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] |
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| A SATYR AGAINST MAN. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
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.
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;
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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:
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.
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
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.
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.
But aid, ye Injur'd Sex, the Muses Flight,
Lend her but Rage and she shall do you Right.
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
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
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.
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.
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,
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.
Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do.
155
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
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;
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.
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
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
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.
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
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:
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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)
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.
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
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.
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:
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,
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.
Must be a Wit—perverted at the Brain:
164
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
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;
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.
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.
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
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 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,
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?
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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
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?
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?
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.
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
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
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:
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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;
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.
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.
You'd throw a Mist of Fate before our Sight;
175
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
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,
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.
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
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!
Let then the Eternal Word be all our Trust,
Asserting Truth, and proving God is Just.
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
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.
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.
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;
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,
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:
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.
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
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
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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,
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.
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.
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
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
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:
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;
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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 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
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:
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.
There yet are others that have err'd as wide
From Sanctity misled, and misapply'd:
193
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.
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.
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;
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:
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.
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 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
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,
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,
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.
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
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,
197
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;
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.
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!
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
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.
199
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;
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.
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.
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
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.
201
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.
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;
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.
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.
202
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;
203
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?
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:
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!
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
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
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;
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.
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!
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
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
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.
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.
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:
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!
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.
208
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
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:
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.
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
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?
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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:)
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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;
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.
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
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:
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.
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
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.
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,
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:
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |