filthy Rabble Purging here.
Such Min'eral Fountains other Bards may sing;
To me they're all beneath a Common Spring.
If Instinct never for the worse does chuse,
Why shou'd we drink what Birds and Beasts refuse?
With Crudities th'Internal Parts they fill,
And the bleak Poison thro' the Blood instill,
Weaken the Sick, and make the Healthy Ill;

255

For, after all, we must new Methods find
To purge away the Dreggs they leave behind.
The Doctors say, indeed they'll wonders do;—
But Mountebanks commend their Ratsbane too.
In short the Waters to Physicians are
The same as Rogue-Attorneys to the Bar;
These work for Law, and those for Physick raise,
And so will do to all Succeeding Days,
While there the Client, here the Patient Pays.
But grant the Doctor all he'd have, and more;
Why must those Suit the Rich and these the Poor,
When Nature, in the Structure of our Frame,
Has of one Flesh made all Mankind the same?
The Cits are bid to Epsom to Resort,
And Tunbridge is Prescrib'd for those at Court;
While Dullwych only serves for those Degrees
That cannot rise to be Destroy'd for Fees:
For grosser Allum, being less Genteel,
Must not pretend to vye with those of Steel:
To ease the Rich, thus, Urine is the Rule,
And Poverty must be Reliev'd by Stool.
O Dotage! which no Age but ours cou'd be
So fond of, as distinctly not to see;
For whatsoe'er the Water-Mongers think
The Vertues are of this their Mine'ral Drink,
If heedfully the true Effects they'd mind
Of being at the Wells, they'd quickly find
The Ease they feel, and all the Health they share,
Is only due (while they continue there)
To Temperance, Exercise, and Country Air.

Turning my Head, and eager to be gone,
Who shou'd I see methought, but Hains alone?
And all alone poor Joseph well might be
Who, (bating those of his Fraternity,)

256

Cou'd not on Earth find Company to suit
A Name so Vile, and Life so Dissolute.
I date thee Fool, cry'd I, this very Hour,
Of all Mankind what need hast thou to Scow'r?
Nor Sup't last Night, nor broke thy Fast to Day
What is there in thee left to Purge away?
But why on Sunday Morning dost thou come?
The Day that all thy Brethren stay at home.
Cou'd on thy Friendly care not one Prevail
To fetch him Physick, and to warm him Ale?
The Church they leave to those it more does please,
Their Souls of less concern than their Disease.
In short, what all the Week they Whore and Swill,
They Rectify to Day with Peter's Pill.

Faith 'tis a just Remark, quoth Honest Joe;
A Jest has 'twice the odds for being true.
But if you will your Luggs this way incline,
I'll let You know this Morning's whole Design.
Our Converse with our selves, I freely own,
To be, perhaps, the worst the World has known;
The Themes we Relish with the truest Gust
Is Guile, Aspersion, Blasphemy and Lust:
If such a thing on Earth as Hell there be,
The Stage is Tophet—and it's Fiends are we.
First then, in Truth, I hither did Repair
To Bleach my Brimstone off in wholsome Air.
Next I'd some Gallery Tickets to dispose,
And in this Place I ne'er my Labour lose:
Here fifeeen Pence I've always down and down,
For what wou'd yield me but a Hog in Town.
And last in my Return I seldom fail
To get my Swill of Dullwych College Ale.
These little Shifts, grown useless for the Stage,
I'm forc'd to follow to sustain my Age.

257

Our Sharers, now so insolent are they,
We Under-Actors must like Slaves obey;
And toil and drudge, while they divide the Pay.
Not Busby more Tyrannically Rules,
Than Bet---n among his Knaves and Fools:
But most to me is his ill Nature shown,
Because my Voice is with my Palate gone:
Not that I faster than the rest decline;
Both Men and Women in my Failing joyn,
And B---y's Breath is grown as rank as mine.

Uneasy with my Company, I here
Wou'd have took leave, and gave a Civil Leer.
No hold, quoth Joe, my Tickets all are gone,
And if you please, Ill wait on you to Town:
Or if you'll take a Sermon by the Way,
(For at the College 'tis their Preaching Day)
I shall be much Oblig'd by such a Stay.
With all my Heart, cry'd I; I'm glad your Mind
Has took that Bent;—and keep it so inclin'd:
You'll find more Comfort in one Hour of Pray'r
Than all the Clappings of the Theatre,
Tho' you should yet enjoy 'em Twenty Year.
So on I pass'd, now first, and now behind,
Still giving him the Lee-ward of the Wind;
Avoiding so the Breathings of his Ghest,
Which he so frankly own'd were not the best.
At last, quoth Joe, you by and by shall see
The Gift of one of our Society:
Nor Greece nor Rome it's Equal ever show'd,
So Nobly is it built, so Lib'rally endow'd.
The Poet may Instruct and Please the Sense,
And worthy Schemes may be deduc'd from thence,
But 'tis a Barren Good that costs him no Expence:
Our Allen did a nobler Pattern set,
But not one Bard has imitated yet.

258

His Name, said I, we to the Clouds shou'd raise
The least it merits's Everlasting Praise:
But most unjustly on the Bards you fall:
Rich tho' he was, from them he rais'd it all.
Not to disgrace his Vertue, or his Wit,
What had he got, had Shakespear never writ?
As to our selves, had we the Players Gains,
(And more our Right it is, as more our Pains)
We had exceeded all that he has done,
And gave the World an Instance,—more than one:
Not, but 'tis Nobler yet, to form the Mind
To Vertue,—and to keep it so inclin'd,
(The Work for which we solely were design'd)
Than 'tis the Loftiest Edifice to build,
Or to Endow;—and Nobler Fruit 'twill yield.
His Charity, which justly we extol,
Does but Respect the Body;—Ours the Soul:
Twit us not then that we no Fabricks raise,
When from a better Claim we hold our Praise;
Nor think the Bard that does Exhaust his Sense,
At least that culls the richest Precepts thence,
To teach Mankind, can write without Expence:
Cou'd we our Purses wide as Allen strain,
'Tis nobler yet to spend upon the Brain.
In Contemplation rapt above the Skies,
We look on Yellow Dirt with heedless Eyes:
What truly Christian Bard would Gold adore,
When he may teach Contentment to the Poor.
And shew the World the Rich have no Excuse
That put not Money to its Genuine Use?
Like Him w'ave mention'd, who employ'd his Store
To breed up Friendless Youth and feed the Aged Poor.
But least of all you on the Muse shou'd throw
Your Scurril Jests, that keep her Sons so low:
How can our Suffering Tribe but chuse to be
The Sons of Hardship and Necessity?

259

When, let our Plays be acted half an Age,
W'ave but a third Days Gleaning of the Stage?
The rest is yours:—and hence your Sharers rise,
And once above us, all our Aid despise:
Hence has your Osmin drawn his Wealthy Lot,
And hence has Zara all her Thousands got:
Zara! that Proud, Opprobrious, Shameless Jilt,
Who like a Devil justifies her Guilt,
And feels no least Remorse for all the Blood sh'has spilt
But prithee Joe, since so she boasts her Blood,
And few have yet her Lineage understood,
Tell me, in short, the Harlot's true Descent,
'Twill be a Favour that you shan't repent.

Truly said Joe, as now the Matter goes,
What I shall speak must be beneath the Rose.
Her Mother was a common Strumpet known,
Her Father half the Rabble of the Town.
Begot by Casual and Promiscuous Lust,
She still retains the same Promiscuous Gust.
For Birth, into a Suburb Cellar hurl'd,
The Strumpet came up Stairs into the World.
At Twelve she'd freely in Coition join,
And far surpass'd the Honours of her Line.
As her Conception was a Complication,
So its Produce, alike, did serve the Nation;
Till by a Black, Successive Course of Ills,
She reach'd the Noble Post which now she fills;
Where, Messalina like, she treads the Stage,
And all Enjoys, but nothing can Asswage!

Thus towards the College we went jogging on:
Arriv'd, we found the Service just begun:—
Step in quoth Joe;—I'll come to you anon:
The Cook and Butler I must visit first;
For Hunger one, and t'other for my Thirst.

260

Let not your Corps, said I, be yet your Care;
Your better Part shou'd first be treated here:
If lasting Ease you'd to the Body find,
Let there be nothing wanting to the Mind.
My Paunch, said he, knows not what Doctrine means;—
You take the Stage;—I'll go behind the Scenes.

Sighing I enter'd;—when a kind Surprise:
Did entertain at once my Ears and Eyes:
The Organs Solemn Musick sounding there,
The Singing Boys Responding Voices here,
The Master and the Wardens grave Deport,
The Strict Devoutness of the meaner Sort,
The Management of all did soon inspire
My Soul with Joy! when joining with the Quire,
In Pray'r and Praises I perform'd my Part;
Nor less, I hope, my Ardor at the Heart.
But now the Service and the Sermon done,
(Whilst I to render Thanks was kneeling down)
Methought they of a sudden all were gone:
Surpris'd at the Event, I gaz'd about;
Saw none within, nor saw no Passage out.
'Tis well, said I,—and blest! O blest be they,
That in this Sacred Court delight to stay!
O Time! how smoothly then thou glid'st away!
When nothing Anxious in the Soul is found,
But Faith and Practice take their Equal Round;
When ev'ry Word a Pious Rapture fires,
And makes it self a Heav'n, while it to Heav'n aspires!
Thus walking up and down, to thought Resign'd,
At last the founder came into my Mind;
Nor cou'd I my Conceptions then contain,
(Tho' something for the Sacred Place too vain,)
But broke out loud in this Extatick Strain.

261

O happy! happy and Instructive Age
When Shakespear Writ, and Allen trod the Stage!
To Emulation fir'd, 'twas hard to tell
Which of the famous two did most Excel.
But O thou Darling Poet of our Isle,
And thou th'Erecter of this Sacred Pile,
How wou'd you Blush were you but now to see,
Both Plays and Players black Impiety!
And wish y'ad never rais'd the Infant Stage,
Since grown so black and Sinful in her Age:
With Vice she wou'd Instruct, with Vice Delight;
And all she does Pervert, that hear, that Act, that Write.

'Twas here, methought, an Awful Form appear'd
In a long Gown, and Venerable Beard.
And who art Thou, he cry'd, that thus dost Praise
The Bards and Actors of the former Days?
And what are now their Follies and their Crimes,
With which they so infest the Present Times?

I am, said I, Apollo's meanest Son,
Who yet the Vices of his Greatest shun;
One, that with other Bards this Good design,
Plays to reform and make the Stage Divine:
No Vitious Plots we'd on the Age obtrude,
On Morals built, they shou'd be so pursu'd:
To Truth and Sense the Audience we'd Conduct,
And first we'd Please, that we might next Instruct;
That Centre where the Drama still shou'd tend,
As first 'twas purpos'd for no other End.
But w'are oppos'd by such an impious Train
Of Players, as make all our Studies vain;
Nothing they'll Act, and nothing they esteem
That does not Vertue shame, and God Blaspheme.

262

Instead of such as did this Fabrick build,
The Stage does now a Set of Monsters yield;
So openly Debauch'd, So flaming Ill,
As scarce, perhaps, are to be match'd in Hell!
Nor does this Censure only touch the Young,
But does alike to those of Years belong;
Who, rich as Jews, no other Pious Use
Make of their Wealth, but Vertue to Seduce:
Not Allen more did on this Pile bestow
Than they on Strumpets, or to make 'em so;
Witness Mill-Bank, where Osmin keeps his Trulls
With what, by sharing, he exacts from Fools.

266

THE Corruption of the TIMES BY MONEY.

A SATYR.

TO Fleetwood Sheppard Esq; Gentleman-Usher daily Waiter to the KING, &c.

'Twas not the dazling Gem, or shining Ore,
The Pride of Courts, nor Pluto's endless Store,
That in mild Saturn's peaceful Reign, of old,
Did constitute the famous Age of Gold;
'Twas Innocence alone, the greatest Good
That cou'd on human Nature be bestow'd:
Under his Vine each Man securely lay,
And, Wealth unknown, ne'er practis'd to betray.
The Daughter's Dowry was untainted Youth,
Attended by Virginity and Truth;
Who now can one with such a Fortune find?
O charming—but O faithless Womankind!

267

Why are not Heav'n's best Blessings made to last?
Ah! Why so brittle? Why so quickly past?
Why did those Golden Minutes fly so fast?
Upright the Image of his God was made,
But Ah! How is he warp'd? How is he stray'd?
His own Inventions, wildly, he pursues,
Can gain but little, and has much to lose:
Ev'n Earth's dark Bowels from his piercing sight
Cou'd not conceal her Seeds of glittering Light!
He digs, succeeds, his shining Labour fines,
And streight has new Desires and new Designs:
Swell'd with his Wealth, disclaims his kindred Earth,
And talks of Titles, Dignities, and Birth.
With Use of Money use of Fraud began,
And then 'twas, first, that Man did ruin Man.

A while, indeed, the happy Spartan State,
With a firm Mind, did all her Charms rebate,
And so long stood as if 'twere prop'd by Fate:
Success her Standard ever did attend,
And Fame declares her Praise shall never end:
But Gold and Silver seiz'd the Reins at length,
Those Delilahs betray'd her of her Strength,
Unstrung her Nerves and usher'd in her Bane,
Which half the World, before, had strove to do in vain.

To name the Guilt, the Cruelty, and Rage
This Mischief has produc'd in every Age
Is not the Task which here the Muse enjoyns;
We only speak the Follies and the Crimes
With which it does infest the Present Times:
Bold the Design, but points at publick good,
And that will have the publick Thanks,—or shou'd.

Take, then, a view of all that you can see,
Of each Religion, Calling, and Degree;

268

The Presbyterians, Baptists, Quakers, Papists,
Socinians, and their elder Brethren Atheists;
Lords, Laqueys, Juglers, Judges, Knaves and Fools,
Punks, Players, Pimps and Bawds, with all the Shoals
Of Trading Cuckolds that encompass Pauls;
Mark to what Centre all their Motions tend,
And see if Money's not their only End,
Their Primum Mobile that makes no Stay,
But wheels about and turns 'em all one Way.
The dutious Knee-Observance paid by Heirs,
The Bully's Curses and the Beggars Prayers,
The Lover's Courtship and the Cant of Schism,
The Strumpet's Patience under Priapism,
The Statesman's Love he to his Country bears,
The perjur'd Villains Lavishness of Ears,
The Noise of Billingsgate, the Eloquence
Of Lawyers, which they Copy out from thence,
Only the Jargon's more and less the Sense;
The Whitehall fawning Office to obtain
(While good Men dance Attendance there in vain;)
A Flutt'ring Coxcomb, or a Pliant Knave
Has still, in Court, th'Advantage of the Brave,
For he that's Honest will not be a Slave:
The base Submissions to Insult we show,
(For Man, by Nature, cannot stoop so low)
The Slavish Distance we to Favourites pay,
(For Knaves in Office turn Promotions Key)
Priests cringing to Superior Mitr'd-Pride,
Supple to them, but stiff to all beside;
The Love and Friendship to the Rich we feign,
And e'en the Poets Panegyrick Strain,
Is nothing else but the pursuit of Gain.

'Tis true, most of them (which would force a Smile)
Hunt on cold Scent, pursue a Fruitless Toyl.

269

The Punning Coxcomb may pretend to get,
But—(if I too may Pun) 'tis more in Debt.
The Laquey may grow Rich while Lords come short,
Of which we've Store of Instances at Court,
The Jugler and the Judge, too, may complain,
For both now strive to Cheat the World in vain;
In Slight and Shift and Trick they both agree,
But a quick Eye may all their Hocus see:
This difference, tho', we may between 'em write,
That by Profession, does deceive your Sight,
This does you Wrong and sits to do you Right:
How many for a trifling Theft have dy'd?
While Murd'rers live and Flourish by a Bribe.
Why (O ye Pow'rs) must the sad Hemp and Hymn
Belong to Common Rogues and only them?
And the curs'd Judge, that has an Itching Palm,
Dye Old, without his Halter and a Psalm?
The Soldiers, too, may cease of War to prate,
For Cutting Throats may once grow out of Date,
And then we starve the Male-Contents of State;
Those Needy Villains that still pray for Change,
To satisfie their Wants and their Revenge.
The Scismatick may Cant but be deceiv'd,
For Knaves and Fools may cease to be believ'd:
What Holiness so e'er the Fops may feign,
Their Audience finds their Godliness is Gain:
Large Contributions made 'em leave the Church,
And now grown small, have left them in the lurch.
Their Resty Flocks will serve God in no way
Th'Indulgence of the State allows they may:
A true-blue Sect'ress, like a Weed that's crop'd,
Will thrust Ten Branches out for One that's lop'd,
But let alone, like that, he grows so fast,
He is by his own Rankness kill'd at last:
Whoever, then, intends their Extirpation,
Will do it easiest by a Toleration.

270

The Harlot's Pleasure too may turn to pain,
One cruel Flux licks up a Twelve-months Gain;
But Flux on Flux makes not her lewdness less,
Nor the vain Fop less eager to possess;
Till pox'd all o'er, embracing one another,
They but change Hells at last, from that to 'tother.
The Friendship of the Rich we may implore,
And shall attain it—if we are not Poor:
They Feast, invite, and Pamper one another,
But spare not one Thought on a Starving-Brother:
Yet some will give, but 'tis to get Applause,
Or Patch up many avaricious Flaws;
A Specious Veil they draw, but who's not blind
May see the sneaking, grudging Churl behind.
Can a few Pence you give the Crime atone
Of scraping Pounds together, not your Own?
Some of it glean'd from the Day-Labourers Hire,
And some retrench'd from Servants Food and Fire.
Or if I throw a Shilling to the Poor,
Relieves it him I wrong'd of Ten before?
Mistaken Men! so did that Limner paint,
That made a Devil and design'd a Saint.
The Poet, too, a Parasite may be
But thro' his fulsom Praise all Eyes may see
His Little Truth and large Necessity:
If he cringe much the less will be his Lot;
A Hangman's Hire is not so Basely got.
Why shou'd a Wit (against Apollo's Rules)
Take Pay for giving Fame to Knaves and Fools?
Why shou'd that Art to Prostitution fall?
Inspir'd by Heav'n, yet at a Coxcomb's Call.
O fix not him a Pattern for the Times
That's Eminent for nothing but his Crimes!
But let that Patron only fill your Lays
That does Reward your Toyl, not Buy your Praise:

271

Such Sidney was, and such is Dorset now,
With Wreaths of everlasting Praise adorn his gen'rous Brow.
But Pander, Player, Pimp and Bawd will thrive
As long as Farce, or Theatre survive,
For Lust and Vanity o'erflow the Age,
And still ebb back to their own Spring, the Stage;
But leave, at every Tyde, more Vice behind
Than there wou'd need to taint all Human-kind:
So Nile, decreasing, spreads a slime so Rich,
Serpents take Life from the Suns Vital Itch,
Less monstrous Births than Play-house Dog and Bitch.
Thus, tho' th'extreamest Shift and Craft is try'd,
The most that Toyl for Gain shoot short, or wide;
Unluckily at the bright Mark they aim,
Which tho' they miss, they must not miss the blame,
For their undue pursuit is still the same.

Destructive Mineral! when God curs'd the Earth
Was the sad Minute that did give thee Birth;
From Hell thou com'st, and thither must again
Retire, when done thy Universal Reign:
Nor does this with the Ancients disagree!
When to each thing th'assign'd a Deity,
He that was God of Hell was God of thee.
Talk not of Nations rul'd by Cæsar's Line,
The greatest Monarchy on Earth is thine:
With Faith thou may'st Futurity contend,
For Thine's a Kingdom that will never end.
What more than happy Minutes might we see?
How Virtuous? How like Angels might we be
(Thou thrice accursed Mineral!) but for thee?
While we are Infants we but with thee play,
Nor care to keep, but rather throw away:
Ah! Why (or do we older grow in vain?)
Don't we in Age that Quality retain?

272

Why shou'd our first Five Years be wiser far
Than all our following, riper Moments are?
Much are we tempted by the Female Face,
A Thousand ways they bring us to Disgrace,
But Gold's the great Debaucher of our Race,
Lovers and Fools, perhaps wou'd come by kind,
But among Men one Villain you'd not find
That Tempter silent, our quick-hoisted Sail
Is always spread to take the smiling Gale;
Not once considering there in that may be
More Rocks and Shelves and Sands than in the Sea.
Gold to Death's Palace leads the steepy Way,
Once in the Path we have no Power to stay;
It blinds our Eyes, nor one safe Step assures,
And has a Key to all his Thousand Doors.

When shou'd we hear of Treachery in War
But for thee, thee, thou greater Mischief far?
What Countries has the Gallick Monarch's Gold
Poorly and basely, falsely, bought and Sold?
No Persons for his Countries Friends are known
But Spotted Traytors that would sell their own:
True Glory he, yet never had in Chase,
But owes his Honours (what can be more base?)
Ev'n to the Refuse of all Human Race.
Why shou'd we talk so hard of Machiavel
(As if he'ad equal'd the Prime Fiend of Hell)
And pass by Mazarin and Richlieu's Name,
No less than him deserving endless blame?
Justice, Injustice were by turns carest,
Just as they serv'd their Tyrants Interest?
Tho the blest Pledge of Publick Faith had past,
The League, if not Convenient, must not last:
Not done i'th' dark, the World proclaim'd the shame!
And taught from hence (their freedom who can blame?)
Ev'n Infidels reproach the Blessed Name:

273

Distrust a Turk, he'll this reply afford;
Am I a Christian Dog to break my Word?
These two Achitophels are justly curst,
And shou'd have had the Fate, too, of the first,
Their Politicks does still his Councils Rule,
To these two fatal Names he went to School.
And such successful, wicked Progress made,
He does trandscend the Teachers in their Trade.
His treach'rous Gold he deals by Sea, by Land,
Bribery's the Base on which his Fame does Stand,
Take that away he falls, while every Eye
Sees 'twas not Courage made him soar so high!
That no true Conduct the Crown'd Atheist rear'd,
But his Suborning of the Foes he fear'd.
Flagitious Villains! that for Foreign Pay
Their King, their Country and their Friends betray!
Villains! whom Mercy's Self wou'd blush to save,
Or, tho' 'twere under Tyburn, grant a Grave,
For whom all Curses past and all to come
Here and in Hell it self's too mild a Doom!
Yet they shall boast their Birth and high Descent,
Which is, if possible, more Impudent:
'Tis true, we own, as to their Station here,
Some of 'em move in an Illustrious Sphere;
(Illustrious, if they wou'd continue there:)
But as no Man is Base-born that is Good,
So Peers may be Plebeians understood,
For Virtue 'twas that first distinguish'd Blood;
He that betrays his Country, tho' the first
In Pow'r, is, in degree of Vice the worst
If he, then, that's most Vicious is most Base,
Why shou'd a Villain talk of Noble Race?
If by brave Deeds our Fathers got a Name,
Have we by Ill the same Pretence to Fame?
Ah! no—their Glory, but decrys our Shame.
These are the Tools the Tyrant does seduce,
No Devil half so proper for his Use.

274

So Philip, when he with the Græcians strove,
Did by the same Machine his Actions move;
Cities he sack'd, and did much more perform
By that, than his whole Army could by Storm.
But Infamous his Memory is compar'd
With his great Son, who made his Sword his Guard,
In Person fought, the conquer'd East o'er ran;
Tho' not Heav'n-born, if Blood by Blood we scan,
Not Philip, Sire, but some more God-like Man:
Of his reputed Father's Acts asham'd,
Begot that Saying, yet so justly fam'd;
(To which his Life so clearly did agree,)
Advis'd, by Night, to fight the Enemy,
He cry'd—He wou'd not steal a Victory:
Tho' then he for the Mightiest Empire fought,
So, as he greatly spoke, 'twas bravely sought.
Gold he despis'd, or us'd as Glory bid,
And made it the Reward of those that did
Great things; the Man of Merit lay not hid.
So in the Age to come, when William's Name
And haughty Lewis are declar'd by Fame,
The first shall stand with such Illustrious Braves
We nam'd before, the last with Treacherous Slaves;
Whom here the Muse the rather does impeach,
To show no Crime's beyond a Satyr's reach.
Yet, tho' he bribes, so high, it owe its rise
To that low sordid Crime of Avarice;
For if he part with a Substantial Sum,
'Tis but a Penny gone for Pounds to come.
Well may to Covet (as Prescription Sings)
Be the curst Root from whence all Evil Springs,
When that Plebeian Vice can rise to Kings.

But these, curst Mineral, are not half the ills
That down from Thee on Wretched man distills;
Thou art not only cause of Publick bane,
But dost in Private hold as loose a Rein:

275

All Dealing is thy own; cheat that cheat can,
Is thy great Maxim between Man and Man.
Some are thy Sworn, and some thy daily Slaves;
Women and Thee make all Men Fools and Knaves.
Man is so pliant to thy forming Hand,
He runs into all Moulds at thy Command,
Takes all Impressions, and is prov'd by Thee,
The constant Drudge of Inconsistency.
'Tis thou that dost this Proteus unbind
From what h'has Sworn, and what he has design'd,
And mak'st him vary Colour, Shape and Mind;
Now in Trunk-Breeches, next in Pantaloons,
Now prays with Priests, then Curses with Dragoons,
In the same Breath tis bless us, and 'tis Zo---ns
Influenc'd by Thee, we trust not one another,
Or if we do, w'are cheated by a Brother.
Neighbour on Neighbour thou like Dogs dost set,
And mak'st 'em faster keep the Hold they get:
We first grieve at another's Happiness,
And the next Step we strive to make it less,
Or what he has, wou'd wrongfully possess.
Envy from thee draws out her sharpest Stings,
By thee encourag'd, she her Arrow flings
Alike, Promiscuously, at Slaves and Kings;
The very Altar can't secure the Hand
On which she'll fix her Stigmatizing Brand;
Traduces them, does their just Income grutch,
Prays they may starve; to her (her Nature's such)
To God that gave all, one in Ten's too much:
Not but 'tis wish'd those Tenths were better us'd,
More duly paid, and, taken, less abus'd.

'Tis thou that dost the Fashion-Monger guide,
And art the sweetest Nourishment of Pride;
'Tis thou dost spread her like a Peacock's Tail,
And breath the Blast that fills the gawdy Sail:

276

In Women thou dost, chiefly, make her Reign,
And Female Fops, if possible, more vain.
Head-Tires like Turbants, now, our Ladies wear,
False Hearts, false Shapes, false Honour and false Hair:
Against th'old Woman's Steeple-Hat they cry,
Yet, with slight Gauses, dress three times as high:
The good Wives Cover was not made in vain,
The Other's hous'd with the first drop of Rain:
Close to her Tail th'Obsequious Coxcomb goes,
And licks his Lips with pleasing of his Nose:
Where-e're she comes, so loose a Train she brings,
Tho' Men by Name, you'd swear they're other things:
Just so attended the proud Bitch does pass
The Streets, Tray, Ring-wood, Jowler at her A---
The Changes of their Minds we may admire,
But can they vary more than their Attire?
You'll say this is false Doctrine I maintain,
Women may plead Prescription to be vain:
To clear their Guilt, that Plea will never do,
For then all Fops might plead Prescription too.
But you, perhaps, are brib'd to take their Part,
And cry, no Pride's a Sin, but Pride of Heart;
And therefore since no Opticks can pretend
Into those deep Recesses to descend,
We know not who is Proud—you err again,
No other Crime can be descry'd so plain:
Who does not see Pride in our Nature lies,
When what we ought to Honour we despise?
The Parents that did press us to the Breast
Must not appear, if they are meanly drest,
Or if they do, their Visits must be brief,
As if they lost their Senses with their Teeth.
Some drive 'em from their Doors (unnatural Race!)
And wonder they'll come there to their Disgrace.
'Tis true, this only is of Upstarts said,
The better Sort, you'll say, are better bred;

277

But mark if in their Conduct you can find
One Thought that's to Humility inclin'd:
Their nearest Kin, reduc'd to Poverty,
They loath to hear of, and they blush to see.
Observe the Fop that is just come to Age,
(His Mother dead that brought the Heritage:)
See in a Storm, when he does Couch the Streets,
And his old Father overtakes, or meets,
Dropping all o'er and soak'd thro' to the Skin,
Mark if the Villain stops to take him in.
In short, Men of Estate and Noble Blood,
By consequence, are rather Proud than Good:
Pride's Fountain-Head we may from Money bring
As nat'rally as Water from the Spring;
Whether 'tis in the Heart, or in the Dress,
More Money makes it more, but never less:
But when this Vice does on poor Gentry fall,
'Tis then the most Ridiculous of all;
For he tha'ts Thread-bare, and that's bare of Pence,
If to Nobility he makes Pretence,
We may conclude to be as bare of Sense.

With Pride thou giv'st Birth to her grinning Train,
To all that is affected, all that's Vain;
For Vanity (which one whole Sex devours)
Stands waiting at her Elbow at all Hours,
Just as, they say, the Devil does at Ours;
And Affectation takes her very Trace,
When one appears, the Other's still in Place:
So the Bawd waits at the great State's-Man's Doors,
And so attended with her Brace of Whores:
For the vain Nymph, and the affected Dame,
If not so yet, will quickly be the same.
In Coach and Chair they whirl it up and down,
No Common Hackney-Strumpet's better known,
Not Hatton's Steel-chin'd Drab that tir'd the Town,

278

And did more Surgeons in a year enrich,
Than all the rest—the Ne plus ultra Bitch!
These Creatures are for ever on the Range;
The Play-House, Park, Spring-Garden, Court, Exchange,
Their daily Round, where, tho' whole years they run,
They tire no more than when they first begun;
Rather push faster onwards in the Race,
As falling Stones, cou'd we suppose a Space
So deep, wou'd near the Centre mend their Pace:
Chatt'ring, Dancing, Singing, each her Part
Runs wildly o'er, without Wit, Heed, or Art;
And if a Coxcomb, Pert, and Vain, and Dull,
Does joyn their Train, he makes the Concert full:
Not Guzling, Gossips at a Christ'ning Feast,
When Mother Mid-night drops a Bawdy Jest,
(Of all the Women, still the greatest Beast)
Can make that Unintelligible Din
As these abound with when their Hands are in.
In Dress, in Language, Converse, Shape and Mein
Are Vanity and Affectation seen:
Nothing so hard, of all ill things, to hide
As these Appendixes and Rags of Pride.
Yet, who can think their selves so free from Guilt,
As the vain Coxcomb and affected Jilt?
In vain we wou'd convert 'em with our Rage,
They're best convinc'd by Beggary and Age,
Both be their Lot, for who wou'd Pity have
On a fine foolish Drab, or Selfish Slave?
False glaring Fires! But rais'd (O Gold!) from thine,
Thy Brightness makes these Exhalations shine.

Ev'n Contradictions take from thee their Rise,
As Prodigality and Avarice;
Nor dost thou only but in Them agree,
Thou art the Sire of Sloath and Industry:

279

Not of that Industry, by which the Swain,
With Sweat and Toil, does earn an honest Gain;
(O Industry! thou Child of true Content,
Who'd not be Needy to be Innocent?)
But that which makes the Merchant cross the Main,
The Lawyer any Villain's Cause maintain,
Those Indefatigable Slaves of Gain:
Who wou'd not be the Labourer, nam'd before,
Than these with an Ill Conscience, and their Store?
But as the Man that's Civil ne'er will hit
The lucky Vein that constitutes a Wit;
So he that's Honest, cannot Wealthy grow
By the bare Method of Continuing so:
Whatever then, the thriving Churl may say,
All great Estates are got another way.
O Honesty! thou lasting Peace of Mind,
Thou Radiant Jewel which but few will find!
All over bright thou liest to charm the Eye,
But (wretched Men!) we wink and pass thee by.
Give me but that, ye Pow'rs, I ask no more,
To Muck-Worms leave the Riches they adore:
No surer Guard I'll e'er desire to keep
Me safe, nor softer Opium for my Sleep:
Serene my Hours, like them my Conscience free,
Which no rich prosp'rous Villain e'er can be,
No griping, scraping, hard, assiduous Slave,
No wealthy Fool, or over-reaching Knave,
Tho' he is lighted by the Sun of Pleasure,
And can lie Basking on his Banks of Treasure.

But, as this faulty Industry takes Growth
From thee, no less doth Laziness and Sloath:
If by our Servants Labour we can shun
The thought of Care, we hold our Work is done;
Not thinking, while we doze away our Hours,
The more their Business, so, the more is Ours;

280

Their Labour does our Laziness reproach,
Our Laziness their Labour does debauch.
Who'd think, at twelve a Clock it shou'd be said
That the great Lady's soaking in her Bed?
When, to repair the sensible Decay
That ten hours hearty Sleep has took away,
Dish after Dish, for Chocolate she calls;
(She must be often rais'd that often falls.)
That strong-back'd Liquor hoops 'em in the Chine,
No other Nectar they allow Divine.
Vain Sex! at once both Foolish and Unjust,
To think they need Provocatives to Lust;
Were all their Lives to be one Nuptial Night,
Their Stock wou'd never be exhausted quite;
Then, on their Natural Fund they might rely,
And not so lavishly take in Supply.
Name but a Kitchin to the Lady fair,
She crys, O filthy! What shou'd I do there?
Not thinking that the more she knows, the less,
By consequenee, she's blam'd for Foolishness.
Her Offices she never comes into,
Or scarce knows one from 'tother, if she do;
Full of themselves, they nothing else can see;
Tho' Mothers, yet their Pocket-Glass shall be
Look'd into oftner than their Nursery:
Mark, in this Town, if there's not many a one
That hugs her Monky oftner than her Son,
(And, faith we scarce know which is most her own:
'Tis that she cheers and Fondles all she can,
And loves the nearest Print of it in Man:
The vilest Fop whom Nature did create
For nothing but to Cringe, to Grin and Prate,
Fraught with more Fashion, Nonsense, Lyes, Grimace,
Than e'er before were crowded into Ass,
Let him appear, th'unnatural Brute's receiv'd,
Nor only Lov'd, but which is worse, Believ'd!

281

Yet Sloath's not only to that Sex confin'd,
But has a large Dominion in Mankind.
Wou'd not that Noble Coxcomb raise our Mirth,
That thinks his Laziness declares his Birth,
Joyn'd with a Resolution, ne'er to get
Out of a Mercenary Rascal's Debt?
Of all the Blockheads that debase their Kind,
No Wretch more Vile and Scandalous we find,
Than he, that for Respect and Honour looks,
Yet over Head and Ears in Trades-Mens Books:
(Not that we shou'd despise the Man that's poor;
But these look bigger, as their Wants grow more:
If Quality can stoop so very low,
What is't it may not condescend to do?
Dissolv'd in Idleness, he grows a Drone,
And neither Eats, or Drinks, or wears his now;
But spunges on the Labours of the Poor,
Who, trusting Them, make but their Wants the more.
Their Servants Wages, if they ever pay,
I warn the lucky Wretch to make no Stay,
Let him go off with Money, while he may;
For Quality has long the Trick profest,
To bilk the yearly Hireling with the rest.
A Man that's doom'd to serve so loose a Knave,
Is sunk down ten Degrees beneath a Slave:
And who his Life wou'd in that Drudgery spend,
When, shou'd he hang himself, his Case wou'd mend?
In short, to Cheat, and to be Impudent
When Duns appear, is the last Element,
(And by meer Choice it so it self involves)
To which Decaying Quality resolves.
The lesser Gentry, rather that Abroad
Serve in their Countries cause, infest the Road;
But a Thief's Valour no true Praise deserves,
For any Coward rather Fights than Starves.
'Tis not that Providence, as Atheists feign,
Has made more Creatures than it can maintain;

282

All Men may thrive, at least, thus far you'll grant,
By just Endeavours rise above their Want:
Who did you ever yet in Tatters see,
That did exert his utmost Industry?
For no Man Fortune does so far forsake,
But he may sometimes give, as well as take.
But 'tis meer Sloath, incorporate with his Blood,
And Pride, that says 'tis slavish to be Good,
That it betrays a Base, a Vulgar Mind,
To seek by Industry their Bread to find;—
As if 'twere Great to prey upon their Kind;
As if the Wolf were e'er the better Beast,
Because more Bold and Rav'nous than the rest,
And on the Blood of Innocence will Feast.

From these the Muse with Detestation flies,
And streight, what more she loaths, the Spend-thrift spies:
Preposterous Fop! that thinks it an Abuse
To put his Money to the Genuine Use,
As if no Gentleman, if not Profuse.
See how he deals it out as he comes on,
And with both Hands too, as 'twou'd ne'er be gone!
You'd swear he study'd, or he understood
How to live all his Life, and do no Good.
A Guinea she that gives his Lust Relief
Bears off, a Guinea he that cleans his Teeth,
A Guinea he that brings him a Lampoon,
To Peaceable a Guinea for a Tune;
A Guinea where he Dines, among the Men,
The Dedication of a Play is Ten,
His Peruke five, and his Point Ruffles four,
His Beaver three, his Lac'd Coat fifteen more,
And then Five hundred to his Annual Whore:
Besides his Coach, his Horses, and his Slaves,
His Parasites, his Pimps and Hireling Braves,

283

Must be conceiv'd to wast a Countless Sum;
From what vast Bank can all this Treasure come?
What English Land, or Indian Mine can last,
When the vain Animal does spend so fast?
Rich, tho' he be, when to that Vice inclin'd,
He Blazes like a Candle in the Wind,
And, gratifying all his loose Desires,
Is melted down, and in a Snuff expires:
Tho' Wealth and Power does in his Van appear,
Want and a Jayl does still bring up the Reer;
A Jayl is the Inevitable Lot
Of an Extravagant and heedless Sot.
Shook by a thousand Debts, the Prodigal
Does, in effect, like the Colossus fall;
Too ponderous to lift up, like that, he lies,
And as unable, of himself, to rise.

Thus, that this Vice proceeds from Gold we see,
For without that, no Prodigality.
That Avarice from that, too, takes its Birth
Is true, as that the Churl has his from Earth:
But this Notorious Crime it were a Shame
To offer to Convict, or to Reclaim;
Nor was it here to lash it our Intent,
'Tis to it self a sharper Punishment.
What Plagues upon a Miser can you throw,
Worse than that, One of his Continuing so?
May then these Slaves (by Contradiction ill)
Gripe, Scrape, be close and Avaritious still,
Gaze on his Gold, think that his only Good,
And so be Damn'd for grutching himself Food.

But as the Wretch is Covetous that Hoards,
So some are Covetous to spread their Boards;
By Power supported (Rapine their Delight)
They set no Bounds to their wild Appetite;

284

Whate'er they Covet they think lawful Prize,
So Lawlesly the Labourer's Substance seize,
And all to dwell in Wantonness and Ease:
The needy Churl we may, almost, excuse,
But these are Covetous to be Profuse.
What a strange Madness does these Fools betray?
That Rake together just to throw away,
And give that Wings that ne'er was known to stay.
The Former errs in knowing not the Use:
This in the Getting, then in the Abuse:
Haughty, yet condescends to crush the Poor,
To cram his Belly, and to pay his Whore.

Thus Luxury's maintain'd by Avarice;
But then another sort, as bad as this,
Has from Hereditary Wealth its Rise:
Extant in them who in their Bills of Fare
Summon, at once, the Earth, the Sea, the Air:
The Elements must all their Bounties show,
As if not what they Gave but what they Owe,
And must pay in when they will have it so.
The want e'en of a Trifle's not endur'd,
Tho' by th'extremest Art and Charge procur'd.
Nature is forc'd, as if most good they find
In Fruits and Plants before they're ripe, by kind.
Not a more num'rous Army Xerxes led,
Than these, by Name, have Dishes to be fed:
More barbarous Terms we now in Cookery see,
Than in that barb'rous Myst'ry Heraldry;
And as those Terms distinguish Gentry there,
So Fricasies, Ragousts and Soups do here—
And both, alike, their Wit and Worth declare.
That God made all for Man we all agree,
But then 'twas for his Use, not Luxury;
He did not open his unbounded Store,
Only to Feast the Rich, and Starve the Poor;

285

Tho' now they Lord it o'er the Meaner Sort,
And make their Labours and their Wants their Sport;
Voluptuously, all Nature's Rarities,
(As if by Charter theirs) Monopolize:
Yet tho' they've All, they think they're treated rough,
And, like the Barren Womb, ne'er say—Enough.
What a sad Sentence on these Men will fall
At the last dreadful Trump, the general Call?
When, notwithstanding all their Wealth and Power,
They murmur'd more, the more they did devour:
Tho' Heav'n sent Quails, and tho' it Manna rain'd,
They, like the stubborn Israelites, complain'd;
The more its Miracles appeal'd to Sense,
The less they'd be convinc'd of Providence:
While the Poor Man, which (if we may presume
So far) must strangely aggravate their Doom,
While he, resign'd, by his just Labour fed,
Liv'd Pleas'd and Thankful upon Scraps of Bread.

O Poverty! thou only Blessing, sent
From Heav'n, if thou'rt attended with Content;
She on that Hand, and Honesty on this,
And thou art, then the greatest Human Bliss:
Not Cæsar, Lepidus, and Antony,
Did make so famous a Triumviri
As you, O you much more illustrious Three!
Wealth has no Centre, endlesly aspires,
Yet ne'er can reach the Height it so admires,
As there to pitch and fix her Wild Desires:
But Poverty close to the Ground does go,
And hugs the Fate that lets her walk so low;
No fall she fears, contented to be Just,
She sinks beneath Ambition, Rage and Lust:
Envy her self, that takes the surest Aim,
Cares not for stooping to such prostrate Game.

286

So Storms on Mountains the tall Cedar tears
Up by the Roots, the humble Shrub it spares.
O Blessed State! which God was pleas'd to bear
While, in the Flesh, he sojourn'd with us here;
He knew thy lovely Dress wou'd best agree
With Peace, with Truth, and with Humility:
Thy Badge, too, all his mighty Followers bore,
And wou'd be what their Saviour was before;
What Wretch, then, wou'd Repine that he is Poor?

Bounded by Thee, w'ave no desire to ly
On Beds of Down, or Offices to buy,
Which, rightly took, is but Lay-Simony;—
'Tis to that common Clergy-Crime a Brother,
And one is punish'd now no more than 'tother.
He that has Money can't Preferment want;
Let him be Coward, Atheist, Ignorant,
He streight grows, Wise a Hero, and a Saint.
As once was said, knock, it shall open'd be,
Seek you shall find—so in this World, we see,
And most at Court, when e'er the Penny's shown,
The Heav'n of bought Preferment is your own.
Some, Places buy, because they'll Courtiers grow,
And some, again, because they must be so,
Above the fear of Paying what they owe;
There they, secure, as in Alsatia, rest,
Alsatia, of the two Retreats the best;
There you, unearth the Fox, Relief may have;
But here there is no reaching of a Knave:
And while they, thus, a sure Protection find,
They are but Authoriz'd to cheat Mankind:
A Villain that will use this Privilege,
Cuts like a Sword that has a double Edge;
May arrest you, yet fear not an arrest,
Always oppressing, not to be opprest:

287

Thus, owe a World, 'tis this way even made,
Get but a Place at Court, your Debts are paid:
'Tis hence the vilest Offices are bought,
They fall not half so fast as they are sought.
Five hundred Guineas (faith the Bargain's hard)
Only to Cock a Hat, and mount the Guard:
Fantastick Ape! that struts in Scarlet Cloaths,
And has of Souldier, nothing but the Oaths.
Little his Father thought (who had been long
Getting the Sum, and from his Tenants wrung
It half by Indirectness) that his Soul
Was pawn'd, to make his Eldest-Born a Fool.
What Man can think that Money justly gain'd,
By which a Villain's Vanity's maintain'd?
'Tis true, the Wars (which don't their Natures suit)
Has shook, perhaps, these Locusts from the Fruit;
But who that, lately, wou'd Hyde-Park survey,
Did not see many a Coxcomb that took Pay,
Only to ride a Cock-horse on May-Day?
His Credit just for Rabble-Praise to sell,
And bowing to the Ladies in Pell-Mell;
While prancing on, and straining to look fierce,
And his fine Scarf hung dangling at his Arse,
The whole Town was diverted with the Farce.
In vain the honest Man is Brave, or Wise,
When any Money'd Fop so soon may rise;
If but a Scavenger does tender Gold,
The Man of Birth and Worth is bought and sold:
For he that can no better Merit bring
Than Loving of his Country, or his King,
May e'en go whistle for Advancement there;
His Lung's too fine to breath in such an Air.
In short all things are bought; Buying's so rife,
Fools Knighthoods buy, the Murtherer buys his Life,
And, which is worse, ev'n Grandio bought his Wife;

288

A thousand Guineas down and down were told,
Before the Pander did produce the Scold:
But, if to have her, the preposterous Sot
Cou'd let so large a Parcel go to Pot,
What wou'd he give that, now, he had her not?

Enough of Buying between Fool and Rogue:
But Begging is, at Court, as much in Vogue,
And 'tis a sort of Begging baser far,
Than all the vilest ways of Bribery are.
The Natural Fool that has a Great Estate,
Is, to the Courtier, grown a luscious Bait:
But if Estates are forfeit by the Laws,
When Fools are Heirs (tho' Fools by Natural Cause)
Half of the Gentry must their Lands resign,
For why is theirs more privileg'd than thine?
In short, wou'd not a near Relation's Care
Cherish the Ideot, the Soft-moulded Heir,
More tenderly than any thread-bare Lord,
Of all the Hundreds fil'd upon Record?
Profit makes one take Care, and Nature t'other;
What Love is like the Yernings of a Mother?
Unhappiness enough she knew that bore
So sad a Weight, but this does make it more:
Depriv'd of all that Mothers make their Boast;
Because she lost her Hope, must all be lost?
Why shou'd such senseless Cruelty be shown?
Why punish'd for an Error not her own?
'Twas Nature's Crime, who sometimes is in hast,
For when a Fool is form'd she works too fast,
And letting but the grosser Substance pass,
Shuts out the Mind, that shou'd inform the Mass;
At the next Tryal, she her Bungling mends,
And thither too, of Right, th'Estate descends:
The Birth-Right Esau's Folly did refuse;
What he deserv'd not, Jacob did not lose.

289

But if 'tis fit, Fools shou'd be begg'd at all,
Of all Sorts, we shou'd spare the Natural;
The acquir'd Coxcomb shou'd the Person be,
That's so of Choice, not of Necessity:
This way some equal Justice might be shown,
For those that beg Estates might lose their own.
Must a whole Linage perish, undeserv'd,
Because without their Lands a Fop had starv'd?
Whatever made this Custom first prevail,
Morality still told another Tale;
For, let us fairly ask, is it to do,
What you wou'd have your Issue done unto?
Nor is it only Fools that suffer hence,
Th'Affliction falls too oft on Men of Sense;
Thou—dost of this th'Example stand,
Thy Case is known and pity'd thro' the Land.

With these Court-Beggars, we may fitly joyn
The Slaves in Office that Collect their Coin:
Tell me (O Stewards!) that do all you can
When you are Dealing with the Labouring Man,
With Plausible Discourse and Artifice,
To screw him up to the extremest Price;
Making him give (if he don't understand
Your Craft) as much for Copy-hold as Land;
Yet, after all, there comes thy Lady's Fee,
Five Guineas—(which, perhaps, she ne'er does see)
Because y'ave us'd him well, five more to Thee:
Tell me behind what Shift thou canst retreat,
T'avoid the Imputation of a Cheat?
Perhaps, you may this dull Reply afford,
Thou dost it for the Interest of thy Lord;
The worse, that can a Villains Name obtain,
Without the least Incouragement of Gain,
It shews thy Guilt does in thy Nature grow,
And that 'tis not by Chance, but Choice, y'are so.

290

But tho' their Interest you pretend, 'tis known,
By Proofs Infallible, you mean your Own.
How can you spend so fast, and live so high,
New houses build, and New Possessions buy,
And get some Hundred Pounds, per Annum, clear,
Out of, at most, but Fifty Pounds a Year?
Yet, tho' so bad, we justly may allow
The Man that does protect thee worse than Thou,
Who, tho' he's sure thou art a Knave, employs
Thee still, and so whole Families destroys.

But that which grieves me more, is, when I see
A Lawyer made a Steward, or Trustee;
Cormorants, that neither Lord or Tenant spare,
But Banter one, and strip the other bare:
An Honest Lawyer wou'd a Monster be,
But who, alive, e're saw that Prodigy.
As Profligate, a braz'd Case-hardn'd Race,
As ever yet had Infamy in Chase:
Knights of the Post, that perjur'd Oaths will take
As fast as Pills, much better Christians make,
And have, without Contrition, more pretence,
To Heav'n than these with all their Penitence;
For Ign'rance, joyn'd with strong Necessity,
Does sometimes goad Men on to Villany;
'Tis certain when w'are born we must be fed,
And what won't starving Rascals do for Bread?
But what can those Men urge in their Defence,
That rowl in Wealth, and are indu'd with Sense?
Yet Lye, Deceive, Cheat, Ravage, Crush and Grind,
As if they'd sworn to ruine Human-kind.
Just as the Vulture, Tiger, Wolf, and Bear,
By Nature, nothing in their Fury spare;
So he, that does to study Law encline,
By Nature, is as Rav'nous after Coin;

291

Only this Difference does between 'em light,
Those better Brutes for Hunger kill and fight,
Destroy for Need, which he does for Delight:
So Cruel, his own Kindred he'll not save;
When Born, his Stars their sharpest Influence gave,
And turn'd his Constitution to a Knave.
Knavery's his Life, his Soul, his utmost Sphere;
But Virtue makes him gape like Fish in Air,
That pure thin Element he cannot bear.
Ah Wretch! that so can to be Rich presume,
Yet think not on the Rich Man's dreadful Doom!

Happy that glorious Man, thrice happy he,
That, tho' possest of Riches, yet, can be
From all the Crimes that it produces free;
Who, Spight of that Temptation to be ill,
Can his Desires and Wealth command at will;
What God design'd his Servant, manage so,
As ne'er to let it his proud Master grow;
Ungovern'd, then, as Water, or as Fire,
Who, tho' for Servants we so much admire,
Yet ruin all when they to rule aspire;
That does the Genuine Use of Money know,
And, serv'd himself, the Surplus can bestow;
That does believe Compassion of the Poor,
A truer Key to Heaven's Eternal Door,
Than all the Merits of his Birth and Store;
That does with Virtue, Peace and Truth comply,
The Centre of his Actions, Charity,
The Camel then goes thro' the Needle's Eye!
But where? O where! (and search the Land around)
Can Ten of these enlightned Souls be found?
Cou'd Ten be found, they wou'd atone our Crimes,
And, by their Blest Example, fix the Times,

292

Keep all Calamities from entring here,
Plague, Famine, Sword, and Fire we need not fear;
Our Sodom had not burnt, had ten such Lots been there,
Nor, first, with Plague, call'd to repent her Sin;
But when is her Conversion to begin?
The only Fear of all, methinks, shou'd be.
When such Transcendency of Soul we see,
We shou'd fall back to flat Idolatry;
In them the Image of the Power Divine
Does with so perfect a Resemblance Shine,
That, tho' no Gods, they're scarce of Human-Line!

Instead of these, a Brutal Race we see,
Compos'd of Pride, of Spite and Cruelty:
The Poor (their kinder Dogs will lick their Sores)
Like Lazarus, are driven from their Doors;
Their needy Neighbours made eternal Slaves,
At least, they have no Ease, but in their Graves,
That silent, kind Retreat from Fools and Knaves:
Not Busby's more despotick in his School,
Than these are in the Villages they Rule.
The Sat'rist may th'Abuse of Riches mourn,
Or blame th'Abuser, but he meets with Scorn,
For, streight they cry—You like the Fox impeach,
And but dispraise the Fruit you cannot reach:
Did you but know the Blessings of our Store,
You'd rather choose Damnation than be Poor:
The Rich Man Rules Assemblies with a Nod,
His Steps are by a Train of Followers trod;
Where e're he turns his Eyes; Respect he sees,
And bending Crowds salute him on their Knees;
The States-Man, Courtier, Souldier, Scholar joyn
In their Esteem, and Bless the Man of Coin.
While base, opprobrious Want does skulk and hide,
Loath'd by her self, and shun'd by all beside;

293

And then the Term of Idle to prevent,
She calls her sneaking Poverty, Content—
Thus they run on, and that Seraphick State,
Conferr'd but on Heav'n's choicest Favourites, Hate;
A State, did Angels live on Earth, they'd choose,
A State, next to the Loss of Heaven to lose,
And only Man and Devils can abuse.
But tell me, Sons of Earth, ye Sordid Crew,
That wou'd deceive our Souls by specious Shew,
And to your own, add our Destruction too;
Tell me if Money from Perdition saves,
Or keeps you e'er the longer from your Graves?
Can it preserve your Bodies (tho' your Bed
Be Down, and tho' your Tomb be hoop'd with Lead)
From Stinking Living, and from Rotting Dead?
Can it the Charges of your Crimes defray?
Or Bribe the Jury on the Judgment-Day?
Can it procure, in Pain, a Moment's Ease?
Make Pleasure last? or Disappointments please?
Honour, you cry, and all her Blessings wait
On his Command that has a large Estate;
O fond Mistake! a thousand things he wants,
Which God ev'n to the meanest Creature grants:
Richer than Crassus, though the Muck-worm be,
He may not have a Grain of Charity,
Of Courage, Justice, Fortitude, of Truth,
Of Sense, of Prudence, Beauty, or of Youth;
And, last of all, that Blessed Peace of Mind
May want in Death, which ev'n the poorest find.
To all Temptation he lies open still;
For he that has the Means ne'er wants the Will,
So, almost by Necessity is ill.
To Women does your Inclination lie?
This brings you in a numberless Supply—
But Women are so Cheap that all may buy:

294

To Villany, or Wine, then, bend your Mind,
To Sins of the most Black or Scarlet-Kind,
Gold is the readiest Prompter you can find;
Dare you to act, your Cue you shall not miss,
But down you go, tho' Hell the Precipice:
He is not, then, the Favourite of Heav'n,
Where there is much but where enough is giv'n,
Of all the several Fates that Mortals share,
His is most Sad, his is the most Severe,
That has (O dreadful Doom!) his Portion here;
That in this Life does his good things receive,
And whom, when dying, his Enjoyments leave:
The Pale-fac'd Tyrant's Call he must obey,
He dares not go, yet knows he must not Stay,
Nor bear the Wealth, he so admires, away;
But, opening the Inevitable Gate,
Hopeless of Heav'n, does shoot the Gulph of Fate.
How dismal will the Flaming Prospect shew,
When Hell and full Damnation come in view?
In vain he'll, then, his Crimes and Follies mourn,
The deeper plung'd for thinking of Return.
Then will he feel, and feeling Rue, how vain
He was, to trust in curst, ill gotten Gain:
These Lines (which we expect he'll laugh at here)
Will then a sad a dreadful Truth appear:
Then he will wish (Ah wretched Wish! too late)
He had believ'd, or fear'd a future State,

Why (O ye Pow'rs!) was Man so Subject made,
To be by Gold that glittering Toy, betray'd?
Or as the Fire tries that, was that to be
The Test and Tryal of our Honesty?
Or was it gave (that way our Judgment leans)
To shew how ill we are when we have Means?

295

Or was it, meerly, of Compassion sent,
To mind us of that future Punishment
Which it does so exactly Represent?
For as those Souls to endless Burnings doom'd
Are ever undiminish'd, unconsum'd,
That Substance, so, in Flames abides entire,
And lies Immortal in the Arms of Fire.
Howe'er it is, of this we may be sure,
By Nature we'ave a thousand Crimes in Store,
And that Subjects us to ten thousand more;
Yes, cursed Mineral! Eve did in the Fall,
Thy Project of Damnation but fore-stall.
Against our Consciences you stem the Tyde;
In vain we'ave Truth and Reason on our side,
When you assume the Chair, and grow our Guide:
We know w'are wicked, yet thou goad'st us on,
As if our Mortal Race wou'd ne'er be run.
Injurious Truths you to the World reveal,
And on black Falshoods fix an endless Seal:
The Tongue of horrid Murthers thou hast ty'd;
And Innocence for Guilt as oft decry'd:
Oft has the Guiltless Wretch been Gibbet-high,
Seen swinging, and the Murtherer smiling by.
Nothing was e'er so wicked, Old or New,
But thou hast done, or art prepar'd to do;
Crimes that deserve more than for Fiends was meant,
And Hell can't equal in the Punishment.

For thee the Friend proves Faithless to his Trust,
And Mothers Bawd to their own Daughters Lust;
At twelve years Age, expose the Girl to sale,
For at fifteen she will be found too Stale:
What in her riper Whoredoms will she be,
When she does Pox with her Virginity?

296

For thee the Husband (to himself unjust)
Does wink at, or allow his Spouse's Lust;
And, tho' he but enjoy'd her just before,
Can rise and open her Gallants the Door.

For thee, if by hard Fate he cannot thrive,
The well-bred Wife does her poor Husband leave;
She thinks below her Character she goes,
And can't be Honest in unmodish Cloaths.
In vain her Spouse believ'd her plighted Troth,
Her Virgin Vows, and Sacred Marriage Oath;
A Tye sufficient her loose Faith to bind:
Unless a plenteous Maintenance she find,
Wedded to him, she's Bedded to Mankind.

For thee the Buffoon is a Foe profest
To all that's good, and lives and dies a Beast:
Pay'd to make Mirth, he cannot Witty be
Without the help of loose Scurrility,
Of Irreligion, or of Ribaldry:
Thus, not by Wit, but Wickedness possest,
He does but Damn himself to clinch his Jest.

For Thee the Cit not only Truth denies,
But Solemnly calls God to vouch his Lyes:
His Faith and Conscience he does pawn so fast,
'Tis to be wonder'd how the Stock does last.
As just as he that Steals for his Relief,
For what's a Tradeseman but a licens'd Thief.

For Thee his Wife (too cunning for the Man)
Does cheat the Cheater all that Woman can:
Yet to the Fop an Angel she appears,
And is so Fond, that it breaks out in Tears:
His ready Cash he to her Care does trust,
And laughs at those that think their Wives unjust,

297

Mean while she, like a Leech, does drain him dry,
Than ranges all the Town for a Supply:
Frequents the Exchanges, Parks and Plays, and strikes
A Bargain up with every One she likes;
And let 'em do their best, for as their Play
Is, More or Less, 'tis answer'd in their Pay.

What shall we say? but that if Villany,
Has any Bounds (as yet we ne'er cou'd see
Its utmost Pillars are set up by Thee:
In vain we wou'd the Ills you cause unfold,
If we write Ages, half will be untold,
Ev'n Women, in comparison of Thee,
Use wretched Men with some Humanity—
They Damn one Part, and you the other Three.

300

JACK PAVY,

A SATYR.

TO The Right Honourable JAMES, Earl of ABINGDON, &c.

He that encreases Knowledge encreases Sorrow.

'Tis true, dear Jack, y'are of all Sense bereft,
Nor can the Right distinguish from the Left,
Observ'st no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule;
In short, thou art, indeed, a Nat'ral Fool:
And hence we some so inconsid'rate find
To think thee the most lost of Humankind:
But I who ever yet have took delight
To follow Truth, and vindicate the Right,
Must say thou art abus'd;—No Man can be
More the Immediate Care of Heaven than Thee.
Your Standard Fool, the Fool we shou'd despise,
Is the Vain Coxcomb that believes He's Wise.

And first, for a Foundation, I wou'd know
What Man can be Intirely Blest below

301

If not as Dull as Thou:—the Turns of Fate
(What e'er their Birth, Vocation, or Estate,)
Promiscuously on all the Wiser wait:
Grief, Disappointment, Shame, Distrust and Fear
Extend to all; each has so large a Share,
That who has least has more than He can bear.
Either his best Diversions quickly cloy,
Prey on themselves, and so themselves Destroy,
Or some sharp Cross dismounts his tow'ring Joy:
In vain He toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found,
But flies the Searcher like Enchanted Ground,
And in a Maze of sorrow leads him round and round.
That Man must then be happiest who can here,
Amidst such Various Ills, live free from Care,
And, as He nothing Hopes, does nothing Future Fear:
This is the Point to which thy Fate aspires;
And Heav'n no more than what it gives, requires;
Lays on our Minds Restraints we well might bear,
Were we less Proud of being what we are:
For one that Errs, (Unjust to his Deserts,)
By a too low Conception of his Parts,
Ten thousand daily strike upon the Shelves
By thinking nothing Wiser than themselves:
In short, no Mortal we can happy Call
Whose Lot between the two Extremes does fall
Of Knowing Nothing, and of Knowing All.

But grant there are some Men Divinely Good,
(As Gracious Heav'n avert but that we shou'd;)
Grant Vertue is alone their strictest Care,
And that they've all a Human Frame can bear;
Nay grant from ev'ry Anxious Thought they're free,
(Which yet is an Impossibility,)
They in this World can be but blest like Thee;
But in the next thy Joys will far Transcend
What they can hope, or by Good Deeds pretend;

302

For since by Merit Heav'n can ne'er be gain'd,
Happiest, by whom 'tis with least Sin attain'd:
Then Happiest Thou! whose Lot it will befall
To reach that State without being Criminal:
A Fate the wisest never cou'd attain
With all the Reading, all their Stretch of Brain;
Th'Attempt shall be Rewarded, but th'Attempt it self is vain.

Our Parent, Jack, the first Created Man,
(If Mysteries Divine we ought to Scan,)
While yet in Perfect Innocence He stood,
Cou'd not, perhaps, boast so Entire a Good
As is on Thee, (Heav'ns Greater Care,) bestow'd.
His State of Sweetness soon was dash'd with Gall;
Thou Stand'st, and art not liable to Fall:
In Solid Dullness fixt, no Charms, no Art
Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart:
The Faithless Sex cou'd ne'er thy Fancy move,
For ever Proof against the Shafts of Love:
Who at their Feet e'er saw Thee Prostrate ly,
And sigh, and Grieve, and Weep, and Bleed and dy?
As some, who, like the Heathen World of Yore,
First make the Diety, and then adore;
A Light Demeanour and a Painted Face,
No Wit, no Vertue, with much Silks and Lace,
Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace;
But reach not Thee;—so Strongly You retain
Your Native Ply, were Eve to live again,
And Labour to Seduce Thee, 'twere in vain.
Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as Good,
Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood.

Ambition, which destroys the Statesman's Rest,
Ne'er gains the least Admittance to thy Breast.

303

Without a Pang thou dost see Others rise,
And take their Glorious Station in the Skies;
See 'em look back with a Disdainful Eye
On those whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly.
Without Concern again You see 'em come
From their vast height to an Ignoble Doom,
Like Stars they Glitter, and as swift decline;
But ne'er, like them, must rise again to shine!
What Man from low Beginnings ever grew
Mighty and Rich, without being Vitious, too?
With what Derision they the Poor behold!
How fond to have their Tinsell pass for Gold!
Pride is a thing too obvious to conceal;
It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal;
Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind
Th'Impostume breaks, and mixing with the Wind,
Just like a blazing Taper (which Inspires
Bends threat'ning round, and it's own Glare Admires)
Turns all to Snuff, and in a stench Expires.

Nor in the War You labour for a Name
By cutting Throats;—the Hero's way to Fame.
Search thro' the Race of Brutes, and You will find
There's nothing preys so much upon his Kind
As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind.
Cities are tumbl'd down and Temples rac'd
The sooner, as they're Sacred Piles, defac'd;
Nor is there any Hope these Feuds shou'd cease
Till we are all like Thee; then all wou'd be at Peace.

In Thee no Covetous Desires we find,
That Griping, Restless Colick of the Mind:
Here One, bewitch'd with the base Itch of Gain,
Can his Pursuits within no Bounds contain,

304

Against nought else but want of Cash does pray,
Dreams on't all Night, and hugs it all the Day,
Yet Conscious He can carry none away:
Nay tho' so large a Mass He does receive,
No Devil can in Flames more restless live
Than he to see a Generous Neighbour thrive;
Wond'ring the Partial Pow'rs shou'd bless his Store,
And see it so Imbezzel'd on the Poor.
This Plague for ever is to Thee unknown;
Rich in thy Badge of Cloath, and Parish Gown,
In Peace, You let each Man enjoy his Own.

Envy in vain thy Quiet wou'd devour,
Not that She's short in Will, but wanting in her Pow'r:
She finds the Foe too fearless to attack,
Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back.
The silly Sex, indeed, She does Entice;
For Envy chiefly is a Female Vice:
Rather than not Revenge they'll Witches grow;
But while around their Hurtful Charms they throw
They're curst above, and double damn'd below.

Mark but the Course of things, and You must own
Most Men do that they'd rather let alone:
Thinks on his Present State with Watry Eyes,
And, prone to Change, with ev'ry Wish complies;
And fain wou'd be the Thing his Fate denies.
Roving Desires perplex his Labouring thought,
Still seeking, and still Missing what is sought:
Against the Stream of Disappointment strives,
In vain—for back th'Impet'ous Torrent drives,
And makes Him, to his Lasting Anguish, see
His Expectations all Incertainty:
Toss'd like a Bubble, to and fro he rouls,
And ev'ry Trifle his Resolve controuls:

305

Alike a Slave tho' Fortune-frown or Smile,
Fond of his Cares, and Wedded to his Toil:
And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed;
But 'tis a Fate that ever yet has sped,
The less the Slav'ry still the more the Bread.
The Trading Cit, Smooth-Tongu'd, Demure, and sly,
Who never Swears, unless 'tis to a Lie,
Gets more a Day by Perjur'ing off his Ware,
Than serves the Needy Labourer a Year:
He gets,—but curst is his Ill gotten Store;
Rather than so be Rich, let me, Ye Pow'rs be poor.

Here One his dozen Voiages performs,
Ploughs the rough Waves, and Combates Winds and Storms;
And thus he Drudges many tedious Years;
The Merchant, wreck'd at Home with Wretched Fears,
Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands, and Pirates of Argiers:
Expects 'em long; at last, perchance, they come
Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home.
Thus for a Bootless Voiage he is hurl'd
From East to West, and Bandy'd thro' the World.
But say he gains (as many, we confess,
Succeed, that don't deserve the least Success;)
What lasting what Substantial Pleasure can
Attend this Wealthy, Careful, Restless Man?
What Satisfaction can he compass here
That's truely Temp'erate, Real, and sincere,
Not to be had for Fifty Pounds a year?
What tho' he takes from a Luxurious Store?
Let Nature be suffic'd, I'll ask no more.
Tho' his Vault's cram'd with Chios and Moselle,
And of a Hundred Names too long to tell,
I have my Bottle, and that does as well.
But after all his Outward Pomp and show,
Tho' high his Pride, his Credit may be low:

306

Nay many of 'em (found too sadly true)
Have dy'd in Debt, and many Thousands too;
Which (tho' a Poet) I wou'd scorn to do.

For Rents here Spendall to the Country goes,
And when Receiv'd, thinks all He meets are Foes;
Fears his own Shadow dogs him with Design
To cut his Throat, and Rob him of his Coin:
And 'twou'd be well some Charitable Thief
This way, or that, wou'd give the Fop Relief:
Much better so, than 'tis to wast his Days
In Drinking, Whoring, Gaming, Balls and Plays.

In the Mean time the Rich Litigious Clown
Hies up as fast as t'other hurries Down:
'Tis Term, and He has Business at the Hall;
Stingy at Home, but there He parts with all.
Long Rueful Scrawls his Lawyers bring him in,
With Lines so wide a Coach might drive between
But flatter'd with the Justice of his Cause,
He draws his Purse, and yet again he draws,
Till all the Cash is in the Harpies Claws:
Then back Returns his Pocket to recruit,
And knows not Money does prolong the Suit.
So when y'are Feeing your Physician still,
You do but bribe the Brute to keep you Ill.

Another's to be Marry'd all in speed;
But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed,
In which more Caution's us'd than if he were
Making his Will, or Naming of an Heir.
A Jointure's settl'd, (let her Laugh that Wins,)
A Thousand Pound a Year to buy her Pins,
Unthinking Wretch! or one might say possess'd!
To pay so much for Parting with his Rest!

307

For say, at first, she were both Chast and True,
What Mischief can't so much Per-Annum do?
Many, that have been thought Divinely Good,
For less have dipt their Hands in Husband's Blood.
This Thought at last Works busie in his Brain;
Drudge on, fond Ass, You now but grieve in vain;
Be still Obsequious, give her no Offence,
Lest she takes Pet, and sends thee Packing hence.

There an Attendance-Dancer of the Court
To the Levee's and Couchee's makes resort;
Where in more Shapes He does his Body Screw
Than those that Dance thro' Hoops, or Smithfield Tumblers do:
Yet all the while has Sense enough to tell
Flatt'ry's a Crime, and that he does not well.
Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends,
Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends;
Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low,
Now to some Wealthy Bawd, or Tawdry Beau,
And to ten Thousand he can never know:
And all this while so Talkative, you'll see
His Tongue is quite as pliant as his Knee:
Coward thro'out; for were his Soul at all
With Fire endu'd, what does he at White-hall?
Where there has never been advanc'd of late
Truth in the Church, or Valour in the State.
Thus a Precarious Life he vilely spends,
Begun with Fawning, and in Beggary ends.

Here to the Park an Am'rous Coxcomb hies
To meet his Love among the Butterflies,
Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd,
Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and Loud:
Coming, He finds his Rival in her Hand,
Her Smiles, her Looks, her—all at his Command:

308

Then Sighs and Raves he ever shou'd believe
A Perjur'd thing, whose Nature's to deceive:
Nor sits he down contented with his Wrongs,
Till with cold Steel the other probes his Lungs.

Another Buffoon, cherish'd by the Great,
Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat:
Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new,
For who knows Fan---hw, knows it to be true:
Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe,
Nor sees the brandish'd Sword above, or dreadful Steep below.

Thus go, and thus have ever gone the Times,
Each Age Improving on their Father's Crimes:
And we, on whom the Dregs of Time are come,
Are casting up the horrid Total Sum.
As Poesie shou'd in no Medium fall,
But be Divinely Good, or not at all,
Nothing of late for Wickedness will go,
But what, indeed, Transcendently is so!
The Man that cannot now to Blood proceed
Without the least Compunction for the Deed,
Blaspheme, Betray, tho' Kindred of his Own,
Is Banish'd from the Publick Hive a Drone.
The very Courts that shou'd our Wrongs redress
Are Fraud, Extortion, Bribery to Excess:
Ev'n Innocence we there shall Censur'd see,
While some abandon'd to dark Villany,
Are gentl'y dealt with, if not let go free!
A safe Retreat from Injury none can know;
Abroad, at Home, w'are of certain the Foe:
Or black Detraction blasts our Credit there,
Or a shrill Tongue confounds our quiet here.
There in our View are spread the Baits for Sin,
Nor less the Passions Storm our Souls within.

309

Or Envy robs us of the Sweets of Rest,
Or Jealousie does Triumph in his Breast;
Unhappy Mortal! with that Fiend Possess'd!
Distended on the Rack, there to remain
Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate Pain:
O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life!—
Yet who wou'd have a Fool without a Wife?

But Thou Supine, in Pleasure's easie Arms
Dost lye Intranc'd, and tast of all her Charms,
If some by Pleasure what I mean enquire,
I Answer—that which comes to Thee entire,
Without the Previous Trouble of Desire:
What others want, they're restless till they have,
So 'tis by Consequence a Pain to Crave.
Nor yet alone in This thou art supply'd
Above us, but in every Good beside.
Tho' the wide World with Blood and Ruin's vext,
Thou'rt Easie, Free, Secure, and Unperplext.
When Dreadful Comets in the Skies ascend,
You're not Concern'd what Changes they portend.
Nay shou'd You live, (co-equal with your Fame,)
Till the last Gene'ral Conflagration came,
Thou wou'dst but laugh, and warm Thee at the Flame.
Thou for to Morrow never dost prepare,
Like servile Slaves that earn their Bread with Care.
By Certain Instinct taught, you Drink and Eat,
And, tho', but coarsely Cook'd, dost crave no better Meat;
While we who Nicely do that Knowledge boast,
Shou'd have less Guilt if Totally 'twere lost:
For once, at Meals, that Temperance over-awes,
A Thousand times we Violate her Laws:
The Happiest Station Human Life propounds,
Is there, where Nothing's wanting, or abounds.

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There is no doubting His Condition best,
Whose Peace and Vertue are expos'd the least.
Nor art thou, with the Crowd of Formal Fools,
Ty'd vainly up to Ceremonious Rules:
Free from that empty Custom thou dost live;
You pay no Visits, and You none Receive:
While we Impertinently waste the Day
In Trifling Chat, and Squander Life away.

See here a Mother mourning for her Boy,
Late all her Future Hope, and Earthly Joy:
Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild.
She'll not be Comforted, or Reconcil'd;
Unhappy Mother! but O happy Child!
Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive,
Whose Cruel Kindness wish thee still alive.
Another there for his poor Father mourns,
In vain—alas! the Grave makes no Returns;
Thinks Heav'n Unkind the Good old Man has past
Some Fourscore Winters, and must Dye at last;
When, if we own Age weak and Sorrow strong,
'Twas half a Miracle he liv'd so long.
A Third you'll see sit whining for his Wife
Farewell (he cries) the Sweets and Joys of Life!—
Yet, Living, he ne'er knew an Hour but Strife.
This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone,
And Mother, yet who ever heard thee Moan?
Thy Resignation such, so free from Blame,
It does deserve a more Exalted Name;
Ev'n Saints have less, and Angels but the same.

Observe the Man who has all Sin engrost,
And see if He is not the Man who most
Aspires to Wit; but any Fool may see,
(So plain, it must be Visible to Thee)
How the Pretence and Conduct disagree:

311

So eager all that's Wicked to retain,
You'd think He wou'd not spare the Fools a Grain:
A very Bugbear! so Licentious grown,
He is the Standard-Scandal of the Town.
Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more
A Slave to Dice, and Cully to the Whore?
Who more Obnoxious to the Sting of Satyr?
Who of all Men more pester'd with Ill Nature?
Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later?
If this is Wit, e'er such a Wit to be,
Who wou'd not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than Thee?

Content's a Blessing; but it must be own'd
It is a Blessing very rarely found:
Some to the Men of Land believe it sent;
But there's no being Rich and Innocent.
As little can we place it with the Poor;
It loves Enough, but neither Less, or More.
Nor is it by the Rural Hind embrac'd;
He sees it, but he han't the Sense to tast.
Nor can it to the Trading Cit belong;
It flies a Lying Lip, and Envious Tongue.
Less can it to the Inns of Court be known;
For Villany and That can ne'er be one.
Nor will it in the Chase of Fame appear,
For Greatest Honours are the least Sincere.
Nor to the Am'rous Coxcomb will it come;
It never stays but where the Heart's at Home.
If with the Wedded 'tis presum'd to dwell,
We may, alike, suppose it next in Hell.
In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit,
Still aim at something which they have not yet,
And still at something more if that should hit:
'Tis hard, perhaps impossible to find
One that has all things suited to his Mind;

312

Something will be amiss, and must be so,
For to want Nothing, wou'd be Heav'n below:
Yet some will think t'attain it here, and some
In search of it, around the Globe will roam;
Alas! it may be sooner found at Home:
She lives not in the Court, or Noisy Town,
But shuns the Gilded-Roofs, and Beds of Down,
And Robes of Ermin, which in vain wou'd hide
Their Owners Spite, Extortion, Lust and Pride:
Of all the Sorts with which the Time's accurst,
A Legislative Villain is the worst.
In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring,
If not with Thee, there is not such a thing:
For true Content, impartially defin'd,
(And in thy Breast we see the Blessings join'd)
Is Perfect Innocence, and Lasting Peace of Mind.

How much, alas! of our short Time we waste,
In seeking what we never get at last,
The true Religion? Or, at least, so get,
As to live up to the strict Rules of it:
But one Foundation does our Saviour yeild,
But Ah! how many Pinacles we build?
Some guided by false Pastors go astray;
Blinded are such, or will not see their Way,
Others need not be driven on the Shelves;
Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves.
Some will have the Unfailing Chair their Guide,
When any Chair would do as well beside;
And some the Private Spirit—which is Pride.
Tomes of Dispute around the World are spread,
Perversely Writ, and as Perversely Read:
With Prejudice and Spite the Volume swells,
And (which the Present Christian Temper tells)
The more the Virulence, the more it Sells.

313

But after all their Shifts from this to that,
Their Unintelligible, endless Chat,
Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they wou'd be at.
While thus their different Tenents they maintain,
The Atheist tells you all Religion's vain,
A Pious Usage, Ripen'd into Law,
To sham the Crowd, and keep Mankind in awe.
Indeed some Preach for Praise, and some for Gain,
And some delight in Notions dull and vain,
And some in Texts abstruse, which Angels can't explain.
Witness the Feud that S---h and S---k penn'd;
What neither understood they yet would both defend.
'Tis not for Age it self, much more for Youth,
From so much Chaff to sift the Sacred Truth.
Thus while we in an Anxious Laby'rinth stray,
Without a Clue, and doubtful of the Way,
Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey;
Away w'are hurry'd, all our Life's a Dream,
Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme.
Thou art, dear Jack, from this hard Fate exempt,
'Tis Thou deserv'st Applause, and these Contempt;
This Jargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know,
Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below.

The Epicureans cou'd not feign their Gods
More blest than Thee; for in their bright Abodes,
At full Fruition of themselves, they lay,
And made Eternity one Sportive Day:
Careless of all our Petty Jars on Earth,
Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth.
So Thou, in thy Exalted Station plac'd,
Enjoy'st the Present Minute e'er it wast,
Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's Past.

Tell me, thou Man of Knowledge, who hast read
What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said,
With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead;

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Inform me, when the Fatal Hour comes on,
And the last Sands are hast'ning to be gone,
What Signifies your Wisdom? do you know
What the Soul is? or whether 'tis to go?
Are not your Minds with sad Distractions fraught?
Are You not lost in the Abyss of Thought!
But, which is meaner still, can Human Wit,
Call all in Pulpits taught, in Authors Writ,
Make You contentedly Resign your Breath,
And free You from the slavish Fears of Death?
An Insects Chatt'ring, or a Dog that howls,
Your Merry Crickets, and your Midnight Owls,
Makes You Imagin Heav'n has seal'd your Doom,
And summons You to your Eternal Home:
On ev'ry Thought the Spleen strict Watch does keep,
Till ye at last ev'n dread the Remedy of Sleep.

Tell me, deny th'Assertion, if you can,
Is not my Natural Fool the Happier Man?
Remorse he feels not, which the Best must do,
Or never reach the Bliss which they pursue:
And if the Vertu'ous no way else can find
But thro' a Pious Sorrow Peace of Mind;
What Tortures must the Ungodly Wretch attend,
That Sins as if his Life wou'd never end?
What Stings and Gripes of Anguish must he feel!
What Racks of Horror! and what Whips of Steel!
When Conscience, as it first or last will do,
Sets all his black Enormities in view;
His Pride, Revenges, Perjuries, Breach of Trust,
Prophaneness, Luxu'ry, Murder, Rage, and Lust:
In vain no Faith he'd to Hereafter give,
He here Anticipates his Doom, and feels a Hell alive.

Mean while, my Pavy, thy Auspicious Breast
Is with a Sacred Calm of Peace possest;
That wings Thee smoothly on to everlasting Rest.

315

No noisy Storms of Nature on the Deep
Break thy Repose, which the same State does keep
Alike if Winds be still, or if they blow,
And shatter all above, and loosen all below.
No Clangor frightens Thee, or beat of Drum,
Or Visions of the Dismal Day of Doom,
When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come!
With rowling Haggard Eyes they gaze around,
And think they hear the last loud Trumpet sound:
Nor only that, but Labouring with short Breath,
Believe they're plunging down the horrid steep of Death:
By their Intempe'rance to the Snare betray'd,
When Indigested Fumes the Seat of Sense invade;
And sad Ideas to the Soul instill
Of Hissing Fiends, and Fears of Future Ill.
Thou dost not with this Sensual Race comply,
Nor in this worse than slavish Posture lye,
Almost ev'n quitting Life for very fear to Die.
Free from these frightful Apprehensions found,
Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound.

But above all, had You the Sense assign'd
To take a thoughtful view of Humankind:
Were you to walk some Days thro' Cornwall street,
And nicely mark the Num'rous Herd You'd meet:
Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk,
Some all hum-drum, and some Eternal Talk:
Some clad in Silks, some wrap't in Double Frieze,
And some with Rolls like Cables on their Knees.
As Chatt'ring Babell did all Tongues confess,
Yet not one know what t'other did express,
You'd see the same Confusion there in Dress:
No two alike of all the Endless Train,
No two alike, yet all Profusely vain.

316

And first the Ladies, with their high heel'd Shoos,
Walk as their Hips were fastn'd on with Screws.
All bare their Breasts, as if for Sale design'd,
Six Ells of Lappet waving in the Wind,
And half a Mercer's Shop tuck'd up behind:
Their Monumental Heads to Heaven aspire;
Ah! wou'd they take the Hint from their Attire!
But they're so pleas'd on Earth they're not for Climbing high'r.
Just after 'em the Fashion-Monger, Male,
Obsequious waits, and posted at the Tail;
Much worse, if Possible, and more by far
Fond of his Trappings than the Ladies are;
Exactly looking, cover'd with his Hair,
Like Orson that was suckl'd by the Bear:
Forgetting, as in Slovens, so no less
Is Decency destroy'd by the Excess.
Or were you in the Publick Walks to see
Some labour'd Scenes of Hip-Civility;
When first they meet how low our Beaus will bend,
You'd think they stood at once on either End:
Then how they toss their Noddles when they rise,
To shake the Hair and Powder from their Eyes.
Others will hug, and close as Lovers Kiss,
Yet when they're parted all is Scorn and Hiss:
To such Extremes is Modern Breeding grown,
Present, y'ave all; and when y'are Absent, none:
A Thousand Vows of Friendship tho' they swore,
Not one of 'em is ever thought on more.
So little can we in our Gentry see
That Vulgar Vertue of Sincerity.
Or were you in our Theatres to sit,
And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit,
Farce for true Comedy; and the Good Sense
That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence.

317

Were you behind the Gawdy Scenes to go,
(For Wit is only now Machine and Show)
There view the Fops to Leonora bending,
Like Twenty fawning Spaniels on one Ritch attending.
Or shou'd you there a Base-born Mimick see,
Hugg'd and Ador'd by Coxcombs of Degree,
With only a deliberate Impudence
To recommend him for a Man of Sense;
Observe his Haughty Port, and Tow'ring Looks,
That in a Bulk sat lately Chaffering Books;
Or see him swell'd with his ill-gotten Pelf,
Scorn Persons vastly better than himself;
How big he looks when any Generous Pen
Describes how much he's loath'd by Honest Men;
But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage;
His Valour all is shown upon the Stage;
His Tongue is sharp, and in Abuse delights,
But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights.
Or were you, next, to see the Midnight Rout
In all their Curs'd Employments scour about;
Some for Revenge, and some for Thievery prowl,
And some in quest of Punks upon the Stroll:
Were you to see 'em drink to an Excess,
And ev'ry Glass advance in Wickedness,
Till equally enflam'd with Wine and Drab,
At last 'tis only Damn me, and a Stab;
Nor Justice fear; now but the Murd'rer's Scoff,
Assur'd a Jury Brib'd will bring 'em off:
When any Tryal does for Blood befal,
Their God and Country they their Umpires call,
When Twelve Corrupted Perjur'd Rogues are all.
Or shou'd you, at your Leisure, take the Pains
To visit all the Pris'ners in their Chains;
What Wretches doom'd to Durance wou'd you find?
For various Crimes to various Wards assign'd.

318

Our many Bridewells we shall mention, first,
With Hemp and Hunger equally accurst;
Where, of all Human Privilege debarr'd,
The Vagrant and the Harlot labour hard,
And thrice a Day are Lash'd for their Reward.
The vicious Bench we will the next survey,
Where many Villains won't come out that may,
And needier Knaves that wou'd are forc'd to stay.
But most the Common-Side your Eye wou'd draw,
Where fed with Basket Alms, and lodg'd on Straw,
You see the Curse of Debt, and Cruelty of Law:
Ev'n Transportation much a milder Doom
Than perishing, unpittied, thus at home.
Nor can you unconcern'd thro' Ludgate pass
Without a Conscience steel'd, or Heart of Brass;
Where, thro' the Iron Grate, a Rueful Tongue
Directs you to the Box below 'em hung,
To angle Farthings from the num'rous Throng;
But so successless, for one Giver found,
Ten thousand shove along and never hear the Sound.
But highest, Newgate your Concern wou'd rear,
To see 'em Batt'ning in their Dung, and hear
An Everlasting Clank of Irons there:
A Nest of Villains, resolutely blind,
That neither Present, Past or Future mind;
But to the utmost Verge of Fate pursue
An impious Life, nor their Condition rue,
When Tyburn and Damnation's full in view:
No least Contrition in their Eyes is seen,
But all is Brass without, and hardned Fiend within.
Just so did W--- make Gen'rous E---rt bleed,
Lost to remorse, and laughing at the Deed;
But tho' a Pardon then deferr'd his Doom,
Which way can he prevent the Hell to come.
Or were you yet a blacker Scene to draw,
And fairly open all th'Abuse of Law;

319

Where you will find more Falsehood, Fraud, Design,
Than is in all the Villains all our Jayls confine:
No Cause with them is better, or is worse,
But as it takes its Measure from the Purse.
Those that have scap'd both Famine, Fire, and War,
Have perish'd by the Harpies of the Bar:
Their large Extended Tallons proudly stretch
Where no Pursuit, no Judgment else can reach.
Or were You of th'Exchange to take a View,
No matter whether 'twere the Old or New;
And for a while incline a List'ning Ear
To all the fulsome Language vended there;
What solemn Vows are cheaply thrown away,
The work of ev'ry Hour in ev'ry Day,
Without one serious Thought of what they say;
How very hard they at Damnation Strain
And many times for scarce a Farthing's Gain;
In spite of all the Lies besides You hear,
You'd think their Father only Worship'd there.
Or were You next to mount the Guard, and see
Their several Classes of Impiety;
The Officers at Dice Blaspheming here,
The Foot with Candles Sketching Lewdness there:
But most the Horse You wou'd for Vice admire,
At once all Swearing as at once they Fire:
As in some Kitchen You perhaps have seen
The Larding stuck so thick no Flesh appear'd between,
So take from their Discourse the Oaths away,
And You'll Retrench Nine Tenths of all they say.
But at the Sutlers who their talk can tell!
Where ev'ry Night they ev'n themselves excell,
And breath with Brandy-Lungs the very Air of Hell.
Or were you at the Court some Days t'attend
To raise your Self, or Benefit your Friend,
Shou'd you observe the Honest wait in vain,
And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain,

320

See Titles bought by Fops Unlearn'd and Base;
But Honour is as hard to get as Grace;
For that's not so deriv'd from Sire to Son,
Much more by Whores obtain'd, or Flatt'ry won:
Shew me the Man (for which the Times be prais'd)
Who by his own Intrinsick Worth was rais'd
Made often for no other Reason Great,
But to Secure their Votes, or serve a Turn of State:
The Run of ev'ry Dy the Courtiers know,
Or Worth might once Expect a Lucky Throw;
But on the truely Brave no Chance will fall,
For Merit's Nothing there where Money's all.
Shou'd You see all this, Jack, and from Your Heart
The Truth, and nothing but the Truth Impart,
Wou'dst thou be any thing but what thou Art?
Pleas'd with thy Fate, and faithful to our Rules,
How wou'dst thou Pity all these Wiser Fools!

The Knight, Sir Guy, who overcame an Host,
Was not so dang'rous then, as now a Knight o'th' Post:
With Thee his Perjur'd Affidavits fail;
Nor can the Flatt'rers florid Cant prevail;
Alike Destructive both to Friends and Foes,
Eternal Troublers of the World's Repose.
From Feastings too y'are free, and Serenade,
By Gluttons these, and those by Coxcombs made;
And being so, are free from Surfeits, Noise,
Which none but Fops believe Substantial Joys:
Free from the Watch-Man's Bill, and Bully's Stab,
And the Embrace of many a Pocky Drab.
Nor are You for Your Actions call'd t'Acccount,
Or Liable for Words the Gallow-Tree to mount,
Where many of our Wisest Men have Swung
For want of the due Government of Tongue.
From ev'ry Imposition thou art free;
Ev'n Publick Taxes take no hold of Thee:

321

Nor dost thou take from Brogues the Gallick tread,
Or with the English pay Excise for wearing of a Head.

How well are they then Guilty of our Scorn
That say—'twere better You had ne'er been born?
That look on Thee with a Contemptuous Eye,
And Sneer and Grin when e'er thou passest by,
As if you were Compos'd of Courser Clay;
Or form'd by a less Skillful Hand than they:
But 'tis not Thee, their Selves are rather sham'd;
Why shou'd that Sacred Folly be defam'd
By which we are secur'd from all the Ills I've nam'd?

The Wiser Turks, when by kind Heav'n's Decree
Nature produces such a Fool as Thee,
Make Him their Care, and as a Saint adore;
Their Mahomet himself has hardly more:
Believing firmly they must serve and love
The few, so highly favour'd from above,
And fix, undaunted, careless of the Wiles
Of Prince's Courts, and freed from Human Toils:
While they, obnoxious to their Tyrants hate,
Their Fears of Want, or Hopes of Growing Great,
Are made the Prey, Revenge, and Sport of Fate.
O let us then, like them, think Thee the same,
As Worthy of the Strait Embrace of Fame,
And to all Future Times transmit thy Glorious Name!

Hail! Awful Fool, thou Mighty Ideot Hail!
Thou Conq'rour! against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail;
But thy Impenetrable Brain t'oppose,
And pale Affright disperses all thy Foes:
What e'er his Holyness may Urge in Pride,
While on the Necks of Monarch's He does ride,
Thy Dulness is a far more Certain Guide:

322

What e'er he boasts of an Unerring Sway,
What e'er Monks teach or Hood wink'd Sectaries say,
H'has no Pretence to Infallibility any other way.

Of all the Truths the Wisest Man express'd,
This Aphorism must be own'd the best,
Much Wisdom is much Grief, and while we here
This Pond'rous load of Flesh about us bear,
He that Increases Knowledge but Increases Care.
Which is the same as shou'd he rise again,
And in these following Words the Text explain.
I knew while Living all that Man below
In all his height of Wit cou'd boast to know,
All that our Mortal Fabrick can receive;
More than e'er Heav'n before to Man did give:
From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow,
Ev'n to the Humble Shrubs in Vales below,
All Plants the Fertile Earth did e'er Produce;
I knew their several Natures, and their Use:
To that exalted Pitch my Knowledge flew,
'Twas ev'n unknown to me how much I knew;
But having cast to what Account 'twill come,
I find all Cyphers for the Total Sum:
'Tis nothing! nothing! all that we can here
Attain with utmost Study, Search and Care,
Is but to know, (and that ev'n hard to gain)
Our Care is fruitless, and our Search is vain.

Against proud Wisdom 'twere enough to say,
It raises Doubts which it can never lay,
And being Blind, presumes to shew the Way;
Or if not wholly Blind, with Blinking Eyes
Wou'd pry into Abstrusest Mysteries,
And grasp Incomprehensibilities:

323

Talks but at Random, varying to Extremes,
Fond of wild Notions and fantastick Themes,
More incoherent than a Madman's Dreams.
Thus it betrays us to ten Thousand Ills,
And Tyrant like, it tortures 'ere it kills.
Want pinches; for while thus we Books adore,
Our Cash grows less, and Prudence ne'er the more.
Meagre and Wan they look, and sleepless Nights
Is one of the moap'd Student's best Delights.
Eternal Jangle! Who cou'd ever find
Two, tho' of one Religion, of one Mind.
Here One on his dear Labours casts a Smile;
Another strait unravels all his Toil,
And shews how Coarse the Grain, how Lean the Soil:
Another does the same by him; a Fourth
Proves all the Third has said, of neither Force or Worth.
And thus the Game is play'd from Hand to Hand,
And made a Medley none can understand.
Wisdom's but trifling then, with Pride pursu'd;
And Folly is the only Human Good.

327

THE SKETCH,

A SATYR.

TO Sir James Long, Baronet.

1. The First Part.

Shou'd we believe there cou'd a Monster be
Confirm'd at Heart there was no Deity,
(Thô Epicurus, who did furthest go,
Taught GOD, but careless of Affairs below;)
We cannot yet this Impious Wretch suppose
In scarce so Damnable a State as those
Who a Supreme Eternal BEING own,
But Live as if they did believe in None.

This Blacker Sort of Atheist of the two,
Is now the Draught intended for your View:
Nor care we who it galls, or gives Offence,
While we keep close to Honesty and Sense.

328

The rugged Lines a Satyr's Pencil draws,
Nor value Censure, or bespeak Applause:
Boldly we, then, will at their Image strike,
And tho' we take it Rough, we'll make it Like.

Our Nobles first (for 'twill but Manners be
To pay the Deference due to Quality)
Them first we'll trace, who in all Crimes abound,
And walk for once their horrid Circle round.

Imagine, then, the Man we'd here display,
Is once more favour'd with returning Day;
Which tho' in Mercy sent to make him mend,
He yet resolves flagitiously to spend.
Tir'd with the Drab, in whose Lascivious Arms
He pass'd the Night; and loathing now her Charms,
To get her secret off is first his Care;
And Curses next supply the Place of Prayer.
The Contemplation that shou'd be employ'd
For Life continu'd, and in Health enjoy'd,
Is how again his Consort to deceive;
Forgetting Adam had his Match in Eve:
For let no Coxcomb think if Lewd he be,
But Madam Spouse will take that Liberty;
Meet fleshly Pleasure with as warm a Gust,
And make Revenge the Season to her Lust.

But now he rises with tumultuous Brains,
Last Night's Debauch in his Wan Look remains,
Shakes in his Nerves, and hisses in his Veins:
Hence his Attendants all are fau'ty found,
And with Eternal Dog saluted round;
Breathing himself with Kick and Cuff the while,
As others do with Tennis or the Foil:
Then of 'em feigns a Thousand Lies and Jears,
And so diverts his grinning Visiters;

329

Men of like Sallow Hue and Ritt'ling Size,
With no Pretence but laughing to be Wise;
Forgetting it was ne'er recorded yet,
Abusing Servants shew'd a Master's Wit.
Ev'n to our Beasts w'are Mercy bid to show,
And Balaam's Ass reprov'd the Angry Blow;
That Nobler Creature, whom we here disgrace,
Describing this Descendant of his Race:
For Proof that less Sagaciously he hears,
Nothing in Nature more does grate his Ears,
Than to be minded of his own Affairs:
Busi'ness if his, he mortally does hate,
So leaves his Spouse to manage his Estate.
Wo to the Subjects govern'd by the Sword,
And Tenants, where the Lady is the Lord:
Audacious! at the Helm she does appear,
Racking the Needy without Shame or Fear
Of Hell hereafter, or Dishonour here:
Whole Families relentless are undone,
That she may Splendidly Confound her Own.
But there's no tracing thro' so vile a Life,
Nor must I lose the Husband in the Wife.

In Dressing next three Precious Hours are spent,
Which just make up the Ladies Complement:
Were you to see him shod, and shav'd and Wigg'd
You'd Swear the Sover'eign might as soon be Rigg'd.
And (did but ev'ry Man his Part perform)
Need fewer Hands to wether out a Storm.
Trick'd up at last, their Wretched Service done,
His Slaves avoid, and leave the Fop alone:
Where, fonder than the Self-enamor'd Ass,
His full half-hour he does with Rapture pass,
In Turns and Windings made before his Glass:

330

Now back he on himself does Smiling leer,
Now he bows low, as bending to the Fair;
His Hat in Feathers hid, his Face Immers'd in Hair;
Thro' which he ev'ry thing so darkly spies,
He first must shake his Ears to find his Eyes:
Safely he may th'adjusting Manage use,
And toss a Head that has no Brains to lose:
Before all soil'd with Snuff; with like Design,
Behind He's puff'd and Powder'd to the Chine.
So once a Lady, fond to be embrac'd,
Left half her Face unpainted in her hast;
And went abroad into the Envious Light
With one Cheek Fillamort, and t'other White.
And yet ev'n this Unlucky Curtezan
Was much less fau'ty than our Female Man.
No more we'll bring their Washes to our view,
Our Fop that way is perfect Woman too;
Does Patch and Paint, and like the Nicest Fair,
Less fear Damnation than a hazy Air.
No more their Triple Tow'rs shall be our Scorn,
When for one Wigg by our Sir Courtly worn,
A dozen Country Strammels must be shorn.
In after Times with Horror be it read,
The very Flou'r that's perfum'd for the Head
Is half enough to make a Dearth of Bread.

But now down Stairs the Hero whiffling runs,
Where He's encounter'd with a Troop of Duns,
Thro' whom Courageously he makes his Way,
With many a bitter Curse instead of Pay;
Wond'ring (as if his Peerage was unknown)
That e'er such Rogues shou'd ask him for their Own.
Mean while the Wretches Pocket up their Bills,
Just like our Modern Leacher swallowing Pills,
With Jaws distorted, and with Faces wry,
And—Lord deliver us from Quality!

331

This was (They cry) his own appointed Day
The very Hour he set and Swore to pay
His Honour pawn'd we shou'd no longer stay.
Mistaken Men! who have no Eyes to see
That Honour must be One with Honesty;
As steadily endeavou'ring to encrease
In War our Glory, and our Trade in Peace:
Like Light'ning swift our Properties to save
When Crowds wou'd Rule, or Lawless Pow'r enslave;
And not, as now, it self the Fool and Knave.
Who does descend to ev'ry mean Trapan
So kindly as our Honourable Man?
In all our Dealings sure to be deceiv'd
His Peerage trusted, or his Word believ'd.
He Swears, but lets his Oath regardless go
As if it were the meanest Tye below.
Not Samson from his Bands got easier free
Than Conscience does, in such, from Equity.
Not GOD himself his Blamsphemy does spare;
Tho' he might meet ev'n with Conviction there
For nothing, less than Infinite, such Insolence cou'd bear.
With him the Holiest are the vilest Race,
And Meekness only Sanctity of Face:
Religion but the Polity of Law,
To sham the Good, and keep the Bad in awe:
The Gospel all a Cant; and Moses, too,
The Ancient Cheat, as CHRIST has been the New.
Thus deals the Sceptick his Prophaneness round;
From Earth to Heav'n the Impi'ous Notes rebound,
And frighted MERCY Sicken at the Sound!
Mean while he Honour to the Sky extols,
And leaves Religion for the Bait of Fools.—

But let 'em both Impartially be shown:
Religion an Omniscient GOD does own,
But Honour—Modern Honour—says there's None.

332

Religion at no smallest Thought connives
Where Lust resides; but Honour forward drives,
Promiscuously debauching Matrons, Maids and Wives.
Religion Ven'erates ev'ry Worthy Name,
And Honour has no Joy but to defame.
Religion flies from Debt as if 'twere Sin,
And Honour's never but when once 'tis in.
Religion, tho' from Little, largely gives,
And Honour Ruins more than That relieves.
Religion to no Privilege aspires
Of doing all a Lawless Will requires;
Or takes a Monster, by Oppression rear'd;
Call'd—Scandalum Magnatum for a Guard.
In short, if there is less of Worth and Sense
In such than others, how is there Pretence
To Honour more?—if such a Conduct's Fame,
Hewson himself had once a Noble Name.
In vain their Idle Boasts of Indian Earth,
Their Tinsel Trappings, and Superiour Birth,
If Merit's wanting that shou'd make it shine,
And Rapin only does support the Line.
Ay—but a thousand Years (You'll say) are ran
Since first his Noble Pedigree began:
No more?—then that no least Advantage is,
I'm of a Line more Ancient, so, than His.
Nor does his vast Possessions clear the Case,
The Cits are then the most Illustrious Race;
A Hundred of 'em, pick'd and cull'd, wou'd buy
More than the Treble Tale of Quality.
Well—but his ANCESTORS in War have done
Prodigious things, and endless Glory won.
'Tis rare indeed!—but where's the Five by Name
Whose Great Fore-Fathers were such Sons of Fame?
Some few we grant the British Annals shew,
And Talbots Glory shall be ever New:

333

His Gallick Victories nobly yet appear;
But Ah! he fell and left his Genius there
And we are now too like to see them Conq'rours Here.
With Him we lost all we had there Acquir'd,
And France reviv'd as soon as he Expir'd.
First in the Roll of Peerage high he shines;
And what e'er Muse a Deathless Name designs,
Repeating his, may chase Oblivion from her Lines.
Nor less Propitious Shrewsbury does appear,
Nor moves he in a less Illustrious Sphere:
A Torrent of Renown the Sire begun,
And his Descendent keeps it rowling on:
Alike his Breast a Generous Spirit warms,
Alike he keeps us safe from Foreign harms;
In Council This as great as That in Arms.
But what were Nine tenth-Parts of all the rest
Of Ancient Peerage, and produce the Best?
Progenitors that never saw a Fight
But rais'd, as now, like Mushrooms in a Night:
That to our Bounds no least Enlargement made,
But set aloft by Flatt'ry, Law, or Trade.
Nay if our Rolls to Dignity are true,
To Purchase it was then the Method too;
So like the Ancient Honour's to the New.
How many Thousands in Oblivion lye
As undistinguish'd as the Vulgar Fry,
Not in the least to following Ages known,
Nor, but for their Debauches, to their Own?
Alike, our Modern Lords, by Means and Ways
Exactly Parallel, their Fame and Praise
As carefully secure to After Days.
Th'Encrease of 'em is now advanc'd so high,
The Court, the Parks, the Plays in swarms they ply,
A very Rabble of Nobility!
Got to the top of Pow'r by Guilt and Crimes
Unknown to Minions of the former Times.

334

(For Justice to Antiquity be done,
Of all the Ways to rise we find not Pimping one;
Or that the Barons, for precarious Pay,
Turn'd Advocates for Arbitrary Sway.)
Deduc'd from former Times, 'tis scarce a blame
T'express a Defe'rence to an Ancient Name
There's sometimes an Implicit Faith in Fame:
But to this Rout what Rever'ence can belong?
Plebeian witted, and Plebeian sprung:
A Subject that does make ev'n Dulness keen,
The Rabble's Laughter, and the Satyr's Grin.
Desertless Dignity we all reject,
Nor can the Mind be forc'd into Respect.

A Country Spaniard, with upright Design,
Did use to Offer at Saint Nichola's Shrine:
The hearty Vot'ary never miss'd a Day
T'invoke the Image, and to Praise, or Pray:
The Priest he honour'd (as is there the Rule)
With all the ardor of a finish'd Fool;
But in Process of Time, it came to pass
The second self of good Saint Nicholas
By chance was broken, or with Age decay'd,
And of the poor Man's Plumb-Tree a new Image made.
But never after was he seen t'adore,
Or pay the least Devotion, as before.
Complain'd of to the Priest his want of Grace,
Thus Honestly he pleaded to the Case.
As for th'Old Image, Sacred long to Fame,
I knew not what it was, or whence it came:
My Adoration there my Conscience bid,
I thought it just to do as others did;
And meant sincerely while the Fraud was hid.
But, for my Heart, I cannot worship this,
Because I know 'tis only but a Piece

335

Of my own Plumb-Tree;—a Descent but bad,
What e'er Original the other had.

In short, set by some few Superi'our Men
That I'll not Name,—nor can I name You Ten,
What Work is there a foot for an Historian's Pen?
What is there but their Vanities and Crimes
To be deliver'd down to Future Times?
Ev'n Gaveston, methinks, this Ditty sings,
Which Haughtier Buckingham yet lower brings;
What Monsters are we Favorites of Kings?
The Man of Title not sincerely Good,
Is but th'Attaintor of Illustri'ous Blood;
So much its nobler for a Fool to get
A Man of Courage, Honesty and Wit,
Than 'tis for Hero's to begin a Race,
Their Founder's shame, and known to their Disgrace.
But granting to 'em all they can pretend,
Or hope to have; that we must humbly bend
And lick the Dust before 'em, to a Name
At best reflected from their Father's Fame;
That tho' the Substance long ago is fled,
The Shadow now must govern in its stead:
Insist on such a Distance ne'er so long,
No Privilege can justifie a Wrong.
Not Guillim can with all his Colours save
Th'unhonest P---r from being thought a Knave,
And blaz'd abroad by an Impartial Pen;
How e'er their Pow'r may awe precari'ous Men.
In vain You urge, Prescriptions on their Side.
That Veil's to thin the specio'us Fraud to hide:
In our own Constitution we may see
That wrong in Law, that's right in Equity,
Be on their Side, then, Laws perverted Pow'rs,
'Tis more to us w'ave Truth and Sense on Ours.—

336

Thus from the Ass the Lion's Trapping torn,
And leaving Honour to the Publick Scorn,
We'll back to it's Practitioner return.

Who by this time, in private Hackney Coach'd,
Has reach'd the Lodgings of his last Debauch'd.—
O Fruitful Theme! and when shall I have done
If one Digression calls another on?
For here, my Muse, with fresh Recruits of Rage,
Lance deep a Vice that half confounds the Age:
Tho' most it reigns among the Great and Fair,
Give it no Quarter, but ev'n stab it there;
When Beauty errs we must not Beauty spare.
Curse Women first that Wit and Merit flee,
And rather than be Wives of low degree,
Will lower fall, and Whore with Quality.
With Love o'ercome we something kind cou'd say,
The Mold is soft, and Nature marks the way;
But shew no Mercy where they're Punks for Pay:
For Monarch's Drabs, degraded by their Lives,
Are yet beneath the meanest Vertu'ous Wives.
But more severely yet their Tempters curse,
That strive to make a Race so wicked, worse.
As who the Sinner to Repentance wins
'Tis said—shall hide a multitude of Sins;
So splits our Fop on the reverted Shelf,
And by seducing others damns himself.
But let me not the Beaute'ous Sex debase,
When there's so many merit endless Praise:
Among 'em Modesty erects her Throne,
Peace in their Eyes, and Sweetness all their own!
Whatever Vertue here can make us be,
In them we at its full Resplendence see.
Cou'd but the Chast of either Sex be shown,
(And we may nearly guess by what is known,)

337

The odds wou'd soon be on their Side confess'd,
And there worst Vertue far Surmount our best.
But Ah! Perfection we in vain pursue!
The Angels fell,—and so may Women too.
This Maxim's by the Vitious Man maintain'd,
Unless a Lucrece there's no Conquest gain'd;
Vainly believing She'll be less unjust
Than Common Traders in Promiscuous Lust.
Fool! not to know if once the Female fall,
She thinks no more on what we Honour call;
A Whore to One is next a Whore to All.
But here, You'll say, the Censure bears too hard;
A Vertuous Woman's constant to her Guard,
And all Access, with such Intention, barr'd.
True:—but with Billets first the Fair he plies,
And Ladies, if not blind, will use their Eyes.
She reads, and reads; and, tho' 'tis all a Cheat,
'Tis something to be Courted by the Great.
His next Efforts and interview to gain,
And low beneath her Feet declare his Pain.
A Thousand Oaths he Impiously lets fly,
Then calls on Heav'n to Witness Perjury.
But still She does resist his lewd intent
Forwarn'd by many a dismal Precedent.
With Songs he next a closer Siege does lay
And there comes off, too, hopeless of the Day:
But when the Chariot richly lin'd appears,
New Harness, and a Brace of Flanders Mares,
And shews her, she at Parks and Plays may vie
With Strumpets of Superiour Dignity,
She can no more resist; but takes the Bait,
And turns a Whore to Equipage and State.

Nor stops he here, but (easier far betray'd)
As well the Wife seduces as the Maid.

338

Warm from the Husband's Bed he does entice
The Punk to rise, and season'd for the Vice:
On to th'appointed Street she scours along;
Or if by dire Mistake she take the wrong,
Sagacious, when on Wickedness he's bent,
He winds the Foot, and traces by the Scent,
Return'd, her Husband (if she waking finds)
With Lust she softens, and with fondness blinds;
Th'Excuse is took; the Hony hides the Gall,
And Children not his own are Heirs of all:
Down the Transmitted wrong to Ages flows,
The Right Descent still robbing as it goes:
Till Providence, (as 'tis presum'd to do),
Cut off the Surreptitious Race to re-instate the True.
But now, too late, the Husband finds the Jilt;
The Lewdness less and less conceals the Guilt:
There's a Gradation in all Vices seen;
She that Adultery blushing does begin,
Will rise at last to Glory in the Sin.
Hence Parting, Ponyards, Poiso'ning came in play,
Pack'd from his Bed, or from the World away;—
For She must go, if He design to stay.

Nor does a better Fate remain in Store
For the Young Nymph we mention'd just before.
A while, perhaps the Gaudy Thing does range,
Shine in the Ring and glare along the Change;
Till for some fresher Fair away She's thrown,
And to the Common Hackney Price brought down:
Diseas'd, despis'd, deserted, and disgrac'd,
And e'en Redu'd to ply the Streets at last,
She to some Suburb Bawdy-House retires,
Poxing and Pox'd, and in a Flux expires.

Mean while her Parents quite dissolve to Tears,
Robb'd of the Fruit of all their Cost and Cares:

339

To Years of Mutual Mourning they resign,
And all the Family in Concert joyn;
The Young bewail her Fate, the Old at Fate repine!
Nor can they reconcile with all their Sense,
Such Usage with the Care of Providence.
Ah Cruel Pow'rs! (methinks they Sighing say)
Was she not train'd in ev'ry Vertuous Way?
No Nicest Failing did escape our Sight,
For ever on the Watch to keep her right
And that She might not follow empty Lore,
(For Precept bids Example keep before)
We liv'd as we believ'd;—and cou'd we more!
Is this the Promis'd Recompence of Heav'n
For due Obedience to its Precepts giv'n!
Is this the Fate that Continence must share!
The meed of Vertue! and the end of Prayer!
O Sight that we with Blood-shot Eyes Survey!
O Blasted Promise of a shining Day!
We pleas'd our Selves she'd lead a Vertuous Life,
And make some Youth a dear and dutious Wife,
Conveying to all future Ages down
A Line of Worth, of Prudence and Renown;
When now she will but Propagate Disgrace,
A lewd Distemper, and a Bastard Race.

'Tis hard indeed! extremely hard to bear!
And it is what we can't Account for Here.
How e'er, thus far we may the Point debate,
It argues strongly for a Future State;
And that a Hand both Pow'rful and severe
Will reach the Crimes that are Exempted here:
There Mercy to the Tempted may be shown,
But Tempters, who are Devils, can have None.

Or if from Sorrow disengag'd and free
You'd have Revenge, come on, and join with Me:

340

Revenge is here a Vertue; all your Woe
To Scorpions turn, and Sting 'em thro' and thro'.
The sharpest Human Sufferings be his Fate
That tempts a Virgin from her Vertu'ous State;
That with deliberate Lust and Hellish Joy,
Does Truth betray, and Chastity destroy.
Let his own Daughters his Disgrace begin,
And lay on him th'Affliction with the Sin.
His eldest Son be Fool, or Coward made;
His younger, Knaves of Law, or Slaves to Trade.
Distraction, Hate, and fierce Domestick Strife
Confound his Peace, and Plague him long with Life.
And as the Wives of others he betray'd,
Alike from His be still Reprisals made:
First, let 'em separate eat, then separate lie;
(For what can such a Husband signifie)
Till all her Sense of Shame and Honour past,
She come to separate Maintenance at last;
And, by his own Example taught, prefer
All Pimps to Him, as he all Punks to Her:
Nor longer then converse with one by one,
But ev'ry Act be cover'd by a Town.
In Death let him of Future Bliss despair,
At Death uncertain who begat his Heir,
Page, Porter, Pugg, or Coachman for his Fare.

'Tis done!—I see, by a Prophetick sight,
The Curses fix, as we have aim'd 'em, Right.
Thro' all Posterity the Doom is past,
No Whoring Lord shall have a Consort Chast.
But (what e'er Privilege he else may find)
Be sure to pay Adultery still in Kind.
Not Israel's King this Destiny cou'd Guard;
Such was his Crime, and such was his Reward.

341

If so he suffer'd, and the Fau't but one,
What may they fear by whom 'tis daily done!—
Yet fearless our Adulterous Peer keeps on!
Luxurious in his Lust, the daintiest Flesh
He picks and culls, and ev'ry Meal has Fresh;
As if, like Ven'son Women kept too long
Wou'd hoary grow, and have a tang too strong.
But notwithstanding all his Art and Care,
His Fate is oft to deal in tainted Ware:
Why should he Hummums, else, and Bagnio's need?
And why so often Physick, Cup and Bleed?
Why Salivate and Bath? (all over Pains,
Now of his Shoulders, now his Shins complains)
Were not his Bitches in his Bones and Veins?

But now the Visit o'er, or Business feign'd,
Dinner supplies the Vigour Lust has drain'd.
And here, alas! a Graceless Scene appears,
Our own, and not the Vice of former Years:
The Poor Mechanick and Illiterate Clown,
With Eyes erected, thankfully sit down;
Tho' to so little that there's none to leave,
They render Praise for what they're to receive.
But our loose Libertine, our Modern Lord,
Claps down, Audacious, to a loaded Board
To all Variety that Man can Name
Of Earth and Sea, Fish, Flesh, and Fowl of Game,
Without a Thought from whence the Blessing came.

In Ancient Times the Tables of the Great
Were the best Schools of Vertue; for the Meat,
'Twas the most slender part of all the Treat:
Moral Discourses with their Meals were joyn'd;
They fed the Body, but did feast the Mind.

342

Wit with their Wine they equally did prize;
But then no loose or trifling Talk did rise,
For He that will be Merry must be Wise.
They never met, but, different from the Throng,
Something was greatly Said, or greatly Sung,
And Learning gave the Ply to ev'ry Tongue.
Nothing was there advanc'd but things of Weight,
Or of the Present, or the Future State,
Love, Prescience, Will, Necessity and Fate.
And tho' their Reason gave 'em dubious Light,
They trim'd the Lamp, and kept the Goal in sight;
Adorning still Instruction with Delight.

But at his Lordship's Table you can hear
Nothing but Rack and Murder to the Ear.
Impiety at first begins the Game,
And then a List of Sins without a Name.
Now with some Beauteous Punk the Times beguil'd,
Where Lust is Prais'd, and Mutual Love revil'd.
Now at the Ministry his dirt he flings.
Traducing States and Vilifying Kings.
Now for a Common Wealth he'd all devour;
And now, prefer'd, damns all but Lawless Pow'r.
Now the whole Board at once invade your Ear,
And more than Ten shall talk for Two that hear.
A Serious look is deem'd a Monstrous Fault,
And Modesty meer Costiveness of Thought.
Religion, as they dress it, does appear
A thing we neither ought to Love, or Fear;
Only by Crowds with Adoration seen,
Or Pious Cowards troubled with the Spleen.
Mixt with this Chat, the Healths and Oaths go round
As thick as Hail; and no Decrease is found
Till Five a Clock does summon 'em away,
To wait the Fool of Honour to the Play.

343

His Conduct there 'tis needless to recite,
Side-Box'd, and shown in all the Face of Light.
A thousand Witnesses his Folly see;
Fond to be known, tho' known for Infamy.
And tho' of Woman late he had his fill,
Exhausted quite, He's yet for Woman still.
Time will, he thinks, recruit the Vigor gone,
So he provides against the Hour comes on.
O needless and Ridiculous Excess,
To be bespoke for future Wickedness!
What Creature ever heard his Conscience say,
His Crimes were not Sufficient for the Day?
No matter this;—th'Assignation's set,
And he has pawn'd his very Soul to meet:
Tho' he shou'd here stand Honour'd on Record,
A very worthy and Illustrious Lord,
If here (and only here) he broke his Word:
But Fame, as Cray-fish walk, he backward seeks;
Bad Vows he follows, and the Good he breaks.

Mean while the Play he lets regardless pass
Unless it shew some near resembling Ass
How e'er the Wits at Fopington revile,
He thinks him yet the Glory of the Isle
Soft in his Mein, and melting in his Stile
With secret Joy he sees him Court the Fair,
And Smiles to find his Senseless Image there:
Forgetting quite, the Poet only fits
His Coxcomb out to entertain the Wits.
Well may we doubt that Folly will endure
Which daily being laught at cannot cure:
Impenetrable to the Scoffs and Jears
Of being Cast in Publick by his Peers.
Thus resolute in Nonsense to abound,
And with a Crew of Flatterers compass'd round,

344

He to some Tavern from the Play retires;
Where Bacchus does infuse his Nobler Fires,
And hatter'd Venus for a while respires.

By this time Midnight's come; and now the Board
Is spread afresh for our Luxurious Lord:
At usual Times his Hunger to allay
He scorns at Heart; the nasty, Vulgar way!
So in the Ev'ning Dines, and Sups at Break of Day.
Preposterous Wretch! so tender of himself,
Yet in the midst of Surfeits hopes for Health.
For now the Glass must run a Brimming round,
Till Rage arises, and their Reason's drown'd:
So silly Flies their Danger make their Game,
Spread their thin Wings and Plunge into the Flame:
For Quarrels next, and Fighting come in Play;
When our fierce Hero (who began the Fray)
Is carry'd off, or from 'em private steals,
Nor thinks his safety in his Sword, but Heels:
Away he hies, and into Bed does get;
Ev'n then a Coward when he's most a Wit.
Mean while his Wretched Friends in Battle joyn,
Till they're, at last, as deep in Blood as Wine.

What difference is there, pray, between this bold
Bad Liver, and Pacuvius of old?
Who when h'had Whor'd, and Gormandiz'd and swill'd,
Three times been empty'd, and had thrice been fill'd,
Dead Drunk, in Publick still was born along,
His Servants Singing this Triumphant Song;
(As if the Abstemious only were deceiv'd)
Hey! Io Pæan Boys! h'has liv'd! h'has liv'd!
To Morrow Fortune may her Spite betray,
A Sudden Fate may snatch his Life away,
But He's beforehand! He has liv'd to Day!

345

H'has liv'd indeed;—but a most fearful End
Must soon such an Intemp'rate Beast attend.

Yet these are they who Imitation claim,
The Form by which we must our Converse Frame:
Our Buttocks, jutting, must like theirs be hung,
The Patterns of our Dress, and Standards of our Tongue.
O Contradiction! Manners to profess
Amidst their Brutal Riots, and Excess.
I have no Patience but in Rage am lost
When such of Breeding, Sense and Honour boast;
When Heaven's a Witness Earth does not contain
A thing beside so Wicked, and so vain.
A Man of Breeding! let him mark that hears;
Who had th'Advantage Pm---ke or his Bears?
A Man of Sense! it overturns our Rules;
Rid by his Drabs, and over-reach'd by Fools?
A Man of Honour! more prepost'rous yet!
And never feed the Poor, or pay a Debt?
To all Remains of Grace extinguish'd quite;
Truth his Contempt, and Falshood his Delight—
Away with such a Monster from our Sight!
The Earth ev'n groans beneath the Impious Freight!
Ah! let it not the Signal longer wait,
Nor Korah's better Tribe be single in their Fate.

To Sum up all—what ever Fools have thought,
Blood gives no Honour, nor can Fame be bought;
The Fame I mean that does on Worth depend,
Which must be still acquir'd, and can't descend.
What e'er the Haughty urge for Birth and State,
Only the truely Good are truely Great.
Affluence of Fortune, and not Temp'rance there,
Their Gifts are Cheats, and Tables but a Snare,
Who wou'd for Riches, then, or Honours crave,
That see 'em of their Master make a Slave?

346

Expos'd by that, in broad apparent Light,
To ev'ry Passion, ev'ry Appetite;
Let it be Anger, Lucre, Lust or Pride,
There's none dismiss'd without being Gratify'd.
Not that 'tis want of Influence from above
Which makes 'em from the Paths of Vertue rove,
Or shuts their Eyes against a SAVIOUR's Love;
Nor yet that Conscience is remiss to tell,
By secret Checks, they are not doing well;
They better know; are certain of the way;
Yet knowing, err; and seeing, go astray.
Thus tho' a GOD his Lordship don't disown,
He lives as if there really were none.

Thus far W'ave ventur'd to expose to shame
The base Perverters of a Noble Name:
But here we'll rest, some fresh Recruits to find,
And suit our Colours to the Crimes behind:
For what is drawn imploring no Excuse,
And painting what's to come for Common Use.

2. The Second Part.

The bright Arch-Angel, chief of all that fell,
Yet Great, and still maintains his Port in Hell)
Lost not his Glory, and his Prime Degree,
For want of Knowledge, but Humility:
He first 'twas that did Politicks impart,
And, Clipper-like, was Ruin'd by his Art.

347

Achitophel, whose Name is famous yet,
Lost not his Credit for defect of Wit;
Had he been Loyal, he had long been Great.
Nor are our Politicians far behind
The Jew in Craft, and like Reward may find.
Sometimes into a turn of State they wedge
Themselves so close, they grind their Ax's Edge:
As Bride-well Slaves, with many a weary Bang,
Beat out that Hemp in which they after Hang.
Sometimes like Squirrels, (by their Hunters vex'd),
One Tree a felling, leap into the next;
Making that way their Sanctuary good,
Till not a Royal Oak is left to Grace the Wood.
False to their Prince, but faithful to his Gold:
No Revolution makes 'em quit that hold.
Old Machiavel is always in their Eye,
And Good King David's Politicks thrown by;
After GOD's Heart was why his Pow'r was giv'n,
Tyrants but by Permission hold of Heav'n;
In Anger made, they but the Scepter bear
To Scourge th'Inconstancy that plac'd it there.
What e'er the Government, these Turn-Coats still,
Like Æsops Fly, rise up with Fortunes Wheel.
Their Labours are not to enlarge our Bounds,
But how by Fraud to get th'Adjoyning Grounds,
And lay 'em to their own: Unhappy Fate
Is His, whose Vineyard bounds on their Estate:
Like Jacks on Gudgeons, to the Prey they rowl,
Swallow'd at once, and are digested whole.
Deficient Funds so little are their Care,
They're robb'd of many Thousands every Year;
No Wonder that the Wretch'd Subject's bare.
Why must the Caytiff (tho' we own him poor)
A Beggar be that Strowls from Door to Door,
And who of Subsidies their Master Cheat,
Tho' gather'd just alike, be Props of State?

348

Lewis himself shall o'er the Ocean reign,
And Publick Glory's chang'd for Private Gain:
As lately they were taught our shipping Trade,
With leave to Build, that they might next Invade:
Mean while our Monarchs were Supinely shown,
(Devested both of Reason and Renown,)
Sporting with Drabs and lolling on a Throne.
Thus not a Common Wealth is the Contest
Or, whether That or Monarchy is best,
But what does most advance their Interest.
So a late Politician, when that Trump
Had won the Game, got nimbly on the Rump,
And spurr'd it on, enamor'd of the Jest,
Till Oliver himself bestrid the Beast.
To a Protector then he tun'd his Tongue,
And gently sooth'd the Brutal Herd a long.
The Father lost, he sided with the Son;
And for no Government when he was gone,
Next, when he heard all Men do so beside,
(And working lustily to save his Tyde)
For a true King and Monarchy he cry'd.
Then when wild Factions noisy Stream ran high,
Heading their Chief, he did with that comply,
And strove to lay the true Succession by.
Yet all this while, blest with a Lucky Hit,
Or whether 'twere his Fate, his Art, or Wit,
Just like a Cat, he lighted on his Feet:
And last ev'n Destiny it self did mock,
And fairly dy'd without an Ax and Block.
But tho' these Wretches more than others know,
Sagacious in what Point the Wind will blow;
Veering for Safety what e'er way it Veers,
For he must find the Danger first that Steers,
Yet since their Wealth, as we too sadly see,
Derives it self from our Calamity;

349

Since they do all that's in their Pow'r to prove
Religion's not descended from above;
That 'tis but what the State-Wrights did invent
To blind us when they founded Government;
And since (which is of all our Proofs the Chief)
They've brought their Practice down to that Belief,
We must conclude, what ever God they Own,
They live as if there really were None.

Some Men to Little are but bred, and so
But Little can of God and Nature know:
If these in Judgment Err, (as most we find,)
Or darkly see (for Ignorance is blind,)
They shou'd not in Religious Points be sham'd,
Tho' plac'd awry, but Pity'd more than blam'd:
Stubborn in Zeal and hurrying swift along
The Uulgar run, and all their Notions wrong;
Yet find out Heav'n, tho' seemingly astray
They go, while Wiser Blockheads lose their Way.

For when I see a Coxcomb bred with cost,
And Languages and Learning makes his boast;
That has twice Twenty Years been running thro'
His Books, and talks as he all Nature knew;
What e'er You offer He's for solving strait,
As if he were the End of all debate,
Th'unerring, and Decisive Voice of Fate:
When such a One becomes a Fool in Chief,
Doubtful of Truth, and Staggering in Belief;
False to the Holy Faith he first imbib'd,
By Atheists Courted, and by Popery brib'd;
Tho' Ill the Church and distant from Applause,
That hires a Turn-Coat to support her Cause,
Who knows, by Consequence, the Ills h'has done,
Knows that he goes, and long astray has gone,
Yet like a Devil, stubbornly keeps on.

350

When I see Christians take so large a Scope,
The Jew, methinks, has much the livelier Hope.
A Lutheran now, a Papist next, and then
A Calvinist, and back to Rome agen:
With Notions thus for ever on the Range,
No Weather e'er did oftner Chop and Change.
Nay, when they've all these Transformations past,
They Madlier set up for themselves at last:
By their own Standard they'll have Truth be try'd,
The very utmost Stretch of Human Pride!
And think ev'n Scripture an unsafer Guide:
But thus to make a Godhead of their Own,
(If I may Judge) is certainly all one
As if they really believ'd in None.

Some Seminaries of our Youth (if Fame
May be at all believ'd) are much to blame:
'Tis there the Disputant acquires the Skill
To make that seem a Good he knows an Ill.
Reverse of Knowledge! O perverted Schools!
Scarce London more renown'd for Knaves and Fools.
How can there due Severity be shown
To Youth, there Crimes exceeded by our Own?
To Punish an Adulterer is but right,
But shou'd he do't that is a Sodomite?
A Vertuous Hand best Grafts the Temperate Fruit;
For first Impressions take the deepest Root:
Who ever saw (so soon will Vice instill)
The Tutor bad, and not the Pupil Ill?
For Youth, like Wax, (believing, fond and vain,
Takes then the Print it does to Age retain,
Lust, if 'tis Lust; and Pride, if Pride you grave
Ev'n Plato bred to Law had been a Knave.
Or Right or Wrong, there scarce is one but treads
True to his ply,) as Education leads.

351

Some with vain Theories amuse the Rout,
And add more Knots to those they'd Ravel out:
A Thousand Vari'ous Noti'ons they advance,
The Dreams of Fools, and the Produce of Chance.
Others, Demure, but lavish of their Ink,
Whole Pages Scribble, for one Line they think:
Mean while the Wits their Doubts and Scruples raise,
Nor care who Profits, so they gain but Praise.
Hence Scepticks some, and others Ideots grow;
Those will know all, and these will nothing know.
Thus Learning, tho' all Glaring to the View,
Can be adapted Justly but to few:
Like Wine, or like Prosperity it flies
Up to the Brain, and all below defies;
Reason and Truth disdaining for it's Guide,
And Tyrant-like wou'd rule by Pow'r and Pride.
The rest who to their senseless Pastimes cleave,
And spare not Time such Airy Webs to weave,
Are Likelier in the Peoples Crimes to share,
Than truely to discharge the Past'ral Care;
To which no Creature ought to make pretence,
Not tinctur'd thro' with Honesty and Sense.
So that, indeed, (and state the Matter fair,)
There does but very little Hope appear
Such Foppling Teachers, tho' a God they own,
Wou'd Live as if they did believe in One.

But here, Methinks, they break into a Flame:
How dare you, Slave, (they call me) Learning blame,
The path to Vertue, and th'Ascent to Fame.
I blame it not, I cry; of Heav'nly use
If well apply'd, but Devilish in th'Abuse:
For what has Arius and Socinus done
To'ward the degrading of th'Eternal Son?
His God-head not believ'd, on which depends
The Christian Hope, the Christian Doctrin ends.

352

To these we may their present Followers add,
With all our Modern Sects both Moap'd and Mad.
Tell me then you grave Masters of Debate,
That Wire-draw, Doubt, Assert, Equivocate,
With pleasing Sophistry misleading Youth,
Adorning Falshood, and disguising Truth;
While, with the Rents by Disputation made.
The patching up Religion grows a Trade.
Tell, when the Haughty Disputant's to show
How he has laid out all his Time below,
What will th'Impertinent and Senseless Tale
Either the Writer or his Cause avail,
To say 'twas spent in some Laborious Tome,
Confuting Sectaries, and Confounding Rome?
Or what the Roman Sophistry and Paint?
With the more frightful Bulk of Baxtrian Cant?
When it appears (more winding than a Maze)
Instead of saving Souls, the Teachers Praise,
They've fixt 'em in the Errors of their Ways;
And made a Thousand Paths, when there's but one
We ought to walk in, and no more to shun?
There's nothing plainer both to Sense and Sight,
Than that th'Exemplar Preacher need not Write:
One single Instance of a Holy Life,
Is of more Force than Endless Tomes of Strife:
By that w'are taught, by that we Vertuous grow,
For only He that's Good makes others so.

On t'other side 'tis equally as clear
Pen's loose Discourse and Lobb's Extempore Prayer
(In Matters of more Moment unconcern'd)
Is only to be Gifted thought, or Learn'd;
A Pride of Spirit, Obstinately shown
In crying down all Worship but their Own;
To have vast Parties take from them their Name
And so in Schism found a Devilish Fame.

353

For Lucifer, who first at Truth did Strike,
By Consequence was the first Schismatick.
Hence ev'ry Centu'ry new Perswasions rise,
Wolves, as we are forewarn'd, in Sheeps Disguise,
Who making it their Gain to Disagree,
Dissolve the Bands of Christian Unity:
Vindictive, sullen, stupid, frontless grown
The Scripture-Sense perverted to their Own,
The tortur'd Bible on the Rack is Stretcht
And wrested Texts for Proofs of Nonsense fetcht:
Mean while the Crowd (in whom the Bane's instill'd)
With Envy, Rage, and Cruelty are fill'd:
That once incens'd ev'n Altars are not spar'd,
Youth has no Pity, nor grey Hairs regard.
In short all the Domestick Strife and Jar,
Rape, Plunder, Murder, Fire and Massacre,
Which the fresh bleeding Europe yet deplores,
Must all be laid at their accursed Doors.
How is our SAVIOUR's Meekness copy'd here?
And the Reproaches he unmov'd did bear?
Where is the Love he practis'd and enjoyn'd?
Extensive as the Race of humankind!
Thus tho' in their Disputes a GOD they own,
'Twere little odds (as the Event has shown)
If really they had believ'd in None.

Designing here to leave these Noble Piles,
Methinks at parting the Physician Smiles:
How can this Idle Satyrist, says he,
At Scepticks rail, and blindly leave out Me?
E'er since the Christian Faith possessed the Stage
We have been thought the Pest of ev'ry Age.
True, Doctor; you have prov'd your selves a more
Flagitious Race than those that liv'd before:
'Tis but of later Date the Notion came
That Atheist and Physician are the same.

354

What ever Prejudice you foist between,
The First is in the second Causes seen:
The most pernicious Plant's of sov'reign Use,
If well apply'd, and Wonders may produce.
But think not ev'ry casual Cure that's done
To Man occasion'd by your Skill alone;
The Work of saving Lives is not your own.
At best y'are but the Instruments to show
How much for Health we to our Maker owe,
And that, alas! but very seldom too:
His Rods of Vengeance you are oft'ner found,
To scourge the Earth, and deal his angry Vials round.
Ev'n your whole College oft we baffl'd find,
Prescriptions working contrary to kind.
One dies to whose Recov'ry you wou'd swear;
Another lives when you of Life despair:
This shews you GOD his Pleasure does impart,
And where he'll take, or spare, in vain your Art.
Not but we grant to shew his Servant's Force,
He lets the second Causes take their Course:
But what Advantage can you thence pretend,
So ignorant of their Natures and their End!
Some few perhaps into your Knowledge fall,
But what, that's finite, comprehends 'em all!

Yet, wou'd you argue from the Truths you see,
You least of all shou'd doubt a DEITY:
You by Experience know (as David said)
W'are fearfully, and wonderfully made!
Can you, intent, on your Dissections look
And not read GOD in that prodigious Book?
Where ev'ry Fibre, Artery, Nerve and Vein,
Shew by a strange Dependance on the Brain,
No Chance cou'd link the admirable Chain!
Who, after such a View, cou'd so forget
Reason and Shame, as with Sarcastick Wit

355

The Great Creator's Pow'r to disesteem,
His Being question, and his Name blaspheme?
Yet this you do; the Pow'r of Life and Death
Mean while assuming, as you gave us Breath.
Proof we might bring to bind what we attest,
But let this Instance serve for all the rest.

Some time ago (and much against his Will)
A certain Knight fell violently ill:
A dear old Friend, whose Residence was by,
(One that Prescrib'd to his own Family,
Nor wanted Skill) did Remedies apply:
And still (the way a Christian Temper leans)
What e'er he gave him cry'd God bless the Means.
At last, not mending, the Physician's brought,
Who chang'd the Phrase; and, when he gave him ought,
Did worse than Mariners in Tempests swear—
Here take it off, and, DAMN ME, never fear.
In short what with his Potion and his Pill,
The Doctor prov'd Successful in his Skill:
And smiling on his Patient, told him, now
You see the Proof, and will, I hope, allow
Your Friends God Bless you frivolous and Poor,
And that my Damn me did your Health Restore:
No more believe that ought above you hears,
When Oaths more efficacious are than Prayers.
Thus, tho' he in his Heart a GOD must own,
And trembling, Devil-like, acknowledge one,
Yet, Devil-like, he lives as there indeed were none.

But from these Private Murder'ers next we'll go
To those that are by set Profession so:
Where cutting Throats is purchasing a Name,
To Ravish, Honour; and to Plunder, Fame:

356

These three away the Life of War is gone,
Ambition cou'd not do the Work alone;
There must be Baits to drill the vulgar on.
Ambition! the Reverse of ev'ry Good!
The Blessings by it on the World bestow'd
Invasion, Devastation, Rape and Blood.
The Gallick Tyrants in this Roll the first,
As well of Christians as of Princes worst;
And here shall stand eternally accurst.
What Glory can accrue to Treaties broke,
Christians enslav'd, and Towns by Treach'ry took?
Or if the doing this be real Fame,
Who has gone further for a deathless Name?
Defensive War is only lawful, all
The rest we can but force and Robb'ry call:
When you of War and hostile Rumor hear
Implies the Christian warn'd from acting there.
Good God! that Men who into Bodies get,
Shou'd fly so far from Justice, Truth and Wit,
To think it Glory when they Outrage do!
Crimes they wou'd hang for, if they were but few.
Suppose to Day two robb'd you, and no more,
And you were robb'd to Morrow by a Score,
Are not all Thieves?—supposing further yet,
In some poor Village six that wanted Wit,
And here a hundred thousand, more they're, true;
Are not all Fools? the many like the few?
Numbers no odds; did that from Censure save,
What Man wou'd dare to call a Tradesman Knave?
In brief, War's but th'Almighty's strecht-out Rod,
The o'erflowing Vial of a jealous GOD,
Who for our Lucre, Lust, Revenge and Pride,
With all our Crimes and Villanies beside,
Lets loose the Agents of his angry Will,
And bids th'avenging Weapon take its Fill.

357

In vain the Politician shews his Care,
And thinks 'tis as he pleases Peace or War,
A stronger Hand does move that vast Machine;
The Statesman does, at best, but draw the Scene,
And look the first; but equally is blind,
Like us, to the revolving Turns behind,
Did we alas! but one another Love
We shou'd agree; the Sword wou'd soon remove;
The Wars of Europe and of Asia cease,
And all be lasting Universal Peace.
A certain Proof that they who only Fight
T'enlarge their Bounds, not valuing Wrong or Right,
Are guilty Souls; yet they a GOD will own
And sing his Praise for Neighb'ring States undone,
Which is more mocking than believing One.
To see in Camps how impiously they dwell,
(As the Commander so the Centinel)
To hear the Oaths they mouth, and Lies they vent,
Poxt from the General's to the Suttler's Tent,
You'd think Rome Chast, and Sodom Innocent.

Well but, You'll say, that is no wonder here;
They do but Fight, perhaps one Day a Year,
So all the rest may Whore, and Drink, and Swear.
But wou'd you think there can a Creature be
Who breaths no other Air but Piety;
That holier does Discourse than others Pray,
Yet twenty times more Profligate than they.
On thee, O Hypocrite! these Censures fall,
Not only in one way a Knave, but all.
Secret to Sin he moves like Eel's in Mud,
Deceives Mankind, and palms the Cheat on GOD:
With specious seeming polishes his Deeds,
And let him deal with whom he will succeeds;
The mimick Saint no other Voucher needs:

358

We shun a Wolf, and we must know an Ape,
But who suspects a Fraud in such a Shape?
What a strange Sight must it hereafter be
When GOD dismantles all Hypocrisie!
'Twill then with dismal Aggravations joyn'd,
Be found that Man to Man ne'er speaks his Mind;
That the Plain-Dealer's mov'd so far away,
He's only to be met with in a Play!
Husband to Wife, and Wife to Husband here
Are fau'ty found, and Truth does ne'er appear;
And to be plain, 'tis well it does not there:
Marriage, as 'tis too often proves a Curse,
Shou'd Truth be known, the Plague wou'd then be worse.
Thus walks the Hypocrite in open Day,
And unsurvey'd, does all the World survey:
But does he walk, tho' he a GOD does own,
And blames those Men that argue there is none,
As if he did himself believe in One?

Happy, you'll say, (since thus the most refin'd,
The Great, as well as Learn'd of Humankind,
To their own Lusts these Liberties allow;)
Happy, you'll say, the Country Swains that Plough!
The implicit Bumkins that in Gross believe,
Whom arguing don't Corrupt or Doubt deceive.
Astræa there, with Innocence adorn'd
Does dwell, whose Absence is in Cities mourn'd.
But tho' on Rural Shades so much you Doat,
Live but among 'em and you'll change your Note;
Nor barely fall of Expectation short,
But meet ev'n equal Innocence at Court.
Fool in Appearance, but in Dealing try
His Wit, you'll find him Wary, Crafty, Sly,
A thorow Knave, all Shift, and Cheat and Lye.
Tho' six Days are allow'd him and his Beast
To Work, he blends the Sabbath with the rest.

359

The Publick Fasts are not at all his Care,
So Covetous of Time he thinks it lost in Pray'r.
As to no Men there longer Life is giv'n,
So none spare less in the Pursuit of Heav'n:
Stock still they stand, tho' they have Pow'r to go,
Nor will pursue one useful thing they know:
A Resty, Sullen, Brutal, Downward Race,
And all for Gain;—the Antipodes to Grace.
Tythe is a Plague he never can digest,
A Duty that's the Bane of all the rest.
When the Tenth Cock is took by the Divine,
(Ungrateful for the Benefit of Nine!)
Tho' they their Right from GOD's Appointment draw,
He wonders who the Devil made the Law.
As Seamen in a Storm will curse and swear,
And likewise in a Calm for want of Air;
So does this sordid Creature mouth and fret,
The Season happ'ning over Dry, or Wet:
At want of Rain repines; if much does fall,
He thinks it, Deluge-like, will cover all:
Almost believing HE but told a Tale
That says, an Annual Harvest ne'er shall fail.
Yet tho' he does in Health and Plenty live,
Enjoying all a Peaceful Fate can give;
Tho' he does Providence's Care behold,
Th'Increase oft doubl'd on him Fifty-fold;
When such a Harvest comes and crowds his Store,
And calls aloud—be pitious of the Poor ;
Let some small Portion to the Needy fall
A Little, for his Sake that gave you All:
Ev'n then, tho' brib'd his Rigor to abate
He Sells at an Unconscionable Rate;
And Stingier growing for a Bounte'ous Year,
Keeps up his Stock to make the Plenty dear.

360

So close his Griping Temper to him cleaves,
Gleaning himself, the Gleaners he deceives,
And bans 'em if they look but on the Sheaves.
'Tis Strange they shou'd receive so bad a ply,
And have the God-head always in their Eye;
In ev'ry Change of Season he is shown:—
Mean while they with the former Crew must own,
They live as if they did believe in None.

In short the Man that to himself propounds
The thinking how the World with Vice abounds;
How many Brutal Tempers He will see
That have no Tincture of Humanity:
How at their Betters constantly they rail,
And in their close Revenges never fail;
But load the Stranger, Poor and Innocent,
With all the Envenom'd Terms they can invent,
Minding no more the Blackning of a Name,
Than Carted Bawds, or Female Players, shame.
How ev'ry Great Man's Family (where Wealth
Wine and high Feeding keep 'em rank in Health)
Is an Establish'd Stews within it self.
How Parents Impiously Correction spare,
And in their Children's Hearing Curse and Swear;
Bad always, but unpardonable there:
And this ev'n from the Slave of low Degree,
A General Evil up to Quality.
How either Sex divert the Natu'ral Use
A Thousand Vari'ous ways into Abuse;
That ev'n in this Cold Clime old Sodom seems
Reviv'd anew, and calls for hotter Flames.
Add to all this the Envious and the Vain,
Th'Ungratefull, Perjur'd, Treach'rous, and Profane
The Publick Frauds, and Private Breach of Trust,
Detraction, Murder, Robbery, Pride and Lust,

361

With all th'Injustice to the Bar we draw,
T'employ the Devilish Cormorants of Law.
Did he but seriously on this Reflect,
What cou'd he say? but that we all Reject
Goodness alike, and tho' a GOD we own,
We live as if there really were None.

A Thousand other Crimes the Lash deserve;
But for the Present this rude Sketch must serve:
No further on the fainting Fury calls;
My hand grows weary, and the Pencil falls—
But while the Fau'ts of others I've Pourtray'd,
And in their Native Colours Publick made,
Too Partial to my own I've cast 'em in a Shade.

Yes, Gracious GOD! who dost all Secrets view,
I censure others, and am Guilty too;
Both foolishly and wittingly offend,
And still run on, as Life wou'd never end.
But Arm, O Arm me with thy Heav'nly Grace,
And such a Faith as Fortune can't efface.
Tho' Vice is Prosp'rous, and the Vertuous, here,
Seem of thy Gifts to have the Slende'rer share;
In Worldly Trouble, and Corpor'eal Pain,
Poor and despis'd, they all their Lives remain,
While Wealth and Pleasure wait on the Prophane;
Let me not doubt (tho' hid from Human Sight)
But that a Time will come to do 'em Right:
When Piety and Patience You'll repay
With Glorious Crowns, and everlasting Day;
And all thy Faithful, wrongfully Distrest,
Advance into the Bosom of thy Rest.
The Sceptick laughs, I grant, and does display
His Wit, to hear me set so long a Day.
Well, if it never come, the Answer's short;
He'll not be there to make our Loss his Sport:

362

But if it shou'd—He'll sadly be deceiv'd,
And mourn in Hell the Heav'n he disbeliev'd.
Ev'n tho' our Hope were vain, w'ave nought to fear
Let then the Vertuous fix their Anchor there;
And, Villany, take thou thy Portion here.

365

Pindarick Poems.

TO Fleetwood Sheppard Esq

SIR,

I need not here the servile Path pursue,
By doing what most Dedicators do;
Lay out their Patron's Vertues on a Stall,
Like Pedlars Ware, to please the Crowd withall,
And be despis'd by the Judicious Eye,
Which does but look and loath, and pass regardless by.
Your Merit speaks it self; a Poet's Care,
In Lofty Praise, wou'd be superflu'ous there.
What need that Man in a Fool's Coat be shown
That has a Dress so graceful of his own?
I wave that Subject then, your Gene'rous Mind,
Wit, Judgment, Converse, and what else we find
So lov'd, admir'd, and courted by Mankind;
And humbly at your Feet this worthless Tribute lay:
I owe you much, and blush I can so Little pay.

I am, Sir, Your intirely devoted Servant, R. Gould.

To the Society of the Beaux Esprits.

ODE.

I.

If Poets when they undertake
Some happy glorious Theme,
That does their Hero's Worth Immortal make
And settle in the foremost Rank of Fame;
If they invoke some GOD to be
Propitious, and infuse
Life, Spirit, Warmth and Vigor in the Muse,
Such as may Animate the whole Design,
And shew they're guided by a Hand Divine;
What Pow'r? What Deity
(You learn'd Society)
Must be invok'd by Me?
'Tis YOU, Great Souls, and only YOU
Whose Fame I sing must aid me too:
If you assist, the Work will shine
With something Heav'nly ev'ry Line;
But all must fail, if all be Mine.

366

II.

No tedious Ways Y'ave taken to your Fame,
No vain Meanders trac'd,
At something certain you direct your Aim;
While those that obstinately go astray,
And walk by Guess when there's a Beaten Way,
Are but the more remarkably disgrac'd.
So the dull Chymist with much Toil and Pain,
And equal Loss of Time and Brain,
Preposte'rously wears out his wretched Days
In solid Vanity and empty Praise;
And all to find (such Notions does he start)
What neither is in Nature, or in Art.
In vain they strive that pass-less Rock t'explore,
Where they have seen so many split before,
And lost on the inhospitable Shore;
Castles erecting fondly in the Air;
Rapt with the Bliss
They shall possess
In their new Golden Worlds—the Lord knows where!
But after all, we see,
(And they themselves at last as well as we)
When their whole Lives are in expectance gone,
(Betray'd by Hope, and led deluded on)
Instead of the fam'd Stone, so much their Care,
There's nothing left Existing but Despair,
A Dismal Prospect of their Folly past,
Their Treasure's vanish'd, and their Want's to last.

III.

When first you did your Forces joyn,
When first you did your Mingl'd Lustre twine
In that Bright Orb where now you shine,

367

Making, in what you Spoke and Writ,
A Perfect Galaxy of Wit,
Stretch'd all across the Muses Skie,
As truly Great, and as sublimely high:
That you might still remain the same,
And carry on a Deathless Name,
You none among you wou'd admit,
Tho' ne'er so Pow'rful, Rich, or Great,
That set up Blasphemy for Wit.
Nor those that with as small Excuse,
Run into Bawdry and Abuse.
Nor yet the Coxcombs who have no Pretence
But Titles to be Men of Sense.
No Scriblers, whose flagitious Rhimes
Confirm the Vitious in their Crimes.
No Fools enamour'd of their Lungs,
With Souls transfus'd into their Songs:
That gargling Revel-rout that Durf---y rules;
The Captain-General of the Phyllis-Fools.
To none
Was the great Blessing shown
But who brought equal Merit of their own;
Such as were Worthy, and believ'd
The Honour Worthy they receiv'd:
That loath'd the crying Vices of the Age,
And the loose Scenes of the declining Stage.

IV.

Thus Constituted you your Race began,
And at the Goal already are arriv'd;
Unlike the Greshamites, who slower run,
And have their Fame surviv'd.
Then, that you still may know Content,
You give no sharp Invectives vent,
Especially on Government:

368

What e'er a Race of Male-Contents have writ,
While on the Kingly Pow'r they Brooding sit,
The Loyal Man is much the Nobler Wit.
Nor do you take Delight to pry
Into the Dark-wrought Snares of Policy;
Made intricate by Juggling Elves,
And often proves a Maze to lose themselves.
Ne'er vex, or wonder at the prosp'rous Fate
That does on Fools and Villains wait,
And to the highest Grandeur raise;
Where they like Mete'ors blaze,
With all the lavish Poets wanton in their Praise:
This stiles 'em Noble, and that calls 'em Just,
And tells how well they have discharg'd their Trust;
Tho' they rais'd all their Store
By peeling of the Publick and the Poor;
As by Estates, soon got, w'are sure they must:
Gain, only Gain their whole Intent;
Forgetting what the Scriptures teach,
That He that's hasty to be Rich.
Shall not be Innocent.
Another does their Eloquence approve,
As if their Tongues were tun'd above,
And swears like Orpheus's Harp, they make the Forests move:
Tho' to the Man that nicely marks,
A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks.
Thus for a while they flourish—but anon
Some sudden Storm of State comes pouring on;
Nor will it give 'em time to breath:
Seiz'd! Try'd! Convicted!—then they sadly see
How much a guilty Wealth's beneath
An Honest Poverty.

369

V.

Nor is your precious Time mispent
In the vile Clamours of the Bar;
Where the loud Tough-Lung'd Tribe, on Gain intent,
Wage an Eternal War.
The Cause now op'ning, either Side
Draw up and for Defence provide:
These first the Despe'rate Onset give,
And those as Despe'rately receive.
Mean while th'Auxiliary Band
That the Defendant Chiefs Command,
The Swiss that Swear on either Side for Pay,
March boldly up and plunge into the Fray.
And now the Plantiff Squadrons seem to yield,
And wild Disorder covers all the Field:
When, of a Sudden, Lo! the vanquish't War
Rallies afresh, and threatens from afar:
Their Hero's of the Post they now display,
Which they behind had closely laid,
For a Reserve, in Ambuscade,
And by clear Dint of Perju'ry turn the Day.
And now the Battle hangs in Even Scale,
Nor those can Conquer, nor can these prevail.
Mean while, upon this Poize of Fate,
The Chiefs again renew the dire Debate,
With Din enough to deafen Billinsgate.
This is the Issue of a hungry Clown,
And wore his Leathern Breeches up to Town.
That has a Conscience steel'd, and this a Face
Of right Corinthian Brass;
And he that Brays so loudly is an Ass.
But when the Pleading's at an End,
They have no further to contend:

370

Then all their Animosity and Strife
Is how to make the Cause as long as Life;
And, in large brimming Bowls,
To quaff in Burgundy the Spoil of Fools.

VI.

O Madness! Madness to the last Excess!
Nor can the Frenzy well be less,
While thus w'are Goaded on to Wickedness:
Envy and Hatred wou'd of Course expire,
Were not the Lawyer by to feed the Fire.
Their packing Juries too we can't forbear,
The Harvest rises plente'ous there.
Four Crops at least in the most Barren Year.
By them in Trials w'are absolv'd, or doom'd,
The Judge but as a Cypher stands;
For tho' the Evidence be rightly sum'd,
The main Decision falls of Course to other Hands.
Ev'n in the best of Times we can't deny
“The Jury passing on the Priso'ner's Life
“In the sworn Twelve may have a Thief
“Guiltier than him they try:
But now the Lawyer does much deeper strike,
And all th'Impannel'd List are Rogues alike:
In vain they half are Challeng'd; still we find
Tho' Bad's Excepted, worse is left behind.
Break Houses up, let Blood be spilt,
The Bribery will not find the Guilt.
Buy an Estate without one Farthing's Aid,
Owe Thousands to the Men of Trade,
Th'Attorney palms the Jury—and 'tis paid.
None better know the Law was meant
Injustice to redress,
To free the Poor and Innocent,
And make Oppression less;

371

None better know—but here's the Curse,
No Men employ that Knowledge worse:
Not Devils cloath'd in Flesh and Blood
Cou'd more delight in Gain, or fly so fast from Good.
How cou'd Gray's-Inn or how the Temple rise
(Such Pompous Piles as e'en out-brave the Skies,
And seem a Dwelling fit for Deities)
If all the Cash that such a Charge sustain'd,
Had only been by honest Pleading gain'd?
As bad as now we count the Times,
With all its Villanies and Crimes,
Yet this in its Defence we have;
That no Man ever saw
A thorow, finish'd, Total Knave
But what was bred to Law.

VII.

But as you justly fix your Hate
Upon these Vermin of the State,
That Ravage on the Spring just as they please,
And leave the Barren After-Crop to other Sciences;
So you as much the Fools expose
(For they deserve the sharpest Scorn)
That run by Choice into the Dang'rous Noose—
But Asses are for Slav'ry born.
The Needy from their Doors they chase
As they were not of Human Race,
Nor will from Thousands spare a Mite,
Yet wast Estates to propagate their Spite:
Will give a Million without Grutch,
Just only for the bare Delight
To make another Rascal spend as much:
Not once conside'ring what will, last, befall,
Or who stands waiting by to sweep up all.
At the Groom-Porters, so,
I've seen the Fops, Impatient for the Throw,

372

Win their Three Hands and gladly pay
Persisting in the flatte'ring Play,
'Till, between what was won and lost,
Wise Neal has half the Cash engross'd:
Still they push on, nor mind th'Impending Ill,
The Purse will empty as the Box does fill.
And so too have I read
In Living Lines, tho' the fam'd Author's dead,
The Frog and Mouse were once at Mortal Strife,
And each in equal Hazard of his Life;
The Kite, who from on high the Fewd did view,
To shew how vainly Fools contend,
Devour'd both Plaintiff and Defendant too;
And brought the Senseless Quarrel to an End.

VIII.

Nor stop you here: the more flagitious Quack,
That wears a Leash of Lives upon his Back,
Feels your Resentment like the rest,
For him a like Disdain express'd:
Nor can his Blasphemy, or Wit,
Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat
That grows by purging, and by poys'ning, Great.
How very Negligent they are
Too fatally we see;
Nor need they make our Lives their Care,
That both ways, live or die, will have their Fee.
By Indirection thus they raise their Store,
Keep Coaches, Lacquies; Drink, and Game, and Whore;
And Quality it self can do no more.
Religion either they detest,
Or, which is equal, make a Jest;
Ascaunce, like Fiends, they all its Precepts view;
With the same Poison they their Spawn indue,

373

And taint th'Apothecary too,
With Lucre and Prophaneness thro 'and thro':
Who close, like Leeches, to their Patients cleave,
And with their damn'd unconscionable Bills
No Cash to pay for future Illness leave;
The Pounds just equal to the Tale of Pills.
Thus Fool with Villains wilfully complying,
Are made to pay ev'n for their Dying:
Nay some have left 'em Legacies by Will,
And ev'en in Death admir'd their Murde'rers Skill.

IX.

Unhappy foolish, wilful Man,
Preposte'rous! from thy self thy Woes began.
Of all Created Things none are so curst as Thee,
So curst by an acquir'd Simplicity.
The feather'd and four-footed Kind,
Without those Helps we boast to find,
Endure Heav'ns Wrath, Excessive Heat and Cold,
Yet grow, according to their Natures old:
Nor are among themselves at strife
How to abridge the Little Span of Life;
Which of it self, alas! is quickly gone,
And flies too fast to be push'd faster on:
But Man, vain Man has found a thousand Keys
To open that one Lock that ends his Days:
Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague, and Famine fail,
They're not Physician Proof—he'll certainly prevail.
O for a Western Wind that may
To the Red Ocean, far away,
These num'rous Locusts bear,
A greater Curse than those of Egypt were;
They but a while brought Desolation;
But these are fix'd a standing Plague to scourge the sinful Nation.

374

X.

With these you equally despise
The Sots that pore upon the Skies,
Egregiously to Calculate
The Good or Evil Fate
Of Fools—and worse—of Women's Destinies.
When such a One may 'scape be'ing hang'd, or drown'd,
To which he's wickedly presum'd
By Heav'nly Influence to be doom'd;
And had th'untimely End without their warning found.
When a lost Lover will again return,
By Incantations read, and Sigils worn,
And humbly at the Virgin's Feet his past Presumption mourn.
If Marriage will disaste'rous grow,
And sink into Domestick Jars;
When the most common Fool may know,
Without th'Assistance of the Stars,
'Twill certainly do so.
When Comets hang aloft in Air,
With swinging Tails and blazing Hair,
To what Part of the threatn'd World
The fatal Influ'ence will be hurl'd
In Schism, Faction, Famine, Plague and War.
When Moles appear upon the Skin,
How all the Passions may, within,
Be thro' the Sable Mirrours seen;
Whether the Bearer's Prudent, Brave, or Just,
The Friend of Bacchus, or the Child of Lust.
What all our Senseless Dreams import,
Drest in a Thousand various Shapes,
Centaures, Chimæras, Bulls and Apes,
When Fancy is dispos'd her Airyship to Sport.

375

XI.

Thus with their Aspects, Houses, Signs,
And all that Ignorance with 'em joins
To furnish out their Planetary Schemes,
They run to more Ridiculous Extremes
Than Poets, Fools, and Madmen in their Dreams.
How can another's Fate be known
By Him that's Igno'rant of his Own?
Or how can he foresee th'Intrigues of Rome,
Or which way France will play their Game,
A Stranger to our Policy at Home?—
If it of late deserves the Name.
The wisest Man that ever was presumes
That none can know the Future till it comes.
To tell what Time will bring to Light
How dare the rash Predicter boast,
That can't retrieve, tho' ne'er so slight,
One Thought that Memory has lost?
The Stars, alas! but little show
Of what will happen here below,
And less the Gazers on 'em know.
He only that can Vertu'ous be
Best understands Futurity.
What ever Fools believe, and Villains prate,
We make, our selves, our Good or Evil Fate.

XII.

With these, in the same Wretched File,
Our Vertuoso's take their Place;
A Class of Men so vain and vile,
They scarce deserve the Grace.
Who is it can with Patience see
Their Magazines of Trumpery?

376

Which, if we may believe the Voice of Fame
Wou'd take up a whole Century to name.
Here one, that thinks he is no Ass,
Does thro' his Magnifying Glass
On some Minutest Insects pry
With such a fix'd and heedful Eye
As if the World were to be made anew,
Or Heav'n it self depended on the View.
Yet all the while shall have no other Aim
Than just to see (O vain Design!
And truly worthy of the Elves!)
If any Vermin breed and feed on them,
As Ticks on Horses, Dogs and Swine,
And Lice upon themselves.
Another does to Montpelier repair
To bring home Bottl'd Air,
Then generously uncorks it here;
A Pint enough to purify a Shire.
A Third will send for Water from the Rhine,
Only to make comparison between
The Thames and that, which of the Two's most light,
And which will freeze the thickest in a Night.
Others aver, the Mites in Cheese
Live in a Monarchy like Bees;
Have Civil Laws and Magistrates,
Their Rise, Continuance, and their Fates,
Like other Human Pow'rs and States;
And, by a strange Peculiar Art,
Can hear 'em Sneeze, Discourse and F---rt:
These Men, by Right, shou'd be Astrologers,
And hold Acquaintance with the Stars,
Happy for doubting Man 'twou'd be;
For they that have such Eyes, what is't they may not see!

377

XIII.

Nor is Philosophy exempt
From Censure, not to say contempt:
'Tis true its Excellencies are
Above all other Science far,
That but a Gloe-worm, this a Star:
And yet it does so many Errors share,
As if they all at once existed there.
How many vain Opinions have began,
And been as vainly carried on
By that most vain of all the Creatures, Man?
All his Enquiries well express
The best of 'em but speak by guess.
Here one, the first and wisest, cou'd not see
But that this All was from Eternity;
And did on its own Principles depend
As self existent, and wou'd never End,
Another (as if rising from a Trance,
And all the Atoms in their Antique Dance,
Those Atoms which, all sorts of Union past,
Leap'd into Form and made a World at last)
Asserts 'twill perish, as it came by Chance.
A third the Earth is fix't and all above,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, for ever round it move:
The Opponent brings it all in doubt
And says the Earth is whirl'd about,
By a Finger and a Thumb at first set up,
And slept e'er since just like a School-boy's Top:
While the Superiour Orbs of Light
Stand gazing on, and wonder at the Sight.
Some that the Moon's a World; and add withall
This Globe on which we tread, this pond'rous Ball,
Reflects a Light up to the Lunar Sphere,
And is the very Luminary there,
As that is with its borrow'd Glory here;

378

Has just as many Times its Monthly range,
Its Full and New; its Waxing, Wain and Change.

XIV.

Quite as ridiculous and vain
Is all the Tenents they maintain
Of what below they call our Final Good;
And quite as little understood.
In Beauty some have fixt the Name,
And some in Pow'r, and some in Fame;
In Riches some the flying Phantom place,
And some in the Descent from Royal Race:
Some in Ambition and in Battles won,
In Cities sack'd, and Neighb'ring States undone;
The way that now the Gallick Prince, thro' Blood
And Ruin cuts to this Exalted Good:
Whose ultimate Enjoyment is to be,
By Persecution, Pride and Rage,
The Curse and Horrour of the Age,
And carry'd down accurs'd to all Posterity.
Others, Voluptuously inclin'd,
And making Pleasure all their Bent,
Think it is only they can find
This Golden Indies of Content:
But ill indeed wou'd their Pretences bear,
Tho' Man cou'd reach his summum Bonum here
From one Debauch they to another roll,
Infect the Body and untune the Soul,
And all they can by Pleasure gain
Is but more sharp Returns of Pain.
Ev'n Death, the grisly Terrour they wou'd shun,
In all their Bloom of Youth they hasten on,
And lift, themselves, into his Ghastly Throne!

379

XV.

Thus Happiness does human Search beguile;
In vain we strive the Plant to rear,
And vainlier think it Fruit will bear;
'Tis not the Growth of the Terrestrial Soil.
No more than Air it does its Form display,
No more than Water in our Hold 'twill stay,
But slips from the deluded grasp away.
Not Vertue can it self this Proteus bind,
That most of all things might expect it kind:
'Tis true it will have Peace within,
The conscious Joy of flying Sin,
A Pleasure Man, nor Devils can efface;
But by Extortion, Envy, Pow'r or Pride,
It shall be stript of all beside,
Brought to the last Distress
Of Wants, and ev'ry outward Wretchedness.
The only Wonder is to see
How it can yet contented be
In all this World calls Infelicity.
'Twas ever and will ever be the Case
Of worthiest Men to suffer by the Base:
Nor can the Needy from the Wealthy have
The Offal Crumbs to shield 'em from the Grave;
So truly Dives lives in all his Race.

XVI.

Then for the SOUL, what that shou'd be
How wildly do they disagree!
So hard their Notion's to be solv'd,
Or with so many Doubts involv'd,
The more w' unravel w'are the less resolv'd.
In vain we things, that Heav'n conceals wou'd view,
In vain inextricable Paths pursue,
Opinion is a Maze without a Clue.

380

Some seat it in the Brain, from whence,
They say it strangely does dispence
Th'Intelligential Faculties to ev'ry distant Sense.
Some think its Being in the Heart;
And some that 'tis transfus'd, like Life thro' ev'ry Part.
Some in the sanguin Tyde its Essence place,
And roll it round with that the circling Race:
Because the Generative Desire
Does thence derive its quickning Fire,
They poorly think the Soul's descent as base.
Some backward look into the Wilds of Fate,
And argue for its pre-existing State.
Others assert from Man to Beast it flies,
Confin'd to Earth, and never mounts the Skies.
Some argue with the Flesh its Doom it takes,
And sleeps till with the general Call it wakes.
Some that immediately in Death it goes
To its eternal Misery or Repose.
Yet more abstrusely some Debate;
And tell us in its sep'rate State
'Tis only the Remembrance there
Of all our Thoughts and Actions here;
A bare Existence of the Mind.
When from the mortal Part disjoyn'd;
That tho' the Body by dissolving gains
An End of all its Joys and Pains,
Th'immaterial Consciousness remains;
And as it has on Earth been giv'n
To Good or Ill, has thence its Hell or Heav'n.
Thus level all our Rabbins in the Dark,
Or if they hit—but vainly hit the Mark:
For who can up to Heaven his Thoughts pursue?
Or with Imagination go
Into the gloomy Realms below,
And in this Being, find his Notions true?

381

From hence the Muse with conscious awe retires,
And all she cannot comprehend, admires.

XVII.

Pardon me, gene'rous Souls, I have digress'd too long,
But my Digression has not done you wrong;
While I display the Follies you despise,
Grown now to an enormous Size;
While I the Lion's Skin displace,
And shew behind the num'rous Race,
For Laughter born, and Men to their Disgrace:
(For to the everlasting Shame
Of what Humanity we call,
Like Homo, ASS is grown a common Name,
And very nearly comprehends us all)
While thus employ'd, th'impartial Few will guess
By the degenerate Paths you shun
In what a Noble Track you run,
And by the Vice you hate the Vertues you possess.
Your Vertues which by me,
If you assist, shall be
Deliver'd down to all Posteritie.
Here therefore I again your Aid require,
That with fresh Spirit you'd the Muse inspire,
Nor cease, till she has fixt your Name
Among the happiest Favourites of Fame;
From her Records ne'er to be raz'd
Till the loud Trumpet's general Blast,
And Nature, Death and Time have breath'd their last.

XVIII.

First, your Religion shall be shown;
Not such as Schismaticks wou'd pass for one,
For theirs is—at the Bottom—none.

382

As Lawyers long Disputes maintain
For Honesty, without a Grain;
Or as—Upon upon my Honour's—grown
A certain Cue to shew there's none;
So ruful Tones and wry Grimace
Has still the least pretence to Grace,
And is, at best, but Piety of Face.
A Saviour in their Mouths they bear,
But 'tis a Saviour only there;
Their Souls, so much their Talk, the least of all their Care.
When e'er Subversion of the State's design'd,
Or Church, we always find
The Schismatick and Atheist of a Mind;
With Blood and Ruin carrying on the Work;
Like the two Heathens now by Treaty Bound
The Peace of Europe to Confound,
The Turk more Christian, and the Christian Turk.
No Tallies more exactly can agree
Than open Vice and seeming Sanctity.
From Interest Prejudice and Pride
(Three rare Ingredients for a Guide)
The Private Spirit Springs;
The Atheist from the same Descent
His Rancour, Hate and Evil-speaking brings
Of Governour, and Government:
This does a thousand Strifes create
O'er true Religion to preside;
And after Fleece the Flock 'twou'd guide;
And 'tother but pulls down the State
To share the Spoils, and on the Ruins ride.
Thus Monarchies they Common-Wealths wou'd make,
And Common-Wealths again for Gold forsake;
Again another Rump they'd rear,
Nay seat the Pope or Mufti there:
Let 'em but have the God, their GAIN,
They care not if the Devil reign.

383

XIX.

Mean while You your Perswasion show
In wronging none by Word or Deed;
In paying all Men what you owe,
And giving Merit still it's Meed:
Adhering fast to Scripture Rules,
But not as they are taught by Fools;
Who boasting true Illuminative Sight,
Are lost in Darkness while they're bawling Light.
Then for all Controversial Heat,
You fly it as an Impi'ous Cheat:
But chiefly those Debates that tend
This Faith t'oppose, or that defend;
For such can never have an End:
With all th'Expence of Brain and Purse,
W'are still but as we were,—or worse.
The Fool Invincible I pass,
Because he's not by Choice an Ass:
But who cou'd ever yet convince
With all the Force of Truth and Sense,
A Man of Pen's perverting Craft, or Oates's Impudence?
When e'er the Church our Pilot's left,
We madly by our Passions steer,
Of all the Means to make the Port bereft;
For where's the way to Heav'n if 'tis not shown us there?
This for our selves—but then the various Sects,
Th'Excrescencies that out of Scripture grow,
Think us th'abandon'd Race that Heav'n rejects,
And they the Chosen Few.

XX.

And if such Men we wou'd confute,
The way's to Practice, not Dispute:

384

If still the Teacher's doing good,
That Doctrine still is understood:
By that he'll sooner gain his Cause.
Than by a Thousand Penal Laws.
Not only Truth does firmer grow
By Pressure, but ev'n Errour too:
If wildest Beasts by Soothing may be tam'd,
The more provok'd they'll be the more enflam'd.
What ever other Trophies Truth may boast:
She in this War-fare still has lost:
The clearest thread of Reaso'ning spun too fine,
Does obviate oft it's own Design;
And Wrong and Right, like East and West
On Mathematick Globes exprest,
But by a Point disjoyn.
For tho' th'Advantage Error gets is small,
Three Foils, the Wrestler says, is equal to a fall.
'Tis this that makes the Atheist sneer and laugh,
And equally at all Religion Scoff:
For How, alas! (too speciously they say)
How can we choose but go astray,
When, ev'n our Guides themselves take each a different way?
And these damn those without Reprieve,
For not believing what they can't believe?

XXI.

But, you Illustrious Souls, see this,
See all, and know that all's amiss;
And very wisely trace
The moderate Path, and keep the moderate Pace;
Not claiming Heav'n by Pride, or Passion,
Or Works of Supererogation,
As if there cou'd be Arrogance in Grace.

385

If there's a Chosen Few Elected, we
The Marks may of their Calling see
Without their Holy Spite, and Tub-Barbarity.
Thus cheerfully you travel on,
Yet not so slow to Mire,
Nor yet so fast to tire,
And the Extremes that so divide us shun;
Arriving (yet e'er Life is half declin'd)
To what the Wise can only find,
Habitual Innocence and lasting Peace of Mind.
Mean while the Zealots, in their rash Career,
Miss all they hope, and meet with all they fear:
Nor can they less expect to feel,
Drawn by the Steeds of Pride and Zeal,
And Rage the Charioteer:
Disdaining Reason and Controul,
Lost and benighted, on they roll,
As if 'twere only Madness sav'd the Soul.

XXII.

But above all you most detest
The Men that wou'd our Holy Faith decry,
And make it still their standing Jest
To Ridicule all Christian Mystery.
With them the Resurrection, Passion,
Trinity, and Incarnation,
Are but the Cobwebs of the Schools,
The Gain of Knaves, and Dream of Fools;
When at the self-same time the Senseless Elves
Are quite thro'-out a Mystery to themselves.
By what strange Magick does the outward SIGHT
Amass together what it sees?
And then, by a more strange Internal Light,
Convey into the Mind the various Images?
How does the TAST its Quality receive?

386

Whence fetch its nice discerning Pow'r
Of Salt and Fresh, and Sweet and Sour?
How does the TOUCH such Transport give?
That Lovers oft, but with a Chast Embrace,
Believe they're of Ætherial Race,
And feel a Joy that scarce will let 'em live!
How thro' our EARS do Sounds our Cares controul?
What Passage is there thence into the Soul?
The Soul! that does so well agree
With Musick, 'twill be once all Harmony!
Here 'tis Immers'd in Flesh, and clogg'd with Breath;
Ah happy! when let loose to fly
To the Cœlestial Quire on high,
And Life no more can be untun'd by Death!
How on the SMELL do weak Effluviums strike?
Where does that delicate Sensation live?
Or whence the Notices derive
T'approve, or to dislike?
Feasting on ev'ry odorife'rous Breath,
And flying noxious Fumes impregnated with Death.
Thus tho' we by our REASON know
We hear and tast and feel and smell and see,
The wond'rous and unfathom'd HOW
Is stilla Mystery!

XXIII.

A thousand other Instances there are
Of Wonders we about us bear
The Unbelieving to convince,
But needless to enu'merate here,
Convicted by our selves in ev'ry Sense.
Then let us not our selves deceive,
If we'll be blest we must believe.

387

Nor is the Burden laid on us a Weight
We have not Pow'r to bear;
W'are only bid beside to be Sincere;—
A perfect and unsinning State
Is not Exacted, or Expected here.
The Goal of Glory certainly he wins
That does unfeignedly Repent,
Believe a GOD, and own a SAVIOUR sent
To save us from our Sins.
Ah happy! truly happy Man
That is as Vertuous as he can!
A thousand Crimes will be renew'd
Both in our Passions and Desires
Ev'n while w'are striving to be Good;
But let us neither Doubt or Fear;
If all our whole Endeavour's there,
'Tis ALL that Heav'n requires.

XXIV.

But here th'Objection will be brought,
What Man Endeavours as he ought?
The Rules of Faith are own'd but few;
But who does practically shew
That from his Soul he thinks 'em true?
If by our Lives our Faith is shown,
The general Usage says there's none.
Thus others we severely Doom,
Regardless how it goes at Home.
But let the Man that sees the Shelf
Avoid the Splitting there himself.
How e'er the general Stream does run,
The publick Ills wou'd soon be done,
If ev'ry Individual strove to better one.
Unjustly he does blame the Times,
That takes his Measures from his Crimes:

388

Self Love must there be understood,
Or an inveterate Will;
The Vertuous hope that all are Good,
The Vitious tell you all are Ill.
Thus different Ways the Tempter does deceive;
For some will regularly live,
Yet w'on't our holy Faith believe:
Others just oppositely fall,
And think a true Belief is all.
But what e'er System others frame,
Shew by your Works the Faith that you profess,
And by your Faith your Works of Blessedness,
With you (Illustrious Souls!) are just the same:
However Casuists turn the Clue,
To give 'em both a different view,
Where one is wanting 'tother's wanting too.
A thousand other Points I might
Set off here in their proper Light,
Without the Guilt of Prejudice or Spite;
But I refer 'em to the wrangling Men;
Such Jargon wou'd Defile a Poets Pen,
How can we hope their Feuds shou'd cease,
That fetch a War ev'n from the Sourse of Peace?

XXV.

Nor do your Vertues, tho' they're great.
Make you at all the Foes of Wit:
Your Wit! that next does our Attendance claim;
Like Proteus, with superiour Skill,
A thousand Ways diversifying still,
And ever still the same.
Your Wit! that does deserve immortal Praise,
A Wreath of Stars instead of Bays!
Your Wit! which can at once Instruct and Please,
And give the Vitious Patient timely Ease,

389

Detect his specious Deeds and sensual Thoughts,
And laugh him to a loathing of his Fau'ts.
Your Wit! so charming, those that hear
Cou'd wish they were all Ear;
No sooner they admire,
But some new Beauty lifts their Wonder higher.
Not taken up on Trust, no plated Brass,
But currant Coin that ev'ry where will pass:
From painful Learning and Experience drain'd,
And as with Labour got, so with Delight retain'd.
Nor does it value Man the more
For Dignity, for Pow'r or Place;
Or save (tho' brib'd with half his Store)
The sawcy Minion from Disgrace;
Others unknowingly advance,
And have at best, their Wit from Chance:
Either to Vertue they're severe,
Or him they ought to scorn, they fear:
But all you write is all along,
Like Samson's Riddle, sweet and strong,
Harmonious to the Ear, and Hybla to the Tongue!

XXVI.

By this time we'll suppose you sit,
The Gen'ral Good your full Design;
Converting your unweary'd Wit,
That ev'ry Nicest Blot can hit,
Into a Flame divine.
For in no beaten Path you tread,
The Path of Humour or of Gain;
But shew how far w'ave been misled
Both by the Living and the Dead,
And give to Truth the Honours of her Reign.

390

Free us from Prejudice and Lyes,
Nonsense, Impossibilities,
And Wolves in Sheeps Disguise;
With all the Snares that Earth and Hell have laid,
By bringing our own Reason to our Aid:
Our Reason, still in Danger try'd,
And always prov'd a faithful Guide;
Reason the Polar Star,
That does discover Happiness from far:
A Pilot that can thro' Life's Ocean steer
As safe in Storms, as if the Skies were clear:
While those who but by halves believe
(Bred up for Blockheads to deceive)
Are daily with a thousand Fears perplext,
This Hour of one Perswasion, none the next.
But Reason, drest in Adamantine Arms,
Does end in frightful Charms;
All subtil Shifts descry
With its sharp sighted Eagles Eye,
Before whose pow'rful Rays the gloomy Fantoms fly.

XXVII.

While thus you hold Discourse the Goblet's crown'd,
And twice or thrice does nimbly move around:
Care that Disturber of our Rest,
That grows Habitual to the Breast,
And hardly e'er is dispossest;
Ev'n that curst Fiend at such a time takes Wing,
And Envy quite forgets her Sting.
Yet nothing idle or profane,
Lewd, ridiculous, or vain,
Nothing is spoke but what the Nuns might hear,
Were they much chaster than they are.
Thus Mirth you cloath in its true genuine Shape;
Not like an Ass, an Owl, or Ape,

391

But in the very Garb 'twas drest by BEN—
There's the same Difference between Mirth as Men.
And now you envy not ev'n Kings themselves,
Nor all the under Fry of Courtly Elves;
Who, like the Moon, their borrow'd Lustre owe,
And Tradesmen are the Suns that make 'em glitter so.
The Troubles of Mortality you view,
Those num'rous, and its Comforts few;
The Evil that o'er Mankind brooding lies,
That tongues the Fool, and silencies the Wise;
The Fears and Jealousies that sway the Rout,
Cowards in Office, and the Brave without:
And since true Pleasure flits and will not stay,
You this way take a Draught without allay,
And make the dull Fatigue of Life fly pleasantly away.

XXVIII.

What Honours then, you mighty few,
Ought here to be conferr'd on you,
That shew at once the Path to Peace and Pleasure too?
What Trophies to your Fame must we erect?
And O what Wonders may we not expect
(Tho' distant far, and lying ne'er so wide)
Brought home by Men so nobly qualify'd:
That ev'n at your first setting out (like Flame
Aspiring to the Starry Frame)
To such a Pitch your Merit raise,
As leaves behind our lagging Praise,
And shews you knew no Nonage in your Fame.
Ah! wou'd but one of you (whose Breast
Is with the sacred Fire possest)
But sing the Vertues of the rest,
Something we then might hope to see
Worthy the famous Beaux-Esprits,
The Generous and August Society;

392

August, I say, and dare the Name repeat,
Since what is always Good is always Great.
Where else, alas! can there be found
A Sprat your Grandeur to resound?
Where else a Cowley in his Lofty Verse
Your Glories to rehearse,
And to the Heav'nly Arch make the wide Echo bound?
Your Glory which like the fix'd Star wou'd shine,
And as Propitious be
To all that want a Guide, as He,
Had this Great Subject been adorn'd by any Muse but Mine.

To my Lord of Abingdon.

I.

As when of old some Labou'ring Swain
Was favour'd with a large Encrease of Grain,
Strait to the Gods he sent his Prayer
Thro' the obsequious Air,
More swift than the wing'd Race themselves cou'd flee,
For nothing is so swift as Piety:
With no less Zeal, my Lord, to YOU
My Praises I acknowledge due
For all the Bounties you dispence,
Almost with Universal Influence;
An Influ'ence so diffus'd and free,
(O Greatness without Pride!) it ev'n extends to me!
Disdain not then that Praise, my Offering, to receive,
'Tis all, alas! the Muse can give;
But then the World shall see
I'll never cease to pay You that, till I shall cease to Be.

393

II.

Were I in Ricot's happy Shade,
Where neither Strife or Envy come,
Or meagre Care does e'er presume
One Moment's soft Repose t'invade;
But ev'ry Morning does fresh Plenty bring,
And Plenty flows with an unbounded Spring:
Where Horses Neighing, and the cheerful Sound
Of Huntsman, Horn and Hound,
Echo's a Grateful Harmony to all the Country round.
Or when your Sportful Lavington we Name,
The ever-smiling Scene is much the same:
There only 'tis where Nature is with Art at Strife;
Both are Ambitious to Excel,
And both have done so well,
That 'twou'd be hard to tell
Which of 'em's most adorn'd with Beauty and with Life!
Such Haunts as these might possibly inspire
My Breast with a Poetick Fire,
And set those Thoughts on Wing,
Which now but faintly fly, and hoarsly sing.

III.

Long we might here upon the Mansions live,
But something Nobler comes in view;
The Hospitality within
Does a new Flight begin,
And claims at once our Praise and Wonder too.
O Libe'ral Hand! and Libe'ral Heart!
Not Heav'n can hardly freelier give,
Nor he more willingly receive,
Than he's dispos'd his Bounties to impart.

394

Never was yet his Gener'ous Door,
Or Coffers that contain'd his Store,
Shut to his Friend, his Tenant, or the Poor,
Ah! fix, my Muse, thy Labours here,
Nor let Ignobler Trifles be thy Care:
Upon this Theme thou may'st for ever dwell,
And ev'ry Day have something new to tell:
A Theme which had Great Pindar's Greater Son
Been but so happy to have known;
Thro' ev'ry Village 'twou'd have rung,
The sole Delight of ev'ry Tongue;
Thro' ev'ry Meadow, ev'ry Grove,
Where Shepherds seal their Vows of Love;
Nay, to the Clouds it Echoing wou'd have flown,
And made (just to his Wish) all Future Time his own!
No vulgar, nor no vain Esteem
Cou'd wait a Blessing so extreme,
Of such a Song! and such a Theme!

IV.

Nor had his Praise, nor had his Mind
Been only to your Name confin'd:
The God-like Lyndsey's Worth he wou'd have sung,
That lasting Charm to ev'ry Loyal Tongue!
He wou'd (inspir'd with the Heroick Thought)
Have told how well he liv'd, and well he fought;
How like a Bulwork by his Prince he stood,
When 'twas found Treason to be Great, or Good:
And spite of Death and Time's devouring Jaws,
Have crown'd his Memory with deserv'd Applause;
So Great the Warriour! and so just the Cause!
Nor yet wou'd he ev'n there have staid,
But further on Triumphant fled,
And in Prophetick Verse display'd
The Happy Issue of Your Bed:

395

Never did yet in Spring appear
A view of such a Plente'ous Year
As Nature seems to Promise there!
A diffe'rent way the diffe'rent Off-spring warms;
And as the safest Guard from Human Harms,
Those take the Father's Piety, and these the Mother's Charms:
These when they come to Riper Years,
The Warbling Lyre with Love will string;
In those all we can Hope appears
That may oblige, or serve their King.
Where is there one of the Illustrious Blood
Not born and fashion'd for his Country's Good.

V.

Nor had your Wisdom and your Piety
Been pass'd neglected by;
And least of all your steadfast Loyalty;
Which stood the Pow'rful Factions late Impetu'ous Shock,
Unshaken as a Rock.
Upon smooth Seas we may with Safety steer,
For there the Pleasure does surmount the Fear;
But hard and dange'rous 'tis to gain the Port
When Winds and Waves with equal Fury roar,
And make those stately Barks their Cruel Sport
They seem'd to Court before.
Such is the Sea; nor was our Storm at Land,
By yours and other Loyal Hands represt
(But Yours more strenu'ous than the rest)
Less danger'ous to withstand.
All this and more we then had heard,
In Numbers worthy of the Bard!
And I! ev'n I! how pleas'd had I appear'd!
If for the short Liv'd Praise I render here,
I'd met it in Immortal Numbers there!

396

Sacred to the Memory of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles the Second.

I.

Each Man has Private Cares enow
To make him bend, to make him bow,
Ah! how then shall we bear this General Burthen now!
Unless we die with Grief, what Sorrows can we bring
Sufficient for the Loss of such a Gracious King!
Peace, like a Mountain Stream, from him did flow,
And water'd all us Humble Plants below,
And made us flourish too;
Yet Peace himself but seldom knew.
Ah wretched, and too rigid Fate
That on Indulgent Monarchs wait!
While for the Publick Good the Publick Weight they bear,
As they're Supreme in Pow'r so they're supreme in Care:
Theirs is the Trouble, theirs the Pain,
And ours the Pleasure, ours the Gain;
And this was prov'd in Charles's Reign.
Think, Briton's, think how oft h'has broke his Sleep,
Intrench'd on his few Hours of needful Rest
To make us Free, to make us Blest,
And if you are not Marble you must weep!

II.

Long as our stubborn Land he sway'd
(Ah that w' had all so long obey'd!)
Our stubborn Land a Paradise was made:
Indulg'd by his Enliv'ning Smiles
(The Envy of all other Isles)

397

We did in Safety Ease and Plenty live,
And had almost at once what Earth and Heav'n cou'd give:
'Till sated with continu'd Happiness,
Like Devils we conspir'd to make it less;
Afresh did Fears and Jealousies create,
And once more strove to plunge the State
In all the Miseries it felt from Forty One to Eight.
Here did our Pitying Monarch timely interpose,
And sav'd us from our selves—our most Invete'rate Foes.
On those that Goodness cou'd not awe,
He let loose Justice and the Law:
His Justice prob'd our fester'd Wound,
His Justice heal'd and made it sound,
From Exile call'd our Banish'd Right,
(Good Angels and Good Mens Delight)
And made us happy in our own Despight!

III.

Not op'ning Buds more certain Tydings bring
Of the approaching Glories of the Spring,
Than his least Action spoke him KING!
He talk't, he look't, he trod,
And had the Air, the Port, and Meinage of a GOD!
These Wonders in his Person all might find,
But who can tell the Wonders of his Mind!
How Wise! how Mild! how Merciful and Kind!
In Exile, Danger, Want and Strife,
And all the various Changes of his Life,
Before, and when he Reign'd,
His Troubles were with Saint-like Constancy sustain'd:
And Great and Num'rous was the Store;
His Martyr'd God and Martyr'd Father only suffer'd more.
His Favours too, like theirs, did still
Extend to all that meant him Ill:

398

His deadliest Foes cou'd not so fast offend,
Or more opprobrious Langu'age give
Than he wou'd Patiently receive;
Nay when at last he found they wou'd not mend,
But either he or they must cease to Live,
He griev'd the Law remov'd 'em from a Friend.
What way can we such Clemency express!—
O Patience! Goodness! Mercy to excess!

IV.

Ah Pity! (for they're, sure, of better Clay)
That the Crown'd Head shou'd go the Vulgar Way!
If ought that's Excellent, or Brave,
Cou'd Privilege their Owners from the Grave,
He, like Elijah, to his Bliss had fled,
And never mingl'd with the Dead—
But Man was born to Die!
And tho' the Prophet, we must own
Did much the easier Passage find,
Our Pious Sovereign left his Dross behind,
And mounted his Æthereal Throne
More pure and more refin'd.
There rest, blest Shade! from all the Sorrow free,
From all the Treachery,
From all the Infidelity,
That did attend thy painful Progress of Mortality:
There rest, blest Shade! for ever rest!
Of all that Peace can give gossest!
That Peace which here thou cou'd'st not gain,
Tho' blessing us with the most Peaceful Reign
That e'er the British Isle will see again:
While the poor Melancholy Bards below
(But not while THOU wert Living, so)
Tho' they can ne'er pay all they owe,
At least their Love and Duty show;

399

And in sad Funeral-Verse embalm
Their ever happy Patron's Name;
Not that it needs it—for 'twou'd live
Without th'Assistance Poets give.

The Twelfth of June.

I.

Thou art return'd, Auspicious DAY!
And with Thee brought along
Of noble Thoughts a rich and num'rous Throng,
To cloath the Muse in all her best Array,
And upward to the Clouds direct her wondering Way.
How many fatal Days in the Career
But of one single Year,
Give Birth to what we loath, or what we fear?
Creatures of Nature's Rubbish made,
Or Tyrants who all Right invade;
Shepherds that undermine the Rock,
And are themselves, at best, but Sheerers of their Flock.
How many Men aspire to Rule
Only by being Knave, or Fool?
Nor care how low the Nation lies,
So they may have a Time to rise?
Or Fears, or Factions these create,
Or those in murm'uring Senates sow Debate:
Some all to Property wou'd give,
And others to Prerogative,
So bandy up and down the tottering State.
As if th'old Wounds were only cur'd,
That New, and worse might be endur'd.
Some Days, 'tis true, we grant there are
Befriended with a more Propitious Star,

400

That darting home the Seeds of virtual Heat,
Produces all the Good, and Brave, and Great.
And such a Star did Influence the Morn,
'Twas such a Star that did adorn
The Skie when ABINGDON was born,
Endear'd him both to Heav'n and Men,
And makes his Glories now as bright as That was then.

II.

ABINGDON!—the mighty Name
Does from the Hills and Vallies round
Reverberate with a stronger Bound,
Than any other British Sound,
And makes a fuller blast for the loud trump of Fame.
Ev'n Envious Men, Sullen and Discontent,
Thus far are forc't to give assent,
That He's at once both Great and Innocent.
His height don't make him look awry;
The Error's only in the Eye,
That's dazl'd when it looks so high.
He shews what we can, else, but seldom see,
That Quality and Vertue may agree,
So long believ'd a Contrariety!
In Wealth and Pow'r the Heart is truliest try'd;
But Wealth and Power, nor ought beside,
Cou'd make him e'er a Friend to Pride?
A Vice with which we brand the Great, when most
'Tis by precarious Fools in Place engrost;
Who rising from an obscure Stem,
Think nothing shines so bright
As they in their dimm borrow'd Light,
Dull Pebbles when compar'd with the right orient Gem:
Such as our Hero still has been,
And such as still he's seen,

401

A Galaxy of Glorious Deeds,
Where Vertue, Vertue still succeeds,
And not an Action base, or low, between.
His Country's Peace is still his daily Care,
His Thoughts and Actions all are Centr'd there:
PEACE the most Bountiful of Things!
While under her Prolifick Wings
Plenty, Pow'r and Ease she brings,
She Hatches more than Twenty Springs!
Yet Peace tho' we so much adore,
Shou'd we not give MIRANA more?
Shou'd we not HER, yet higher raise?
Who does affect our Souls by more Mysterious ways:
For Peace, tho' white as Truth it be,
Is not so white, so kind, so dear, or charms so sure as SHE!

III.

Such is the Consort of our Worthy-found,
Equal for Form and Purity renown'd:
Clasp'd in her soft, her Snowy Arm,
He's in that Circle safe from harm,
Beyond Ambition to allure, or Lawless Love to Charm.
Where is the Poor to whom he will not lend?
Where is the Good to whom He's not a Friend?
Where is the Sick to whom he does not send?
Or where's the Rich with whom he does Contend?
Brave as the Hero's were of Old
Of whom we Antique Stories hear,
As fam'd, as fierce, as gene'rous, bold,
And as exempt from Fear:
They seve'n-fold Shields did o'er 'em throw,
To break, or to Divert the Blow,
But now it boots not to do so;
Against the Thunde'ring Cannon what Defence
But Truth, with her Attendant, Innocence?

402

He both Possesses, both may call his Own,
And to the World their Excellence makes known.
When Factions rag'd; and Jesuits Tears
Had sunk into Fanatick Ears
And swell'd 'em to a Tympany with Jealousies and Fears;
When Roman Wolves the Folds at large did range,
And home-bred Bigots tugg'd and gap'd for Change;
When Innovation, with no Guard between,
Stood at the Door, and just was ent'ring in;
He with his Ever-ready helping Hand,
Did their united Rage withstand
And ev'n almost alone half propt a sinking Land.

IV.

What Jolly Sounds are these we hear?
That so harmoniously contend
Which most shall Charm the Ear?
Or did the Future Gene'ral Joy depend
On the high Birth of this Illustrious PEER?
It did:—for see! the Country round,
On this Occasion ready found,
Obsequiously are come to pay
Their just Respects, and Celebrate the DAY.
See in their Faces their Affections spread,
And much is thought, tho' little said:
But when the Hearts unable to display
The Joy it feels, or Defer'ence it wou'd pay,
Nature exerts her self a Kindlier way:
For see! the shining Goblets all are crown'd
And the great Health goes nimbly round:
Wine does as free as Water flow,
And does to none Distinction know,
Dealt equally to High and Low:
Wine that cheers the Heart and Brain,
The Muses Innocent Delight,

403

That sweetens her harmonious Strain,
And higher wings her tow'ring Flight.
Sill it goes round, and let it still,
Let him not drink that does not fill,
Disgrace and Want of Liquor be his Lot;
Nor let Mirana's Health among you be forgot:
Nor yet the happy Heir,
The eldest Hope of the Illustrious Pair,
He who already nobly seeks a Name,
Reflects from what a high Descent he came,
And strives as much to be the Theme of Fame:
His Actions ev'n thus early brightly shine;
Nor shall there want a Pen to set 'em forth,
And be the Herald of his Worth,
If he but condescend t'accept of Mine.

V.

But while the Guests thus freely pass the Day
In Freedom, Peace and Love and Joy,
Mirana a yet much sublimer way
Does her Delight employ:
Into her Closet she is gone
(Slipt from the Company unknown)
And, like a Saint does there
Spread forth her Hands and breath this dutious Prayer—
Your Grant, Good Heav'n, to my Request afford;
Prolong the Life of my most loving Lord,
And to your Left Hand Gift of Wealth,
Join your Right Hand Gift of Health.
Health without which no Joys can be possest,
No Relish find in any Breast;
The Poignance, that, and Salt of all the rest.
Then will my Days like a smooth River glide,
That knows no Rub, or Wrinkle in the Tyde;

404

Then will my Breast with downy Thoughts be fill'd,
Soft as their Dreams to Infants are instill'd,
When sleeping, we imprinted find
In beatifick Smiles their perfect Peace of Mind:
And then, too will the Issue of his Bed
Exult and lift aloft the Head,
When they shall see their Father hale and strong,
And have the Hope to keep the Blessing long.
Grown up they will a great Example see
How happy Vertue here may make us be,
How near to Heav'n it does th'Affections bring
Before the Soul takes Wing;
And then in Emulation of their Sire,
To Gene'rous Deeds, and their Reward aspire.
Preserve him Heav'n, preserve him many Years,
Then shalt thou have my Praise, as now my Pray'rs:
And O! accept my Thanks for all the Space,
The happy Hours I've past in his Embrace,
Since Love did first our Souls combine,
And I was blest to call him Mine!

VI.

She 'as spoke, and Heav'n does grant:
Heav'n cannot turn away it's Ear
From the unfeign'd and zealous Prayer
Of such a chast, and beaute'ous Suppliant.
Hear then Auspicious Day!
And as thou yearly com'st along,
Bring him still with thee cheerful, gay and strong:
And since we can but a short time be Young,
Let Age upon him gently steal,
Gently as Sleep the Eyes of Innocence does seal,
And the Effects of Age ne'er let him feel,
Consumption, Dropsy, Stone, or Gout,
Or any of the rueful Rout,

405

But easily and late,
Without a Sigh or murmuring Sound,
Be wafted off from Life to the Celestial State;
A State ineffable, to last
When thou and all the Race of time are past;
For 'twill at last be found,
Time is but a Parenthesis in the eternal Round.
Hear then, O happy Day! if you
All that's impos'd on you will do,
And to your sacred Charge be true;
When the Records of time are open laid,
And 'tis disputed there
Which Day shall be the Century most illustrious made.
The Muse shall then appear,
Shall take Thee out and Name
But ABINGDON, that Word of Fame,
And straight like Joseph's Sheaves, the rest shall all
Prostrate around thee fall;
And Thou ascend the Regal Throne, with Scepter and with Ball.

406

Mirtillo and Amynta:

A Hymeneal Pindarick Poem, On the Marriage of James Hunt Esq; with Madam Jane Cary.

I.

'Wake, sluggish Muse, from thy Lethargick Sleep,
Thy downy Nest no longer keep;
The Lark is up, and on extended Wings
Still as she rises sweetlier sings;
Let her aspiring Melody
O sluggish Muse! thy Great Example be,
Follow her thro' the trackless Air;
Her Song does but the Way to Thine prepare:
And when Y'ave overtook Her do not stay,
But higher wing Your wond'ring way
Above the Clouds, above
The Second Heav'n, up to the Third of LOVE:
There see what Flame 'tis does inspire
The Am'rous Warmth of soft Desire,
A Lambent, but Eternal Fire!
Where the first Seeds of Inclination ly
That come at last to grow so high,
Or in the Fancy, Beauty, or the Eye:
Then thou may'st tell how fair Amynta struck
Mirtillo with a Look,

407

Mirtillo! Lovely Swain!
And how he smil'd at the Delightful Pain;
(For Oh! what Youth at such a Wound wou'd grieve
Tho' sure he shou'd but one short Moment live?)
He smil'd, and at that very interview
His Eye return'd the Shaft, and wounded her that threw.
O Pleasing War! O equal Doom!
Where both did Conquer, both were overcome!
It will not so at all Times be,
Anon she will sole Victor prove,
And make him Yield who now exults and Triumps in her Love.

II.

Two Hearts more equal Fate did never Pair,
Heav'n in their Forming had unusual Care!
It's finest and Celestial Mold it took
And with a Gracious Look
Mingl'd the Shining Ore, and thus benignly spoke:
These Two we make for One;
They must be each the Others, or they both are None.
Let Courser Stuff from Heav'n drop down,
Of our Æthereal Dust th'Allay,
Scarce fit to Animate their Clay;
There let 'em make their own Precarious Fate,
In Scorning soon, or Loviag late;
We These for their own selves Create:
In vain the Nymph all other Swains shall see,
As much in vain shall He
All other Nymphs behold,
Tho' fair as those of old
That quarrell'd for the Shining Ball of Gold.
Love shall not shoot into their Breast his Fires,
His Pleasing Fears, Emotions, and Desires,
Till they each other chance to view,
Then Sympathy at once the Work shall do.

408

Like two fair Tapers that (at the same Instant) come
“At several Doors into the Room,
“Their Am'rous Lights one Light does grow;
“And they, as closely joyn'd, shall so
“To an Inseparable Union go;
One from the First ev'n to the End;
And one at last (tho' late) they hither shall ascend.

III.

From thy vast height (O Muse) tho' not descry'd so far,
Dart like a shooting Star:
But not, like that, let all that's in Thee Bright
Be wasted in the Glaring Flight,
But hold out still a lasting Globe of Light.
Thou now art here, and now thou'rt there,
And now tak'st Circles in the Air,
And now strait on dost fly
Beyond the Narrow Limits of the Sky;
Nor Space, nor Place can bound thy vast Career.
What e'er thy dull Detractors may Decree
That have no tast of Poesie,
Thou hast the Gift of Prophesie,
Divine, and Future Things you see,
And all is Visible to Thee.
Into the Seeds of Time you look and show
Which Grain will Perish, which will grow.
The Heart, which from it's Self is hid,
Cannot thy piercing Search forbid;
From Thought to Thought thou on dost pass,
And see'st 'em all, as in a Glass.
Nor Bolts nor Locks thy Passage can impede,
Thro' all thou go'st with Angel's Speed,
As easie and as free
As in wide Air the wanton Swallows flee.

409

IV.

'Tis not the Curtains, then, where fair Amynta lies
Can veil her from thy Eyes—
They're drawn!—and see! O see! and Object that wou'd turn
Old Age to Youth, and make the Icy Hermit burn.
Her Head upon her Hand she leans,
Hands whiter than the Paphian Queens!
Her Figure wou'd more Ardor move,
And sooner give the Law to Love;
Sleep has not yet unloos'd his Golden Bands,
Loth to let go his sacred Hold;
For, to his Sorrow, soon, he understands,
Another must enfold
The Beauty in his Arms,
And from her Lovely Eyes expel his Pow'rful Charms.
Sleep must not then approach too nigh;
Before he might, Indulgent to their Ease,
Study new Arts to please;
Let him not, then, upon their Senses seize,
And rudely lock up all;
Then let him come not till the Lovers call:
Nor let him, when he's come, so churlish be
As to deny the Mind it's Liberty;
That Fancy may repeat the Pleasure past,
Husband it well, and make it longer last,
For waking Joy, alas! does flit away too fast.

V.

Here, Roving Muse, a while thy Wonder six;
And while this Brightest of her Sex
Lies bathing in Seraphick Dreams,
Think in what Rapture, what Extremes

410

The Youth wou'd plunge, were he now here,
Unseen like Thee, and gazing on the FAIR.
The Colour in his Cheeks wou'd come and go,
Doubt with Desire, and Fear with Joy contend,
His Pulse wou'd swifter beat, his Blood wou'd higher flow;
And he wou'd speak much more than I dare apprehend.
Suspend, dear Youth, those Thoughts till soon,
Till Twelve at Night the Bridegroom's Noon;
By that you'll to your bright Meridian climb,
By that be Lifted to your Prime:
O don't from thence retire
While there is Fewel to maintain the Fire!
O roll not down
Too soon
The Western Hill of soft Desire!
Hold the Reins hard, nor quit the Skies;
At least don't set till Heav'ns bright Lamp does rise.

VI.

But see! she 'wakes! and the Sun's Pow'rful Ray,
But now so Lovely and so Gay,
Shrinks back and dies away;
Her brighter Eyes his Beams deface,
And fill with fresher Glories all the Place.
But Decency, the Lovers Law,
Does bid us here withdraw,
And leaves the Dam'sels to adorn
The Radiant Nymph, that so outshines the Morn.
Let meaner Shapes and meaner Faces
Practise in the Glass their Graces,
And with such Baits and trifling Arts
Ignobly Angle for their Lovers Hearts:
Amynta is above such Trivial Things,
And moves the Lover by Sublimer Springs:

411

Angels and She are much the same,
Alike in Form, in Purity, and Fame,
And will hereafter be in Name.
That Dress which does a Cherub's Sweetness grace,
Can only add a greater Lustre to Amynta's Face.

VII.

Where is Mirtillo? where?
The Nymph has done him wrong
To let him wait so long;
But soon a sure Revenge he'll take,
What e'er Resistance she can make,
And rifle the rich Cabinet, tho' barr'd up ne'er so strong.
But see! he comes! and in good Time he's here,
For now the chast Amynta does appear,
And on her Eye-lid hangs a Tear;
What does it now do there?
But Joy as well as Grief can bring
That Moisture from its Briny Spring.
Two Fountains from that Spring there go,
One for Pleasure, one for Woe,
Delight, like Pain, does oft unruly grow,
And in the Rapid Course its Banks o'erflow.
But now the Drop is fall'n, and in its Place
A Blush does mount the Face,
And adds to it one more Resistless Grace;
Tho' he that saw her just before,
Wou'd swear that Heav'n cou'd add no more.
Mirtillo sees her pleasing Care,
And his Instinctive Heart
In the Transporting Anguish has its Part:
Such Perfect Bliss Mortality has scarce the Power to bear,
Infirmity will enter there,
And in disorder'd Bounds of Joy appear:

412

Souls only can, sedate, receive
Th'Impression such a vast Delight does give;
It is almost too bright to look upon and Live!
So pure a Love does oft o'er pow'r the Sense,
And tho' we fetch Desire and Vigor thence,
Makes us sometimes, resign to very Impotence.
Fixt on her Eyes, he cou'd for ever gaze!
But Time reproves these vain Delays,
And his own Genius whispers him—Be gone!—
Suggesting something Nobler coming on
In the dear Contemplation of Anon—
Anon! Anon!

VIII.

And now th'Auspicious Path they trace
That leads to a more near Embrace;
Where Gracious Hymen smiling stands,
As they their Hearts, to join their Hands;
Attended by a shining Train
Of many a Lovely Nymph, and many a Faithful Swain:
Each Lovely Nymph the Nymph wou'd be,
Each Faithful Swain wou'd fain be He,
But so confirm'd a Happiness they ne'er must hope to see:
Heav'n's Favourites on Earth are few,
(For Three that Triumph Thousands rue)
And they, on this Account, almost the first we knew.
Have you e'er seen a Night
When Cynthia put on all her Light?
The Stars themselves are then not bright,
But seem Eclips'd while she does fly
Her glorious Progress thro' th'Obsequious Sky.
As much above the rest does fair Aminta shew,
Nay above Cynthia too;
Aminta does not for her Lustre owe;

413

No brighter Light does make her shine,
Her Glory's all her own,
And like the Sun's flows from it self alone,
A Sourse as Great, as Lasting, and Divine.

IX.

But while the Priest his Duty does attend,
What better Work can be our Care,
Than begging Blessings to descend
Upon the Heads and Hearts of the new joining Pair?
May Wealth on their Left Hand,
And Health upon their Right,
Thro' a long Series smiling stand;
And still before their Sight
May nothing come but Prospects of Delight.
And that their Peace of Mind may never be
Betray'd by Infidelity,
By Frailty, or by Flattery,
To their Defence their Vertues stand prepar'd,
And INNOCENCE be Captain of the Guard:
Innocence! a safer Shield
Than fam'd ACHILLES e'er in Battle held,
Tho' still he came Triumphant from the Field—
Nay stop not, let us still bless on—
But see!—the Ceremony's done;
The dear, the Mystick Knot is ty'd:
Hail happy Bridegroom! Hail O Beaute'ous Bride!
Joy to you both, Joys thick upon you pour
Like Drops in a Prolifick April Show'r!
Now let the Bells and let the Spheres, too, Ring!
Let all above, and all around,
To Nature's utmost Bound,
The Joyful Tydings sound,
That all at once may hear, at once may Io Pæan sing!

414

X.

The Boards are furnish'd now in ev'ry Room,
And back the Joyful Company are come.
What e'er the Elements produce,
(For Blessings are no Blessings without use)
Their Choicest Stores are now purvey'd,
And Tribute to Montano's Board is paid.
Well does he fill his Sacred Place,
As well perform the Father's part;
For no Man cou'd th'Occasion grace
With a more Gene'rous Heart.
Montano! whom the Vertuous Joy to Name,
The Church's Darling, and the Theme of Fame;
Wise, Nobly-born, Religious, and Benign,
His Nature, like his Office, all Divine:
And which is now no barren Praise
In these Degen'erate Days,
But will his Charity and Truth commend;
Kind to the Poor, and Constant to his Friend.
He does Redeem our Crimes, and show
What Man was long ago,
E'er Pride and Fraud, together joyn'd,
Usurpt the Empire of his Mind,
And turning it about, and fixing there,
Had made us the Reverse of what we were.
Upon this Copious Theme I shou'd dwell long,
Did not the Sprightly Business of the Day
To Sports and Revels hurry me away;
But he shall elsewhere be our Subject for Pindarick Song.

XI.

Now let the nimble Goblets move,
A Health to Beauty, and a Health to Love;

415

That's to the Bridegroom and the Bride; for He
Is all o'er Love, and all o'er Beauty, She,
But let it not go once about, and stay,
Or end with the Revolving Day,
But rather last till Time is roll'd away.
O for Anacreon's tuneful Lyre.
That on this Subject I might sing,
And drink, to keep like him on Wing,
(The soft Incentive to Desire)
Till I in ev'ry Soul did Love and Joy inspire!
But hark! the Musick to the Dance does Play,
And all the Nymphs are danc'd from hence away:
Come on then, Boys, and while their Feet
In smooth Harmonious Measures meet,
What ever graver Noddles think,
Let us keep Time, too, in our Drink;
And shew who can the nimblest prove,
Or we to Wine, or they to move.
Away—w'ave got the Start—ne'er mind
What they can do—nor look behind;
Run on—that is Drink on—nor fear to fall;
Ah Boys! w'ave got before 'em to the Goal;
And, see! the Bard that set out last has reach'd it first of all.

XII.

How Musick, Wine and Love, beguile the Hours!
For the bright Sun is fled
Long since into his Watry Bed;
I hear the Bridegroom cry, 'tis Time we were in Ours.
Nor to the Virgins is the Hint in vain,
They'll now no longer be deny'd,
For Women know when Women feign;
So kindly force away the Linge'ring Bride.

416

And now th'Officious Hands are all employ'd,
As if she were in hast to be enjoy'd:
Ah! busy, busy, hasty Crew,
There's Time enough till Morn for all that Man can do.
But Trembling, Joyful; yet affraid,
Thanks to Mirtillo's Stars, at last she's laid.
The happy News he quickly hears,
And lively as the Day appears
To solve her Scruples, and remove her Fears.
T'undress him no Observance now be shown,
He needs no Hands at this Time but his own;
For see! he's with her, in his Arms
He has her fast, as she her Charms,
That Sanctuary now from all her future Harms.
Good Night! Good Night!—accept our Prayers
For a long Race of Prosperous Years—
W'ave done our Duty;—let 'em now do Theirs.

FINIS.